02) Desperation

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My Way or the Highway!

Desperate people do desperate things

Chapter Two

It was a restless sleep, not wanting to disturb either boy, staying on my back with Doogan snuggled up and drooling on my chest. It made me wonder how it might have been, having kids of my own. I pictured the exact sleeping arrangements in a tent camping, but clothed, of course. To each his own, but sex with my own flesh and blood, well, unfathomable.

I came close to marriage once, even having the date set and the invitations sent out. We lived together for a year. She started showing her true feminine nature after the first ring was installed. She hated my career, I was always in shit when I was home, and the blow-jobs became a thing of the past!

Phase two of the ring could only lead to a disastrous relationship, I prophesized. Taking the twenty-some-odd thousand dollars from our joint account, I put a down-payment on Annabelle. It was love at first sight. She purred like a kitten when I was inside her on our first date, and the many subsequent dates that followed. I ended up eloping with her and never looking back.

The break of dawn gradually illuminated the interior of my mobile condo. Time to hit the road, but not before a piss that had my cock rock hard. Attempting not to disturb the peaceful slumber of the boy enveloping my body was futile. His eyes opened bright as the daylight and he smiled at me.

Why waste a perfectly good boner? I thought, placing a hand on his head and lowering it under the sheet.

Doogan got the message, held me firmly at the base and took the initiative without verbal encouragement. Directing his free hand to my gonads, he caught on to that as well, kneading them gently.

Perhaps it was my moaning in ecstasy that awoke Branden, who looked over his shoulder bleary eyed at me, then I suppose it was the rise and fall of the sheet that caught his attention that caused him roll back his eyes, shake his head and resume his slumber. I fed Doogan his protein breakfast, afterward, we both went out for a long piss and a short dip in the lake.

Annabelle was always a bitch to get motivated in the morning, but she came to life after protest and as usual, realized her role in our relationship after she warmed up, becoming submissive to her man. She didn’t have far to go, the Husky House truck-stop, five miles west, with locations across Canada and the best damn cholesterol rich breakfasts that only dear old mom could top!

The kids were safe walking into the restaurant with me. Being a regular for so many years and a man who was fortunate enough to have had many nephews in his company during all that time, hardly an eyebrow was raised. They devoured the ‘truckers special, ‘ three eggs; bacon; sausage; hash-browns and pancakes, downed by milk and orange juice.

Doing the oodles of laundry while the boys played video-games took a lot longer than my schedule permitted. Taking advantage of the idle time, I took the boys to shower in the charged for, public facility that all truck-stops offered.

Never being renovated as so many others had been, privacy was not an option. sixteen shower stalls with only a plastic curtain temporarily shielded one while actually showering, but the open area to undress and dress was exactly that, open!

Well known was its reputation as a male “friendly” place. A nod at another guy would find him within the close quarters behind the curtain. I enjoyed a few encounters with nice looking men if fate had it, but never the obese truckers that didn’t turn my crank with their dicks hidden in a mound of blubber.

It was a busy time of the morning, we had to wait for an available stall. Naked men were plentiful, undressing, dressing, towelling off or shaving. I noticed one shower stall with four feet displayed in the gap between the curtain and the floor. The scene soon changed to a pair of knees between two feet. The stigma of machismo that truckers are immune to such activity is a fallacy.

Branden had issues with getting naked in front of so many people, Doogan stood in the buff uncaring, staring at the assortment of men that God didn’t create equally. At the last second, Brandon pulled off his shorts and scooted into the shower, with me dragging a reluctant Doogan behind me. It was certainly cramped, but we made do washing each other, indiscriminate of where our hands happened to venture.

Three hours later I was back on the road with clean, fresh smelling boys and clothes. Both changed their underwear at my suggestion and stayed in that dress, much to my satisfaction. No need to stop for lunch, having bought several sandwiches at the truck-stop, I could make up precious time.

They entertained themselves, first by sitting in the cab taking in the novelty of riding high above in a semi, hanging out the window waving at people, their asses innocently joined together at the hips. Picturing the same erotic scene of them naked with their rumps sported for my viewing enjoyment almost made me take the liberty of insisting on it.

I didn’t have too! Mooning pedestrians and vehicles being passed was Branden’s idea. They got quite a kick out of that, so did I, getting a partial frontal view between sessions. Two bare asses hanging out the window must have been a sight to see, my eyes watered in laughter, blurring the road ahead.

Becoming bored with that, they each shared an ear bud listening to music from some kind of device that Branden retrieved from his backpack. Heads mashed together, propped in the passenger seat, even I could hear the din from the extreme volume that both their heads bobbed in sync.

Doogan fell asleep with his head resting on the door. Branden stared ahead gazing at the scenery and listening to his music with both ear buds planted for maximum effect, a bare foot raised and pressed against the console. Admiring his profile, with his white hair tucked behind a smallish ear and the perfect slant of his nose, I studied the rest of him for perhaps the first time.

He was a boy used to hard work judging by his sun bronzed upper arms and chest, full thighs and calves that hadn’t been exposed to the same ultraviolet rays. Even his foot was beautiful, long in proportion to his size with slender toes, the nails in need of a manicure. I imagined his mom’s endless plight to maintain him in fitting shoes.

Getting his attention by tossing an empty pop can at him, startled, he removed one ear piece and looked at me questioningly.

“Come over here, sport.” I motioned for him to sit on the dog-house beside me.

“What?” he asked, struggling to spread his legs wide due to the cramped space, perfect for my aim  was to insert my right hand up his shorts and fondle him.

“Thought ya might like a hand-job, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer, but was responding to my stimulation of him. Hauling it out of the leg, I spit in my hand and stroked him to full mast, then vigorously pumped the fuck out of the stunning fat six inches of manliness disproportionately mounted on a fourteen year old boy. He laid back over the dog-house, supported on his elbows and allowed me full physical and visual access to his bouncing balls. Sore wrist and about ten-minutes later, a geyser spewed at least two feet in the air and arched landing on his chest. Each subsequent volley lessened in intensity, leaving an ivory-white trail down to his belly button, the balance flowed over my fingers, definitely exceeding the previous night’s rupture in my mouth.

Licking my fingers clean, I wondered again how it could possibly taste so unique in comparison to the pints of the shit consumed from others. I made a mental note to do a taste test with Doogan. Surely the boy could cum at his stage of development, he just might not be aware of it yet.

“Your turn, volcano boy!” Raising my ass and pulling down my gym shorts, my cock rebounded with a smack against my belly.

Siting up, but before he could lean in to return the favor, I scooped more of the liquid gold in one swipe up his stomach to his chest, sampling a little more before lacing my cock in it. Brandon slid closer, I put my arm around his shoulders and let him curiously explore his first sexual contact of another male’s anatomy. Changing my mind of expectations, I easily directed the back of his head lower.

That pleased me to no end, fully expecting minor resistance to contend with. It was one thing to get a blow-job or even fuck another guy, however subjecting yourself to the fullest conjectures of gaydom is sometimes traumatic, I found of youth.

I won’t go as far as to say Branden was enthusiastic about sucking my cock, simply, he knew that he had no choice in the matter, it’s called survival. No doubt he was hoping that Doogan had become the scape-goat, and once he got a taste of it, our shared sex-toy. Even once we part company, he would probably continue to use his slow-minded pal as a sexual outlet.

Branden did get an ‘A’ for effort. I honored his request not to cum in his mouth, a sacrifice on my part not extended to many, but feeling a trust and respect was to be established. Instead, tight-lipped and eyes squinted, his face served to both, prevent a messy cleanup, and excite me seeing my jism running down his face when he looked up at me in a silent plea to be relieved of duty and clean himself.

Just then, a thin string that hung from his right eyebrow swaying like a pendulum, unfortunately found its way into his eye. Knowing that painful, burning sensation, he had my sympathy.

Branden had a bad case of red-eye. Stopping for dinner at a truck-stop noted for their homemade lasagna, I ran across the street to the pharmacy and bought Visine eye-drops before proceeding another hundred miles, then ten miles off the beaten-track to yet another reclusive lake side Eden.

Sending the boys to scour for firewood, we enjoyed a beach side, crackling blaze and my famous weenies wrapped in Pop & Fresh Dough, skewered on long branches, and roasted over the fire. A late night swim in the tepid waters, we watched a lightning storm develop to the south-west that quickly moved in and lit up the lake like daylight, thunder rumbled in the distance, growing in intensity.

There was no question of sleeping arrangements or dressing for the occasion or that sex would be on the agenda. Not purposely leaving Doogan out of the fun, Branden and I just kind of found ourselves side-by-side in a heated sixty-nine. Perhaps he had discovered his sexuality. Mimicking my moves, his tongue played wonders over my cock and balls, burying his head and stopping just short of my pucker.

I sucked and licked his gateway to virginity loss, his leg over my head, hips thrusting forward as if he thought my tongue could be planted deeper and I was holding back on him! Rolling him onto his belly reluctantly forgoing his onslaught of my genitals, I literally ate him. Biting, sucking, licking, pulling his cock and balls back to be included in the melee, ravishing them, making love to him!

Encouraging me was his overall demeanor that seemed lost in oblivion, panting, groaning, cussing, all in erotic appreciation especially when a finger found his ‘happy place’ that I learned over the years was a fifty-fifty chance of sexual gratification being employed by its stimulation. He wouldn’t have even known that such a foreign place housed such blissful pleasure until then.

He came. Unprepared for it, I felt it on my hand letting it flow forward and not interrupting my manipulations of instigating his orgasm to its fullest potential. My gut instinct strongly suggested that it was powerful. Never before had I wanted to please someone in such an unselfish manner.

His whole body quivered uncontrollably with convulsions-like fervor, hands jetted forward, pulling off the fitted sheet from the mattress into a tangled mess under his chest. For a moment, I thought he was experiencing an epileptic seizure, and not an orgasm. Even Doogan showed concern, scurrying up the bed to look at his friend, “Is you ‘kay, Brandy?”

“Oh fuck, yeah!” was the very satisfied, heavy breath response.

Assured by the glorious news that he was okay, and the way in which he responded, my dick was already greased for the premeditated event that got side-tracked by the boy’s reaction.

Positioning, I shoved forward. As if he had been forewarned, expecting my assault, he laid like a rag-doll not fighting my penetration, only painfully enduring it with his head reared back, gasping.

“Toad you it hersts.” Doogan felt the need to qualify.

Flat on top of him, I looped my arms under his pits and over his shoulders interlocking my fingers at the nape of his neck. Not that I thought he was going to try squirming away, it was more for leverage snaking into him and then sliding over his back fucking him without the mercy that was shown to Doogan.

Slobbering his inner ear and biting its lobe in horny lust, with repeated, forceful upthrust he met each one with a whimper and occasional cry of profanity. Contemplating the idea of having him suck off Doogan was intriguing, but time was of the essence, I was ready to cum and with one last propulsion buried to the maximum, life stood still for a few glorious moments.

Knowing that he was being crushed by my heavy frame, I rolled off him. A loud, wet sounding fart escaped Branden that brought Doogan to hysterical laughter. Not having to look for proof, the odor said it all, he had shit himself.

“Get me a fucking towel, dipstick!” he screamed at Doogan, who scurried off the bed in compliance.

Wrapped like a diaper, he made his way outside to the lake and bathed, Looking at the mess on my cock, I followed his lead. None too impressed with me, he swiped the offered soap from my hand causing it to flip up and away and sink below the surface. While scouring the sand for it, we ended up in horse-play and his embarrassment soon vanished.

True to my word to myself, Doogan’s little testis were going to be coerced into surrendering whatever offerings they contained. Laying him flat and crouched between his legs, his pecker came to life without much effort reminding my of the weenies we snacked on; not as long, but about the same girth. His foreskin slid easily revealing a plum colored head tipped with a narrow slit resembling a small pinkish, moist wound when spread.

Sensitive to the tip of my probing tongue, he shuddered and giggled. His cock and balls settled comfortably in my mouth allowing plenty of room to baste the goods. My nose and upper lip pressed against his groin felt the coarseness of his whisker like pubes.

The blow-job was only for sentimental reasons, knowing full well that the anticipated result would be the firm grip of my hand masturbating him, perhaps some oral play to his knob and, of course, prostate massage.

It was a long and laborious task. My wrist ached like hell, enough that I had to insist on Branden’s reluctant aide to keep the momentum in check. He wasn’t keen on using his mouth on his inferior being. That pissed me off! A lesson in sexual reciprocation was definitely in order and I made him suck it down to the base and perform the act as Doogan had performed on him. He had to learn that sex was to be a two-way street, and that I was the traffic cop directing it. The onus on getting Doogan off was then to become a joint effort, I continued to concentrate on the anal work, he wasn’t ready for that humiliation yet.

“Come on, Doogie!” Branden encouraged often, solely to get it over with, “Cum, –you can do it, buddy!”

His wiener was red as a beat, tender for sure after about an hour of rough manipulation. When he announced having “twing-ga-wee fee-wings,” I knew the end was near. Sure enough, a minute later he expelled the air from his lungs, his body tightened and two squirts of skim-milk like fluid erupted five or six inches in the air, landing back down on my pumping hand. A few dribbles excreted, running over his cute little knob.

High-fives of congratulations ensued on experiencing his first orgasm, making him proud as punch. After allowing him to peruse the small amount gathered on my thumb and index finger, I relished in the glory of sampling the almost tasteless, virginal boy-cum.

His testicles had been siphoned and primed for future ejaculates that would slowly intensify in texture and volume. I took great satisfaction in opening the flood gates for his life time of pleasure.

Sleeping arrangements had been modified for comfort. I dug out a sleeping-bag that Branden curled up inside laying on the floor. My efforts to gain space was for not. Doogan snuggled up almost draped atop me again. A few attempts of repositioning him was futile, he would somehow find the warmth and security of my body throughout the night. He was growing dangerously fond of me, and that scared the hell out of me, because my feelings were deepening bot only for him, but Branden, as well.

Without being asked, Doogan blew me in the morning. No erection to prompt his interest, he just assumed it would be a nice gesture, and it was! “Breakfast of Champions,” I laughed when he swallowed the last of it.

Alluding that Branden might like to be woken in the same fashion, he unzipped the sleeping-bag and peeled it away. Branden complained about being disturbed, but soon gave in. In the mean time, I got Annabelle up and running for another day of routine, ten or twelve hours of labor. A woman’s work is never done!

The parking lot of the truck-stop was unusually crowded with trucks, even the westbound shoulder of the highway served as overflow parking. The breakfasts were superb at the Road House, but my suspicion told me that that was not the reason for the glut. It could only be one thing.

No sooner had I exited the cab several blocks away, I was informed that the highway was closed fifty miles ahead for a road washout. The distant storm that the boys and I had witnessed the previous night had taken it’s toll on the already swollen river. Not unusual for Northern Ontario’s mountainous region and inadequate, two lane route through some of the most scenic county in Canada; besides my favorite, the Rocky Mountains of British Columbia, another two lane archaic design vulnerable mostly to mud, rock or snow slides.

They claim that ‘road-rage’ is the latest phenomena of human nature. The true Knights of the Highway must be immune to it. We contend with a lot of shit on the narrow highways, mostly tourists. Ma and Pa Kettle types, with Pa, white-knuckled behind the wheel of a motor-home almost as long and wide as my semi, sometimes trailing a boat behind; traveling at thirty-miles an hour, who has no special training or license to operate such equipment, nor government regulations telling them how long they can drive before they should be feeling tired and, by law, shut down for another mandatory length of time the government determined us robots needed for quality rest and sleep.

The tourists that disturb me the most are the ones that slam on their brakes to photograph wildlife, the whole family out of the vehicle and on the road that even the fucking animals know is dangerous territory! The same nature lovers who flick cigarette butts out the window, causing forest fires, toss litter to the gutters that the animals ingest, or get tangled up in, such as six-pack plastic wraps.

I digress.

We were going nowhere in the near future. The CB radio chatter from those on scene ahead, passing messages to the extent of the limited airwaves range before the chain of truckers relayed the information down the line. It was not great news. At least a day of idle time was unavoidable. No practical detours were a luxury in the mountains. Winter or summer, Mother Nature had her own agenda along the Trans Canada Highway.

I called my company to advise them of the delay. They would scramble to find ways of keeping me on my weekly schedule, undoubtedly, arranging to switch loads at some point and turning Annabelle back eastbound.

Experienced in such unavoidable inconveniences, I rented a room at the truck stop’s own motel long before others gave up hope of some supreme intervention, and the ‘no vacancy’ sign appeared at every motel along the small town strip. One could go stir crazy cooped up in an idle truck, especially with two young boys who were already on the verge of cabin-fever. Television would be a great pacifier.

Being on the road as long as I have, you meet the same acquaintances on the same basic schedules. Traveling east or west, the creatures of habit patronize the same establishments that one could almost set his watch by their arrival.

I suspected that a few were astute to, and took advantage of either the clandestine truck-stop runaways, or the free-spirited hitchhikers that lined the highways during the spring and summer months. Unfamiliar faces in the accompaniment of those very familiar truckers could either mean wholesome generosity of transportation, or mutually agreed upon terms of conditions. I believed the latter scenario applied.

Nobody questioned the other, we weren’t close friends, but the subtle looks we gave checking out the latest conquest climbing from a truck-cab, or walking into the diner spoke volumes.

One such man who had my curiosity was present. I seen his rig in the lot. Wolfgang was German, mid fifties, who hauled for a prominent courier company. He was a jovial guy, with a hearty laugh and always the time to socialize over a coffee.

Wolf always had a boy in tow, eight to ten years old. At first I thought they were his grand-kids, along for a ride with dear old pappy. I came to realize that no one man could possibly have that many grandchildren, notwithstanding, within the same age range!

The previous summer, the thought crossed my mind that he may have been a pedophile in the true sense of the word. Not like me, of course, my boys were older teenagers! That is, until Branden and Doogan came along. Suddenly, the pot was calling the kettle black. Doogan was merely a ten-year old in a fourteen year old body; the jury was still out on that one, but the implications of pedophilia were no different than Wolf, if, in fact he was one, leaving another question, where he was getting them?

Exploring the surrounding area after lunch, the boys found a nearby beach. Clothing wasn’t optional at that one, I humored myself. Nor did they have a bathing-suit or pair of shorts, so a walk to Wal-Mart rectified that minor setback and they were off, leaving me alone to watch CNN and catch up on some rest.

Stopping at the diner to buy a takeout coffee, I noticed a young man of around eighteen sitting at the counter enjoying a beverage and reading a newspaper. We made brief eye contact and he smiled at me in a friendly way as I awaited my order at the cash register.

He was rather handsome in a rough sort of way. Black hair nicely styled, brown eyes and one of those extra wide mouths that I always thought of as made-to-measure, perfect cock-sucking design. A white muscle shirt exposed well toned shoulders and arms, the left side of which was much darker, commonly known as a truckers tan resulting from arms exposed through the driver’s side window, but he was a little too young to hold the semi-driver class of drivers license.

The leg seam of his red velour shorts rode high enough above his upper thigh, and tightly gathered quite close to the waist band giving the obvious impression that he wasn’t wearing underwear. Scanning lower past his almost hairless legs crossed at the knee, sandals adorned his long slender bare feet and a small colorful tattoo rested just above his ankle, the design not clearly visible.

The young man must have caught me giving him the once over, and smiled again, but with much more expansion of his widely formed mouth. I returned the smile, paid for my coffee and departed for my room.

Something strangely familiar about the tattoo nagged me. It was the coloring and location that held a foggy recollection that, laying in bed, I wracking my brain over. Like a freight train, it struck me! Then second guessing myself of the improbability, it festered again into an absurd, but rational possibility.

I saw that same tattoo on one of four ankles seen under the shower curtain at the previous truck-stop! The same ankle from the body that knelt in worship of an alternative cult and set of beliefs as I did; –promiscuity!

to be continued …

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