I Hope You Fuck Better Than You Lie
by
Ephesus14
©
Another re-post of a previously deleted story
There are lots of people who think, or even dream, about owning their own island someplace. Most of those dreams seem to center on the warm water in the Caribbean, or South Pacific.
Gananoque is a small city on the St. Lawrence River in Ontario, Canada. It is in what is called "The Thousand Islands" area. Lots of people, both Canadian and American, live on those habitable islands in the region. Not that some of these islands don't compare to the ones in the Caribbean or South Pacific because some of them have real, honest to goodness castles on them. Dollar for dollar, the Thousand Islands can compete with any other islands in the world; they're just in the St. Lawrence River and not in the tropics.
The most popular story about the thousand islands involves the salad dressing of the same name. It seems that a housewife in the region developed the condiment. It was later given to the proprietor of a well-known New York City Hotel, who had it put on the hotel's menu way back around 1890. There is no written proof that the story is correct, however.
I drove a truck for a living. We delivered to the forty-eight contiguous states and Canada. I drove for a medium sized company of about 100 trucks. All of the drivers had the option of either driving long haul, regional, or local. Whenever any of us went out for a long haul of a week or longer, we had the choice of staying local for a week so we could spend time with our families or we could go back taking long hauls. We could also take our wives with us on the road occasionally. Most trucking companies that cover the whole country and Canada leave their drivers on the road for weeks at a time.
There are several jobs that are hard on families. The military is probably the worst followed closely by trucking and law enforcement.
I worked in construction during my summers through high school so it was a logical step when I started working in it full time after I graduated. By the time I was 23, I was a pretty decent carpenter. When I was 19, I met an office clerk in a commercial bakery. Her name was Julie Simpson. My name is Scott. Scott Mann. Julie and I married when we were 21. We were both happy until the banking system and, consequently, the construction industry, suffered some major losses.
Julie and I talked and decided I should try driving a truck. They made decent money, and the biggest downside was the time they had to spend away from home.
The company I drove for advertised they would pay your way through truck driving school if you worked for them for a year after you got your license. Julie and I discussed it and decided we'd go for it.
They accepted me and I started school. Three weeks later I had my Class A CDL. The following week I was put in a truck with a driver trainer. He was an experienced driver who took guys like me on the road to really teach us how to drive. It was one thing to drive a tractor pulling an empty trailer, but something completely different when you hooked that tractor to a loaded trailer, and you went from weighing thirty-five thousand pounds, to weighing eighty thousand.
I was scheduled to spend five weeks with my trainer, but he convinced the safety department that I was good enough to have my own truck at four weeks.
I would drive over the road for a week, then drive local for a week. It worked fine. I had arranged for Julie to go in to the office on Friday and pick up my paycheck. That worked out pretty well also. We could have our checks direct deposited, but Julie enjoyed getting it herself.
I had been with the company for about nine months and was just finishing my week of driving local. My dispatcher, Shirley, called me in and offered me a pretty good deal. We had a load going to Vancouver, Canada and a back haul to Montreal. Only it wasn't really to Montreal. It was to Gananoque.
The owner of the company recently bought one of the thousand islands. He was incredibly young to own a trucking company. He couldn't have been much more than six or seven years older than me. The island, Shirley told me, had two houses; the main house and a guest house. The owner and his wife wanted to furnish the main house with handmade furniture from Vancouver Island. The guest house came furnished.
My job, if I wanted it, was to take a load to Vancouver then backhaul the boss's furniture. It wasn't expected to be ready for another month but it would be ready by the time I got there so the Operations Department of the company decided to surprise the boss and have it delivered early.
"Now the deal is this. You can't tell anyone. Not even your wife. I'm not saying she would say anything, but she comes in for your paychecks and she might say something to the wrong person. The boss and his wife will be there the weekend after next. That should be about the time you get there assuming you get to Vancouver and they get you loaded to come back. Does that sound like something you would be interested in?"
Before I could answer she jumped in.
"Remember, if you take it or not, you can't say anything to anyone. Promise?"
"I'll take it and promise not to tell anyone."
"Good. Good. Now because you took it, and because I like you, did you see that brand new Peterbilt sitting in the yard?"
"I certainly did."
"Well, it's yours. Put your gear in it. The load you're taking is on trailer 2353, you can leave in the morning. Call me when you get to Vancouver and be safe."
I went home and told Julie that I had a trip to the west coast. She didn't mind because the money was good, but we both were going to dislike my being gone for almost two weeks.
To make up for it, we tried our best to fuck our brains out. Fucking Julie was always special. She was up for anything except anal. Neither of us cared for that, but we both really loved fucking. Right after I started driving a truck, we took some nude pictures of her for me to take in the truck with me.
I had been to Canada in my truck four times. Each time, the truck was searched, and I mean searched. The only place they didn't search was the pouch hanging off my seat the first time I went across the border, and her pictures were in that pouch. I left the pictures at home after that when I knew I was going to Canada. The other times I went, they never missed the pouch or any other part of my truck including under the mattress in the sleeper berth. I left the pictures home that trip.
The drive out was easy. Crossing the border was standard. The Canadian officials, as always, were nice, but absolutely thorough when they searched. I called Shirley. She told me the boss's furniture was ready to be picked up. They had brought it over from the island earlier that day in preparation for my being there.
When I got to my customer, it only took an hour to unload me and another hour to get to where I was going to be loaded. Loading the trailer took considerably longer than an hour because they loaded each piece individually then wrapped and secured it. My truck was fully loaded when I headed back east. I dropped back down into the States and headed east across Interstate 90. I went back into Canada at Detroit.
It was about a nine-hour shot from Detroit to Montreal. I drove to Kingston and parked for the night and called Shirley. She told me that the boss was at the island and she had a barge already set up. I was to go to the commercial loading dock as soon as I could get there in the morning and they would unload the trailer and take the furniture to the island.
I was there at six and it took until almost ten to load the barge. It took about 45 minutes to get to the island. It was a straight shot, but the barge had to go slow. I went to the guest house to surprise the boss. The island was covered with trees. I only knew my way to the housing compound because of the path. There was a small patio attached to what I assumed was the guest house. Not too far from the guest house was the main house. It looked huge. I saw the boss on the guest house patio. I walked up and he was rubbing something on the naked chest of a woman who was lying on a lounge chair. I assumed it was sunscreen he was applying and I further assumed the woman was his wife. As I got closer, I could see that it could have been sunscreen but it wasn't his wife. It was mine. She was naked. I watched as one of his hands went from her chest to her pussy and seemed to disappear.
I walked up to them and cleared my throat. They both jumped and turned to me. It took them a second or two to realize they had been caught. He didn't know me from the man in the moon, but she did.
I looked at him. "They're bringing your new furniture up from the dock." Then to my wife. "You might consider putting on some clothes before they get here."
I turned and headed back toward the dock.
