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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Grapevine (MM, truckers)
by Bruce Bramson (c) 1994
A hogger sees a lot of interesting things from the cab of a bigrig! It
just never seems to occur to folks roaring down the freeway that truck
drivers are in a position to look right down into their laps, even in a
closed car. Of course, convertibles and sunroofs help out a lot! I can't
count the number of times I've glanced down at a passing beemer to see a
hand and arm groping a hairy cunt; and just about as often the arm and
hand will be jerkin-off a nice prick! Many's the near-accident I've seen
from a distance when a driver took his eyes off the road to watch his
partner pop.
Of course, seeing this stuff can make a driver a tad horny. It doesn't
help much that most rigs get this bouncy rhythm going, especially on
concrete highways. Not to mention that it can get pretty hot sitting
behind or on top of 400 HP of throbbing diesel engine. That's why a lot
of times on the long, hot, summer valley runs, I shuck everything but my
shorts and sit sporting a woodie for mile after mile...
99 has to be one of the worst roads in California! It's hard to imagine
an "antiquated freeway", but 99 is that for sure. The rig hasn't been
built that can truly smooth out all the expansion-joints between
Sacramento and Bakersfield! Consequently, it's pretty difficult not to
wind up down that way horny as the dickens!
Now, there are both guys and gals that dig truckers. Both usually drive
sporty cars, converts or at least sun-roofs; a guy can usually spot 'em
by paying a little attention to the rear-view mirrors. The dead giveaway
is when they come up fast to pass, then slow down and "fall in step",
taking a real long time to get by, groping themselves like crazy or
giving a breezy high-five. Nowadays, a lot of 'em have CB's, too, and we
can chat each other up by radio.
So it should come (heh!) as no surprise that there is a lot of "R & R"
going on at the rest-stops and truckers' motels off the freeways.
Personally, I like the fun and games at the rest areas, because driving a
BR is actually a fairly tough job and I need a good night's sleep in
order to put in a good day's drive. But there's not much use trying to
sleep when you've had it up all day, been cruised by two or three good
lookin dudes, and are right on the edge of poppin yer wad just from
bouncing in the seat all day!
My usual routine puts me at a rest stop a bit south of B'field in the
late afternoon, and it's a rare layover (heh!) that I don't get some help
with my "problem". Sometimes I set it up ahead of time with some of my
favorite guys (guess I should point out here that I am one of the many
gay truckers out there), but other times I like to take "pot luck", and
I'm not often disappointed. At "thirty-something" I'm still in good
shape, with dirty blond hair that I wear pretty long, nice smooth pecs
and a pretty treasure trail pointing right down to the pleasure zone. I
fill a pair of Jockeys pretty nicely (if I do say so myself!), and sport
a reasonably well-turned set of pegs. It isn't often that anybody turns
me down!
So, I'll pull into the rest area of an afternoon, let the rig idle a
while to cool down, fill out my log (heh!) and check out the area. I know
what's going on (or down!) in at least half of the sleeper cabs there,
and with a sharp eye it isn't unusual to see a driver who seems to be
alone and asleep one minute, suddenly has a partner the next - he or she
had to come up for air! And there's the well-worn path to the johns!
Gawd, those places do get busy sometimes, but I tend to stay away from
that crowd, 'cause there are those times the fuzz likes to pull some
funny business in there, and I don't much want to get busted - just want
to bust my nuts and get on down to Wheeler for a good sleep before the
long grapevine pull the next day.
Funny thing is, though, that as much as I want to get my rocks off, I
want to do it with someone else in the same frame of mind. Yeah: I admit
there are times I just open the door of my cab and wait 'till some dude
walks by and sees that I'm stripped to my shorts and givin Willy a slow
stroke now and again: once the dude sees that, I'm only a few licks away
from blowing a wad down his throat, and I can be on my way. But those
quickies don't really satisfy the way I like to be satisfied!
So, more likely I'll check out the other drivers. I'll pull on my Levi's,
drop down to the ground, grab my persuader and pound tires, check brakes
and rigging, watchin outa the corner of my eye to see which hunky driver
is watchin me! Once I see a hogger that turns me on and who I see is
givin me the eye, a good grope at my crotch is usually all it takes to
get a high-sign, and I'll be up in that other cab ready to chow down!
Even though I don't drive a sleeper myself, I'm sure glad most other
long-haul dudes do: and I'm also glad I'm not some six-foot-five bean-
pole, either!
I admit I've been accused of being greedy: on the other hand, I think a
lot of drivers feel sorta the way I do, that getting done by another
driver beats a run-of-the-mill BJ from some flamin queen. So I have been
known to hit on more than just one driver of an afternoon (my record is
nine), and each steamy load I put away makes me hotter than hades; so
when I finally find an obliging dude that's as horny as I am and who
grabs my jeans and shoves 'em down and grabs my prick, I'm in trucker's
heaven! I usually pop my cork with no more than a half-dozen strokes.
Many a driver has been thankful I always carry a BIG cum-rag in my back
pocket!
So, after a coupla hours of playtime, it's the short run on down to
Wheeler Ridge and the bunk-house there; some decent chow, a hot shower
and shut-eye. Not that there isn't a fair amount of carrying-on there, as
well; but I'm usually sated, and like I said, I need that beauty-rest!
I do remember connecting there once, though, with a really neat dude that
was hikin' his way south. I'd seen him in the diner, and knew at once he
wasn't a "regular". Truth is, I figured he was hostlin with some other
guy. So when I found him alone at the breakfast counter the next morning
about 5 I was a bit surprised. He struck up a conversation, and I soon
found out he wanted a ride over the hill. So, Okay: I know this isn't the
coolest thing to do -- pick up some guy I didn't know from Adam, for the
most difficult part of the trip: but, hey, he wasn't at ALL bad looking,
wasn't dirty, and wasn't under age (though I admit he looked like he
wasn't all that far past being jail-bait).
So I took him under my wing. I figured the porno mags amid the clutter in
my cab would clue him in, and that he wouldn't be surprised to find the
plastic piss-bottles I use to avoid too many pit-stops, if he'd made it
this far south via the truck route! So after breakfast we ventured into
the cool morning air to my venerable Peterbilt. The engine caught
quickly, blowing blue-white smoke-rings till the fuel warmed up; I hopped
back down to check the rig around while the engine was warming up and air
filled the brake reservoir. I sent Jack (that was the kid's name) back to
get my thermos re-filled with coffee, eased the rig over to the fueling
area and did all the needful there. Jack sauntered back with the coffee,
and we climbed into the cab: it was just goin on 6 when I hit low-over
and took some pedals and we rolled out on to the main road.
So I'm jaded: but getting a BR under way is, well, sexy! There's skill
involved, especially in an older rig like mine that doesn't have the
automatic tran and all the other bells and whistles the newer rigs have.
You have to know just where the clutch "takes hold"; when to double-
clutch; the big stick is close to a yard long and still takes some effort
to move; and "shorty", for the rear axle, even with the air-assist, has
to be coaxed "just so", or you can take a few teeth off the transfer
gears with a gawdawful crunch! So, you walk it up the gears, matching the
engine's speed and torque to the load: second-over; third-under; third-
over. The transition from third-over to fourth-under is tricky, but goes
smoothly if you do it right. Eventually you have something like 80,000
pounds of machinery moving smoothly down the highway, and you can begin
to relax; and in the present instance, I could begin to pay a little
attention to my passenger.
The ride is fairly smooth here, on black-top, so not too "bouncy" just
yet. Jack seems at home, clearly no stranger to a BR and all the
manipulations necessary to getting it up to speed. He complimented me on
my skills, and I told him he hadn't seen the half of them! Actually, I
referred to what was ahead - the famous Grapevine - but, a sly smile on
his face suggested perhaps he took a different meaning. Okay by me! I had
a chance to study Jack's appearance now, and it was rather nice; his
levis were tight on his thighs - I like that! - and he showed some
basket. He had a jacket on, so I couldn't tell too much about his upper
bod, but I knew it would be only a short while before he would be
shucking that coat, if not a lot more, because it was obviously going to
be a typically HOT day in the southern San Joaquin valley, and working
this rig over the 'vine on a hot day can put the temperature in the cab
well into the nineties, even with all the windows and vents wide open!
The approach to the grapevine is deceptive: you're actually climbing a
modest grade, but because of the looming mountains, it seems flat. But
soon it's time to drop out of five-over, as the grade increases a little
and the rig slows, the engine labors. Sure enough, it's only 6:30, but
the temperature is climbing in the cab, so Jack sheds his jacket, and I
can perceive a nice torso under a tight tee, and nice muscular arms with
just a light dusting of hair. Hmmmm: just my type, it seems! I skip four
over and go direct to four-under; then -- and this always startles me, no
matter how often I do it -- we hit the 'vine itself, where the grade
suddenly approaches three percent, and it's several quick down-shifts to
the long, slow grind in second-over (if we're lucky we can stay there,
unless some idjit cuts us off and we lose momentum!). Now, on the one
hand, this part of the trip can be pretty dull, since you're poking along
at around 25 mph; but the route is twisty, and there's other traffic you
have to watch, like all those dumb fools in their beemers and cressidas
roarin along as if they were at the Indy 500, with no IDEA how difficult
it is to hustle a rig over this hill!
So, I'm settled down to the grind, watching the mirrors, holding the
outside lane, gettin with the gentle rhythm (we're back to concrete and
expansion joints again), when that old automatic reaction set in and
Willy started to exert himself in my Levi's. To tell the truth, I was so
absorbed in drivin, I forgot all about Jack, and without even thinkin
about it I first made a "major adjustment" of my crotch, and shortly
thereafter popped the top button on my levis, ripped open the rest and
let Willy free. Only when I heard a low whistle from the other side of
the cab did I suddenly remember my passenger, and when I glanced his way
it was MY turn to whistle: he hadn't whipped it out yet, but the snake
crawling down his leg made it clear that either the rhythm of the ride or
my raging hard-on (or both) had taken effect.
Jack saw me cruise him, and answered by stroking himself through the blue
cloth of his pants. At just that moment I realized I was gaining on the
rig ahead, checked my mirrors and saw it was clear to move left to pass:
had the signals on, when this idjit in a caddy pulled into the lane and
cut me off. I was off the juice right away, and of course lost momentum
and had to drop it down to first-over and fall in behind the rig I'd
hoped to pass. Under these circumstances its 10 mph most of the way to
the summit. So I said something rude and appropriate about the driver,
and Jack said, "I like the way you handle this rig." I said, "Well, we're
in for the long haul, so I'm gonna handle YOUR rig," and I reached over
and grabbed that trouser-trout, and was rewarded by a very pleasant
pulsation. I worked that meat with my right hand as I steered with my
left; presently I felt a wet spot on his pants and realized he was lubin'
like crazy, so I just said, "Get outa those things, you're gonna mess
yourself!" So he shucked his Levis down around his ankles, and this
really sporting cock sprang out, drooling wildly. Don't think I ever saw
anyone lube like that!
At least this guy wasn't bashful! He reached over and got a grip on me,
then went back and got a handful of his own pre-cum and used that on my
dick, and I was in trucker's heaven again! This was certainly going to be
one of the more memorable crossings of the 'vine that I'd ever make! Now,
there's a rest stop about half-way up towards the summit, but I couldn't
really see us stopping there, since I had no sleeper and didn't want to
hafta take this dude in the mensroom. So I just kept my foot on the
juice, keeping a respectful distance behind the rig ahead of us, and let
the throbbing engine, the heat, the lilt of the cab as we humped the
joints in the roadway, and (best of all) this guy rubbing my dick with
his copious effusion, work their magic. His slippery prong in my right
fist was no unpleasant sensation, either! I didn't even slow down for the
rest stop: just let the fellow ahead of us set the pace, and grooved on
this mutual JO scene right here in the cab of my own rig. Jack helped me
shuck my levis, and steered while I shed my shirt. Soon he was tonguing
my right tit, and it sure felt good! I had to take my hand off his cock a
few times and shift some gears, as there are a few level stretches where
we picked up a little speed, but somehow, I was content to follow the rig
ahead right on up to the summit. As we approached the top Jack suddenly
stretched his legs straight out against the firewall, grabbed my right
wrist in an iron grip (my own grip was firmly on his cock) and let go
with a huge load that went all OVER the place! While he was still
dribbling cum, he reached over with his right hand and jacked me quickly
to a state of orgasm, and I shot my own load all over the inside of the
cab, hitting the steering wheel, the dash and the windshield, in one of
the most explosive hand jobs I've ever had! The Tejon Pass sign flashed
by just at that moment: we all reached the summit together.
Well, one way or another Jack and I put ourselves back together. Briefly,
I was able to concentrate on my driving, and finally managed to pass the
rig I'd been following for so long. As I pulled alongside, I glanced over
and recognized two guys I knew, one of whom was busy with a rag mopping
something off the windshield...
Just something about that long haul up the 'vine that gets to ya!
(c) Bruce Bramson, 1994
Dedicated to TRUCKER on the Backdoor BBS