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."
Their discussion at that point was arrested by noticing not only that the last young guy to enter the café was now gone, but also that one of the other guys got up and left right after he did. And then one of the two guys who were left was moving toward the back of the café, like he was going to the men's room or something. But when he got to Ralph the trucker's table, he abruptly sat down and started whispering to the trucker. The trucker was smiling and nodding his head from time to time and answering in monosyllables.
"Drugs. Gotta be drugs," Dwayne turned to Stan and whispered.
"That's how I got it pegged," Stan whispered back.
The young man was standing up from Ralph the trucker's table now and as he moved back toward the front, the other young guy, smaller than the first, with sandy-blond hair, was walking to the trucker's table and sat down and started whispering, just like the first one had.
"But you say he maybe has a big spread down near Denver of his own? Like maybe he's rollin' in money and just does this as a hobby?" Dwayne sounded more than a little dubious when he was saying this. They both sat there, finishing up their coffee, each already projecting out to where they were going next—Stan to deliver a washer over on Elm and Dwayne to haul ass down to Denver with a load of hogs.
There was movement at Ralph's table again, and Dwayne and Stan looked up. Both Ralph the trucker and the sandy-blond young guy were standing now. Ralph had one hand on the arm of the young guy and he was pointing to him with the hand of the other. They were both looking to the front. The other young guy sitting up there, stood, looking disappointed, and turned and walked out of the café. Then Ralph and the young guy sat back down at the table.
"Drugs, gotta be drugs," Dwayne muttered.
"That's what I think," Stan agreed.
Having now finished their own coffee and big-gulp breakfasts, Stan stood up and moved to the cash register over in the convenience store area and Dwayne went back to the men's room.
When they returned, Ralph, the sandy-blond young man—and Ralph's fancy burgundy rig with the really big sleeper behind the cab—were gone.
* * * *
The big burgundy rig was parked at the back of the lot at the truck rest area off Interstate 80 near Rock Springs, Wyoming. The sleeper behind the cab was much too big and stable to be rocking back and forth, but if you walked up real close to the door to the sleeper, you would have heard the noise. The sandy-blond college kid, who had come all of the way from Fort Collins for this opportunity, was a real screamer.
The young man was kneeling on the side of the short bunk, thighs held out wide, fists bunching up folds of the spread on the bunk, and crying out his love for the long, thick cock churning inside his channel—at least he was very vocal until Ralph, the Road Romeo, who was crouched over his back from behind, pulled the young man's face around to the side with a hand under his chin and took full possession of the sandy-blond's lips with his own.
Ralph, the Road Romeo, wearing only a black, weather-beaten cowboy hat, a red bandana, and tooled-leather boots, was taking long, slow slides inside the youth's channel, making him feel every inch of the talented monster cock that young men gathered from all over the region to enjoy and schemed and networked to be in the right place at the right time to petition to get the fucks of their lives.
The young man jerked his face away from the Road Romeo and arched his back and yodeled to the low ceiling of the sleeper cab as he came on the bedspread in a prodigious ejaculation such as he had never experienced before.
And then he started whimpering and panting and groaning as the Road Romeo laughed and just continued his slow pumping deep inside the youth, knowing that the combination of the youth's recuperation powers and his own stamina meant the sandy-blond young man from Fort Collins wasn't yet even half way through the fuck he'd come so far to get.
* * * *
"How long did you say you've been driving this route?"
"Twelve years," answered Ralph. He blew into his coffee to stir up the steam to cool it down, but he was hunched over the table and palming the cup in both of his hands to try to stay warm.
"Twelve years," the other trucker said and then he whistled.
They both sat there for a few minutes, looking through the glass window of the truck stop café outside Billings, Montana, at the ground frost that wouldn't burn off for another hour or two, certainly not until after the sun had come up.
"Nice rig," the trucker said, nodding his chin toward Ralph's shiny, burgundy rig with the extra large sleeper behind the cab that was strung out on the other side of the concrete pad beyond the line of gas pumps.
"Thanks. I like it," Ralph answered.
"But, man, twelve years on the Cheyenne to Billings to Rapid City route," the other trucker said. "How can you take it? Some of the most monotonous miles on earth, and lonely. God, is it lonely out there on the road."
"Well, I have company sometimes on the road," Ralph answered. "And then there's the perks; they make it worthwhile. And I only get on the road when I get a hankering to get off the ranch. Looking for something different."
"Perks?" the other trucker said. He just shook his head when Ralph didn't answer.
Ralph was busy eying the door. A young man, his breath still misting in front of his face as he came in from the cold, had entered the truck stop café and stood there a minute, surveying the room. His eyes lit on Ralph and he smiled. And Ralph smiled back.
"Speaking of perks," the other trucker continued. "I heard you called the Road Romeo the other day. You know of some nice chickies around these parts? Always seemed so dry and dull around here to me."
Ralph just smiled. But he wasn't smiling at the other trucker; he was smiling at one of his perks.