Trucker 2–Trucker v Hitchhicker

A chill wind swept across the highway, forcing the Trucker to grip the wheel tightly. Pale, watery winter light seeped across the empty expanse of desert. The Trucker hadn’t seen another vehicle in over an hour; he was on a state highway, not an interstate.

As a freelancer who owned his own rig, the Trucker was able to accept spontaneous consignments when it was convenient for him. After dropping his load of textiles at a depot in Chicago, he’d taken on an order of mixed goods for a chain of dollar stores operating primarily in small towns. It involved frequent stops in out-of-the-way places that were difficult to access. Maneuvering a semi on two-lane highways and in one-stoplight towns required a great deal of precision; the Trucker built up a lot of stress.

Luckily, he had a way of working it off.

He’d gone southwest out of Chicago and ran into some nasty winter weather while in Nebraska–which probably explained what had happened to that poor Sioux boy he’d picked up there. The Trucker loved a nice slow strangle, letting the dying whore’s convulsions milk the spunk out of his cock. Edged weapons were fun on occasion, but he really wasn’t into gore that much.

So it must have been stress that made him take the beautiful indian with the long, straight black hair and the smooth flat belly to a motel room and eviscerate him.

But that was several states ago. Now he was heading west across barren wastelands; his final stop was a small town south of Vegas. He’d come this way not long before; the motel where he’d met the Marine was about a hundred miles south of where he was now.

So here he was, crawling along a winding road in the desert on a cold winter day. He was going especially slowly at the moment since the wind was up; the last thing he needed was to catch a gust while rounding a curve and getting tipped.

As the huge steering wheel slipped in his strong, rough hands as he came out of the curve, the sun was in his eyes and he almost didn’t see the hitchhiker. And that would have been a shame. Even on a busy highway, the boy would have been worth stopping for.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, no one would even notice he was gone.

The kid looked like a hipster college kid. Early twenties at the oldest. Old enough to know better than to be out here hitching.

The Trucker had been going slowly around the curve; he was able to ease over onto the shoulder without going too far past the boy. He watched the kid approach in the side mirror, his dick getting harder as the youth got closer.

The hitcher was tall and lean, at least six feet. He had short, rust-brown hair in tight curls that wrapped his head and slid down his cheeks to blend seamlessly with his full beard and mustache, both trimmed very short. His lanky body shifted, displaying his muscles under his tight clothes as he strutted down the dusty, litter-strewn shoulder.

He wore what looked a pseudo-rugby shirt with broad, colorful horizontal stripes clinging to and outlining his well-formed pecs. Over it, he wore a distressed brown leather bomber jacket. It was unzipped but blocked the wind well enough.

Below the waist, he wore dark jeans so tight they looked as if they had been painted on. The Trucker could see the kid’s thick thigh muscles pumping as he walked. The jeans were tucked into a pair of black leather boots that rose to mid-calf, with thick soles and straps on each side to help pull them on.

As the boy climbed up to the door and his grinning, cheerful face appeared in the window, the Trucker noticed the backpack slung over his shoulder. Almost certainly a college kid, but even so, best not to take any chances. Only one of them was gonna survive the next hour–it was gonna be him. Hitchers could be dangerous, but the Trucker wasn’t gonna give this one the chance.

He turned in his seat and leaned back casually, smiling welcomingly as the door opened.

From this angle, the kid could see that the Trucker’s right arm was hanging over the back of the seat but he couldn’t see the tire iron clenched in the Trucker’s hand.

“C’mon in,” the Trucker. “Where ya headed?” He started the rig moving again, easing back onto the highway.

“Cali,” piped the boy as he settled into the passenger seat. “Going back to UCLA.”

“Well, I can get ya as far as Vegas. I go north after that.”

The kid leaned back, casually lounging in the seat, his long legs spread and the thick bulge in his crotch very visibly highlighted by the low winter sun streaming through the windshield. He gave a big goofy grin and a thumbs-up to indicate his acquiescence. He shifted the thick soles of his big black boots on the floorboard.

The Trucker smiled to himself, knowing the little hipster punk wouldn’t make it to Nevada, much less Cali.

“Dude, you hitch much?” he asked the kid. “Ever run into trouble?”

The boy turned to him. The Trucker noticed his eyes for the first time. Very large, very green, ringed with long lashes that gave his broad face more than a hint of vulnerability. His expression was puzzled. “Yeah, I hitch all the time. What kinda trouble ya talkin’ about?”

“No one ever try to do anything to ya? Y’know, get ya into the middle of nowhere and make ya do something you didn’t want to do?”

The kid shook his head. “Naw, man, ain’t nobody try to do anything to me.” He continued to lounge back in the large passenger seat of the semi cab. His leather jacket had draped open and the bright horizontal stripes on his shirt rose and fell with sculpted contours of his muscled chest.

The Trucker had been slowly downshifting during the conversation, letting the rig drift to a stop on the shoulder. He hadn’t seen another car in an hour. He parked and turned to the boy. “So I guess the first time will be the last, huh?” He smiled gently into the punk’s confused face and brought his arm up with lighting speed.

The kid grunted as the tire iron cracked against the side of his head. He went limp instantly, blood trickling from a small cut where the iron rod had split the skin on his temple.

The Trucker slipped out of his seatbelt and unfastened the one holding the unconscious boy in his seat. He dragged the limp dead weight into the rear of the cab—the sleeper compartment.

He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, leaving himself bare to the waist. He hung it neatly on a hook on the driver’s side of the compartment before pulling the privacy curtain closed and sealing it.

Now anyone approaching the cab from outside would have no way of seeing what was going on in the sleeper—not that there was anyone within fifty miles. But still, the Trucker preferred his fun uninterrupted.

Kneeling down, he carefully pulled the boy’s jacket off, then pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing his smooth, firm chest and flat hard belly. Reaching into the rear pocket of his tight, faded jeans, he pulled out a folding knife.

The Trucker knelt down and began slicing the tight hipster skinny jeans off the kid’s taut smooth legs, pulling them up and out of his boots. The little slut had been going commando under his jeans—of course. Now he was nude except for his black leather boots and white tube socks. As he leaned over the limp boy, a faint jingling sound filled the air. Dogtags—his trophy from his last kill in this state.

The bunk was small but adequate enough for the Trucker’s needs. It supported his muscular bulk when he needed to rest. And it was strong enough to resist the struggles of a dying cunt.

The Trucker quickly bound the hitcher’s hands behind his back with a zip tie before throwing him onto the bunk and spreading his legs. He paused for a moment to free his swollen, throbbing cock from the confines of his tight jeans. The thick purple head flopped out, dripping clear precum onto the tips of his own desert camo combat boots, the drops leaving dark stains on the pale brown toes.

He reached down, massaging the throbbing tube of meat, waiting calmly. He was gonna take his time and enjoy himself. This little fuck was gonna get used oh so hard…

The boy began to groan and jerk on the bunk, slowly waking up. He shook his head side to side, writhing urgently, trying to free his arms. His eyes blinked blearily several times, tears of pain and confusion welling in their emerald depths.

“Wha-what’s goin’ on?” he slurred, trying to focus on the muscular, half-nude man standing over him, brandishing a tire iron—and a huge, terrifying erect cock. It didn’t make any sense…

“Here’s what’s going on, you worthless little motherfucker,” barked the Trucker, a deep timbre of confidence adding an authoritative rumble to his bass voice. “I’m gonna fuck you in the ass. I’m gonna crush your throat with this tire iron while my dick tears your fuckhole open. I’m gonna hurt you, cunt. And the more you hurt, the better it feels on my cock. So get ready, slut, you’re gonna die sometime in the next hour—and before you do, you’re gonna go through such agony, death will be the greatest gift I can give you.”

The boy whimpered and moaned. It was obvious his privileged little hipster brain was unable to comprehend the nightmare world in which he now found himself.

The Trucker grinned. Perfect—the little stud was exactly where he wanted him, paralyzed with terror. “Time to saddle up, cunt. Ya ready, bitch? Ready to get the livin’ shit fucked outta ya? Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you blow your load as you die. You won’t miss out on the fun, meat, though your brain will probably be too dead for ya to enjoy it. That’s ok, though; you’re only here so I can cum—it don’t matter if you feel your death load. All I want you to feel is the horror and pain of death.”

The Trucker knelt on the bunk and grabbed the boy’s booted left ankle with his right hand, forcing both legs up, revealing the tender pink flesh of the hitcher’s quivering asshole. Already oozing with anticipation, the Trucker spit a gob of saliva as lube onto the pale pulsing puckered rosebud, then plunged his swollen mushroom tip into the kid’s colon with no warning.

The young bearded punk opened his eyes wide, his long lashes framing the pain of the intense assfuck, as he screamed in rage as much as agony. “Get off me, you fuckin’ psycho!” he wailed, “stop it! Fuck! Please, dear god, stop it now! Don’t do this, please don’t do this…”

He trailed off into hot snotty tears of humiliation as the Trucker’s thick shaft drove deeper into his rectum, tearing the lining of his colon. The fresh blast of pain, the sensation of razor blades being thrust deep inside him, brought forth a renewed volley of shrieks, the boy now flailing frantically against the Trucker’s overpowering strength.

The Trucker had anticipated every moment already. He’d done this many, many time before and knew what to expect by now. There was a crazed look on the meat’s face, the look of panic and self-preservation—the ultimate animal within the hipster, coming out to fight for his life.

It was futile. As much as he struggled, as desperately as he thrashed and flailed to save his life, he was caught in the iron grip of a sexual sadist and there would be no easy escape from his suffering.

The Trucker leaned forward and grabbed the kid’s hair. Pulling back and up, he drove his other hand, balled into a hard fist, into the punk’s face repeatedly. “There ya go, cunt,” he grunted, timing the blows to the face with the brutal thrusts of his swollen cock up the boy’s bleeding ass. “That get ya in the mood, bitch? That what it takes to get ya hot and horny? I know, slut, you gotta get tenderized before you can enjoy a good fuck. Ya need a man who can show you your place. And your place is dying on the thick dripping tip of my dick before I toss your cum-filled corpse into a ditch to rot like the garbage you are, ain’t that right, cunt? Don’t the thought just make ya wanna blow yer useless faggot load right now? No? Well, maybe this’ll help…”

With a single swift motion, the Trucker rose up on his knees. Digging the steel-lined toes of his combat boots into the bunk for traction, his tight jeans straining against the bulging, thrusting muscles in his thighs, he elbowed the kid’s smooth, taut legs, still encased to mid-calf in the tall black motorcycle boots, to each side. He paused for a moment, holding the huge tire iron horizontally in front of him, gripping it tightly, one hand at each end.

He threw himself down violently, driving the hard iron rod into the boy’s throat just above the Adam’s apple. The cunt’s eyes bulged frantically as his airway collapsed under the pressure. The excruciating pain in his rectum was now overtaken by the agony in his throat; he stopped fighting the fuck and began fighting the kill.

The smooth, bearded youth grunted inarticulately, jerking his arms in a desperate attempt to free his bound hands. “Nnnng! Gah! Gak!” he croaked, eyes wide with terror as he realized that forcing a tiny amount of air out of his closed-off windpipe was easier than getting any in.

The punk went into full panic mode, violently thrashing his firm body, the zipties digging cruelly and painfully into his struggling wrists. The Trucker gave a deep, shuddering sigh as the boy’s rectum began to spasm on his cock—and suddenly there was a knocking at the driver’s door.

With a single swift motion, the Trucker, swooped down and grabbed the boy’s striped shirt off the floor of the compartment. Tossing the tire iron aside, he balled the shirt up and jammed it into the kid’s mouth, letting him gag on the salty tang of his own sweat.

“Just a moment,” he yelled as he grabbed a belt from the dresser behind him and looped it around the punk’s boots, tightening it and tying it off. The hitcher was still struggling to recover from the crushing pain in his throat to attempt more than token resistance.

The Trucker slipped his arms into his button-down shirt but didn’t have time to button it; he merely slipped out from behind the curtain into the front part of the cab.

It was a state trooper knocking at the door.

The Trucker opened the door and climbed out warily. His combat boots settled firmly into the steps built into the outside of the cab as he came down to the pavement and turned to the trooper.

He found himself staring into the icy blue eyes of a younger man, very well built. He wore a dark button-down shirt, the short sleeves of which bulged around the trooper’s biceps. His broad chest strained the buttons on his shirt. Thick legs in khaki slacks descended to calf-high black leather boots, shiny as a mirror. A peaked cap sat above the strong-jawed face, on top of buzz-cut hair so short that the color was impossible to discern. Smaller than the Trucker, but nearly as well-built.

Controlling his lust, the Trucker asked, “Can I help you, officer?”

“Yeah,” drawled the Trooper, “why ya stopped on the side of the road here?”

“Man, I been drivin’ for a while,” the Trucker replied easily. “Pulled over to make a cup of coffee in the back.” He jerked his head towards the sleeping compartment.

In the back, in the dark, the young bound boy heard the exchange and realized that this would be his last chance to survive. He needed to contact the cop somehow. He began to squirm on the bunk, snot and tears of desperation leaking into his russet beard. His hands were in fiery agony with lack of blood flow; his firm smooth thighs jerked as he attempted to kick his tied legs.

Outside, the Trooper didn’t hear anything; he seemed to be more interested in the Trucker than anything else. His eyes roamed the length and breadth of the older man’s phenomenal physique; a light in his eyes that was strongly akin to lust. The light reflected from a metallic glint of a pair of small metal objects nestled deep in the Trucker’s wiry chest hair.

The Trooper noticed that it was pair of dogtags. Something triggered in the back of his mind, but the sense of desire had overwhelmed him; he filed it away for later review…

It took a moment for him to regain his composure.

He snapped back into character. “Anyway, I’m checking into a murder. Happen south of here a couple of weeks ago. Rig like yours was reported at the scene.”

The Trucker blinked at the Trooper in confusion. “What the hell is highway patrol doin’ with a homicide?”

The Trooper’s authority broke down for a moment. “Well, I ain’t, really. Just a project on my own time. Body was found in a motel on the highway just outside city limits and I happened to be the closest responder.”

The Trucker grinned down at the Trooper. “Just fillin’ some spare time, huh? Well, I’m on a Chicago-to-Vegas haul, man. Nothin’ to do with me. What happened?”

“Really fucking sick. Marine got raped and strangled—a male Marine. Faggot got what he deserved, if ya ask me, but if I can figure this out, I can get a promotion. Look, man, ya can’t stop here. Finish your coffee and go, buddy.”

“Sure thing,” grinned the Trucker, turning back to the cab nonchalantly. “Stay safe out there.”

“Thanks,” the young Trooper responded, his shiny tall boots scuffing the gravel on the highway shoulder as he walked back to his patrol car.

The Trucker lifted the edge of the privacy curtain and slipped behind it, shrugging off his shirt and re-hanging it before turning back to his captive fucktoy. He smiled coldly, seeing the boy’s tear-streaked face already going purple. He paused for a moment to watch the kid struggle and jerk as he slowly suffocated. He’d tried to cry out so hard he’d clogged his nose with snot and his shirt, now wet with his drool, was blocking his throat.

Suddenly the Trucker bent down, the dogtags jingling just above the hitcher’s bulging, terrified eyes. He jerked the sopping shirt out of the punk’s mouth. The boy gave a deep, sobbing gasp, shuddering as he sucked in air. “Not gonna get outta this that easy, cunt,” snarled his tormentor. “Fuck, you’re gonna wish you could by the time I’m done with you.”

The hitcher’s breathing grew ragged as his emerald eyes opened wide, glittering with panic in the half-light, his tight, smooth chest racked with sobs as he began to babble and plead. He’d already had a taste of the hell in store for him and had almost succumbed to death quietly in stunned silence, too shocked at the situation to resist.

Then the Trooper had come. For a moment—a very brief moment—the kid had thought his salvation was at hand. A rescuer, a knight on a white horse had come to save him.

The revelation that the only horse he’d be riding was a one-legged one into his grave had shattered his fragile hipster psyche. He mewled and cried like a bitch. “Please, oh god please don’t hurt me, man, please, don’t fuckin’ do this man, I swear I won’t say a word to anyone, just please god please let go…” His whining trailed off into snotty tears as the Trucker looked down at him contemptuously.

“Shut up, fuckwad,” he snapped, drawing back his right arm and driving his fist straight into the boy’s jaw, feeling the fucker’s rust-red beard scrape momentarily against his knuckles as the kid grunted, his head rocking back under the force of the blow. His jaw slammed shut; he bit his tongue, drawing blood, but he stopped trying to speak. The bound youth lay still and blubbered quietly.

The Trucker eased his still-swollen cock back out his tight jeans. Loosening the belt around the kid’s boots, he wrapped one end around his large fist and swung it savagely and repeatedly against the boy’s smooth ass. The punk screamed and squealed in pain, knowing that worse was to come, trying to brace himself against the agony he knew from painful experience would soon be spearing his ravaged, torn asshole.

“Ya like that, bitch?” leered the Trucker. “Ya like gettin’ your ass hurt? Fuck yeah, slut, gets me hard. Gonna stick my dick back up your fuckhole now, cunt. If you’re lucky, I’ll wrap this belt around your throat and choke the shit outta ya. But I still think I wanna hurt ya more than that. Get ready for my cock, motherfucker, cause it’s hard and oozin’ for you!”

It was worse than before. The brief brush with danger with the hot, hard Trooper had made the Trucker hornier than he already had been; his dick was swollen to almost unbelievable proportions, oozing a steady stream of clear precum from its enormous purple tip. The young hitcher screamed, his voice cracking from the terrible ripping pain in his rectum—an instinctive reaction to the horrifying agony. Even as he shrieked, the punk knew he was helpless; the Trooper had driven off and there was no one who could hear him.

“Fuck yeah, keep screaming, you motherfucker,” laughed the Trucker. “Dude, your vocal cords must be attached directly to your asshole, cause I can feel your screams on my dick, and they feel real fuckin’ good. Gotta make ya do more of that shit, fuck yeah!”

The young bearded punk jerked violently, trying to pull his torn, bleeding colon off the Trucker’s cock, thrashing his body convulsively, unable to free his legs from the firm grasp of the Trucker’s powerful arms. He twitched for several minutes before subsiding into a shuddering quiescence.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the Trucker sneered as he drove his hard shaft deep into his victim’s ass. “Little fuckin’ faggots, always fightin’ the dick you know ya want. And all a’ ya end up worthless fucks anyway, gettin’ too loose to get me off. Stupid fuckin’ cunt, you ain’t no better than any of the others—how many cocks you taken up your fuckhole, whore, huh?”

Somewhere deep within himself, the suburban hipster college boy found the spirit to answer. “None!” he screamed, “I ain’t no fag! I ain’t been fucked!”

It was the worst—and last—mistake of his life. The Trucker liked his fucks submissive.

“God-damn-mother-fuckin’-punk!!” he screamed, slamming his balled-up fist into the hitcher’s face with each word; by the time he was done, the boy’s beard was streaked with blood, his left eye was swollen shut and his nose was broken.

The college kid was weeping in agony as the Trucker reached down and picked up the tire iron again. “Ok, fuckmeat, time to get what you’re here for. I wanna blow my load and that means it’s time for you to die. You already knew that, right? I mean, that’s all you’re here for—so you can die on my dick and make me cum. Useless motherfucker, that’s all you’re good for anyway, fuckin’ hipster college punk—think you’re hot shit? I’m gonna use you like a bitch and throw you out like the fuckin’ garbage you are!”

He held the tire iron horizontally in front of the weeping youth and drove it down with both hands, burying the thick iron shaft in the boy’s throat, crushing his esophagus. The kid’s eyes opened to an almost unbelievable width in horror as his oxygen was cut off.

The next few minutes were some of the worst of the college boy’s life. And some of the best of the Trucker’s. The youth’s firm, smooth body thrashed against him, lubed by the cold sweat of intense physical crisis, pumping his smooth velvet boycunt tightly along the Trucker’s engorged shaft.

The horrible crushing pain across his throat, the searing agony in his rectum, the irresistible pressure building up in his chest—the naïve kid’s mind was overwhelmed with the cold brutality of his own rape and murder. He was unable to comprehend what was happening; he could only fight instinctively against impending death. Every second of his agonized struggle prolonged the Trucker’s pleasure, and he made sure the hitcher knew it.

“Fuck yeah, bitch, that’s it. Fight it, cunt. C’mon, punk, show me how much ya wanna live—fight for it. Goddam, that’s it, you worthless piece of shit, work my cock as you die. Let me feel it, boy, let me feel you die. I’m gonna fill your bleeding ass with cum when your brain shuts off and you start convulsing, motherfucker—ya like that? That get ya off, you fuckin’ faggot pig? Sure it does; that’s why you’re out there hitchin’. So enjoy it, cunt, enjoy the pain, cause there’s plenty more!”

As the iron bar sank deeper into the boy’s throat, his face began to swell and change color. It went red, blending in with the color of his beard as his legs kicked violently in a reflexive attempt to break free; his tall leather boots scraping against the Trucker’s sweaty, flexing flanks. As the oxygen deprivation continued, the punk’s face grew darker and darker. His struggles grew more frantic; he jerked and kicked uncontrollably and would have thrust himself off the sleeper bunk if he hadn’t been pinned down by the thick purple shaft of the Trucker’s cock—almost the same shade of dark purple as the bitch’s face.

“Does it hurt, cunt?” whispered the Trucker. “Does it hurt to die? I hope so, you fuckin’ faggot, I hope it’s nightmarish. Lemme feel your pain, motherfucker, lemme feel it on my dick. If you ain’t getting’ me off, I ain’t hurtin’ you enough!”

He increased the tempo of his thrusting to match the waves of convulsions the swept over the college boy’s lithe, smooth body. As his spine arched involuntarily, his flat belly and smooth muscled chest bent upward to press firmly against the Trucker’s much more developed torso, both hot bodies sliding together on a thin film of the kid’s death sweat.

Suddenly a loud crunching sound filled the sleeper compartment; the Trucker had applied enough pressure on the tire iron to crush the boy’s esophagus. The pain and horror registered in the kid’s bulging, frantic eyes. He continued to writhe impotently as his brain began to die; tightening his smooth, firm legs around the Trucker’s hard body, his big black boots digging at the Trucker’s pumping asscheeks.

“That’s it, cunt,” sneered the Trucker. “Die, faggot. Fuckin’ die like the useless piece of shit you are. Feel the pain, motherfucker, cause I know your fuckin’ love it, pig. See, lookit that, your faggot dick is hard. You love it, dontcha, bitch? You’re gonna blow your homo load as a real man fuckin’ wastes your worthless ass!”

The hipster punk started to drool as his consciousness began to fade into a fiery cold darkness. His tongue, swollen and dark, forced its way past his thick blue lips, foamy spittle spilling down his cheek to collect in a froth in the kid’s wiry beard, white bubbles on his rust-colored beard. His eyes lost their accusatory gleam and he stared at the Trucker with a dull, bulging gaze, emerald irises surrounded by the blood-red shading of ruptured vessels and petechiae blooming across his bewildered face.

As he slipped into the screaming icy hell of death, the unfortunate hitchhiker felt a last surge of warmth within himself, deep within his testicles. His brain was too damaged to realize that it was an instinctive response to extinction, an involuntary attempt to save his genetic material.

He also felt the surge of heat flowing into his rectum. He was too far gone to know that the Trucker was filling his guts with spunk, feeling the hot smooth punk die on his dick.

As the youth thrashed and died, his erect cock spewed a steady stream of semen, uncontrollably ejecting DNA in the ultimate last gasp of self-preservation. The Trucker grunted and hunched over; in the intense throes of orgasm, he began slamming his fist into the fucktoy’s face, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage as he pounded the punk’s already-broken nose.

Not that the hitcher felt it. His brain had shut down, his awareness faded with his life out of his dick, growing dimmer with each spurt of spunk, until all of him had been shot out onto the Trucker’s rippled belly, shiny with sweat.

The Trucker held the boy’s corpse close to him, each dying twitch of the bitch’s sphincter coaxing another blast of cum out of his engorged shaft. He felt himself thrusting brutally up the unnamed hitcher’s ass, pressing down with his arms until the there was a loud cracking sound, like the limb of a fresh green tree snapping—it was the faggot’s neck, vertebrae shattering under the force applied as the Trucker repeatedly spunked into the boy’s rectum.

For a long, long moment, there was a hard shaft of flesh injecting semen into warm, firm, smooth, twitching meat.

As the Trucker regained his breath, he withdrew his sticky, still-swollen member from the corpse’s ass. The hipster punk continued to quiver and convulse, random nerve endings causing his smooth, firm, cum-filled body to kick and jerk. His thick-soled boots scraped aimlessly against the bunk.

The Trucker rose up, spunk still dripping from his thick long cock. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and cleaned himself up, tucking his thick hog back into his tight jeans and slipping his shirt back on. He leisurely made a cup of coffee—exactly as he’d told the Trooper he would. Twenty minutes later, the Trucker slipped back into the driver’s seat, started the rig, and pulled out off the shoulder of the highway.

He didn’t pull over for another couple of hours. He’d found an isolated spot over a dry wash. He stopped on the shoulder and hauled the hitchhiker’s body out of the sleeper compartment. He still hadn’t seen any other vehicle, so he felt fairly safe as he dragged the corpse over the guardrail and dropped it into the culvert.

As he pulled out, the Trucker started to whistle. Next stop, he’d dispose of the cunt’s clothes. He had two more stops in the state, but there was no way anyone could connect him with this piece of rotting meat.


Eight hours later, the Trooper stood over the stiffening body of a young man, nude but for white tube socks and calf-high black leather boots. Even from several yards away, the Trooper could see a pearly dried crust of semen that had oozed from the corpse’s torn rectum.

It made him hard.

He turned back to his car, determined to find the man who did this.

He didn’t bother to call in a report on the corpse.

3 thoughts on “Trucker 2–Trucker v Hitchhicker

  1. mxyzptlk

    Picking up the college kid while hitchhiking is a great theme, made better by the action in the truck itself. Having the trooper interrupt the proceeding was a terrific, suspenseful and erotic intrusion on many levels.

    Liked by 1 person

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