He was half on, half off the short bunk, with one foot leveraged high to one side on a grab handle in the top center of the back wall of the cab, his back arched on two hard pillows, his hands open wide over the driver's naked buttocks, fingers digging into flesh, moaning in long, building moans matching the long slides of the hard ramrod inside him. The driver, clad only in cowboy hat, red bandana neck scarf, tooled-leather boots, and a broad grin, was crouched over the bunk between the young man's legs, giving him what the young guy had been begging for all the way from Lusk, where the Wyoming landscape had gotten so monotonous that the young man could only think about why he'd bummed this ride and had started moaning for them to stop and get into the back.
The young man started to quiver and writhe, and the driver laughed and stepped up his thrusting, quicker, deeper, all the way out, and then the long slide back in and holding there, as the young man gasped and murmured his surrender. The driver only had to wrap his fist around the young man's cock and pump slowly three times and put his thumb over the piss slit of the angry red bulb before white, slick cum was flowing around his thumb and down the young man's engorged dick.
With a little cry and a long moan, all of the tension and cum flowed out of the young man. But the driver drove on. Still deep, rotating his hips, making the young man rise to him, encircling him with his arms, holding him close, burying his face into the driver's hard chest, asking him now for it never to end.
* * * *
"See, wha'd I tell you? Lookee over there."
"Where?" Dwayne asked, moving his eyes to where Stan was motioning, out beyond the dirty glass in the front wall of the truck stop café in the complex where all the guys stopped to gas and feed up when they were driving through Cheyenne, Wyoming, on a long haul.
"Him? He's the guy with that fancy rig out there?" Dwayne asked, his voice incredulous. And his judgment not all that suspect. Walking toward them from the big, shiny burgundy rig with the extra-deep sleeper behind the cab was a rangy-looking cowboy. And not a new one either—probably no younger than his early forties. He wasn't too tall and certainly wasn't too fat. In fact he looked a little gaunt, all angles, and leathery tan, and wrinkles. Much like most of the rig drivers up here in the badlands of the upper West—well-worn jeans, a faded plaid flannel shirt, tooled-leather boots, a weather-beaten black ten-gallon hat, and a red bandana around his neck. But he walked tall, and his step was jaunty.
"Yep, him," Stan answered.
"And you say you can always tell when he's goin' through?" Dwayne continued.
"Yep. It's them young guys over there, just as I told yer."
Dwayne and Stan swiveled to take in the three young guys sitting together at a table set down not far from the doorway, between the café and convenience store section. Definitely out of place here. Not truckers by any means. Too young and preppy and "from money" looking. College guys just pulling over for a cup of coffee, Dwayne had surmised. But then he'd agreed with Stan that this wasn't the place that three college guys would pull over to on this stretch of road. There were fast food joints nearby—not to mention a Starbucks nearly across the road.
"Them guys?" Dwayne repeated.
"Yep. I've noticed it before. This is the third time this year," Stan said, turning away from the boys and watching the rig driver approach the café. "He don't come in here that often—I see him maybe once a month, maybe not as often. But I do short hauls, so I'm in here more than I'm not. But I noticed the last three times. Two, three guys like that come in here and order coffee and watch the door, and not long after, his rig drives up and here he comes just a struttin' in the door, pretty as you please."
"Gotta be drugs," Dwayne said.
"Yep, that's what I figure too," Stan said, very pleased with himself—and with Dwayne too.
The rig driver had reached the door and entered the café and, after taking one long look at the young guys at the front table, turned and brushed past Stan and Dwayne's table on the way to one nearer the back.
"Afternoon, Stan," he muttered as he passed the table. He raised the tip of his hat, although he didn't actually look straight at either Stan or Dwayne, and he didn't slow down his walk. There was no hint he was going to ask if they wanted him to sit at their table.
"Same ta yer, Ralph," Stan answered.
Dwayne started to say something, but Stan shushed him, waiting for the rig driver to get to another table and settle. When he looked up, he was looking at the young men up front—and they were looking at him. Another young man, moving slowly and a little bowlegged, a sloppy grin on his face, entered the café, looked around, and moved to the table where the other three young guys were already sitting. They put their heads together and were whispering across their table.
"You know him?" Dwayne asked in a lowered voice. "You called him Ralph."
"Yep, we've met in passin'," Stan said. "I'd heard some other truckers snigger and refer to him as the Road Romeo once, and I didn't know what that meant. So I asked him. He said they must have been makin' a joke about his love for truckin', but then he told me his name was Ralph."
"Anything else? Did you find out anything else about him?"
"Not much. Just that he does the Cheyenne to Billings to Rapid City route, but only now and again, when he gets the hankering. He didn't say—others have—but he didn't say either way that it's more of a hobby with him. That he's got a spread of his own down near Denver and does right well out of it. I did ask him why he trucks, and he just said there were some nice perks involved. I don't know what to think."
"The Cheyenne to Billings to Rapid City route?" Dwayne asked. And then he snorted. "That's got to be the most monotonous route on God's brown earth."
"Yeah, but someone's gotta do it," Stan said. "Them folks need things trucked in too. God knows they don't have much of anything worthwhile just lying around to pick off a tree."
"Yeah, but look at the rig out there," Dwayne said. "That's the goddamnest nicest rig I've ever seen. What do you suppose that set him back?"
"More than a dozen roundtrips from Cheyenne to Billings and Rapid City a year, that's for sure," Stan said. "A man could drive that route for a lifetime and not pay for a nice rig like that. Look at the sleeper cab. You ever seen one that big?"
"Nope, I haven't."
