Hauling Christmas

The overhead light in the sleeper cabin behind the Mack truck cab was on dim, casting an eerie light over Mack, nicknamed for driving semis, who was covering the young sailor. It was a little over a week before Thanksgiving. Long Beach was where he’d picked up the cute little guy in his alluring sailor whites when Mack was taking on a load off the docks there to drive to Kansas City. The very-young-looking, nineteen-year-old sailor, coming off his first cruise, said he was headed south to Fort Worth—home for the holidays, he’d said—and had begged for a ride and agreed to be ridden to get it. The truck was parked at the Flying J truck center in Barstow, California, where the highways—and Mack and the sailor—split and where Mack would be taking I-15 north and the sailor would be looking for an ongoing ride west and south on I-40.

The sailor, small of body, barely able to raise a beard, cute and willowy, was on all fours on the bed that took up most of the sleeper cabin. He was doing what he’d only recently, on his first cruise, learned to do for sailors on board ship. He was taking cock—massive cock in this instance.

He was still in his white jumper, but that was all. Mack, large and formidable, especially in contrast to the young sailor, was hovering over the young man, embracing the sailor’s chest, his hand up under the jumper, clutching the sailor’s pecs, holding the little guy close and steady as he moved his hips, mining the sailor’s channel to a steady beat. The sailor was writhing and huffing and puffing as Mack penetrated him with a beer-can cock, not appreciably long, but almost impossibly thick. The young man was especially aware of the thick cock ring pressing at the latex of the condom in the truck driver’s cock head. This was the first time the sailor was being fucked by a cock with a thick stud in its head, and all of the young man’s groaning senses were focused there.

It had been all sex. They hadn’t even exchanged names. The sailor was nervous, trying out for the first time how he could get from the ship to Fort Worth without having to shell out any money, and Mack wanting to only think of his winter holiday haul pickups as convenient pieces of ass rather than young men with names and lives of their own.

Mack, in his mid-forties, was an avid bodybuilder, hanging onto youth as best he could. He also was into leather and tattoos and piercings. Tom of Finland was the look he went for when he was trucking, the look that attracted the young guys looking for adventure and manhandling.

He was a divinely built, handsome man of commanding musculature, his torso and arms covered with intricate, expensively done, tattooing, and a diamond stud in his right earlobe and gold bars in his nipples. If he were an ugly man, other men would give him a wide berth, but he wasn’t. He was strikingly good looking and had a great smile. It was obvious he was a man’s man, a Tom of Finland, but other seeking men gravitated to him, wanting to ride on the wild side and intuitively knowing he’d treat them right—and, if not exactly right, he’d fuck them totally—certainly something to think about and savor at Christmas.

Fully mounted and saddled, Mack held steady on the young man’s back. Trembling, but also holding steady now, fully possessed by the stretching shaft, the sailor settled down for the initially slow in and out, in and out fuck.

“Shit, that cock ring,” he moaned.

Mack was in his favorite gear for action such as this. His torso was encased by the leather harness, with the ring pressed under his bulging pecs, he was wearing his black leather wristbands and his black-leather studded captain’s hat, and his shiny black leather combat boots were on his feet. He was Tom of Finland, fucking his boy.

He held the sailor close under him, mounted on his tail like a dog, and thrust and thrust, picking up speed and intensity as the sailor held under him, shuddering and shimmering, whimpering and panting, taking the impossibly thick shaft and rub of the cock ring, one of the sailor’s hands moving between his legs to stroke himself off, while the other hand and his knees took the position. Even though the truck was heavy, the motion of the fuck was causing the cabin to sway a little, not unlike what the sailor felt on board his ship at sea while one sailor after the other was gangbanging him. Mack was taking most of his own weight on the soles of his feet buried on either side of the sailor’s calves, raising his arms in the concluding increasingly vigorous thrusts, and grasping strap loops in the interior of the cabin sides to hold himself in place as he drove hard to his ejaculation.

The sailor cried out in pain-passion and collapsed under Mack onto the narrow, vinyl-covered bed in the dim light as Mack tensed and jerked and came, tensed and jerked and came.

It wasn’t the first time they’d fucked in the sleeping cabin. They’d done so where Mack had picked the sailor up in San Berdino at a truck stop. But this had been a better fuck than the first time. The sailor had known what to expect—what was expected of him, which wasn’t much—and, having taken the beer-can cock before was better prepared to take it a second time.

Inside the café in the Flying J truck stop, eighteen-year-old Tanner, nudging the duffel bag beside his chair, was nursing a cup of coffee and staring out of the window, looking for something out in the lot where the tractor-trailer trucks were parked. Some drivers were out and about in the lot, gathering in small conversation group. But the drivers of many of the semis were snoozing in their sleeper cabs, building up the energy to start the next leg of their cross-continent drive, hauling the nation’s goods to market from the ports in the weeks building up to the Christmas season.

Tanner, small, blond, preppy looking, saw the sailor, also small, compact, moving gingerly, looking spiffy in his sailor whites and hefting a white duffel bag, climb, with effort, out of the sleeping cab of one of the tractor trailers, a humongous Mack truck, and hobble deeper into the parked fleet. Tanner scrutinized the sailor, speculating where he’d been and what he’d been doing, as the young man approached a couple of drivers who were leaning against a truck and jawing. A few minutes later, a real hunk of a guy, not too old but not too young, muscular and strutting like he owned the place, came out of the sleeper cab. He was dressed in faded jeans, topped by a fancy Western-style cotton shirt with fancy detailing and silver studs on a yoke collar and along the shoulders. The studded black-leather captain’s hat and shiny combat boots gave him a dangerous look. Tanner shuddered and felt the “coming-to-life” arousal going through his tight little body.

That was the one. If he was headed east in that rig, that was the one Tanner was looking for.

Mesmerized by the size and bearing of the dark-haired truck driver, Tanner watched Mack strut across the asphalt separating the Flying J building from the truckers’ parking lot, enter the building, and head back toward where the shower facilities were for the truckers. Tanner didn’t miss the diamond stud in Mack’s ear, the satisfied look on his face, or the baggie he was carrying in his hand containing what unmistakably was a spent Trojan Magnum condom.

The truck driver gave a little scowl as he entered the Flying J building. The place was decorated—tackily decorated—for Christmas, with a lot of stringy red, gold, and white tinselly stuff hanging around on the walls. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet and the Christmas decorations were already going up. Not that it mattered all that much to Mack, who would be on the road, moving goods, most of the holiday season—right up to Christmas. He always paused his driving to be at home, on the lake, in Gunnison, Colorado, for Christmas. There wasn’t much other for him to do at home in this season, though. There wasn’t anyone but his dog and a few casually friendly neighbors waiting for him there. This was his busy season in a job that was slowly decreasing for him. He made sure he was on the road for the winter holidays. It was all for the little gifts he gave himself while on the road.

And, speaking of gifts, Mack’s eyes had looked beyond the Christmas decorations and picked out the cute little blond piece watching him from the café as well, and he let his assessing look become blatant as the two focused on each other. He also made sure the baggie he was carrying with the spent condom in it could be seen.

The kid, the only one seated in the café at the moment, wasn’t more than eighteen or nineteen, Mack thought. He was small, perfectly proportioned, dressed preppy, good-looking, with an eager puppy demeanor, and had a gold loop earring in his right ear. That wasn’t supposed to mean much anymore, but Mack, who was good at picking them out, knew that, combined with other signals, it did mean something. As he marched back to the showers to dispose of the used condom and to shower up for the run up to Vegas, Denver, and beyond, he also noticed the duffel bag on the floor at the kid’s feet.

Maybe the sweet piece wanted a ride in exchange for being ridden, Mack thought. Maybe he’d still be here waiting for me when I finished my shower. This is what Mack got on the road for during the winter holiday season—this was his “gifts to myself” season.

* * * *

Mack didn’t have to wait. When he came out of the shower into the locker room, Tanner was there, leaning up against the bank of lockers. They stood there, Tanner with eyes wide in the wonder of what he was looking at and Mack, entering the locker room from the shower, holding the knot of his towel with one hand.

“Shit, just look at those tattoos,” Tanner said, his eyes getting big.

Mack laughed. “You like tattoos, kid?” he asked.

“Sure,” Tanner said after a pause. Then, boldly, “Can I touch them?”

Mack laughed. “Knock yourself out,” he said. with a smirk, letting his towel fall and standing there naked. “Got ’em down here too.” Would this kid really be this easy? He looked around the area. Anyone else here? No one in sight. He could take him here, but, no, there was too much risk of someone coming in. There were several trucks in the lot. The risk was high that one of those drivers would want to shower just as he got the sweetie under him. This was why he had the semi with the sleeping compartment behind the cab.

Tanner sucked in air, “Fuck,” he said, his eyes going to the size of Mack’s dark cock and balls and to the cock ring in the shaft’s head. The cock was on the rise. Tanner knew the man wanted him.

The dance had begun.

Mack was of a mixed breed—a bit of everything, including Hispanic, black, and white. His cock and balls were from black sires. Tanner didn’t shy away. He moved closer and touched the tattooing on Mack’s muscular chest, covered in light swirls of dark hair that didn’t hide the tattoos but, rather, seemed to animate them. An index finger went to one of Mack’s nipples, with puffed up, and lingered there. Their eyes locked as the finger slid down Mack’s torso to below his waist briefly before going back to a nipple. There was nothing subtle about this kid—about what he wanted and what’d do for a guy, a guy like Mack.

“Fuck is good,” Mack said, knowing that they would. He’d take the little piece back to his sleeper cab and fuck the hell of him—and the young guy would let him do it. He took Tanner’s free hand and moved it down to his crotch. Tanner didn’t flinch from that either, but Mack didn’t push for more than a touch there with the fingers of that hand too before he released the young man’s hand. He’d already decided they couldn’t do it here—shouldn’t try to do it here.

Mack took Tanner’s other arm by the wrist and moved the young man’s hand away from his chest, but he held the hand for several seconds longer than necessary, applying pressure to establish his dominance, and smiled at Tanner.

“Can I buy you something to drink when I’ve dressed,” Mack asked.

“Yes, please,” Tanner said, a slight look of confusion on his face. He too had thought of doing it here. He hadn’t thought of the risks like Mack had. He wasn’t accustomed to thinking of the risks of these situations that Mack was. His eyes, roving all over the man’s muscular and tattooed body, were unabashedly taking it all in.

“What’s your name?” Mack asked in a low, calm voice. Time to put a bit of a damper on this, for now. But why this way, he thought. He had a strict rule about exchanging names with his prey. Why had he abandoned that? What did this kid have that the others hadn’t? It was something, that was for sure.

“Tanner. Tanner Davis.”

“I’m Mack, as in the truck I came here in.” It wasn’t his real name, of course, but for the months on the road, it was him. When he was on the road during the winter holiday season, he was Mack, but he also was Tom of Finland.

“I saw your truck. It’s big.”

“Everything about me is big, kid.”

“I can see that,” Tanner said.

“Wait for me in the café. I’ll dress and come out to you.” And then, in not very long, I will come in you, he was thinking. We’ll both have a ball balling. But he didn’t say it. Time to damp this down until he could get the guy in his sleeper cabin. Everything was set up for games in the sleeper cabin. Mack was already thinking of positions to put the young man in there. There were hanger straps all over the place to use to trap wrists and ankles—to incapacitate his prey and put them in good positions. He didn’t have great length, so the access had to be open. But, god could he screw them to the bed with his thickness. He could make them squeal. They all whimpered and squealed for him. He was Tom of Finland.

He liked this kid. Not only was he easy on the eyes, a sexy little piece, or that he was being easy to get. The guy had spunk and he turned Mack on as much as any guy he’d humped before. He was raw and straightforward. He reacted well to everything Mack had said or had shown he was and what he intended to do. He wanted to have the guy for the long haul to Denver. He was a real present. Mack would savor him. He’d fuck the shit out of him, of course.

Tanner obviously heard the instruction to leave the locker room, but he didn’t go to the café immediately. He backed away to where he had originally been standing, leaning up against lockers, but remained there, watching Mack dress, which the man did slowly, obviously like he liked being watched and worshipped by the kid’s eyes.

Tanner’s eyes again went wide when he saw Mack pulling the black-leather harnessing onto his chest before covering it with the Western-style, long-sleeved shirt. Tanner’s interest and arousal grew as he watched Mack take on his chosen character—the boots and wristbands coming on after the harness and the shirt, and it all topped off by the black-leather captain’s hat. Tanner got that Mack was becoming Tom of Finland. He was Mack when he was driving and Tom of Finland when he was fucking.

Once the man got the shirt on, though, the raw sexuality of the character became tamped down—for public consumption, the young man thought. One couldn’t tell other than at the edge of the man’s exposed wrists that his torso was covered in tattoos. He looked like a whole different man than he did just in the torso harness and black-leather boots. Then, when he’d snapped on the leather wristbands, the tattooing disappeared even there. But there, for a moment, Mack had shown Tanner what was on offer—that, for Tanner, Mack would be Tom of Finland and all the raw, rough, sexuality that that portended.

Tanner stood, leaning against the locker, unabashedly rubbing his crouch and watching Mack dress until the wristbands and cap were being put in place, and then he retreated to the café, where he had left his duffel bag. No one else was in the café.

When Mack entered, he bought two coffees without asking Tanner if that was what he wanted and sauntered over to the table, putting the coffees down, and turning a chair around and straddling it in reverse. Both of them understood the uncoordinated choice of the coffee meant more than something to drink. Mack would provide what he wanted to and Tanner would take it.

“Great looking truck out there,” Tanner said when they were settled.

“Yes, I like it. It’s my home on the road.”

“It’s got a sleeper cabin behind the cab. That’s where you sleep with you’re on the road—rather than staying in motels?”

“Yes, it does have a good sleeper cabin, and, yes, it’s where I sleep—and do other stuff.” The words sounded benign, but they all had sexual meaning. Everything said was part of the dance. Mack’s clipped tones were a matter of maintaining control, showing who was boss—being Tom of Finland.

“Are you headed east or west?” Tanner asked.

“East, from Long Beach. You?” This was a significant point. Were they going in the same direction so that Mack could take him along and use him en route, or were they separating here—would Mack have to take him out to the truck now and bang the hell out of him in a one and done? That would almost be best. He sensed danger with this kid—the danger of wanting more.

“East, I hope. I need a ride east.”

“I offer rides—for a ride,” Mack said.

“Just one ride?” Tanner asked, showing a saucy smile.

“OK, rides—as often as I want them between here and Denver.”

“And if I wanted it more often?” The kid was laying it on thick. It didn’t make him less arousing to Mack.

“I doubt you could.” I’m Tom of Finland. I’ll fuck you silly, Mack was thinking. His look was intensive enough to convey that to Tanner, who shuddered, but held steady.

“What are you hauling?” Tanner was looking down at the surface of the table. Was it time to totally capitulate yet or did they want to dance a bit more?

“Christmas trees. Hauling them to Kansas City. You going in that direction, that far?”

“That direction, to Denver. Won’t Christmas trees dry out before you get them that far?”

Mack laughed. “They’re fake trees. From China. Shittin’ fake trees for Christmas from a heathen country.”

“You like the real better?” Tanner.

“Fuckin’ right,” Mack said. “I like it real. I like it real in everything, not just in Christmas trees.”

“And raw? Do you gotta have it raw?” Tanner asked. Was this another sticking point? Hardly, Mack thought.

“Naw, I do safe—usually.” He’d flashed the baggie with the used Trojan at the kid earlier. The kid knew he’d used a rubber the last time. They were just marking time, beating around the bush, at this point. That there would be a main event was settled. They were just covering details now. “But I do real. I do rough. What you see is what you get. And I like to give and give and give. Understand?”

“Yes,” Tanner answered.

“And give and give,” Mack repeated. He needed to settle this cocky kid—and he did.

Tanner visibly shuddered. Mark reached over and grasped the young man’s wrist. Tanner didn’t pull away.

“What are you doing out on the highway without wheels of your own, son?” Mack asked. “You’re after a ride east—in exchange for giving a ride, right?”

“Yes,” Tanner said. “I’m going to my dad’s house in Denver. I can’t take my mother’s boyfriend anymore.”

“You’ve taken your mother’s boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t want to be taken by men?”

“Not by my mother’s boyfriend.”

“But you’ve willingly gone with other men? You know what we’re talking about here? I’m in it to party, not to shock or teach some reluctant or sassy virgin who will break down on the challenge of carry through.”

“Yes, and yes.”

“So, you’ve been ridden by men before. By this boyfriend, and by others maybe too?”

“Yes.”

“You’re looking for a ride all the way to Denver, are you?”

“Yes.”

“If I give you a ride to Denver, I’ll be riding you to Denver, stopping at nearly every rest area between here and there to do my business.”

“Yes, if you want.”

“I do a lot of riding—hard riding.”

“So I hear you saying. Sounds good.”

“Drink up your coffee then, boy, and let’s get on the road.”

There had been no question that Mack was going to fuck Tanner from the moment Tanner stepped forward in the locker room, touched Mack’s nipple reverently, and then traced a line down to the goods. It was just a question whether it was going to be a one-and-done deal here in the Flying J truck parking lot in the sleeper cabin of Mack’s truck or whether they were going to take it on the road for multiple couplings.

They were taking it on the road. Either way, Mack took it as an early Christmas present. He’d tuck in as many of those he could this holiday season, but he already was thinking that this would be a special one. The presents compensated for having to be on the road, transporting such shit as fake Christmas trees from heathen China, during the season.

* * * *

As it transpired, Mack could not wait, and Mack did not wait. When they got to the truck, Tanner wanted to see what was in the sleeper cabin. Mack then could not wait and did not wait. What was then in the sleeper cabin, in the truckers’ parking lot at the Flying J truck service center in Bartow, California, was Tanner, naked, on his back, his legs raised and spread, his ankles and one wrist inserted into strap loops hanging from the ceiling. Mack had left the young man one hand free to grasp himself and stroke off while Mack fucked him.

When he saw how many strap looks were hanging off the walls and ceiling of the compartment, Tanner had asked, “Why so many?”

“I’d have to show you,” Mack said, as he stripped off.

“Yes, please.” Tanner, of course, damn well knew what they were for.

Mack showed him anyway.

The overhead light was on dim, casting a murky half-glow in the cabin, as Mack, in his leather chest harness, wristbands, and combat boots, knelt between Tanner’s spread thighs, managing close-in connection of their pelvises, getting all of his thick shaft in, and bumping his heavily balls against the tender skin of the young man’s inner thighs as he thrust, thrust, thrust.

Tanner had screamed bloody murder at the relentless stretching thickness of the sheathed shaft and the rubbing of the thick ring in the cock head, with Mack’s hands gripping the young man’s throat to keep the noise emanating from the cabin to a dull roar. Once Mack was saddled, though, and Tanner had managed to take him, he joined enthusiastically in the fuck, the two moving together in athletic, coordinated thrusts and withdrawals that had their hips working in rhythm and, as heavy and stable as the truck cabin was, had the Mack truck cabin rocking on its shocks.

The young man groaned with each thrust.

“Is it too . . . should I . . . ?” Marc was being polite. He wouldn’t have slacked off even if Tanner had begged him to do so. When he’d gotten to the stage to fingering the young man, he could tell that Tanner had been with many men. He was open enough almost to take Mack himself without much effort. Finding that the young man was a well-used whore relieved Mack. He could lose himself in the fuck.

“Fuck me! Fuck me hard? Shit, you’re thick!”

Mack fucked him hard. This piece was something special.

Tanner came in a flood of cum up Mack’s hard belly. Soon thereafter, Mack, with a great groan, pulled out of Tanner, ripped the Trojan Magnum off, and ejaculated on Tanner’s chest.

“Don’t stop!” Tanner cried out. “Put it back it. Oh, shit that cock ring. Oh fuck! Put it back in. Don’t stop doing me! Raw. Fuck me raw!”

Still hard, all risk forgotten, Mack jammed it, unsheathed, back in as Tanner cried out in pain-passion, and the fuck continued until both were exhausted.

It was a good fuck . . . a great fuck . . . one of the best fucks either of them had had. They both would have attested to that.

It was an early Christmas present for both.

* * * *

Tanner proved to be a delight to travel with. He was fun and humorous. He was playful and brought out the holiday spirit in Mack, despite Mack’s attempt to project as a rough-man Tom of Finland. With him coming on board, even the truck had taken on a festive look. He brought out a garish red and gold tinsel string like those Mack had seen in the Flying F truck stop, Tanner having bought it on a dare from Mack, who had sneered at it, suggesting that the swags, like the load he was hauling, was just fake Christmas made in China. When Tanner strung it across the top of the windscreen in the truck, Mack hadn’t sneered at it there. He’d laughed and just said it would be tossed out of the cab in Denver along with Tanner. But before they left Barstow, Mack had been cajoled into buying a wreath from a table at the truck stop and hanging it on the truck’s radiator. Tanner was bringing life, gaiety, and Christmas into the truck.

He was attentive to and agreeable with Mack as they settled in as travel companions. He complained about nothing. He was compliant to whatever Mack wanted, and, sexually, he was insatiable. It proved that he would have stopped for sweaty sex more often than Mack did, although Mack did it enough to put him behind schedule on his long-haul delivery. Tanner showed that he would have been happy if Mack had fucked him continuously. They hadn’t been long back on the road, pointed toward Las Vegas on I-15, when Mack began to wish that Tanner wasn’t going only as far as Denver and that the older man started to think of the two being together even beyond his own immediate destination, Kansas City.

With Tanner sitting beside him, the monotonous miles through desert country east on I-15 just melted away. As well as being good company, Tanner sexed him up as they rolled along, getting Mack to shuck his shirt and jeans when they got out on the highway, driving as Tom of Finland, in his briefs and the chest harness, topped by the leather captain’s hat and accented by the shiny black combat boots. Leaning into him, Tanner ran his fingers over the intricate lines of Mack’s torso and arm tattoos and, eventually pulled Mack’s half-hard out of the split in his briefs and played with the thick cock ring in the shaft’s head, producing precum until Mack groaned, pulled Tanner’s face down into his lap, and Tanner gave him head as Mack worked to keep the truck on the road.

They also talked.

“Does your dad know you’re visiting him in Denver?”

“Not yet,” Tanner said. “I’ve rung him a couple of times from my cell phone to see who would answer, but no one has.”

“And he hasn’t called back to your voicemail? Maybe he’s not there.”

“I didn’t leave messages and he wouldn’t recognize the number I was calling from. I’m trying to find out if Jack is still with him.”

“Jack?”

“Dad has a boyfriend too—and he’s as bad as my mom’s boyfriend.”

“Bad, how?”

“I think you know how.”

“And your dad doesn’t try to stop him?”

“My dad’s into watching and threesomes.”

Oh. “I can see how he would be,” Mack said. “You’re a sexy little piece.”

“Thanks.”

“So, your dad—” Now the question was why Tanner would visit his father at all.

“I don’t really want to talk about my dad now. Look, there’s a sign for a rest stop in another four miles. Maybe we could—”

“You need to take a piss?”

“I need something, and from the feel of this”—Tanner had Mack’s cock in hand and Mack’s cock was nearly at full staff—“you can use a stop too.”

“Shit, you are a bunny, aren’t you? You never have enough, do you?”

“No, I never have enough.”

They fucked like acrobats in the sleeping compartment at the Baker, California, rest stop on I-15. Throughout the afternoon they’d done more rest stopping than driving, and they still were in California. Bu the schedule, this semi should be in Utah by now. Tanner, naked, was suspended in air over the bed, his arms raised over his head, his hands gripping strap loops on the side of the cabin’s interior. Mack, in harness and boots, was kneeling on the seat between Tanner’s thighs, his hand gripping and squeezing the young man’s butt cheeks, as he pulled Tanner’s channel on and off his shaft. Tanner’s knees were hooked on and hugging the truck driver’s hips.

Mack was having a ball balling Tanner and Tanner was having a ball being balled. It was a question whether they’d get out of California before dark.

“God, you’re a keeper. I could keep you forever,” Mack had called out as he tensed and came, jerked and came again.

They were then quiet for the next ninety miles from Baker, California, to south of Las Vegas, Nevada, each lost in his own thoughts. There was no telling what Tanner thought. He was lost in himself, not leaning into Mack now and touching him or otherwise sexing him up. It was more being thoughtful. After they’d had sex and each, in turn, had gone to the men’s room in the rest area to clean up, something had built up between them.

Mack had gone to the men’s room first. When he came back, Tanner wasn’t in or around the truck. His duffel bag was still there, though. The kid was around there somewhere. Mack walked the line down between the other parked trucks, looking for the young man. He found him, with another trucker, the trucker leaning his back into the side of his truck, his hips jutted out, and his jeans down around his ankles. He was holding Tanner’s head in his hands. Tanner was on his knees in front of the trucker and was giving the trucker head. A couple of twenties and a ten were tucked under one of Tanner’s knees.

Mack only took the scene in for a few seconds before he pulled Tanner up to his feet and growled, “Go get yourself cleaned up. Now. And go back to the truck.” Tanner took up the money and backed away, doing as commanded. He didn’t look back as he walked, but he heard the blows being landed. Mack was beating the other trucker down to his knees. The trucker was tall, but on the scrawny side. He didn’t stand a chance against the muscled-up Mack, and it didn’t sound like he was even trying to defend himself.

When they were back in the truck and on the move again, nothing was said for several minutes. Tanner was huddled in his corner. The atmosphere had changed. They weren’t being free and easy convivial now. It wasn’t an atmosphere of hostility or anything, though, it was more a recognition by both that some sort of relationship was being established here, something different from what either one of them had expected up front—and that there was an order of dominant and submissive about it that always had been there but now, for the first time, seemed to have significance. Mack wasn’t just a trucker Tanner was getting a free ride from now. For now, at least, Mack was Tanner’s daddy—a master to a submissive slave. They both were struggling with absorbing that.

It was Mack who brought the silence to a close and, when he did so, he didn’t say anything about finding Tanner with the other trucker. What he talked about was so much different. Tanner remained silent and thoughtful, as if he understood what Mack was trying to say without coming out and declaring. Mack had absorbed what had happened quicker than Tanner did.

What Mack talked about was his home. He lived alone in a doublewide on a small lake in the folds of the Rocky Mountains near Gunnison, Colorado. They’d be driving north of there on I-70 en route to Denver, “Where you want me to drop you off to an uncertain reception,” he said, looking pointedly at Tanner sitting quietly beside him. He had a dog there, an Irish setter, that a neighbor kept when Mack was on the road—more during the winter holiday season now than any other time of the year. Mack had made good money trucking and had invested it well. He hardly needed to work at all anymore given his frugal lifestyle.

The dog—Red—was always happy to see him. “Life is good there. There are the mountains and the fishing’s good in the lake. It’s a good life,” Mack said. “And the trailer is just a doublewide, but it’s pretty substantial. It has two bedrooms and two baths too, and a screened porch overlooking the lake. It’s more what they call a manufactured home than a trailer and just a couple of blocks off the main road going into Gunnison. The park is called Sunrise Park. It’s at the end of the cul-de-sac ending at the lake—my place is. More than enough for a man to come home to.”

Mack had no idea why he was letting his mouth run on about his life like that. He hadn’t done so with other guys he picked up and fucked while he was on the road. He’d even avoided giving them his name or asking them what their names were. They were just tail to fuck to the Tom of Finland in him—his Christmas presents to himself.

The good old Tom act was slipping here, though.

“Will you be there for Christmas?” Tanner brought his silence to a close and asked.

“Always for Christmas, although this is my busy driving season. I always make it there for Christmas. Even have a little tree—a real tree. None of this fake Chinese crap like I’m hauling today. I go up onto the mountain and cut it myself. ‘Home for Christmas’ has always been important to me.”

“Even if there’s no one there to share it with?”

“There’s Red, my dog, and the neighbors are friendly. We get together a bit around Christmas. Ruth, who lives next door is good company when I need it. She’s the one looking out for Red. He probably thinks Ruth and I are together, but we’re not. She knows what makes me tick and she doesn’t seem to care. We’re just good friends.” He did sound a bit wistful in responding to that. He hadn’t thought about being alone at Christmas before.

“The place has got two bedrooms and that second bathroom, so the possibility is always there if and when I need the company,” Mack added, and the two went into a companionable silence after that. He didn’t come right out and make an offer or anything, but it was floating there, in the air. The atmosphere in the cabin had changed. Something had become more serious. Mack wasn’t as much Tom now as he was Daddy. They still seemed comfortable with each other’s company. But now there was something that kept them from being as playful—or flirty—as before, something that kept them both thinking.

Mack had no idea if that was a good thing or not. And, sure, he fucked Ruth now and then. They both needed it now and then, but it was true that she knew which way he mainly swung and just let it be.

* * * *

It was getting dark when Mack pulled into the Flying J truck service center in Jean, Nevada, south of Las Vegas, where he planned to stop for the night. His schedule had him overnighting well north of Las Vegas, but the official schedule hadn’t taken into account the two young men he had picked up between Long Beach and Las Vegas to spend time fucking in his sleeping cabin.

They had a steak dinner at the café in the service center. During the meal Mack spoke more of the rhythm of a truck driver’s life and of how good life was in Gunnison, Colorado, when he could get there. Here and there in his description he alluded to what Tanner might enjoy doing in Gunnison as well and established that, yes, Tanner did like dogs and did admire the Irish setter breed. Beyond the dog and acknowledging that he did like the mountains and fishing, Tanner listened to Mack but didn’t say much. He also, though, didn’t say anything about any excitement about going to Denver.

After playing some pool in the center’s entertainment room, the two went back to the truck and climbed into the sleeping cabin. The fucking this time was slow and passionate. Taking him in a sensual missionary position, their eyes locked in a connection where they could observe in the dim light from the muted overhead bulb every nuance of each other’s experience in the coupling, Mack held the young man close under him, Tanner spreading and bending his legs, putting his feet flat on the surface of the bedding, and raising his pelvis to be able, groaning at the thickness of the man, to take Mack’s cock deep.

When they got started Mack had pulled out a Trojan Magnum packet and split it open. “You know if it was just us, we wouldn’t have to use protection,” he murmured. He pulled the condom on his shaft and smoothed it out with his hand.

“We don’t have to use one now, if you don’t want to. We got excited earlier and that second time you weren’t crowned. So, whatever is already is. Take it off. Do me raw. I want to feel the cock ring raw,” Tanner had answered, acceding to barebacking in a somewhat deflected way. And when Mack was unsheathed and had penetrated again, Tanner exclaimed, “Oh, shit, it’s different. It owns me,” Tanner than whimpered as, the stud rubbing along the rippling muscles of the young man’s channel walls, Mack reached into Tanner’s core and, indeed, owned him.

They fucked in this position for a half hour or more, embracing tightly, kissing occasionally, only their hips moving in a slow, languid rhythm of thrust and counterthrust, one or more of them sensing when he or the other was about to erupt and pulling back from the brink, them both savoring as much as they could get out of this coupling.

When they did come, almost together, Tanner crying out, “Yes, yes! Flood me!” the position had changed. Tanner had coaxed Mack onto his back and was riding his cock in a slow, sensual, fully saddled, facing cowboy position, Tanner palming the older man’s tattooed pecs, and Mack grasping and separating Tanner’s buttocks cheeks to maximize the young man’s ability to open to the beer-can cock.

They dozed in each other’s arms afterward, Tanner stretched out on Mack’s body and Mack’s cock still buried in Tanner’s channel, until Mack woke with a cramp, and slowly rolled Tanner off to the side.

“Time for a shower in the service center,” Mack said. “Better if the other truckers don’t see us go together. They’ll give us grief to no end. I’ll go first and then you.”

“OK,” Tanner said, with what seemed at the time a sleep-hazed voice. Later Mack was to believe that maybe the young man had been quietly crying.

When Mack returned to the truck, Tanner wasn’t there. His duffel bag was gone as well. Panicked, Mack went up and down the line of trucks parked there for the night, where a few of the drivers were out between the trucks, smoking, and talking in low tones.

“The cute young blondie?” one trucker asked. “Had a duffel bag with him?”

“Yeah, I saw him,” another trucker said. “Pretty obvious he was looking for a daddy. Found one too, I’d wager. Fred Young, out of Florida. One of the homo drivers. I heard the kid asking for a ride into Vegas and Young stepped up to offer. Took one of the cars you can rent from here to drive into the strip. Bet they’ll have a good old time there.”

Mack didn’t bother to get into it with these guys about homo drivers. He’d learned what he’d been asking about. He wasn’t surprised either. He’d come on too strong—even when he hadn’t been intending to. He went back to his truck and bedded down inside the sleeping cabin. He left the door unlocked, just in case. But he wasn’t fooling himself. He knew Tanner wasn’t coming back.

He wondered if the sweet little piece even had a father in Denver or had been headed there. He, the player, had been played.

* * * *

That was a close call, Mack was thinking as he tried to sleep in his truck in the Jean, Nevada, Flying J truck stop. Why did he even entertain the idea of doing that? He couldn’t sleep, of course. Every sound he heard from outside the truck he took as a hint that Tanner was coming back. But of course he wasn’t. Did he ever have any intention of going to Denver? Were the bright lights of Las Vegas always his destination?

The young man hadn’t responded to Mack’s hints, now that Mack thought about it. And it was damn fortunate that he hadn’t. Mack didn’t really have to be out on the road like this anymore. He had enough coming in from his investments to live the quiet life he’d established in the doublewide on the small lake near Gunnison. And Red was enough companionship for him when he was there—Red, the Irish setter.

No, Mack took to the road like this during the winter holidays season to hang on to his youth and his image of himself. He did it purposely. He liked fucking young men. He liked the casual nature of it. He liked being Tom of Finland for a season. What had ever possessed him to think of the possibility of more with Tanner? This was the season when young men were out on the roads, hitching, heading home for the holidays for one reason or another—and a certain percentage of them were happy to ride a man’s cock in exchange for a ride somewhere for the holidays. That’s why Mack was hauling fake Christmas trees made in goddamn China half way across the country the week before Thanksgiving. It was hunting season for Mack. It was two months of picking the young guys off at rest stops or on the side of the road and riding them good—just for the day or two to get them where they were going. No strings. No commitments.

Of course he never went out on the road to contemplate something more endearing with a guy like Tanner. He’d dodged a bullet there. He didn’t even want to be here if Tanner dragged back in the middle of the night after a night on the Las Vegas strip.

It was still dark and Mack couldn’t sleep. He’d bedded down just in his briefs, although he was still wearing the leather harness. He sat up in bed and looked at the clock. 5:30. Of course the café in the Flying J center would still be open. It never closed. He could get coffee and a breakfast there and be on the road by 6:15. He was south of Vegas, and I-15 went right through the middle of the city, parallel to the Vegas strip. He needed to be north of the city. His schedule had put him well north of the city at this time. It was a good idea to go through during the brief time the town slept. That’s what he’d do. Screw Tanner and whatever might have been there.

He pulled on his jeans and his boots and shrugged into a flannel shirt. He didn’t bother to button it, though. There were some other early birds in the café, but no one was awake enough to do more than nod to anyone else. His harness got a few strange looks, but there weren’t any young hitchhikers out and about here this time of the morning. There were other older drivers who liked taking cock, and there usually was one sniffing around Mack looking for a screwing, but not this morning.

At 6:12 he was back on I-15, heading north. By 8:00 he was pulling out of the north end of Las Vegas and heading away from the city lights that never went out. It was 9:15 when he had driven seventy more miles and was approaching Bunkerville, close to where I-15 entered Arizona and took a small chunk out of the corner of that before entering Utah. A highway rest stop was coming up and Mack needed to take a leak, so he pulled into the truck parking area there.

As he always did, Mack sat in the truck and surveyed the area for a while before he went to the restrooms. Places like this were where he picked up his hitchhikers most of the time. The cops would pick them up if they stood out on the side of the road with their thumbs out these days. And there was one. A young guy with some Asian—Chinese or Japanese—in him, dressed in squared-away navy-blue trousers, a sky-blue shirt, and a navy-blue tie. His black shoes were all shined up. Mack had seen them before. Airmen. They were just slightly less begging for it than soldiers, although it was the sailors who craved cock the most in his experience.

The young guy was just standing there outside the heads, looking around. A duffel bag was on the ground next to him, with a navy-blue uniform jacket folded on top of it. The duffel bag was a sure giveaway of a hitchhiker. The way the guy was looking around for possible rides pulling into the rest stop—of which there were none other then Mack at this time in the morning—was another giveaway that he was looking for a lift.

Well, if he wanted it, Mack would give him a lift he’d never forget. He needed to get on with the schedule and wipe Tanner out of his mind.

When Mack started getting out of the truck and was standing there in the doorway, high off the ground, for a few seconds, dressed in his black combat boots and leather captain’s hat, but still with his flannel shirt open, showing his magnificent musculature and the leather harness underneath, the young man gave him a good once over and stood his ground. Mack had been at this long enough to know who would take cock in these circumstances and who wasn’t looking for it. This young guy—a good looker—would take it, Mack was pretty sure.

Of course he had to be more than pretty sure.

As he walked—strutted really—toward the restrooms, he made eye contact with the young man. The guy didn’t look away. In fact, as Mack came closer, he spoke. “Nice truck you got there,” he said.

“I like it fine,” Mack answered, not stopping but slowing down.

“It’s one of those trucks with a sleeper compartment behind it, isn’t it?”

“Got that right.”

“What are you hauling?”

“Christmas trees—fake ones, made in China—to Kansas City. You headed in that direction?” Of course he was headed east. These were the restrooms for the east-bound lane.

“I’m hitching to Denver, if I can—going home for the holidays. I’m Air Force, an airman stationed at Nellis Airbase.” That was on the north side of Las Vegas. The young soldier hadn’t made it too far out of Las Vegas yet.

“Denver’s a long way from here,” Mack said. He passed by the young man and went into the men’s room. No one else was in there. No other vehicles were pulling into the parking lot yet.

“Yes, it is,” the airman said to Mack’s back. “Are you headed in that direction?”

Without answering, Mack entered the men’s room and went directly to the urinals, unbuckling, unzipping, flaring his fly, and taking his beer-can-thick cock out. The airman came into the room and stood there, watching Mack piss into the urinal. Mack looked at the airman and smiled and the airmen smiled back. His eyes went to Mack’s outsized cock. He’d already given the torso harness, the boots, the captain’s cap, and Mack’s musculature a good look. Mack wondered if he’d made the connection to Tom of Finland. He did seem to be begging for it.

“I’ll be driving through Denver,” Mack said. “I could give you a ride. But if I did, you’d have to ride this along the way.” Finished with his business, Mack didn’t stuff his shaft away yet. He stood there, with it showing in all its glory, lovingly cupping it with a hand. “Understand?” he added.

“Sounds like a good deal,” the airman answered. “My name’s—”

“Don’t let’s get into exchanging names,” Mack interrupted. He’d already taken that route on this trip, and it had torn him apart. He only now recognized the truth of that—Tanner had torn him apart. “The first installment would be right here in the sleeper cabin of my truck,” he said, jerking himself back to the business at hand. His hand now was still cupping his cock. “You can touch it,” he said.

“Sounds great to me,” the airman answered, reaching out and touching the thick ring in Mack’s cock head. “I don’t think I’ve ever—”

“You will now,” Mack said, using his Tom of Finland voice—or the voice he associated with that character.

And, with that, Mack was back in the groove. He’d forget about any thoughts of going beyond the plan with Tanner just as soon as he notched a couple of more winter holiday hitchhiker lays on his chest harness.

* * * *

Mack woke up Christmas morning looking out of his bedroom window at snow falling. Snow had been given no chance of appearing down here at the lake level in Gunnison, although it had been falling up in the mountains ever since Mack had arrived home. He’d joined the others in the neighborhood at Ruth’s the previous evening but had left early, worrying about what Red, the Irish setter, could be doing to his small Christmas tree while he was gone. It was a real one, and Red was a real dog, knowing what real trees were for.

Speaking of Red, he was whining to get out, and only then did Mack realize he’d slept for ten hours and that it was after 9:00. After 9:00 on Christmas morning and it was just him and Red. The haul back from Kansas City to Denver in an empty semi and then the drive home in his own car had taken all of the energy out of him. Or was it coming home to an empty doublewide—other than Red. Red had been ecstatic he was home, of course. Mack didn’t know how much longer he could do this. There was another trip, though. Back to Long Beach to pick up another load, this time for Salt Lake City. The winter holidays were still in the swing. There would be sailors getting shore leave to go home for New Year’s. Some would be Mormons. A few of those would be gay. He’d be Tom of Finland one more time this season. He’d pick up one of those sailors and then surely there’d be some young guy in Salt Lake City who needed a ride to Denver for New Year’s and was willing to give a ride to get a ride.

He groaned as he rolled out of bed, pulled on a robe and put his feet into slippers. He paused long enough to start the coffee and then let Red out of the front door. The dog wouldn’t go far from home. The snow had only begun to stick, but Red wasn’t wild about getting his paws wet.

Mac went back to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and nosed around the Christmas cookies and cake Ruth had sent him home with.

Some fifteen minutes later, he heard Red barking, but not at the door, to be let back in, that Mack expected, but out toward the cul-de-sac circle. Putting the coffee cup down, he went to the door and opened it.

Red was out at the mailbox, jumping up and down on the young man standing out there, looking around like he wasn’t sure which doublewide he was looking for. But he’d managed to get this far with what little he’d been told. Red wasn’t jumping in attack mode; he was jumping for pets and ear rubs, and he was getting them. Red knew a good guy when he saw one.

Mack’s first thought was that maybe he wouldn’t be making that run to Salt Lake City in the coming week after all. Despite just being in a robe and his slippers, he started walking out toward the mailbox as Tanner noticed him and started moving toward him.