It's close to three a.m. and Orli is so bored he could chew his own arms off. Actually, he's so tweaked he could chew his own arms off, but he's bored, too. He wants to go into Eliza's room and get a blowjob, 'cause that usually can calm him down a little, but Eliza's in there with that fuckin' Benji guy, Jimmy's uncle that just got outta the joint. So he can't go do that, and there's nothin' on the five channels the crappy rabbit-ears can manage to pick up, and there's no weed in the house.
Orli spends about ten minutes digging through every drawer in his room and in the kitchen, making sure there's no weed. He thinks about maybe taking a shower, jacking off and trying to relax that way but the rhythmic noises and moans from Eliza's room are driving him nuts so he slips about five bags of product into his back pocket and goes out, heading for the Flying J truck stop. It's about a four-mile walk and Orli strides along, the crystal jumping in him like little glass grasshoppers, pinging off the backs of his eyes and clattering between his teeth. He thinks maybe he shouldn't have taken that last hit right before he left the house but, fuck it.
The truck stop is always good for some quick sales to strung-out truckers struggling to keep awake as they drive the last twenty or fifty or three-hundred miles of their run. The sheriff mostly ignores the truck stop, since his brother drives, and Orli's not worried about getting hassled. He crosses the parking lot, a light sheen of sweat oiling his arms and his chest under his ratty wife-beater. Three-fucking-a-fucking-m and it's still near ninety.
He steps into the truck stop and the air-conditioning is like a slide of pure vanilla ice-cream all down his back and arms and throat and he shivers and grins, looking around. It's not too crowded, and he starts a slow stalk of the front area, where there's racks of t-shirts and jeans and gimmie-hats, piles of cheap Mexican-made 'Navajo' blankets and 'home made' pecan logs and fudge. He spends a few minutes looking through the 'fridge magnets and stickers that say things like 'Keep on Truckin' and 'If the trailer's a'rockin', don't come a'knockin'!' He thinks maybe he should steal that last one for Eliza but the cashier is staring at him so he moves away down the aisle, towards the restaurant.
About ten guys are eating or ordering, and the air is blue with smoke and the smells of greasy eggs and bacon, fried cheese and over-done coffee. One guy is paying as Orli wanders by and he looks Orli over - gives him a tiny nod. Orli walks back towards the bathrooms and a minute later the guy follows him. He's a head taller and half a body wider, with a huge belly that hangs over the waist of his jeans and a bright red hat that has a 'Cardinals' logo on it. The logo's so stylized Orlie can't tell if it's football or baseball, and he doesn't remember where the Cardinals are anymore, anyway, so he decides to skip the small talk and get right down to business. Five minutes later the guy's walking away with three bitty bags of the finest kind in his pocket and Orli's got a hundred and fifty bucks in his. He's grinning, bopping on his toes when a guy comes out of the showers. Short guy, with dark red hair that's all damp and spikey from the water. Boot-cut jeans that fit real snug and a pair of cowboy boots under them, the expensive kind that are probably hand made. Tight white t-shirt with a blue-plaid flannel shirt over it. He's got a shower-kit bag in one hand and a bulging laundry-bag over his shoulder and he walks past Orli with a smooth, easy gait and a little flick of his eyes.
Orli watches him walk by, liking the little quirk to his cinnamon-colored eyebrows and the way his hands are clean and long, with slender fingers. The guy looks right back at him, tiny smile curling the corner of his mouth and Orli decides that this could be interesting. He follows slowly after, watching as the guy goes into the corner where there are washers and dryers and loads up his clothes into a triple-loader. More jeans and t's, flannels and a sweatshirt. Orli's pretty sure he didn't see any underwear and that makes him grin and bounce a little more, the last of the crystal singing like a tuning fork through his veins. The guy gives the attendant at the desk five bucks and walks off, heading towards the doors and Orlie dogs him. As he pushes through Orli catches up, slipping outside right behind him. The sultry air is heavy with diesel fumes and oil, dust and the smell of cooking.
"Damn hot," the guy says, and Orli agrees.
"Hotter in the day," he says, and the guy shakes his head.
"Too hot for me - thank fuck I travel in style - air and surround-sound and all-leather seats - everything." The guy grins at Orli and Orli grins back.
"Yeah? Man, some'a those rigs are fuckin' amazing. I only been up in one or two."
"You should see mine," the guy says, and his thumbs are in the pockets of his jeans, his long fingers lying laxly against the denim. Casually outlining the shape of his cock, that's stirring under the zip. Orli takes a long look - lets his gaze travel slowly up the lean belly and chest to the pointed chin and crooked smile.
"I'd really like to see yours," he says, and the guy gives a little toss of his head, still grinning.
"I'm Seth," he says, turning and walking across the parking lot towards the row of trucks that are parked near the back.
"Orli, pleased ta' meet'cha," Orli says, laughing, and follows.
Seth goes up to a monster rig, painted a deep, sparkling blue that's almost black. On the driver's door is a painting of a cloudy sky with a full moon and stars, and a wolf-head, nose pointed up and mouth open in a howl. The blue-plastic bug-shield across the front of the hood has 'Wolfman' airbrushed across it in fancy script, and Orli laughs.
"Yeah, that's me. I always drive at night, and I tend to get a little -crazy - around the full moon." Orli looks up at the hazy sky and the moon is there, ringed with amber, nearly full and glowing bright white. Seth digs a key ring out of his pocket and climbs up the side of the rig - opens the door and gets in.
"C'mon up, Orli," he calls, and Orli swings himself up, slipping into the driver's seat and shutting the door. The truck is still running and it's cool inside and pretty clean - smells like pot and pine and leather, and Orli strokes the navy-blue seat that's as soft as the skin right under Jimmy's navel.
"This is really nice," he says, and Seth is somewhere in the back, moving around and stowing his shower kit. Then a small light snaps on and Orli sees a bunk, covered in rumpled green sheets and a Mexican-Navajo blanket in purple and white and grey. Seth is sitting in the middle of it, his boots off, a little black lacquer tray on his knee.
"Wanna smoke one?" he asks, and Orli nods and crawls back to him - toes off his sneakers so he can sit up on the bed.
Seth rolls a tight, fat joint and lights it up - takes a long drag and stares up at the ceiling as he holds it. Then he lets it out with a long, soft sigh.
"Damn - good shit" He looks over at Orli and scoots a little closer. "Shotgun," he says, and Orli leans towards him.
Seth puts the joint between his teeth, holding it gently, then cradles Orli's face in his hands. His fingers are cool and smell sweetly of soap and pot, and Orli opens his mouth and breaths in as Seth breaths out, sucking down the cool, thick smoke. It is good shit and Orli closes his eyes, holding it inside and feeling it spread out and tingle through his lungs. He feels one of Seth's hands lift away from his face - feels Seth shift a little on the bunk and then Seth's mouth is on his, as cool as his hands, minty from toothpaste but with the underlying burnt-sugar of pot and something else, something earthy that's just him. His tongue strokes into Orli's mouth, deft and slow, teasing along his lips and tickling the roof of his mouth - running along his teeth, and Orli opens a little wider and tips his head, letting him go deep. He lets the smoke trickle out through his nose and sucks lightly on Seth's tongue - curls his own up behind Seth's teeth, which are small and surprisingly sharp.
Another minute and Seth's hands rake back through his hair and slide down his back - find the hem of his wife-beater and lift it. Orli's own hands are busy burrowing under the flannel and t-shirt that Seth is wearing, finding soft, cool skin and the ripple of muscle across a flat abdomen.
"Off," Seth orders, pushing Orli back, and Orli lifts his arms as Seth peels the wife-beater up and away, tossing it on the floor. He strips his own flannel off, then his t-shirt, and Orli leans forward and tongues the flat, pale-cinnamon nipples, stark on Seth's milky skin.
*He really doesn't see the sun much,* Orli thinks, and he likes that - it's different. Seth is different, with his smooth, clean-smelling skin and hands that have no calluses, and Orli wants to see if he's smooth and white everywhere, so he pushes Seth flat and kneels over his leg - undoes the button and zip of the jeans, pulling them wide.
No underwear, like he thought and Orli grins and leans forward - swipes his tongue over the head of Seth's cock that's arching over his belly. He's not white there, but he's still paler, a kind of rosy toast color and Orli licks from balls to tip, over and over, until Seth's hands, that have tangled in his hair, tug and pull and Orli leans back. Seth is grinning as he lifts his hips up and shimmies out of the jeans and he pushes Orli's hip with his foot.
"Get 'em off, Orli," he says, and Orli scrambles off the bunk and strips off jeans and underwear in one move. Seth is up on his knees and he reaches out and grabs Orli's cock - tugs until Orli is back on the bunk and pressed up against him, cock to cock and hips brushing, Seth's hand tight in the small of his back.
"Now, which is it gonna be?" Seth asks, and his voice is husky, low and teasing, and Orli shivers. "You gonna get on your hands and knees and spread you legs, let me climb on and ride you like a fuckin' bronc? Or are you gonna lay on your back and put those long legs up on my shoulders and let me fuck you so deep you feel it in your throat?" All the while Seth's hands are tugging Orli's cock, stroking his back and ass, dipping down in the crack and scratching lightly over his hole and Orli is shivering and grinding against Seth, running his hands over and over the smoothly muscled back and ass, tasting Seth's soap-sweet throat and shoulders.
"Fuck, I - " Orli can just barely think straight, and every time Seth does that little tug and twist of his cock the sensation ripples through his belly and into his balls, deliciously tight and prickling like static.
"I think you wanna be on your back. Legs up like a bitch. Think you like that best," Seth whispers, and Orli grinds forward, whimpering, and then back into the finger that's worming inside. In a quick series of movements Orli finds himself on his back with Seth over him, that crooked mouth dipping down to bite his jaw and collarbones, blunt nails scratching over his nipples. Seth reaches over Orli's head and roots around in a little alcove for a second and then he's smoothly rolling on a condom and squirting some lube onto Orli's cock. He smears some over the condom and then brushes a slick thumb over Orli's ass - pushes in and Orlie lifts his feet and hooks his calves over Seth's shoulders.
"Fuckin' knew it," Seth whispers, and then his cock is crowding in slow and steady, his thumb still in there and Orli's eyes are wide, his back arching up. It burns enough to make him suck in a breath and clutch Seth's ribs and Seth grins down at him and swivels his hips.
"You can take it, Orli - I know you can. C'mon..." Seth's other hand slips down there, too, and Orli feels his thumb circling and rubbing - pushing in, Jesus fuckin' Christ and pulling at him, prying him wide open so Seth can just power-glide on in. Orli's never felt this fucking open, and the burn and the stretch are making his belly twist up tight and his breath come in panting gasps. Then Seth is in, far as he can go with his hands down there and he just sits there for a minute, hips swiveling, his thumbs caressing and tugging. Then he slides them both out at the same moment and slams in the last inch or so and Orli's ass is up off the bunk and he's groaning, and his hands are clutching Seth's shoulders and yanking at him, pulling him.
Seth pushes up until Orli's knees are practically by his ears and then he's just jackhammering in; hard, fast strokes that Orli can feel in his belly and his chest and yeah, practically in his throat and he gets his hands in Seth's hair and yanks him down - kisses him hard, biting at his lips and sucking his tongue - fucking Seth's mouth with his own tongue, matching the rhythm of Seth's cock in his ass, his ankles locked behind Seth's shoulder blades.
It's fuckin' good and Orli tugs the squeaky-clean hair and yelps when Seth's hands rake down his ribs and grab his ass - lift it higher and change the angle and then Seth is hitting the magic fuckin' spot that Eliza showed him, years ago, and Orli is panting and twisting, scratching Seth's back and trying to push him deeper.
"Fuck, Seth, Jesus Christ!" Orli's just babbling, writhing, and Seth reaches between them and grabs his cock - smears what's left of the lube up it in one tug and then he's jacking Orli hard, tug and twist, pinching the end and hooking his fingers under Orli's balls on the down stroke, his teeth finding Orli's lip and jaw and throat. Orli's whole body clenches tight and Seth let's loose with a ragged little chuckle.
"C'mon, Orli, wanna feel it - c'mon -" Seth says, ragged with panting, and does that little thing with his hips one more time and Orli is coming so fuckin' hard it almost hurts. His ass isn't anywhere near the bunk and he feels like he's been bent completely in half - turns his head and finds his own sweat-salty knee right there and he bites at it, his hips just pistoning up and down on Seth's cock, mindless to-and-fro he couldn't stop if he tried. Seth gives his cock a last pulling twist and lets his come-slick hand skid up Orli's chest. He pushes down and arches his head back, pounding hard, hand in the small of Orli's back and then his cock pulses and he's coming, the rhythm breaking up into a stuttering glide that hits that spot a couple more times, sending little sparkles of pleasure-pain overload through Orli's ass and softening cock.
They both just hang there for a minute or two, locked in place and snapping up mouthfuls of the cool, piney air until finally Seth pulls out and rolls to the side and Orli lets his legs fall to the bunk, limp as a washrag. His belly is still trembling and he knows he's gonna be sore but that was so fucking good. He wishes he didn't have to walk home four miles - he could just roll over and go to sleep right here in the cotton sheets that feel like satin and smell like Christmas.
Seth is moving around, stripping off the condom and getting a little Tupperware from another alcove. He dumps a handful of little foil packets on the bed and Orli sees that they're wet-wipes from Kentucky Fried Chicken and Red Lobster and he laughs.
"These work real good," Seth says, ripping one open and spreading it out. Orli wipes his chest and cock off with a lemony, ice-cold wipe and tosses it into a bag hanging from the knob on a cabinet door, and Seth finds the tray and re-lights the joint. They sit and smoke in companionable silence and when the joint is gone Seth gets up and pulls his clothes back on.
"Gotta go put my stuff in the dryer," he says, and Orli sighs and finds his clothes - gets dressed with slow, sleepy hands. He follows Seth to the front of the truck and climbs down after him - stands there for a minute as Seth locks the rig up and pushes the keys into his pocket.
"They just changed my route," Seth says, looking at him, little crooked smile and his hair like a bird's nest now. "I'm gonna be comin' through here every other Tuesday," he says, and Orli suddenly feels wide awake. He grins, thinking about sweet, pale skin and smooth hands - the Christmas bed.
"Yeah? Reckon you can see how long you can ride the bucking bronc next time, huh?"
"Reckon," Seth says, and he grins wide and turns around and heads off towards his waiting laundry and Orli heads on home. Eliza and Benji'll surely be done by now, and his hands, he discoverers, smell lemony and clean. He likes that.