Halloween Erotica: A Trucker’s Night With Freddy

Be Careful What You Dream Of.

I’ve been a trucker for going on 20 years now, and it’s always the same. By the time I pull into a wayside or truck stop, pushing my eleven-hour driving limit to the maximum my body and the law will allow, I’m dog-tired and ready only for a piss, a sandwich and soda from my cooler, and hopefully eight solid hours of sleep in my truck’s cabin with its thin, lumpy mattress. Eight hours. Yeah, right. Sure I can get a hot meal in whatever shitty restaurant is attached to the truck stop, surrounded by equally tired faces and the voice of some sweet old lady serving us drivers, trying her best to cheer us up and make us feel appreciated, but that would mean interacting with others. And at the eleventh hour, I ain’t having any of that. Piss, a quick bite, and sleep. That’s it.

On the rare occasion I do walk into one of those places and plant myself in a booth, ignoring my phone and just wearily staring ahead as I wait for my food, I can feel the low thrum of sexual energy, sexual tension, a vibration of subdued masculinity that permeates these places. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice other guys’ eyes, mostly staring down, but giving quick, furtive glances around the room. Never focusing for long on any one person, their eyes dart and flit about the room, gauging, judging, mostly searching for anyone who might be doing the same, until by some small chance two pairs of eyes meet. These two men will make a rapid-fire assessment that takes the brain fractions of seconds to figure out if they’re looking for the same thing, before they make the decision to either hold the look…or quickly glance away. If they keep looking, even for a few seconds, this could bring about pleasure, or disaster. Why pleasure? Because they’re seeking some company, that’s why. Why disaster? Because they could wind up misreading the look and getting a fist in the face. Or worse. 

So why risk it? Because danger is sexual fuel. These are guys, who’ve been on the road sometimes for weeks, away from wives, girlfriends, or mistresses, are aware that picking up a lot lizard can be more dangerous than contemplating a liaison with another trucker. Hookers come with weapons, pimps, and diseases. With another trucker, you might wind up with something most likely curable, but you can take your action to a dubiously safe public place like a bathroom late at night, and you at least have a sporting chance should he get anxious toward the end and try to start a fight. Weapons are rarely carried on someone’s person, usually being stowed close at hand under a seat or a bunk, so it’s mostly fists you have to worry about. But if they read the look right, then nods of the head are given and responded to oh so subtly, and silent walks are taken out by the trucks after the meal, and, well…now it can get interesting. 

So it’s late into October and I’ve pulled into a wayside off of 275 outside Detroit, just north of the airport. I’ve made my runs, I’ve logged my hours, and I manage the rig tightly between two other trucks that are dark for the night and only the sound of a refrigerator truck’s machinery humming as it keeps its haul cold accompanies the night sounds of crickets and the autumn wind. With the noise of my own truck now silent, the hum of the rig next to me lulls me a bit, and the gripping hand of impending sleep wraps around my head and pulls me to the bunk behind me before I’ve even had a chance to piss. I lay back on the mattress that I really need to spend the money on replacing, intending only to rest my eyes for a few minutes before I go about my usual rituals of hunkering down for the night.

I must have conked out fast, because it’s the sound of another truck pulling in that pulls me out of a deep sleep with a sudden gasp and start. Some dark shadow of a dream quickly evaporates into the nightly ether and I slowly sit up, glancing around the dark, chilly space. A truck parked beside me has a dim glow shining from the dash running lights which I can see through the small window in my sleeper cab. The lights are just enough to illuminate the figure of the driver sitting on his bed, staring forward through his front windshield. I’d failed to pull my curtain closed and I can clearly see the motionless form as he sits, just…staring into a void. Creepy. Although his face is dimmed by shadow on one side, I still can barely detect what looks like rough scars. A slight shiver runs through me as I contemplate this lonely figure, whose gaze is fixed on nothing I can discern. 

Shrugging this off, I feel energized enough from the catnap to climb out of my cab and wander over to the toilets housed in a typically dingy small building. Entering, I take note of myself in the mirror in front of me. Sure I look haggard and draw; who wouldn’t at 4am after driving hundreds of miles? But at the age of forty-three, my beard is still a dark auburn with only a few grays popping up. My torso, though thick with too much of the wrong food, still has a firm sturdiness around the middle with a defined chest on top, my arms bulging from the exersizes I do around the truck when I’m parked. I’m covered in course curly chest hair, the kind you can discern even under a tight t-shirt, which I’m wearing now under my flannel hoodie opened to the chill, making my nipples hard and prominent. “Not bad” I think as I turn some corners formed by temporary walls that block the view of anyone at the urinals should the door open wide to the outside. I take little notice of the lone figure standing at a urinal looking down, his dick obviously in his hand as he goes about his business. He in kind takes no notice of my presence. I push the door to a stall open, preemptively wipe the seat off with some toilet paper (cuz you only make that mistake a couple times!) and shuck my pants down to cop a squat.

Noticing the usual graffiti penned on the walls around me full of badly rendered pussies, cocks and balls with phone numbers attached, I give my junk a good scratching as I haul it out. Cock still in my hand, I also notice a gloryhole carved out out of the wooden partition. Goddamn this place is old. Wooden stalls? Most have been remodeled with metal to prevent exactly this type of thing and make cleaning easier. Well, wadda ya know? Glancing through the hole, which has a direct view of the man I passed at the urinal, I see that he’s already turned ninety degrees and is boldly facing my stall, his flaccid cock hanging out of his jeans, the top of his pants partly shielded by his oddly designed sweater. It is a heavy thick material with wide horizontal stripes of a dark olive-greenish grey and blood red. His face is partially covered by a wide-brimmed hat as he is looking down at his cock which is about five or six inches soft. He is slowly rubbing it, measuring its length as it starts growing in his hand. “That will be more than five inches hard” I think to myself.

I’ve been in this position before a few times, and while it’s not normally my thing, I’m not one to judge what other dudes do in their lonely nighttime hours. I’ve watched my wife suck my cock for years, and yeah, sure, the cocks of a few friends of mine when we thought it’d be fun to play around. So the first time I was faced with the opportunity to get my rocks off with another guy in a rest stop many years ago in Alaska after a particularly grueling three-week run, I thought “Eh, fuck it. What the fuck could it hurt?” I tried to do what I observed the wife doing with limited skill, and since then, if the opportunity and the need arose, I went with it. I must have done an okay job that first time, because I found out Trent Reznor was right. “It’s really not so bad once you get past the taste.”

So I keep my gaze on this stranger; he’s noticed I’m not looking away, and he starts advancing forward. The hole is large enough that he’s able to see most of my face on the other side, my mustache and lips mere millimeters from the edges of the wood, and it’s then that I feel that my cock has gone full hard in my hand. At six inches, I may not have the longest pipe in the world, but what I lack in length I make up for in girth. I’ve never been egotistical enough to measure it around, but I’ve choked more than a few people as they tried to open wide and get it all in their mouth. My head flares at the edge even wider, giving the impression of being a large mushroom as it pushes against the back of someone’s tongue.

The stranger is now standing just on the other side of the wall, and by not moving my face away, he’s implicitly invited to take another step forward. The length of his dick protrudes through the hole, and it’s a hefty fucker, now having grown to its full hardness. At least eight inches or more in length, it’s almost as thick as mine with a low-hanging sack holding his balls swinging below. He flexes his hip muscles a couple times, making the snake jump in front of me, and I open my mouth and reach forward with my tongue, running it under the shaft for its full length, getting a feel and taste of it. Slightly rancid from the piss he’d been taking, my hunger rises for anything in my mouth having skipped my meal, and I greedily take the entirety of it down my throat. I took to cock sucking pretty easily in my day, and this gave me little challenge. Groaning his appreciation, the stranger began rocking his hips back and forth as I plant my bearded mouth at the hole, allowing him free access to my upturned mouth. While he fucks my face, I get down off the porcelain bowl and kneel uncomfortably on the dirty ground, my thick tumescence gripped in my meaty paw as I stroke myself to the rhythm of his thrusts. 

“Turn around” he gruffly whispers, and for a second I’m not sure I hear correctly, engaged as I am with slobbering over the tasty meal he was feeding me. “TURN AROUND” he commands again, and a shiver goes up my spine, an echo of what occurred back in the truck while looking at my neighbor. His voice is cracked, insistent, with a low intensity that ends in what seems like a guttural laugh as it trails off into the echo chamber that is the small building around us. 

Something in his voice both frightens and excites me. I know I can hold my own in a fight should I have to defend myself, but giving in to this rising erotic fear is a new sensation for me and I’m not sure if I’d want to fight back. Such was the propulsion to comply with his otherworldly voice. Rising and turning, I push my jeans to the tiled floor and spit in my hand with as much drool as I can muster, swiping it against my crack. I back my fuzz-covered ass cheeks to the hole, and soon I can feel the head of his cock start pressing against my puckering sphincter. While it takes some doing to work himself in, he manages to break into my rarely-fucked ass and slide the length of his member all the way in to the hilt. I clench down on my teeth, forcing myself to keep my roar of pain inside for fear of waking any truckers asleep out in the parking lot, and pressing my hands against the opposite stall wall, I keep myself in place as my backside receives a pummeling it has never had before. 

What the fuck was I doing? I’m getting fucked bareback in a bathroom stall in the middle of the night…and I’m fucking loving it. Fucked? No, more like being ripped a new one! I let myself get swept away by the undulating waves of pleasure and pain, his strokes coming faster and rising intensity. 

As I lose myself in my masculine, lustful thoughts generated solely by the feelings from my cock and ass, the small space around me begins to swirl, to shift and move. The air takes on an ethereal quality as the dust motes pick up refracting light that starts to shimmer with dark beams. A cracking sound starts low from the ground and slowly grows as angles and the solidity of the structure I am holding onto seemed to break apart, to slide away. As the stranger continues his almost violent slamming against my ass, all reality slips out of view, my thickly corded thighs barely able to remain standing  as my head succumbs to the myriad of sensations. Jesus, how fucking tired am I, and is this what it’s always like to get royally fucked?

I barely notice when I feel the hands on my body, grabbing my hips and pulling me back and forth as I am almost lifted off the ground with his powerful thrusts. I meet him thrust for thrust, pushing back vigorously, seemingly unable to get enough of his dick in my bowels. His hands find their way under my shirt, and begin rubbing my furry pelt, locating my sensitive nipples and twisting them roughly as I allow myself to let out a brief muffled yell. Concentrating on the pleasurable pain from my tits, I don’t immediately discern the feeling coming from between my legs. His cock, once hard and pole-like, seems to change into a long, soft, living thing. I’ve stopped bucking my body back into him, and I realize he has also become still,  standing straight up, also unmoving, But his long piece of man-flesh continues to move, to pump in and out of me…and around! Was it…squirming? My God, yes, it was moving of its own accord, exploring the entirety of my anal cavity, searching for God knows what as it moves deep within me. The shock of this image hits me, the complete impossibility slamming my brain like a brick, that what can’t possibly be happening actually is. 

His hand is around my mouth, yanking my head back, my upper body pulled to a full standing position, his mouth at my ear. As his tongue lolls out and wraps around my throat, I am unable to let out a scream as the blades in his hands drive deep into my stomach. He impales me now on both sides as he croaks out the words “Never wake up, lover!” and emits a terrifying, raucous laugh that fills the inside of the room, rising in volume to a cacophonous level as…

I wake with a violent jolt, covered in sweat and panting in the bunk of my truck, the screaming in my dream now barely a choked whisper as I grasp into the dark before me. Heaving breathes take minutes to slow down. I can feel a thick wet puddle of my own creamy spunk within my boxers. The sweat now cooling on my skin as I stare forward at the window on the opposite side of the sleeper. Through the window I see the driver sitting on his bed as I had before, but now, he’s turned to stare directly at me, one hand placed purposefully on his window. I notice the rough scars now seem to be wide-spread burn marks, and he smiles as he starts to rise.