I had arrived at the Caltex Port truck stop in Port Augusta, to be exact. My plan was simple. Talk to roadtrain truckers and hitch a lift north. If I were lucky, I would get a lift all the way to Darwin and would see the centre of Australia on the cheap and perhaps get a shag from some macho daddy driver.
Being twenty-eight and gay wouldn't normally be a problem, but the trucking industry I knew is traditionally male and conservative. I had read that it is experiencing a gradual increase in gay acceptance, but most gay men and women choose to keep their identities hidden. Apparently, it's easier that way and fewer questions.
I wasn't trying to pass as straight, but neither did I see the point in waving gay flags. I choose to wear shorts and a singlet that could be straight or gay, but to the right audience, would make me look, hopefully, desirable, and I hoped would enhance my chance of hitching a lift even though, in most cases, it would be strictly against the rules.
My shorts had enough oil stains to prove I'd changed a tyre or two, and the way I carried my backpack suggested I wouldn't flinch if someone dropped a spanner near my toes, but sometimes, being discreet saved answering awkward questions. Alas, my parents hadn't taken my coming out too well, but hey ho, I left home and hadn't seen them in ten years and going home now would be interesting, but I wasn’t quite ready to be homeward bound.
The bartender at the truck stop didn't blink when I ordered a VB longneck, just slid it across the counter like I was any other bloke killing time before a haul. I spent my time eyeing some of the drivers, liking bear daddy types, similar in many respects to my dad. When not eyeing up the possibilities, I was busy reading my notes and guidebooks about what I might see and do as part of my journey, which didn’t include fucking or blowing.
Third beer in, a driver with forearms like diesel hoses leaned against the bar next to me. "North, eh?" he grunted, nodding at my pack. His name was Mick, according to the peeling patch on his shirt.
"North," I confirmed, tipping the bottle toward the dusty window where his rig, a quadruple, 50m beast with "Mick's Haulage" painted in fading letters, sat baking in the sun.
Mick scratched at the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw. "Darwin?"
"Darwin," I echoed, trying not to sound too eager. "The name's Steve."
Mick took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes scanning me in a way that wasn't quite sizing me up, more like he was weighing whether I'd be decent company for a couple of thousand kilometres of outback.
"Got space in the cab," he said finally. "But it's a straight shot, no detours, no piss stops unless the rig needs one. You can nap when I do, but I don’t tolerate backseat driving," his tone not unkind, just matter-of-fact, the way you’d lay down rules for a dog you didn’t mind having around but wouldn’t let on the furniture.
"Deal," I said, clinking my bottle against his. The glass made a dull clink; neither of us being the toast-making type. Mick drained his beer in one go and jerked his chin toward the door. "Wheels up in ten. Don’t be late," as he left without waiting for an answer, the screen door slapping shut behind him like punctuation.
I knocked back the rest of my VB, the beer warm now but still bitter enough to cut through the dust in my throat. The bartender gave me a nod as I dropped a couple of coins on the counter. "Safe travels," he said, already wiping down the bar where Mick’s sweat had left a faint ring. "You might also like to know, Mick's a nice guy and likes guys like you. Have fun."
The screen door hadn't even finished shuddering when I realised my palms were sweating. The bartender's words, likes guys like you, hung in the air like diesel exhaust, thick and impossible to ignore. Had I been that obvious? I wondered as I wiped my hands on my shorts and shouldered my backpack, the weight of it suddenly feeling lighter than the possibility ahead.
Outside, Mick was already checking the rig’s tyres with a methodical thump of his boot against each tread. Up close, the truck was even more of a monster, paint peeling like sunburnt skin, but the engine humming low and steady as a heartbeat. "You ever ridden shotgun on a roadtrain before?" he asked without looking up.
"Nah, Mick, never, but I certainly know how they work, having repaired a few engines during the last few years," I responded.
"Mechanic, hey?"
"Prefer to call myself an engineer. It's like calling you a lorry driver," I replied.
Mick snorted at that, wiping his hands on his jeans before tossing me a frayed seatbelt from the passenger side. "Engineer, my arse. Get in, then. Alice by midnight or we lose the cool hours."
The cab smelled like old leather and diesel, the kind of scent that gets into the grooves of your fingerprints. Mick threw the rig into gear with a practised heave, and suddenly we were rolling, the trailers behind us swaying like a lazy snake. The radio crackled to life with some country station playing in the background to the engine’s growl.
"So you know rigs like this," Mike demanded.
"Sure do. Without having a look, by the sound, I reckon you're running a large-displacement Caterpillar 16 litre turbocharged engine with a... probably, a 16-litre Volvo D16K powerplant. As for transmission, I fancy an Eaton Roadranger.
"No shit, you do know your stuff," Mick replied. "I'm fucking impressed, lad, impressed, and you've never driven one. What a shame."
"Don't have the licence, Mick. One of those things, I guess, haven’t got round to booking one yet."
Mick's laughter rumbled deep in his chest as he shifted gears, the rig responding with a smooth surge of power. "Licence," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Bloody paperwork. Bet you could drive this beast better than half the dickheads I've seen with their shiny trucker cards," as the road stretched ahead, straight and endless, the horizon shimmering like a mirage.
We fell into an easy silence, the kind that doesn't need filling. Mick drove with the relaxed precision of someone who'd logged a million kilometres without ever clocking his soul. Now and then, he'd point out something, a wedge-tailed eagle circling, a rusted-out car skeleton half-buried in the scrub, with a grunt or a nod, like he was cataloguing the outback's secrets just for me.
The silence between us stretched comfortably until Mick cleared his throat. "So," he said, adjusting his grip on the wheel, "got some bloke waiting for you up in Darwin?" his tone casual, but there was a weight to the question that made my fingers twitch against my thigh.
I grinned, shaking my head. "Nah. Unless you count a hostel bunk and a six-pack as a boyfriend," the joke landing easier than I expected, the words tasting less bitter than they used to. “How did you know?” I demanded, thinking my disguise was better than it obviously was.
Mick chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated through the cab. "Fair enough," he said. "Had a partner meself once. A bloke named Dave. Drove rigs too,” as he said it so matter-of-factly that I nearly missed it, the way his knuckles whitened just a fraction on the steering wheel. “As for knowing, I could smell you.”
I whistled low. "Bet that made for some interesting logistics."
Mick barked a laugh at that, the sound rough as unpaved road. "Logistics? Nah, mate. We drove separate rigs, couldn't stand each other’s bloody snoring in the sleeper cab," as he flicked the indicator with his pinky, though there wasn't another vehicle in sight for fifty klicks. "Lasted six years before he got spooked by a roo near Kununurra, swerved into a ditch. Walked away with just a broken collarbone, but the rig was toast. After that, he reckoned the road was bad luck for us."
Mick's jaw worked like he was chewing on the memory. "Got himself a nice quiet job at a Bunnings in Perth. Sells garden hoses now."
I winced. "Ouch."
"Eh." Mick shrugged, the movement making his shirt strain across his shoulders. "Still sends me a postcard every Christmas. His new bloke draws little trucks on 'em," saying it like it didn't matter, but I caught the way his thumb rubbed at a chip in the steering wheel, smooth as a worry stone.
The conversation lulled, filled only by the rhythmic thump of tyres over bitumen seams. After a while, Mick jerked his chin at my backpack wedged between our seats. "Parents know you're hitchin' with random truckies?"
I choked at Mick's question. "Parents don't know shit about me these days," I said. “Last time we spoke properly, Mum asked if I'd met any nice girls at the garage. My sister's the only one who didn't lose her damn mind when I came out. Sent me a rainbow keychain that said 'Proud Sister', still got it on my toolbox."
Mick made a noise halfway between a chuckle and a grunt. "Sisters," he said, like the word explained everything. "Mine used to stitch me up after Dad's belt got creative. Still sends me handknit socks every winter, never mind I haven't seen snow in twenty years," as he flexed his fingers on the wheel, the callouses catching the light. "What about friends? You got some blokes back home keeping your barstool warm?"
"Few mates from trade school," I admitted. "Though most of 'em are married now, wives who 'don't mind' me coming round so long as I don't talk about my 'lifestyle' over dinner."
The air quotes left grease marks on the window where I tapped them. "Got one decent friend left, Jase. Runs a queer mechanics collective in Melbourne. Fixes up old Holdens for genderqueer kids learning to drive."
Mick's eyebrow climbed toward his receding hairline. "That a real thing?"
"Deadset," I said, grinning at Mick's scepticism. "Jase's got this busted-ass Torana out back; he lets the kids practice gear changes in. Says it's therapy, for the car and the kids," the memory of Jase's grease-streaked face lighting up as some shy teen nailed their first reverse park warmed me more than the beer had.
Mick scratched his chin, the stubble rasping like sandpaper. "Sounds like a decent bloke."
"The best," I agreed, then hesitated before adding, "We hooked up once. Back when I first came out. Lasted about as long as a cheap fuse, turns out fucking your emotional support mechanic gets messy when you both suck at feelings."
Mick's laugh shook the steering wheel. "Christ, mate. That's truck-stop toilet-wall poetry right there."
Mick's laughter settled into a comfortable hum, matching the engine's rhythm. He flipped the visor down against the sinking sun, squinting at the road ahead. "So," he said, the word hanging between us like a gear change, "what's your ideal bloke, Steve?"
I grinned, rubbing the back of my neck where the sun had burned through the cab's dusty window. "You're interviewing me now, Mick?" the leather seat creaking as I shifted, watching his profile, the way his salt-and-pepper stubble caught the light, the deep lines around his eyes from squinting at endless horizons.
"Call it professional curiosity," Mick said, his thumb tapping the wheel to some internal rhythm. "Seen plenty of blokes hitch rides, but never one who could tell a Caterpillar from a Cummins by ear alone. Figure if you're that observant with engines..,” as he left it hanging like a trailer unhitched.
I exhaled through my nose, watching a dust devil spiral across the scrub. "Alright. Smart hands," I said, holding mine up, knuckles scarred, nails permanently stained with grease. "Not afraid to get dirty, but knows when to wash up proper. Doesn't flinch when I come home smelling like gear oil," the words came easier than expected, like loosening a seized bolt with the right tool.
Mick nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the road, but his fingers loosening their grip on the wheel just enough to show he was listening. "Smart hands," he repeated, the words rolling around his mouth like he was tasting them. "That why you never settled down with Jase? Hands too smart for his own good?"
I chuckled, stretching my legs against the footwell. "Nah, Jase's hands are perfect. Just... wrong timing. Like trying to start a cold diesel without glow plugs." The comparison made Mick snort, his boot tapping the accelerator as if agreeing.
The landscape outside had flattened into endless red dirt and scrub, the kind of emptiness that makes you feel both insignificant and oddly important for being there to witness it. Mick reached behind his seat without looking and tossed me a battered thermos. "Coffee's shit," he warned, "but it's hot."
The thermos cap squeaked as I twisted it open, the steam carrying a burnt smell that could've stripped paint. I took a sip anyway, wincing as it scalded my tongue. "Christ, Mick. This tastes like you filtered it through your socks."
Mick's grin flashed white against his sun-leathered skin. "Told you it was shit," as he reached over without looking and flicked the radio knob, static giving way to some twangy country ballad about lost dogs and lonelier men. "Your turn," I said, "Told you my type. Only fair you return the favour."
I watched his profile as he drove, the way his stubble caught the low sun like flecks of mica in sandstone, the deep creases around his eyes that spoke of decades squinting against glare. "Alright, old man. Shock me."
Mick scratched at his jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the cab's sudden quiet. The country song faded into static as he reached to adjust the dial, his fingers lingering on the knob. "Don't do shocks," he said finally, eyes fixed on the heat-warped horizon. "But I'll give you honest,” as he shifted gears with a practised jerk, the rig responding like it was part of his nervous system. "Bloke who knows when to talk and when to shut the fuck up. Doesn't need filling every silence like it's a pothole."
I watched his hands on the wheel, the way his forearms flexed without strain, veins mapping out decades of haulage. "Fair," I said, sipping the awful coffee, if only to hide my smile. The bitterness matched the landscape - harsh but honest.
"Done my time with chatterboxes," Mick continued, flicking the indicator though we hadn't passed another vehicle in hours. "Last serious one kept narrating every bloody gear change like I was learning," as he mimed a high-pitched voice, "Ooh, third to fourth now, is it? That's a big one!"
The impression was so unexpectedly sharp I choked on my coffee. Mick smirked, swerving slightly to nudge my shoulder with his. "See? Smart hands, smart mouth - but not too smart."
Mick cleared his throat, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the wheel that matched the rig's steady growl. "As for looks," he said, the words coming slow like he was choosing each one carefully, "sort of like you,” as he didn't glance over, keeping his eyes fixed on the road where a heat mirage made the asphalt shimmer like water. "If you were twenty years older and your hairline had retreated like a bloke who owes money, you'd be too old."
I snorted into my coffee, the bitterness suddenly tasting sweeter. "Christ, Mick, that's the worst compliment I've ever gotten."
"Wasn't a compliment," Mick said, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Just stating facts. Seen my reflection in enough truck stop windows to know what I look like,” as he shifted gears with a practised jerk, the rig responding like it was part of his nervous system. "You've got the shoulders, though. Proper ones, not those gym-bunny puffs that pop like balloons."
The truck hit a pothole, jolting us both in our seats. Mick's hand shot out to steady the wheel, his forearm flexing against my shoulder for a brief second. The contact lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary before he pulled away, clearing his throat.
"You ever think," Mick said abruptly, eyes fixed dead ahead on the endless road, "that truck stops see more bare arses than most brothels?"
I choked on my coffee. "That a proposition, Mick?"
Mick's laugh rumbled through the cab like distant thunder. "Nah, mate. Just stating facts,” as he shifted gears with a practised jerk, his forearm brushing mine as he palmed the wheel. "Though speaking of bare arses..,” as he trailed off, eyes flicking to me for half a second before fixing back on the road.
The sudden silence stretched tight as a winch cable. I watched Mick's thumb tap the wheel twice before he cleared his throat. "Look, I don't dance around shit," he said finally. "I think you're very fuckable, especially without clothes on," as he scratched at his jaw, the stubble rasping loudly in the quiet cab. "Sorry for being so direct, but you looked….very desirable when I saw you, and the way you dressed suggested you were looking for a lift in exchange for a fuck."
I nearly dropped my coffee. The thermos clattered against the dash as I fumbled to catch it, hot liquid sloshing over my knuckles. "Christ, Mick," I laughed, wiping my hand on my shorts. "You don't pull punches, do you?"
"Nah, mate, I don't pull my punches. Deck'em without hesitation, that’s my motto. But since we're talking, were you looking to give a fuck in exchange for a lift?
Mick's hands flexed on the wheel, his knuckles cracking like a diesel engine turning over. "Had one bloke in the cab who was quite the exhibitionist," he said, eyes fixed on the horizon where the road melted into heat haze. "Used to walk around the roadhouses with his shorts unbuttoned just far enough to make truck stop diners choke on their pies. Shorts just like yours," as a smirk tugged at his salt-and-pepper stubble.
"Fun while it lasted. Told him to strip before he got into the cab, and he sat where you are in just a t-shirt and undies. Whole month, fucking and watching him wank as I drove until I dropped him off in Perth eventually. He was such a fucking tease, and he knew I liked it. I even thought that maybe, just maybe, I had found a new partner. How wrong I was. He used me as much as I used him. That’s all it ever was going to be."
The rig hit a pothole, jolting us together. Mick's thigh pressed warm against mine for a second before he shifted back. "Turns out," he continued, downshifting with a practised jerk, "the cunt decided he didn't like grease under his nails. Wanted something cleaner and more his age," as he snorted, flicking the indicator though there wasn't another soul for miles. "Last I heard, he's selling organic fucking quinoa in Fremantle."
I barked a laugh, watching Mick's profile as the setting sun painted his stubble gold. "Bet his hands are soft as a banker's now."
"Soft as his fucking head," Mick agreed, reaching behind his seat to toss me a beer from his esky. The can was warm, but the pop-hiss sounded like home. "Your turn," he said, cracking his own can against the steering wheel. "Tell me about your worst."
The beer foamed over my fingers as I considered. "Mate in trade school," I said, licking the suds off my knuckle. "Thought muffler repair was foreplay. Hands like fucking sandpaper and couldn't give a proper blowjob to save his life."
Mick's chuckle rumbled through the cab. "You can't beat a blowjob, Steve. Sometimes in the right mouth, it's better than fucking, but I did like watching him wank, shooting his load over his chest and stomach."
The rig's headlights carved tunnels through the gathering dusk as Mick rolled his window down halfway, letting in the scent of warm earth and diesel. "So," he said, crushing his empty beer can against his thigh with a metallic sigh, "you ever been with an older bloke?"
I watched the can arc perfectly into the roadside bin as we rumbled past. "Depends what you call older," I said, stretching my legs against the footwell. "Had a fling with my foreman when I was an apprentice. Forty-two to my nineteen."
Mick's eyebrow climbed. "Christ. Bet that was messy."
"Messier than a dropped oil filter," I admitted, picking at the label on my beer. "Turns out blokes who cheat on their wives aren't great at commitment. Who knew?" The memory tasted less bitter than it used to, just another lesson learned in grease-stained coveralls.
Mick shifted gears smoothly, his forearm brushing mine as he palmed the wheel. The contact lingered this time, warm and deliberate. "Twenty-year gap's different at fifty than twenty," he mused, more to himself than me. The rig's engine hummed lower as we crested a gentle rise, the endless scrubland stretching out beneath a sky turning violet at the edges. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight," I said, watching Mick's reaction from the corner of my eye. The sun had dipped low enough that his crow's feet deepened when he smirked.
"Fifty-one," he countered, downshifting as the road began a gradual incline. The rig responded with a throaty growl, vibrating through the soles of my boots. "Old enough to be your da..."
"Don't," I cut in, laughing. "That's fucking grim, Mick."
He shrugged, the motion making his shirt strain across his shoulders. "Just stating facts." His fingers drummed the wheel, then stilled. "Though if we're stating facts..,” as he trailed off, eyes fixed on the horizon where heat mirages made the asphalt ripple.
Mick's silence stretched taut like a winch cable near its limit. I watched his jaw work, the way his stubble caught the dying light as he finally spoke. "Fact is," he said, voice rougher than the road under us, "I like how you look," as his thumb tapped the wheel twice, quick as a cylinder firing. Silence settled between us as I watched the sunset bleed across the outback, streaks of burnt orange and dusty pink smearing the horizon like grease on a mechanic’s rag.
Mick cleared his throat, tapping the dashboard clock with a grease-stained fingernail. "Five hours to Alice," he said, eyes fixed on the road where heat shimmered like a mirage. "Might wanna get comfortable. It’s going to be dark soon and passing vehicles won’t be able to see."
Mick's fingers drummed the wheel once more before settling into stillness. "Do you want me as a tease or do you want a proper exhibitionist? I challenged with a smile on my face, sort of feeling anticipation building in my groin.
“Suit yourself," he said, “Either way, if you’re up for it, I'm definitely going to fuck you before Alice Springs,” Mick responded with a chuckle. “I think you're gasping for it, and I fucking know I am,” his eyes never leaving the asphalt stretching into darkness.
The rig's headlights caught a road sign, Alice Springs 450km, its reflective surface flashing like a wink before disappearing behind us as my boots hit the floor with twin thuds, dust rising from the laces like miniature ghosts as I worked the button of my shorts loose, the denim sliding down my thighs with a whisper that seemed deafening in the cab's sudden quiet. Mick's knuckles went pale around the steering wheel, his gaze locked on the road like it held the secrets of the universe.
"Better?" I said, kicking the shorts toward my discarded boots in the door well, the AC vent sending a cool stream across my bare legs, raising goosebumps all over my skin.
Mick's gaze flicked sideways for half a heartbeat before snapping back to the road. "Nice thighs and you're wearing that new brand, Outback undies," he observed, fingers tightening momentarily on the wheel. The white fabric stretched tight across my thighs was indeed fresh from the packet, bought at the last roadhouse specifically because they'd survived numerous washes without losing elasticity and from experience, most truckers like white on lads like me.
"Observant," I said, stretching my legs against the dashboard, deliberately, teasing a reaction. The cotton clung like a second skin where sweat pooled at the small of my back. "Got sick of my old ones riding up like a fucking wedgie factory, and these are mesh fabric keeping the tackle cool."
The mention of my undies and tackle sent an unexpected flush creeping up my neck, sudden as a radiator overheating. Mick's gaze felt heavier as he turned the AC off, opening the window for some warm but fresh air, and I caught myself picking at my shirt's hem before realising what I was doing.
"Getting warm?" Mick asked without looking, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the wheel.
I swallowed, the sound loud in my own ears. "Bit," I admitted.
"Go ahead, take it off. Make yourself more comfortable," Mick suggested.
"Don't mind if I do, Mick," as my thumbs hooked under the fabric, the shirt clinging damply to my back where I'd been leaning against the seat.
The shirt peeled away with a soft shuck of fabric, sticking momentarily to my shoulders before I wrestled it over my head. Cool air hit my sweat-slicked chest, raising goosebumps even as my face burned. I balled the shirt carelessly between us, noticing how Mick's breathing had gone deliberately even.
Mick's hand moved like it had its own compass, southbound, deliberate, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the seam of my Outback Undies where the mesh stretched taut over my thigh. His gaze never wavered from the road, the rig's headlights carving through the night as if this was just another kilometre logged, another gearshift. But his thumb pressed into the divot of my hipbone, like he was mapping terrain.
"Soft," he muttered, more to himself than me, fingers skating the elastic edge. The dashboard lights caught the silver in his stubble as his jaw worked. "Thought they'd be rougher."
Mick's chuckle was a low vibration through the cab. His fingers obeyed, trailing fire along the inseam until they hit the reinforced double-stitching at the leg hole. "Built to last," he observed, pressing the pad of his thumb against the sensitive skin just beneath the hem. The contact sent a jolt through me, as his fingers found my balls, neatly tucked behind the material and then my hard cock, stretching the fabric disproportionately.
Mick's fingers curled around me through the thin fabric, his grip firm as a wrench twisting a stubborn bolt. "Nice and... long with a decent curve in it,” as he squeezed experimentally, his callouses catching on the mesh in a way that made my breath hitch.
"Christ," I managed, gripping the seat as the truck hit a bump. Mick's hand didn't falter, his wrist moving with the rig's rhythm like he was downshifting.
"Good, I hope?" he asked, eyes still on the road.
I laughed, the sound shaky. "You fucking know it is."
"In that case, take them off," he responded.
The elastic snapped against my thighs as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, the Outback Undies stretching momentarily before sliding down my legs. Mick's breath hitched, just once, as the fabric pooled around my ankles. I kicked them toward my discarded shorts, the cab suddenly feeling smaller, the air thicker with the scent of sweat and diesel and something indefinably male.
Mick's hand returned to my thigh, his palm rough against my skin as he traced upward. His fingers hesitated at the crease of my hip, then continued, slow and deliberate, until his calloused thumb brushed the head of my cock.
Mick's thumb circled once, twice, ever so slowly, like he was testing the tread on worn tyres, before his fingers closed around me properly. His grip was warm and work-rough, the callouses catching in a way that made my breath stutter. "Been a while since I've done this one-handed," he mused, palming the wheel with his other hand as the rig swayed around a gentle curve.
The dashboard lights painted his profile in amber, catching the silver in his stubble when he glanced over. "You good?" he asked, thumb swiping over the head.
"More than good," I responded, enjoying his touch as his finger played with my slit and the leaking fluid of my precum.
The rig's engine settled into a lower hum as Mick eased off the accelerator slightly, his fingers still working me with practised precision. His gaze flicked between the road and my lap, the dashboard lights casting his expression into something between concentration and hunger. "Fuck," he muttered, more to himself than me, his thumb circling the head of my cock in a way that made my hips jerk. "Can't do this properly while driving."
His hand withdrew reluctantly, the sudden absence of warmth making me groan. Mick smirked, wiping his palm on his thigh before reaching up to flick on the overhead passenger light. The sudden yellow glow made me blink, stark against the darkening outback rolling past the windows. "But I can watch," he said, his voice rougher than the road beneath us. "Show me."
The command hung between us, charged as the air before a storm. My throat went dry as I obeyed, reclining the seat, more for visual effect than comfort, wrapping my fingers around myself where his had been moments before. The light caught every detail, the way my knuckles whitened, the sheen of precum glistening at the tip. Mick's breathing hitched audibly, his grip tightening on the wheel.
"Christ," he muttered, eyes darting between the road and my hands. "Make yourself last as long as possible. Give me a proper show."
I was only too happy to perform, edging myself in long movements along my shaft. Taking my time and enjoying the feeling, the sensitivity growing slowly, as precum leaked from my tip, offering welcome lubrication.
I felt myself getting closer and then stopped, giving myself a short break before resuming my demonstration. I don't know how many times I almost passed the point of no return, but with each occasion, it was becoming harder not to climax, but I wanted to give Mick a good show.
The dashboard clock ticked off seconds like a metronome while Mick’s gaze burned hotter than the rig’s overheated engine. My fingers slowed to a torturous crawl, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles just under the crown, the way I knew would make my hips twitch but not push me over. Ten minutes of this and my thighs had started trembling, sweat pooling in the hollow of my throat.
"Fuck," Mick exhaled when I paused again, his knuckles white around the wheel. The rig hit a pothole, jolting my grip tighter around myself for half a second, enough to wring a groan from my chest. "Christ, you’re something," he added, watching a bead of sweat trail down my sternum.
The dashboard clock ticked past midnight when my fingers finally faltered, trembling too much to maintain the rhythm. Mick chuckled low in his throat, a sound like gravel under tyres, and reached over to still my hand with his own. "Next time," he said, rough thumb swiping through the mess on my stomach, "go all the way, Steve. Let me see you cum."
The breath punched out of me like a blown tyre when I finally let go, back arching off the seat as my orgasm hit with the force of a hydraulic pump. Cum streaked across my cheekbone first, an accidental bullseye from the initial spurt, before the next pulses painted my collarbones in ragged stripes. The third shot landed warm across my sternum, sliding obscenely toward my navel while the last few weak spurts dotted my stomach like Morse code.
Mick's chuckle sounded like gears grinding low in his throat. "Fucking masterpiece," he muttered, watching a pearl of cum tremble at the dip of my throat before gravity won.
Before I could answer, his hand left the wheel, just for a heartbeat, thumb skimming through the mess on my lower abdomen. He brought his finger to his mouth without breaking eye contact, tongue flicking out to taste me with the casual precision of a mechanic checking dipstick oil. His groan vibrated through the cab. "Fuck. Even better than I imagined."
The rig's headlights caught a roadside sign, Alice Springs 320km, as I played with my cum, wiping the last of my seed onto Mick's singlet. He watched the motion with hooded eyes, his free hand now palming himself through his jeans. "Fucking hell, I had hoped to.... not stop but...in a few miles there's an abandoned roadhouse and...."
"And?" I asked.
"And... I'm going to fucking have you, lad, have you well and good. You just stay like that, my lad."
“Got to catch me first, Mick,” I teased.
“Don’t worry about that, lad. I fucking catch you alright and give that beautiful arse a piece of meat it won’t forget.”
“I should be so lucky, old man. I can’t wait.”
We both remained silent, the anticipation killing us as the roadtrain shuddered to a halt in a cloud of red dust, tyres crunching gravel as Mick wrenched the parking brake with a force that made the cab vibrate. Before the engine's growl had fully died, he was out the door, peeling his singlet over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric catching briefly on his stubble before he tossed it toward the rig's grille. The desert air hit my bare skin like a furnace blast as I climbed down, every nerve alight with anticipation that had me hardening again before my bare feet hit the dirt.
Rounding the front bumper, I found Mick toeing off his boots, jeans already pooled around his ankles. He kicked them aside with a snarl, his cock springing free, thick and ruddy in the moonlight, curving upward like the barrel of a well-oiled gun. Dust swirled around his calves as he closed the distance between us in two strides, calloused hands holding a tube of lube, seizing my arse cheeks with a grip that sent sparks up my spine. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he growled, hauling me against him so our cocks slid together, hot and already leaking.
The rig's headlights painted our shadows long and tangled across the abandoned roadhouse wall as Mick walked me backwards, never breaking contact. My shoulder blades hit sun-bleached timber with a thud, the scent of dry rot and old diesel flooding my nose. Mick's mouth crashed onto mine, all teeth and urgency, his tongue mapping my palate like he was memorising terrain. I bit his lower lip in retaliation, earning a groan that vibrated through my ribs as he ground his hips forward, our sweat-slick stomachs sliding together.
"Turn around," he ordered against my mouth, spinning me before I could comply. His palm pressed between my shoulder blades, bending me over the hood of a rusted-out sedan parked nearby. The metal seared my skin, but the pain only sharpened the feel of Mick's thumbs spreading me open.
His lubed, slick finger captured some of my cum on my stomach, using it as extra lube as his finger circled my entrance with deliberate, teasing pressure. "Christ, you're tight," he muttered, working the tip in just enough to make me push back instinctively. "Bet you'd take me raw right here, wouldn't you?"
Before I could answer, his finger crooked upward, brushing that sweet spot with precision that had me seeing stars. My knees nearly buckled as a moan tore from my throat, the sound echoing off corrugated iron roofing. Mick chuckled darkly, adding a second finger alongside the first, stretching me with the same methodical care he'd use tuning an engine. "There we go, the lube’s making your entrance more acceptable and pliable," he murmured, scissoring his fingers as I gasped. "Just needed to loosen you up proper."
The night air hummed with cicadas as Mick withdrew his fingers with a filthy, wet sound. Then his cockhead nudged against me, insistent as a jackhammer, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact. "Breathe," Mick ordered, palming my hips as he pushed in slow, the stretch burning sweetly until he bottomed out with a groan that shook his entire frame.
For a suspended moment, we stayed like that, Mick buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades, both of us trembling. Then he pulled back and snapped his hips forward hard enough to make the sedan's suspension creak. "Fuck," he gritted out, setting a punishing rhythm that had me scrambling for purchase on the hood. "Knew you'd feel perfect."
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat as his other arm banded across my chest, holding me flush against him. The new angle dragged his cockhead over my prostate with every thrust, pleasure sparking white-hot behind my eyelids. Mick's breath scorched my ear as he fucked into me with single-minded intensity, his hips thrusting like the rig's engine at full throttle. "Gonna make you come just from this," he promised, biting my trapezius hard enough to leave marks. "Just my cock in you. Nothing else."
The claim should've been absurd, but with each snap of his hips, I felt the coil in my gut winding tighter. Mick's grip shifted, calloused thumb finding my perineum and pressing just enough to make me sob. Dust swirled around our legs, kicked up by the force of his thrusts, the scent of sweat and sex and dry earth thick in the air.
When Mick's rhythm faltered, I knew he was close. His fingers dug bruises into my hips as he chased his peak, each drive forward punching choked sounds from both of us. "Touch yourself," he growled, his voice wrecked. "Wanna feel you clench when you come."
I obeyed, hand sliding between my legs as Mick's thrusts grew erratic. The moment my fingers closed around my cock, he groaned like a man shot, his hips stuttering. "That's it, Steve. Fucking take it," as his pace turned brutal, the slap of skin echoing off the roadhouse walls as I stroked myself in time with his thrusts.
Release hit me like a head-on collision, my back arched violently as I came across the sedan's rusted hood, stripes of white stark against oxidised red. Mick cursed violently, burying himself deep as his orgasm tore through him, his cock pulsing inside me, offloading his personal cargo while his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades.
I felt so much pent-up cum shooting up into me, I had to comment. “My, my, Mick, you weren’t joking when you said you needed a fucking release.”
“Too fucking right, Steve,” he managed to say as his shuddering breath started to calm down, before he carefully pulled out, his hands steadying me when my knees threatened to buckle. His thumb smeared through the cum on my stomach before bringing it to his lips, eyes locked on mine as he licked it clean. "Told you I'd have you proper."
The walk back to the rig was quiet, save for his boots crunching gravel. Mick retrieved his discarded clothes while I leaned against the warm grille, watching moonlight trace the sweat trails down his spine. He tossed me his singlet without looking; it smelled like diesel and his skin. “You can sit on that,” as he zipped his jeans commando-style.
Inside the cab, the air clung thick with sex and spilt beer. Mick cranked the AC while I wiped the remaining mess from my stomach with my discarded shirt, finding his singlet comfortable on the leather seat. He caught my wrist when I went to toss it aside, bringing my fingers to his mouth to lick them clean with deliberate slowness. "I've never felt this way before," he murmured against my knuckles, "thank you, Steve. Thank you for being a great fuck."
“You’re most welcome, Mick and… thank you. Best fuck I’ve had in quite a while,” as the engine roared to life as Mick shifted gears, his free hand settling on my bare thigh as it belonged there.
The dashboard clock read 1:17 AM when the rig's headlights illuminated a roadside marker, Alice Springs, 150km. Mick's thumb traced idle circles on my skin as the kilometres melted away beneath us, his occasional glances hotter than the desert night rushing past our windows as I sat naked next to him, my legs outstretched, resting on the dashboard, my cock soft, hidden behind my substantial bush.
At a rest stop just outside Kulgera, Mick killed the engine, having parked up in the more isolated area of the truck park stop. In the sudden silence, his hand slid higher, callouses catching on my inner thigh. "Sleeping cab. I, we, need to kip before continuing," he said simply, nodding toward the curtained compartment behind us. This time, I didn't hesitate as I climbed over, my naked arse sticking up towards Mick’s face as he watched.
The bed was more than enough to accommodate Mick and me, and while snuggling up against Mick, sleep took me quicker than I anticipated, and I'm sure my dreams would be about Mick, the outback and probably sex, but sleep took me before I knew.
When dawn painted the cab gold, I woke to find Mick already dressed, his fingers carding through my hair. "My, my, you're gorgeous, lad," as he viewed my morning wood. "I hadn't actually realised you were circumcised, Steve. It makes you look even more demanding of attention as he moved forward.
The sensation of Mick's mouth closing around me chased the last remnants of sleep away in an instant. His tongue pressed flat against my shaft as he took me deep, the wet heat of him drawing a ragged groan from my throat before I'd even fully processed the situation. Morning light slanted through the dusty cab windows, catching the silver in his stubble when he pulled back just enough to murmur against my skin, "I'm going to enjoy this," he said, his breath hot where it ghosted over slick flesh.
He didn't give me time to respond before diving down again, his hands pinning my hips to the mattress as if he thought I might try to escape. Not a chance. The sheets tangled around my legs as I arched into him, fingers finding their way into his hair, messy from sleep, softer than I expected. Mick hummed approval around my cock, the vibration shooting straight to my already-twitching stomach.
Somewhere outside, a truck door slammed, reminding me we were parked in a trucker's rest stop. The thought should've killed the mood, but the way Mick's teeth grazed just enough to make me gasp turned it into something illicit instead. His thumbs dug into the crease of my thighs, spreading me wider as he worked his tongue in tight circles beneath the head. "Christ…. Mick" I choked out, hips jerking involuntarily as I came in his mouth, thick ropes of cum, produced overnight after my body had rested after the fucking I received.
He chuckled, the bastard, and sucked harder, drawing the final throws of my climax, eventually licking the tip clean with a smile.
When he finally pulled off with an obscene pop, spit shining on his chin, he didn't give me a moment to recover. "Turn over," he ordered, swatting my hip when I hesitated. The command sent a shiver down my spine, part anticipation, part leftover awe from yesterday's abandon against the car hood. I rolled onto my stomach, the sheets rough against my oversensitive skin, and heard the unmistakable sound of him spitting into his palm.
"I have a surprise for you," Mick announced. "Had it ages and never used. Now's the time and place."
I felt the massager slowly push into me, obviously lubricated, as I lifted my bottom just enough to take it as designed. The silicone stretched me in ways fingers never could, its ridges catching deliciously on my rim before settling deep with a slick pop. Mick rolled me over before I could process the fullness, his grin wolfish in the morning light. "I'm going to enjoy this," he murmured, palming my cock where it lay against my stomach, "and if it's as good as they say, it won't be the last time."
The vibration started low, a hum that travelled up my spine like a live wire. Mick adjusted the remote with his thumb, watching my thighs twitch as the intensity climbed. "Fuck..." I muttered, the curse dissolving into a moan when he twisted the dial higher, the toy inside me pulsing in erratic patterns that left my toes curling against the sheets.
Mick's free hand pinned my hip down, his grip firm as he leaned close enough for me to feel his breath against my parted lips. "Look at you," he growled, "taking it like you were made for it."
I barely registered him reaching for the lube until cold slickness dripped onto my stomach. Mick's fingers wrapped around me, his strokes perfectly timed with the vibrations inside me. The dual stimulation blurred my vision; every thrust of the massager pushed me closer to the edge while Mick's hand dragged me back. "Not yet," he ordered, squeezing the base of my cock when I bucked into his fist. The denial burned sweeter than the desert sunrise filtering through the curtains.
The remote clattered onto the mattress when Mick finally released me, his knees bracketing my thighs as he positioned himself above me. I expected him to enter me, wanted it, even... but instead, he pressed the buzzing massager deeper with two fingers, his other hand spreading me wider. "Watch," he demanded, and I lifted my head just in time to see his tongue swipe over where the toy disappeared inside me. The shock of wet heat against oversensitive flesh tore a ragged cry from my throat.
Mick didn't let up, his mouth working in filthy, open-mouthed kisses around the massager's base while his fingers kept the pressure steady. When he added a third finger beside the toy, the stretch bordered on painful, but the way his tongue lapped at the stretched rim had me pushing back for more. "You taste fucking incredible," he muttered against my skin, the words vibrating through me. The vibrations inside me, his fingers, his mouth, it was too much and not enough all at once.
I actually screamed as my body climaxed for the second time, the sound tearing through the cramped cab like a live wire. My back arched violently off the mattress, fingers scrambling for purchase against Mick's shoulders as the massager pulsed relentlessly inside me. The orgasm hit with the force of a desert storm, white-hot and all-consuming, leaving me trembling beneath him like a man electrocuted man. Mick didn't let up, his tongue still working circles around the stretched rim of me, his fingers crooking just right to prolong the aftershocks until I was sobbing into the sweat-damp pillow.
When my hips finally stopped jerking, Mick withdrew the massager with a slow, filthy drag that had me whimpering. He examined the glistening toy with raised eyebrows before tossing it onto the dashboard with a wet thud. "Two for two," he mused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And here I thought you engineers had no stamina."
The implications should have terrified me. Instead, my spent cock twitched against my stomach. Mick's grin widened as he suggested, "Breakfast and then after, I feel you entertaining me more on the next leg of our journey."
"Breakfast," I said as he pressed a coffee into my hands. Steam curled between us as I sipped, watching his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed his own scalding mouthful. His gaze kept darting to my bare legs tangled in the sheets, like he was memorising the way morning light gilded my skin.
He tossed me fresh clothes from my backpack, clean undies, red this time, got my shorts from the door well and handed me a singlet, before stripping off his own sweat-damp shirt. The sun caught the silver in his chest hair as he bent to lace his boots, muscles shifting under skin still marked where my nails had dug in hours earlier. "Hungry?" he asked, straightening to find me staring. His smirk was all teeth as he pulled me close, our hips aligning through thin fabric. "Me too."
We ate quickly, wanting, I guess, to make time up for our impromptu stop at the abandoned roadhouse and our late start climbing out of bed. Back on the highway, Mick drove one-handed, the other tracing idle patterns on my thigh. The radio played static-laced country and western as we crossed into the Northern Territory, his thumb occasionally dipping beneath my shorts hem to tease the sensitive skin there. When I shifted restlessly, he chuckled low and withdrew, only to return moments later with firmer intent, "missing your new toy?"
“Mick, sort of, but I’ll tell you, that’s something special that fucking thing. Never played with one before but…”
Mick laughed out loud. “But… nothing. It was amazing just watching your face. God, you looked like you were in heaven at one point.”
“I think I was,” was all I could say, letting silence capture the moment.
The roadhouse at Ti Tree was nearly deserted when we pulled in. Mick paid for our showers with crumpled notes, his hand lingering at the small of my back as he guided me toward the stalls. Steam curled around us as he pushed me against the tiled wall, his mouth hot on mine despite the scalding water. "Should've known," he muttered between kisses, "one taste wouldn't be enough," as his soap-slick hands mapped every inch of me, thorough as a mechanic checking for flaws.
The water sluiced between us as I sank to my knees, tiles cold under my shins, while steam curled around Mick's thighs. His cock stood thick against my lips, the shower's spray glazing it slick before I closed my mouth around the head. A groan vibrated through him when my tongue swirled beneath the crown, his hips jerking forward as my hands found his ass, fingers digging into the dense muscle there. "Fuck," he exhaled, palm flattening against the shower wall beside my head.
I took him deeper, relishing the stretch of my jaw, the way his length hit the back of my throat with each shallow thrust. Mick's fingers tangled in my wet hair, not guiding, just anchoring, his grip tightening whenever I hollowed my cheeks. The scent of cheap soap and male sweat filled the stall as I worked him, the water turning his pubic hair dark against my knuckles where I gripped his base.
"Look at you," Mick rasped, tilting my chin up with his free hand. His thumb smeared water from my eyelashes as our gazes locked, his pupils blown wide despite the fluorescent lights. "Christ, you're pretty like this."
The praise burned hotter than the shower spray as I swallowed around him, feeling him twitch against my tongue. His thighs trembled when I dragged my lips back to the tip, sucking hard before plunging again.
A shudder ran through him when I hummed, the vibration drawing a ragged curse. His hips stuttered forward instinctively, and I let him fuck my throat in short, desperate strokes, my nose brushing damp curls each time he bottomed out. The tiles dug into my knees, but the discomfort only sharpened the ache in my own cock, neglected and dripping against my thigh.
Mick's breathing turned jagged, his grip in my hair tightening warningly. "Gonna...,” as he managed, hips snapping forward once, twice before his release hit my tongue in hot pulses. I swallowed reflexively, the taste of him flooding my senses as he groaned above me, his body bowing over mine like a willow in a storm.
Mick dressed quickly as I took extra time to dry myself. Unbeknownst to Mick, I had brought the massager with me, taking time to clean it properly, and then I squatted down and inserted it into my arse, pulling my red Outback undies up afterwards, waiting for it to settle inside my body.
The walk back to the rig was interesting, the alien item inside my body, waiting to be used, as I climbed into the cab, as the rig's engine growled back to life as we pulled out of Ti Tree, the roadhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Mick's fingers drummed the steering wheel, three quick taps, then a long drag of his thumb across the leather. His gaze cut sideways, catching on the damp patch where my shorts clung to my thighs from the shower.
"Still got thirteen hundred klicks of fuck-all ahead of us," he said, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "Why don't you ditch those shorts, sit there in your Outback undies, and make the drive... interesting?"
“I can do more than that, Mick,” as I handed him the remote control.
“Fuck me, mate, you’re fucking keen, aren’t you?” Mick declared with a wolfish smile seeping across his face as he took the controller.
The suggestion hung between us, thick as the diesel fumes swirling around the cab. I hooked my thumbs under the hem of my singlet, pulling it over my head. I then watched his knuckles whiten on the gearshift as I pushed the damp shorts down my thighs, letting them drop into the door well.
Mick's laugh came out rough. "Christ, you packed a whole fucking rainbow of colours with’em Outback Undies," as his hand left the wheel just long enough to palm my erection through the mesh red cotton, his callouses catching on the fabric. "Keep these on. Matches the dust, and I want to see what happens to you when I turn this on."
The vibration hit before I even registered him flicking the switch, a sudden, insistent buzz against my inner thigh that made my hips jerk involuntarily. Now it thrummed inside me, forcing a reaction from my cock against the thin cotton of my underwear, the red fabric darkening with precum oozing through the mesh material where it stretched taut over my cock.
I gripped the armrest, the leather cracking under my nails as another rough patch of road sent the vibrations skittering up to my balls. "Christ, Mick...."
Mick's gaze kept dropping to where my erection strained against the vibrator's rhythm. "Told you I'd make this stretch of road interesting," as he adjusted the massager's speed, his thumb brushing my hipbone. The vibration stuttered, then intensified, a relentless pulse that had my toes curling against the floor mat.
Outside, the landscape blurred into streaks of red dirt and scraggly gum trees, the rig's suspension transmitting every pothole directly into my aching groin.
I came embarrassingly fast, back arching off the seat as the orgasm ripped through me, my undies soaked through as cum seeped through the mesh, dribbling down the front of my undies. "Good boy," he murmured, swiping a thumb through the mess on the fabric before bringing it to his lips.
My post-climax senses were elevated as the vibration surged higher before I could protest, the intensity making my thighs tremble against the seat. Mick's grin widened as he watched my body react, his fingers tapping the wheel in time with the pulses. "Fun fact," he said, his voice rough with amusement, "a prostate massager can cause involuntary urination as well as multiple prostate orgasms. Did you know that?
My breath hitched, half panic, half thrill, as I muttered, "No, I didn't know that," as the vibrations skittered deeper, pressing insistently against my soft spot and bladder. I clenched my fists, feeling the effects, the damp cotton clinging uncomfortably. "Mick, please...."
"Relax," he murmured, reaching over to trace the strained line of my cock with his fingertips. "Let it happen."
The road chose that moment to dip sharply, sending the vibrations straight up into my core, and I gasped, toes curling as my hips jerked involuntarily. Heat pooled low in my gut, pressure building in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure anymore.
The truck hit another pothole, amplifying the massager's effects, and my dam broke. Warmth flooded my undies, a mixture of water and prostate fluid, soaking through the already-stained fabric, dripping down my thighs onto the seat. Humiliation burned my cheeks, but Mick just chuckled, low and approving. "There we go," he said, thumb brushing the wet fabric. "Looks like we've got ourselves a proper mess."
He didn't turn the massager off. Instead, he twisted the dial higher until the vibrations were almost painful, my oversensitive cock twitching pathetically against the relentless stimulation. I whimpered, squirming as another weak spurt escaped me, the wetness spreading further as he extracted from me another climax.
The steering wheel creaked under Mick's grip when he finally freed me from my torture. I was exhausted, spent and… smiling broadly. “Fuck me,” I said, almost gasping for breath. I’ve never experienced anything like that before.”
Mick's exhale sounded like a hydraulic brake releasing. "Fuckin' marvellous, mate. You were fucking marvellous," he muttered, eyes flicking between the road and me.
"Christ, look at you," Mick growled as his left hand abandoned the wheel completely to palm himself through his jeans, the denim straining around his thick outline. The rig drifted slightly toward the shoulder before he corrected with a jerk of the wheel that made my knuckles bump against his thigh.
“I want you to fuck me, Mick. I need your cock,” I demanded.
Mick's laugh came out strangled. "Already, princess," as his fingers dug into my thigh.
The rig's engine droned beneath us, a steady counterpoint to Mick's gaze burning hotter than the outback sun. "You’re a fuckin' tease," Mick muttered, adjusting himself through his jeans with rough impatience as he unbuttoned himself, pushing his jeans down his legs, followed by his undies.
Mick's hand moved with the same rough precision he used on gear shifts, calloused fingers twisting just right on the upstroke, thumb swiping over the head in a way that made his thighs tense. I licked my lips, torn between crawling into his lap or staying put to memorise the way his biceps flexed when he jerked himself off. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple as the rig hit a bump, his grip faltering for half a second before he growled and tightened it again.
"Fuckin' roads," he muttered, but his eyes stayed locked on the mess I'd made of myself. His tongue darted out to wet his lips unconsciously, mirroring me, and the realisation sent a fresh jolt of heat through my spent body. The dashboard clock ticked past 2 PM as his rhythm grew erratic, his hips lifting slightly off the seat with each thrust into his own fist.
I reached down without thinking, swiping through the cum and urine drying on my undies and thighs, and pressed my sticky fingers against his mouth. Mick's nostrils flared, but he opened for me without hesitation, tongue curling around my digits to suck them clean. The vibration of his groan travelled up my arm as his free hand suddenly gripped my wrist, holding me there while his hips stuttered.
"Wanna taste you proper," he rasped against my skin, releasing me only to wrap his hand around the back of my neck. His pull was insistent, not rough, but leaving no room for refusal, as he dragged me across the gearshift until our mouths collided. I could taste myself on his tongue, bitter and bright, mixed with the cheap coffee from breakfast. His cock pulsed against my hip as he kissed me like a man starving, all teeth and desperate pressure.
The rig swerved violently when Mick's hand left the wheel to yank me fully into his lap, pinning me flush against him. Our cocks slid together, his still hard and leaking against my softening length, the friction just shy of painful. "Should pull over," he gritted out, even as his hips rolled up against mine.
"We have time, Mick," was all I said, as the rig slowed, pulling over into the red dust.
The rig door swung open with a metallic groan, desert heat rolling in like a living thing as I slid from the cab. My Outback undies catching on my ankles for half a second before I kicked them free, watching the red fabric disappear into the swirling dust. The ground burned beneath my bare feet, but I barely registered the sting as I dropped to all fours, pulling the massager from my arse, holding it in my hand as my forearms pressed into sun-baked earth that smelled like iron and ancient rain.
Mick hit the dirt beside me with a grunt, his jeans already pooled around his work boots. The afternoon sun gilded the sweat along his spine as he knelt behind me, his calloused palms spreading me open with the same focused intensity he'd use checking tyre pressure. "Christ," he muttered, thumb circling my entrance where I was still loose from earlier. "Still wet for me."
A roadtrain's airhorn wailed in the distance as Mick leaned forward, his tongue dragging up my cleft in one slow, filthy stroke. The vibration tore a gasp from my throat, my fingers digging trenches in the red soil. He chuckled against my skin, the sound reverberating through my pelvis as he did it again, slower this time, savouring like a man tasting aged whiskey.
The contrast nearly undid me, scorching earth beneath my belly, Mick's saliva cooling as it trickled down my thighs, his stubble scraping sensitive skin when he buried his face deeper. His nose bumped against my tailbone as he worked me open with his tongue, the wet sounds louder than the cicadas thrumming in the scrub brush. When two fingers joined the assault, crooking just right to make my vision whiten, as I realised I was chanting his name into the dust.
Mick withdrew with a slick pop, his breathing ragged as he undressed, losing his jeans and undies, discarding them into the red dust.
He dropped to his knees, his cockhead pressed against me, hotter than the ground beneath us, and for one suspended moment, we both held still, two figures welded together in the outback's furnace, naked and about to fuck beside the highway that remained abandoned by traffic for miles and miles.
He felt amazing, natural and unhindered as he slid into me, his heat filling me in a way that made my ribs ache with fullness. The initial stretch burned sweetly, then melted into perfection as Mick seated himself fully with a groan that vibrated through both our bodies. Dust puffed around our knees where we knelt in the red dirt, the earth imprinting itself into my skin like a brand as Mick's calloused hands gripped my hips.
I could feel every ridge, every pulse as he began moving, slow at first, dragging out until only the head remained before sinking back in with deliberate force. His thumb found the cleft of my arse, pressing there as if to assure himself this was real, while his other hand spanned my lower back. "Christ," he gritted out, his rhythm faltering when I pushed back against him. "You're fucking made for this."
The sun blazed overhead, bleaching the landscape white-hot as Mick's pace quickened. Sweat rolled down his chest onto my back, mixing with the dust clinging to our skin. Each thrust sent shockwaves through me, his pubic bone grinding against me in just the right way to make my neglected cock jerk between my legs. Mick noticed, of course, his palm slid under my belly, fingers wrapping around me with a possessive squeeze. "That's it," he murmured, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Take what you need," as he pounded my prostate with his cock instead of the massager.
The dual sensation threatened to unravel me too quickly. His thrusts dragged his cockhead over that sweet spot inside me, and I saw stars, feeling my body respond, leaking fluid with an ever increasing intensity.
Mick's breath came ragged against my shoulder blades when he leaned over me, his chest pressing flush against my back. The new angle let him go deeper, his balls slapping against me with each snap of his hips. His mouth found the juncture of my neck, teeth scraping the tendon there before soothing the sting with his tongue. "Gonna feel this for days," he promised, voice thick with satisfaction.
The pressure built like a diesel engine hitting redline, relentless, inevitable, vibrating through every nerve until my vision whited out. Mick's thumb pressed into my perineum just as his cock dragged over that spot inside me, and my prostate detonated in a way that had no precedent. It wasn't just an orgasm; it was a seismic event, my body convulsing so violently that Mick had to lock both arms around my waist to keep me from faceplanting into the dirt. My cock pulsed empty air, striping the red dust with thin, watery spurts as my muscles clenched around him in rhythmic spasms.
Mick cursed through gritted teeth, his hips stuttering as my contractions milked him ruthlessly. I felt the exact moment he lost control, the hot flood of his release filling me in thick pulses, his cock twitching against my walls with each surge. No condom meant feeling every millilitre, the heat of him spreading deep as his hips jerked erratically, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. "Fuck, fuck," he growled, his voice raw as his orgasm ripped through him, his fingers leaving bruises on my hips.
We collapsed forward in a tangle of limbs, Mick's weight pressing me into the sunbaked earth as we both gasped like marathon finishers. His softening cock slipped out with a wet sound, followed by a trickle of his semen that traced a hot path down my inner thigh. The scent of sex and dust and sweat hung heavy around us, mixing with the dry outback air. Mick's breath tickled the nape of my neck as he murmured something unintelligible, his calloused palm smoothing over the small of my back in slow circles.
The flies found us first, tiny, persistent dots of black against my flushed skin. Mick swatted at them half-heartedly before rolling onto his back beside me, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. The sun painted his torso gold, highlighting the sweat sheen and the faint red marks where my nails had dug in. He turned his head to look at me, his eyelashes casting spiderweb shadows across his cheekbones. "Christ," he said hoarsely, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. "That was..."
"Amazing," I finished for him, my voice shot. Because it was. No barrier meant feeling everything, the way his pulse had thrummed inside me, the way his release had heated me from the core outward. Mick's thumb traced my lower lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth as if he wanted to memorise the shape of my exhaustion.
I stood up eventually, knees protesting from the desert floor's unyielding hardness, and gazed down at Mick still sprawled in the red dust like some naked sun-drunk deity. The light caught the sweat trails cutting through the dirt on his chest, turning them to liquid gold. "Shame there was no audience, Mick," I said, nodding toward the empty horizon where heat mirages shimmered like ghostly spectators. "They would've loved the show."
Mick chuckled, a low rumble that stirred the dust near his hip as he sat up. He reached for my discarded Outback undies, the red fabric nearly blending with the soil, and used them to brush first my thighs and back, then his own, the motion practical yet oddly tender. "Better get going," he said, though his fingers lingered on the inside of my knee where a pebble had left an imprint.
The rig's shadow stretched toward us like a sundial as he dressed slowly, our movements syncopated by shared winces and half-smiles as I slipped my incredibly damp undies back on. Mick's jeans clung to his damp thighs when he stepped into them commando-style, the denim dark with sweat at the small of his back. I watched him roll his shoulders, the muscles flexing beneath skin gone pink from sun and exertion, before pulling on his sweat-stiffened singlet. It smelled like him and the desert and us, and I buried my nose in the fabric for a second longer than necessary.
The rig's engine growled back to life with the same reluctant protest Mick made when peeling himself off motel sheets at dawn. I stretched across the gearshift to trace the sunburn blooming across his shoulders—pink fading into tan lines where his singlet had ridden up during our desert interlude. Mick caught my wrist mid-stroke, bringing my fingertips to his mouth for a quick, biting kiss before releasing me to adjust the mirrors. "Twelve hours to Darwin," he said, like it was both a warning and a promise.
Outside, the landscape blurred into ochre streaks as Mick hit the accelerator with deliberate pressure. His thumb tapped the wheel in time with some internal rhythm, three quick beats, then a long drag, as he described the coastal cliffs where his house perched above the Arafura Sea. "Private as a womb," he murmured, eyes cutting sideways to watch me digest the imagery. "Got my own slice of beach where the rocks make a natural pool. Tide comes in, fills it up like God's own bathtub."
I pretended to study the road ahead while Mick's hand crept up my thigh, his callouses catching on the red cotton of my cum and dust-covered undies. His fingers traced the elastic waistband with proprietary familiarity, pausing to dip beneath when we hit a straight stretch. "You could stay awhile," he said, casual as discussing fuel stops. "Don't even need clothes there. You can be the exhibitionist you really are, and I could fuck you all day."
I pictured what he had said as we approached Daly Waters. Mick pulled over at a servo that hadn't updated its decor since '92. The clerk barely glanced up from her crossword when we entered, the bell above the door sounding like a tired sigh. Mick selected two meat pies from the warmer, one for now, one for later, while I lingered by the condom display.
"I thought we didn’t need those," he murmured, breath warm on my neck as he reached past me for a bag of jelly snakes, his bicep brushing my shoulder, radiating heat through my thin singlet.
"No, we don't, but I hadn't realised they have so many varieties, including strawberry flavoured."
Back on the highway, Mick fed me pieces of jelly snake between gear changes, his fingers lingering against my lips each time. The sugar crystallised on my tongue as he described his bedroom's westward-facing windows. "Sunset hits the sheets just right," he said, thumb swiping a fleck of red dye from my lower lip. "Turns your skin to honey."
Near midnight, with Katherine's lights shimmering in the rearview, Mick's hand settled heavy on my knee. His fingers drummed an absent rhythm against my inner thigh as he recounted finding the property, a foreclosure auction where he'd outbid a Darwin developer by fifty bucks. "Knew it was mine when I saw the showerhead," he deadpanned, squeezing my leg when I snorted. "Serious fucking water pressure."
The rig's headlights carved through the darkness as we crossed the Adelaide River floodplain. Mick fell silent for the first time in hours, his profile stark against the star-strewn windshield. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its practised casualness. "Stay the wet season," he said, like it wasn't a question. The raw note in his tone made my chest tighten.
Dawn found us winding through Litchfield's backroads, the rig shuddering over washboard gravel. Mick downshifted with practised ease as the track narrowed, acacia branches scraping the cab like skeletal fingers. "Almost there," he murmured, his knee bouncing with barely-contained energy. Through the trees, I caught my first glimpse of rusted roof corrugations catching the morning light.
"I'm going to drop you off and then take the rig to the yard for unloading. Here are the keys and make yourself at home. I will be back in an hour."
"You're sure, Mick? I could come with you."
"Nah, mate, better I drop off on my own. Fewer questions that way."
The driveway was all red dust and potholes as I walked the distance with the sound of the rig growing more distant. My first view of his paradise was a weatherboard cottage perched on stilts, its wraparound deck strewn with fishing tackle and sun-bleached paperbacks. The sea roared beyond the bluff, a constant white noise that made the hot air vibrate.
My boots hit the ground with determined steps, startling a wallaby from the undergrowth as I strode toward the house with the urgency of a man who'd been gone too long.
The outdoor shower stood like a rusted sentinel at the edge of the deck, its copper pipes twisting up from the floorboards like something organic. I didn’t hesitate, my backpack hitting the weathered wood with a thud where I dropped it. My Outback undies, sad and dirty, remained as the first jet of water hit my shoulders like a physical blow, lukewarm and perfect after hours of desert heat and Mick’s hands on me. I held my breath as the water sluiced through the dust and sweat and dried cum, watching the red-brown swirl disappear between the decking cracks as I slipped my undies down, washing and playing with my cock until I was hard again.
Salt stung my nostrils before I registered the scent, not treated city water but raw ocean, pumped straight from Mick’s private cove below. The showerhead’s pressure lived up to his boasting, needling into the tension knots between my shoulder blades where the car hood had left bruises. I turned my face up into the spray, letting it pound against my closed eyelids until my skull buzzed with the vibration. When I finally exhaled, the sound merged with the distant crash of waves against the bluff.
Footsteps vibrated through the decking before I saw him, Mick leaning against the doorframe with a towel slung over one shoulder, watching me with the focused intensity of a man memorising blueprints. Sunlight glinted off the droplets clinging to his stubble as he pushed off and strode toward me, his boots kicking aside my discarded undies without breaking stride. “Told you about the water,” he murmured, palming the back of my neck to tilt my head back under the spray. His thumb traced the pulse point beneath my jaw. “Forgot to mention it’s fucking freezing at first.”
I hissed when his other hand found my hipbone, his callouses catching on the sensitive skin there. The contrast nearly undid me, Mick’s heat at my back, the ocean’s bite on my front, his erection pressing against me through his jeans while I stood bare under the open sky.
"You're getting very wet, Mick," was all I said as his mouth found the spot behind my ear that made my knees weaken, his teeth scraping just hard enough to brand the sensation into my nervous system. “House has walls,” I managed, though my fingers were already working his belt buckle. “Bed’s probably softer than decking.”
Mick’s laugh vibrated through my shoulder blades as he spun me to face him, his grip firm but not painful. Water sluiced between our bodies as he crowded me against the shower’s support post, the metal digging into my spine. “Later,” he promised, nipping at my lower lip. “Wanna see you like this first.” His palm slid down my chest, over my belly, lower, then stopped. “Christ,” he muttered, staring at the fresh bruises flowering across my inner thighs. “Did I....?”
I had managed to undress Mick as we stood in the shower, the water bringing new life and feelings to our tired bodies. "Don't worry about it, Mick, it happens," I reassured him about the bruises. By the way, what did you mean by the way, wanna see you like this first?”
Mick's fingers traced the edge of a bruise, his touch unexpectedly gentle for a man who'd just fucked me raw against a car hood twelve hours prior. The shower water sluiced between us, turning the fresh marks into violet smudges against my skin. "Meant what I said," he murmured, catching my wrist when I reached to turn off the tap. His thumb pressed into my pulse point. "Wanna see you like this, no pretence, no fabric between us," as he nodded toward the house where curtains fluttered in the sea breeze. "Private as a womb, remember?"
The deck boards creaked underfoot as I followed him inside, dripping saltwater onto the worn floorboards. Mick tossed me a towel, threadbare and smelling of sun, but made no move to cover himself, his erection bobbing as he rummaged in an icebox for beers. Sunlight streamed through the slatted blinds, painting tiger stripes across his shoulders where my nails had left red trails. "Rules are simple here," he said, popping the cap off with his teeth before handing me a bottle. "Clothes are optional, but I prefer them nonexistent." His gaze dragged down my body with the same slow deliberation he used checking tyre treads.
Mick sprawled in a sagging armchair on the deck that had long ago surrendered to his weight, his knees falling open in silent invitation. When I stepped between them, he hooked a finger through my pubic hair, tugging just enough to make me sway forward. "Christ, look at you," he muttered, his beer abandoned as his other hand mapped my hipbone. "Like you were made for this place....but, too much hair. I hope you don't mind, but..." as he produced a hair trimmer.
The buzzing of the trimmer startled me more than the first touch of metal to skin. Mick’s fingers splayed across my pelvis, holding me still with a workman’s practicality as the blades chewed through wiry curls. Flecks of dark hair dusted my thighs like pepper, swirling in the salt breeze before disappearing between the deck boards. "Hold still," he muttered when I flinched at a particularly sensitive patch, his thumb pressing into the divot of my hipbone. "Gonna look like a proper beach boy when I’m done."
The vibration travelled deeper than expected, each pass sending involuntary twitches through muscles still tender from yesterday’s rough handling. Mick worked with surprising precision, angling my cock aside with two fingers to get at the crease of my thigh, tilting my hips forward to address the denser growth beneath. When cold metal grazed my perineum, my knees nearly buckled. Mick chuckled darkly, catching my weight with a palm flat against my stomach. "Easy," he murmured, turning off the trimmer to blow stray hairs from my skin. His breath was startlingly warm compared to the ocean air.
Outside, the tide roared against the bluff, a counterpoint to the creak of the chair as Mick pulled me down onto his lap. His cock slid against mine, still half-hard from the shower, the friction drawing a hiss from both of us. He reached between us, his calloused palm rasping over both our lengths in one rough stroke. "Gonna keep you like this," he promised against my mouth, his breath bitter with hops. "My beautiful sexy boy."
The words came out choked, mangled by the sudden wet heat behind my eyes, "I'm yours", and then the dam broke. It wasn't pretty. My shoulders shook like a faulty engine mount, face crumpling against Mick's collarbone where the salt from my tears mingled with the ocean spray still drying on his skin.
He went absolutely still, his hand frozen mid-stroke between us. For one terrible second, I thought I'd ruined everything, until his fingers uncurled from my cock to cup the back of my neck instead, his thumb pressing firm circles into the tense muscle there. "Easy," he murmured, voice rougher than usual, his free hand guiding my face into the hollow of his throat. "I've got you."
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