It's hard to keep his eyes open by the time he pulls into the shit Virginia truck stop. There are a few other sleeping trucks here, and the sort of stillness that seems even more serious when compared to the flying highway next to him.
George sighs at the whole place through the hood. Everything aches with the exhaustion of driving too long with no rest, and yet he knows just as well that he could drive more, longer, faster - make more money. Although what's the fucking point, really. New route, and no fucking Gilbert - Lafayette - whatever the hell he wants to call himself - at the end?
Good news, Washington, that fatass Henry Laurens had said. Got a new route for you. Instead of going up to Augusta, you're gonna finish over in Chicago. Extra dollars, just like you wanted.
He couldn't argue, not with the money on the table. And somehow I wanted to see my goddamn -- my goddamn someone - over in Maine -- doesn't really ring the same bells.
The highway's loud when he steps out of the cab, and it's dark enough that he has to wait for his eyes to adjust. Feels good to stretch his legs, if only for a second. Spring weather enough the dark's cool and dry, different and refreshing in comparison to the air-conditioned breeze that he was blowing in his cab for eight hours. He lights a cigarette, settles himself against the driver-side door and feels the sweet relief of the nicotine flooding into his brain. Some shit part of him says this is bad for you. He usually feels guilty by the second or third puff, but for now it's easy and relaxing, and despite his exhaustion there's a sort of calm that comes from being next to the highway and next to his rig and the weird isolation of it. It was this or the fucking farm, after all. And like he was gonna stay on the farm long enough for his mother to find something else wrong with him, wrong with life, wrong with the city, wrong with -- wrong with anything.
"Spare one?" says a voice in the semi-darkness, and George startles.
The halo of the nearby parking lot light reveals a man. Practically a fucking boy, George thinks, who managed to sneak up on him. The boy has short hair, brownish. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and as George's eyes adjust he can make out the boy's face: pink lips, thoughtful eyes. Something like Lafayette, in a way people aren't usually like Lafayette, for him.
No fucking Lafayette, he thinks, and then snorts to himself, catching the double meaning.
"You can have the rest of mine," he says, and offers the half-smoked cigarette to the kid.
The kid tilts his head, then takes it. Smooth fingers extend contact for three seconds too long before the kid finishes his cigarette.
"Leaving tonight?" The kid asks, when he turns to open the cab door.
He could ignore him; he doesn't really want to make fucking small-talk with some kid. Although --
---instead of answering, he takes in the rest stop. Just trucks, over here, cab lights off. This kind of community, you keep your eyes forward, or down if you're not driving.
He looks back at the kid. Maybe.
No fucking Lafayette. So. Well.
"Job-mandated rest breaks," he says, and turns back to the kid, who's watching him from under dark eyelashes in a way that has to be intended to be suggestive. The kid shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles a quirky little smile at him, and fuck, George's stomach twists with beginnings of arousal. He's really fucking lost it, if standing here watching a kid in dim light is doing it for him. He's gonna have to figure out a new fucking plan if this is his situation. He'd have to think about it, though. It's the last thing he's interested in, especially now.
"That's nice of them," the kid says, and he fake-casually looks over his shoulder and then steps closer to George, not even bothering to hide the way he takes George's body in, sweeps his gaze from toes to the top of his head and then back again.
George snorts a laugh. "Looks bad for the company if you fall asleep behind the wheel and kill someone."
The kid's in his space now, and with supreme confidence that doesn't match his pretty eyes, puts his hands on either side of George, trapping him against the cabin door.
"Got a menu?" George asks, meeting his eyes. Blue, he can see now. Blue and sweet, and George's stomach does another twist. He's not a fucking creative but he can imagine some pretty nice things right now, mostly with those lips. They look real soft, real thick. George bets himself this kid sucks dick like a champ. Maybe if he's going to fuck the kid's face he oughta stop thinking of him as the kid. He's probably fucking legal age. Twenty-six, George decides. Lafayette's age.
The man smiles out of the corner of his pretty mouth. George should be keeping his eye out for someone watching him, or maybe he should just go to sleep, but it's too hard with this murky, gorgeous thing this close. The man presses a firm thigh - muscular, like steel wire - against his crotch. He's met plenty of hookers and bargained with them; he's not rich. But there isn't a lot of brain left in him for bargaining with this one. This one rhythmically flexes his thigh against his crotch, presses their bodies close, making them as small as they can be. The man bends his head and licks George's neck. Something Lafayette would do. His voice is pitched low and dark and George is in no mood to bargain. George is in a mood to get his cock in this hooker’s mouth.
“I’ll suck your pretty cock for fifty bucks, seventy-five without a condom, and you can blow your load on me and I’ll like it for an even hundred.”
He could get a much better deal than that, if he tried. He knows being ripped off when he hears it. He's gotten blowjobs for half that, and they were pretty fucking good, after all. What he really should be doing is sleeping, maybe rubbing one out thinking about the sweet lips of the hooker who tried to rip him off in the parking lot. But then the man surges forward, and there's the sharp, tight grind of the man’s thigh against his crotch, and those lips are so soft and wet against his neck. Even a tiny little nip of teeth, just playing.
“Deal,” his mouth says, over the objections of all the other part of him.
The hooker pulls away and grins at him, and slides a hand between them, giving his cock a strong squeeze through his jeans. His hand wanders, feeling out the bulge in his pants. Investigating. The man's smile gets brighter.
“You don’t need to flatter me to get you pay you,” George murmurs. The hooker chuckles, just a little.
“I know a nice cock when I feel one.” Then he pulls his hand away, and only George’s control stops him from whining. “Half now, and half later.”
George takes the hooker in again. His lip gleams from being chewed. Swollen, if he’s lucky. “Wallet’s in the cab,” he said. The hooker glances over his shoulder at the door, then gives him space to open it. George folds the bills out of his wallet, and when he appears back outside, the hooker is still standing there. George’s eyes flicker around the darkness again, and he hands a crisp $50 over. Seemingly satisfied, the hooker slides it into his back pocket and drops to his knees right there in the asphalt, his fingers working at the buttons of George’s jeans.
God, he’s a gorgeous thing at. George wants to wreck him. Not just right here when he’s about three seconds from fucking that pretty mouth so hard that he hopes the hooker doesn’t have a gag reflex, but maybe next week too, and the week after that. Maybe he can convince Lafayette to be in Chicago or some shit, have both of them.
“What’s your name?” George’s mouth says, without him telling it to. They really should make it into his truck, but the evening feels good on his skin. The sound of highway cars from on the other side of the truck is rhythmic and melodious in it’s own way. The hooker pulls his dick out of his jeans and makes a soft sound of approval in the back of his throat.
“You can pick, if you want,” The hooker says, without looking away from his cock. He knows it’s nice, but it still feel real good to feel soft lips tease up it. They feel even better than they look. “Jesus, you have a really nice dick.”
There’s definitely a long pause where George’s brain says Gilbert, because no fucking way does this guy look or seem like Lafayette. But -- he isn’t, and that shit is different than some pretty face making out with his dick. He should be on a fucking schedule, and given that they’re just pressed up against the side of his truck, here, anyone could fucking see them, but -- he’s distracted by the way the hooker seems mostly intend on making out with his cock, curious tongue investigating him in the semi-darkness.
“I figure you got one already,” he grunts.
“Ben,” the hooker answers, quick enough that it’s real or he thought of it already. Either way, George doesn’t care. It was a stupid question. Easy to ask stupid questions when a soft hand is running across his balls, rolling them in his hand, and George closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the driver-side door. He reaches down, letting his hand slide through the hooker - Ben’s - hair. Long enough for him to get a hold on, that’s real nice.
“All right, get on with it,” he growls, and Ben obligingly stops worshipping his cock, bends it down and slides it into his mouth. Christ, so he thought Ben's cock worship was nice, but it's nothing in comparison to the perfect cavern of Ben's mouth. Ben hurries to take him down, doesn't give himself any time to get his throat accustomed it. he gags softly in the darkness, and George gives his hair a sharp tug, as if to remind him that they're just hanging outside and it's Ben's fault, obviously, if they're disturbed. For what it's worth, it seems to work, because Ben grunts mostly through his nose and let's George's cock brush against the back of his throat. George feels Ben's throat flex, tighten and loosen around him. Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's real nice. He bites his lip to hold back the groan, and gives Ben's hair another tug. Ben's evidently interested in keeping close, because hands find the round of his ass and clench, keeping them firmly sealed together.
Ben isn't neat about it. George can feel the spit on his groin, can imagine it soaking it into his open jeans. The fabric will be stiff when it dries and he'll have to get his jeans washed somewhere, a waste. The thought to tell Ben to keep it fucking neat crosses through his head, but the intensity of it is actually pretty fucking nice. Makes George think Ben wasn't just shit-talking him when he said he had a nice dick (he knows that he does). Or maybe Ben's just a consummate professional. George likes that kind of guy.
For a while he just lets Ben go to town on his cock, listening to the slurping of Ben's mouth and the idle sound of the highway. Far off, the sounds of a fight reach his ears. On the other side of his truck. Doesn't matter. He tunes it out, concentrates on Ben's tongue flicking against the shaft of his dick. He spares a glance down, eyes picking out Ben's details in the low light: the stretch of his lips, the strands of dark hair in his fingers, one hand disappearing around the meat of his thigh. Powerful shoulders, George notices, for the first time. Could be stronger than he looks, if he wasn't in the process of gagging himself with George's dick. Ben's other hand, he realizes, is in his fucking pants. From this angle it's hard to tell, but, well, he's not some asshole who's not gonna let a man enjoy his work. Especially if the work is top fucking quality like this.
"Christ," he murmurs, and then resettles himself against the side of the truck. He draws his hands once through Ben's hair, gives it another little tug, and then takes a good, firm grip. "All right, kid," he murmurs, Ben seems to intuit what's going to happen next because a moan vibrates all the way up his dick and into his balls and for a second he thinks he might fucking blow his load right there. The moment passes, and strength surges up into his arms, and then he takes Ben's head in his grip and begins to use him, dragging slick lips and that furious tongue along his shaft. Lafayette likes it, when George uses him like a fucking warm hole to wet his cock. Ben doesn't seem opposed either, from the way his shoulder twitches as he jacks himself in his jeans. Bad hooker etiquette but he's too turned on to care.
Better even now, when he stills Ben's head and begins to fuck up into it, making Ben take him, feeling the quiver of Ben's throat around him each time he fucks inside, deep and long wonderful. Yeah, okay, he's getting ripped off but he at least understands value, and he's getting what he paid for. He feels his balls begin to tighten, imagines the future where his fucking come is dripping down Ben's pretty face, maybe some of it in his mouth, staining his lips. He brings Ben's mouth closer, fucks into it harder, loses himself in the wet noise of their bodies, forgets where he is.
Ben's hand flies up and presses against his thigh, providing a little resistance. The hands in his hair flex against the resistance and pull him closer, but Ben jerks his mouth away with strength unseen.
"Excuse me," he growls, although it's pathetic because he's fucked out and hard enough that he could hammer nails.
"Jesus, your cock is so nice," Ben says, and there's nothing fake about how hoarse his voice is. "Need that fucking thing in me."
"You pulled away, jackass." He has half a mind to fucking break the boy's teeth, what with what he's paying and all.
"In my ass," Ben says, more patronizing than any whore oughta be. He clears his throat. Doesn't cough, though. A fucking expert, really. George shouldn't complain. You should be paid commensurate with experience, he's always thought.
"How much is that gonna cost me?" He growls, because this little asshole shouldn't have said anything to make George want, and he really fucking does, and he's not fucking rich, can't pay escort price. He and Lafayette have long had a thing worked out.
"Pretty cock like yours?" Ben purrs, and he stands up, eyes going to the cab of the truck, "Consider it on the house."
George should know better, does know better. He should be expecting some kind of trap here. Maybe Ben's about to steal his truck and leave him in the Virginia night. This is a terrible idea and he knows it, asking for disaster, looking to get himself murdered by a gorgeous, psycho hooker.
"Yeah," his mouth says, and Ben stands up and allows him space to open the cab door.
What he should say is I didn't mean that, get back on your knees. What in fact happens is that he turns, opens the cab door, and steps inside. He reaches for the window covers, providing more complete privacy and plunging him into darkness. Then, he flicks on the cabin light as Ben crawls in behind him, surveying George's little territory without giving away what he thinks about it.
Even in the harsh cabin light Ben's just as fucking gorgeous as George guessed he might be: swollen lips, red and slick, and christ, is that the streaks of tears on his cheeks? Really pretty eyes, dark hair, perfect jaw. Powerful shoulders, yeah. George has zero confidence he's about to be fucked for free by this hooker. His brain is attempting to tell him to shove the kid out of the cab and go to sleep, or maybe just fucking drive, or maybe rub one out and pretend this never happened. His dick, however, has staged a full-on revolt and seems to have taken over actually doing anything.
He adjusts the seat so that Ben can fit more properly into the space. Ben's jeans are open and his cock is thick and pretty against his stomach. George thinks about taking it in his hand, only it seems his hands have gone to Ben's waist, lean muscles under his fingers. He's going to look his damn fill, at least, before this guy kills him and leaves him to rot on the side of the road. Like anyone would care.
"All right," Ben says, taking George's cock in his hand and promptly making him forget everything. Ben's hand is very, very nice against his spit-slick cock. Then, once he's properly unable to do anything than look at Ben's faded t-shirt, the hand pulls away. George is distantly amazed how much flexibility Ben can get out of the space, which is cramped even though George pushed the chair back as far as it can go. But Ben's wriggling out of his jeans - no boxers - and then from the jeans he's pulling a condom and a bottle of lube. The first he puts into George's limp hand, and the second he pops with a loud-in-the-space click, squeezing some onto his hand.
"Yeah," Ben says, to no one, and he arches his back, arm behind him and the other on George's shoulder for balance. Ben makes some really pretty moans when he stretches himself out, and George gets captivated by the expressions on Ben's face as he fucks himself on his fingers. His eyes go heavy-lidded, and he licks his swollen lips without thinking. Yeah, well, it's a good way to die, looking at this pretty hooker. A little focus comes into Ben's eyes for a moment, with George staring at him and his mind properly imagining what it looks like Ben's long fingers sliding into the tight ring of his hole.
"Put the fucking condom on," Ben says, and for a second he's radical focus, the coldness of it snapping George out his lust-glazed funk. Right, a consummate fucking professional right here, who is possibly about to murder him, but at least he's going to go with his cock deep in what he's pretty sure is a wonderfully tight ass.
He grunts in lieu of an apology, fingers tearing the wrapper and leaving in the pile of garbage in the passenger-side footwell. He rolls the condom on, pinches the tip. "Blue usually looks good on me," he says, and Ben actually chuckles between his soft noises. Then, perhaps pronouncing himself ready, he sits himself more properly on George's lap, raising himself up so George can find his own cock, hold it straight up and watch Ben settle himself down on it.
Oh, oh yeah. Ok, that's really fucking tight and slick, stretching to accommodate him and fucking clinging to him, keeping him so close that it's a good thing his hand is there to keep him from losing it. Yeah, there's no fucking way this is free. It's -- he doesn't have words. He only knows one fucking person that surrounds him like this, and that person's far fucking away right now. But Ben will do, and yeah, he'll really fucking do like this, clenched around him. George's hands find the swell of Ben's bare ass, squeezing him together. He can't stop the groan, with how hot it is. He glances up at Ben, for a second, sees the kid's jaw hanging and his eyes practically rolling back into his head and just a little pinch of pain at the side of his mouth. Ben shifts, and his cock bounces against George's stomach, flushed red and a bead of white at the tip. George knows that some folks prefer for their hookers not to enjoy it, but makes George feel better to see the visible evidence.
"Jesus," he gasps, and Ben chuckles, letting himself slide into George's lap more. He's balls-deep in this hooker's tight ass and his hands are shaking on the kid's hips. It's way fucking more than he expected, but his brain is shorting out too much for him to think it through or take it back or do literally anything else other than be overwhelmed by how amazing this is.
"Ben," Ben replies, breathlessly, and George does think about smacking him before Ben shifts his hips and makes him forget that anything could be bad. He doesn't even make George ask, moves himself in just the right way and rolls his hips and George can't do anything but let his head loll back against the headrest with the mind-blowing sensation of it all. Both of Ben's hands find his shoulders, dig into the tight muscles there.
Then he begins to ride him properly, lifting himself with his thighs and fucking his tight ass squarely down on George's cock. Fucking shit, fucking shit, he's going to blow his load and he would really like this to last forever. He mutters something, maybe a warning, maybe just a noise, and then he wraps his arms around Ben's lithe frame and jerks his hips up into him. Ben gasps out a whine, his nails sharp through the cotton of George's shirt. He can't keep it up for too long, and it's worse when Ben goes rigid and his ass clenches and twitches around him and George has about half a second to realize Ben got come on his shirt before he whites out like he was run over by his own truck.
For a while it's just gasping and the sound of the highway and the grey fog of post-fireworks behind his eyelids.
Finally, Ben starts moving again. George groans when he slips out, glares resentfully at the condom. Lazily, he plucks it off, opens the door, and dumps onto the ground, shutting the door behind him. This done, he rewards himself by watching Ben wiggle back into his jeans, impressive in the tiny space. Easy to look at, Ben's body twisting and powerful and how good he felt around him. Would be nice to remember that forever.
Ben clears his throat again, and before George realizes it, Ben's got his wallet in his hand and he's plucking money out of it.
"Hope you don't mind that I tipped myself," Ben says, and then he reaches over and opens the cab door. The protest wells in George's throat, but before he can dart out and complain his truck door's closed and he can see Ben walking across the lot before disappearing out of the halo of the streetlight. He runs a hand over his face in the harsh lighting, and when his eyes fall again he sighs at the streaks of come staining his shirt. What a little ashole.
He checks his wallet, because he's about three seconds from crashing and if he doesn't now he'll never do it. It's all there, besides a fair amount.
And something else?
A fucking hooker with a business card. What a world. Can't say he's ever gotten the number of a hooker before. Lafayette will get a chuckle out of it, at least. He folds it back into his wallet and reaches behind him to open the door between the cab and the sleeper, turning the cabin light off without looking. At least he has the energy to peel off his clothes.
He lazily conjures up the memory of Lafayette's face, slack with pleasure. Ben appears, hazy and insubstantial. The highway lulls him to sleep.