The virgin HGV driver

The thing about most lorry drivers is that are usually older, married, inexperienced and they don’t play games with you. When one came up on my gay dating app as nearby, just parked up and as randy as a bitch on heat, I made contact and agreed to meet in a lay-by just off the A6. We had exchanged model types – vehicles, that is: he was on the look-out for a black American-built hatchback and I was on the look-out for a white truck with the name of a seed manufacturer on the side.

I have always had a thing for lorry drivers. When I was a child there was a day so hot that red sand from the Sahara Desert was falling over the countryside, and I had the bad luck to be travelling in the back of my parents’ car for six hours as we came back from a visit to relatives on the south coast. Even the open windows could not stop the stifling heat. What I did notice was the lorry drivers: in those days, before corporate identity, PPE and air-conditioning, truckers had the same problem with heat that I was having, so most were driving either in a singlet or shirtless, and through the windscreen and open side window I got a good look at them. Some were fat, some stocky, some muscular, even some thin, and they were of all ages, shades of white from paper-white to sallow-skinned, some tattooed, some hairy and some smooth. I was fascinated: I also noticed that I had an inbuilt preference for meat and hair, except on the head, and they were the ones which went into my pre-pubescent wank bank. Thereafter I always looked out for truckers (as well as road workers and builders), and always wanted to fuck one or be fucked by one. As a teenager, I tried hitching lifts, hoping that I would meet some beefy trucker who would pull over and use me for his pleasure until I begged for mercy – and a couple of refusals, I would be kicked out, spunk dripping from my arse, but that was never to be.

My job now means I travel a lot, but as I tend to stay away all week, my only chance to meet a lorry driver is when I come home, which limits time, and it is rather dependent on the time of year and the weather. Cruising cabs in lay-bys is a lost cause in the winter months, when it’s dark and cold, and also if it’s wet and cool. On hot summer days you can walk past, engage in conversation with some, especially if they have the door open and they’re inside, nearly naked and cooling off, but most truckers are not gay and not looking for sex with a strange bloke – sadly – and it’s sod’s law that the ones I fancied, big, meaty, tattooed and shaven-headed, were straighter than the proverbial dye . Of course, if they go off wandering in nearby woods, then they are indeed cruising: I fucked one in woods near a stream in the early evening, and ended up with around thirty mosquito bites which were rather hard to explain away, so in the end, I resorted to using a dating app.

I set off in the car from my hotel, and after fifteen minutes, I pulled off the A6 into the lay-by and parked in front of the truck. The curtains on the cab were drawn, so I could not see in. I made sure that it was the right one: banging on the door of some cab where the driver isn’t expecting you is not a recipe for a happy encounter. At best you’d be told to fuck off, at worst you’d get beaten up.

Perfect. It was a warm evening and still light. If it was dark, I would have stripped off and just taken my car keys, even in the autumn or spring, but as it was light, I didn’t want to be seen. I left the car, dressed in a T-shirt, shorts and barefoot, and locked the car remotely. I went round to the passenger side of the cab, which was unlocked for me. I climbed in.

Phil (at least that was he called himself on the site) was wearing just a T-shirt and shorts. There is something for everybody on that site, and not every body likes cross-dressers, muscle boys or twinks, and he was exactly how he described himself, which I liked. He was indeed in his fifties, a little short, thickset and a bit tubby, smooth-skinned with arms covered in tattoos. After I pulled the huge door shut, and made sure it was locked, I stripped: no point in hanging around. When I pulled down my shorts, my cock sprang up, big, hard and veiny, with the foreskin back, and I could see he was impressed. Phil took his own shirt off, and there were a couple more tats on his pectorals. We climbed on to the driver’s bunk, which was almost as wide as a double bed, and kissed.

Married men are good at kissing and good at tit work. It comes from years of making a wife happy in bed. When he came close his mouth smelled of toothpaste, but his skin smelled vaguely of diesel and oil, except, as I found later, his cock, balls, arse and all those areas down there where he had cleaned himself with wipes, and his armpits, which smelled sexily of sweaty excitement. Phil kissed well, our mouths together, and the initial thrill was making my cock even harder. He turned me on my back, straddled me and began working my nipples with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing, twisting, flicking, knurling and nibbling them, till they were both stiff and erect. He was good at this, but he wanted now to suck my cock, and I wanted to feed it to him. He said he had sucked cock before, and I believed him, but whilst he had a man’s instinct for worshipping a cock, I don’t think he’d taken one as big as mine in his mouth. It’s not that long, around seven inches, nearer nine if you measure from where it leaves my ballbag, but it’s thick, and my helmet can swell up into a whopper. I guided him slowly to take as much in as possible, then to let go as soon as he started to gag. Sometimes I like seeing a guy kneeling in front of me, gagging as I stuff every inch of my tool down his throat, but Phil the trucker was just not one of those. He was trying his best, and was starting to make my slippery cock feel good.

Now it was my turn. I rolled him on his back and now played from on top. I kissed his mouth hard, nibbled his ear lobes and kissed his neck, before pouncing on his juicy big nipples, which jutted out from his plump pectorals. He gasped as I began to work them, testing how hard he liked it, but it seemed that Phil could take his nipples being worked hard, and there was a direct line to his cock. I felt behind me and his cock, which had been slack so far, began to thicken, lengthen and stand up, not a monster, but a good size with a foreskin which rolled back by itself and a nice purplish head. It was also quite straight, with a head of similar width to the shaft, and almost no veins, unlike my gnarled, veined old warhorse. I sucked his nipples out of his chest and let them go. I squeezed them hard, pulled them, twisted them like I was playing with two dials, and bit into them. He squirmed, writhed and yelped: I bet his old lady didn’t treat them so roughly. All the time I let his cock knock my arse and balls. I now let his suffering nipples go, and ran my tongue down his chubby belly and over his shaved crotch, which smelled slightly of wet wipes. I popped his cock into my mouth, taking it all the way, so that the tip was starting to go into my throat. I bobbed my head up and down to run my mouth over his shaft, nibbled around the soft, spongey helmet, nibbled the frenum, licked the underside of his shaft, and turned my attention to his balls, whilst gently wanking his slippery cock just under the helmet. Phil was writhing and moaning. I sucked each ball in turn, gently pulling it away from his body and rolling it in my mouth, then took both together, stuffing my cheeks with balls like a hamster. He was loving it. I took his cock in my mouth again, loving the feel of his helmet pushing into my throat and the shaft of flesh behind it. I felt him lift his arse off the bunk, and detected the surge of spunk in his cock tube, and then in seconds he was crying out in pain and ecstasy as he came, gobbets of warm spunk jetting down my throat. My mouth clamped down to drain every last drop of spunk, every last little sperm, until acute post-coming sensitivity forced him to withdraw. I could smell his sweat as I swallowed his salty cum.

He thanked me. He had never come in a man’s mouth before or so hard. I lay with him for a few minutes as he recovered, almost falling asleep. My cock, though, was still hard, and looking for its own pleasure. Phil began to kiss me again and started to play with my cock. I rolled him on his side and spooned him, my cock pressing up against his arse, my hand on his nipples, stroking and teasing him. I moved my hand down his belly, felt his cock, which was now dormant, and moved it over his arse to his hole, which I stroked gently. I leaned over to get the tube of cheap lube in my shorts’ pocket, squeezed some out on to his arse, and then began to rub it into his hole, first with my middle finger until it felt more relaxed, and then inserting my index finder as well. His arsehole, which was as tight as a piano string, began to yield. I kissed his neck softly, and whispered that he was about to enjoy something new.

Phil was ready. I guessed he would be nervous the first time, and indeed I could smell fresh sweat from his armpits, which aroused me.  He had also not asked for a rubber, but I was tested and clean and he was a virgin the risk was low. Taking this virgin trucker was going to be a meeting of souls as well as two bodies together in a lay-by somewhere north of Luton. I rolled him on to his front, straightened his cock and balls out so that his cock was pointing at his feet, parted his legs and climbed on board.

I felt my cock slide in through his outer ring, and he gasped. I powered on to his inner ring, which had never been opened by a cock before, holding on to his thick, strong shoulders. It opened slowly, and I could sense that surge of pain which affects novices. I pulled back, let the pain subside, and checked whether he wanted to go on. I withdrew completely, slathered more lube on to my throbbing cock and into his hole, and came back for a second attempt. This time it yielded gently, and I could feel my cock pressing forward. Phil stiffened, but this time I could tell he was just uncomfortable. For me, it is one of the best moments with a man, when you open up that second ring and you’re inside, connected, in charge and giving pleasure. Once inside, I stayed still for a few seconds, letting him get used to the new and wonderful sensation of a man’s cock up his tight arsehole, before gently pumping. Finally, I got the whole of my cock inside him, so that skin over my bladder was touching his cheeks with every thrust. He was relaxing, so that fucking him became easier. I moved his legs gently a little further apart and straightened them, so that he was prone now and I could take him in the missionary position, although as I felt my spunk getting ready to be shot into his guts, I pushed his legs together, put mine on the outside, and pumped like a piston. I could feel my spunk coming from my balls, up my cock tube, that delicious moment of painful ecstasy, and then shooting cum spurts into his virgin hole.

We lay back together. I stroked him, and his cock and balls were now really soft and small. The cab was occasionally buffeted by passing traffic, wobbling slightly. We chatted for a while. His was an old story: married for years, feelings for men since adolescence, now he and his wife didn’t do it any more, not comfortable with the idea of coming out and divorcing, so trying a man on the side. I knew the story. I held him as we spoke, my sticky, slack cock stuck to his arse cheek, my hand stroking him

Outside the sun had set and it was dark, and time for me to go. Phil moved into the driver’s seat, still naked, and for one last time we kissed before he let me out. I ambled bollock-naked to my car, slipped on the T-shirt and shorts before I got in, and drove off.

He isn’t on the site any more, but I still look out for his lorry, and I wonder if he’s had a few more cocks.