The fluorescent lights in the highway rest stop bathroom flickered like a bad omen as I, Mike, stepped inside to splash water on my face. It was late, the kind of hour where only truckers and desperate souls lingered. That’s when I saw him—fresh out of prison, or so he’d mutter later with that cocky smirk. Tall, broad-shouldered, his body a roadmap of hard time and harder workouts. Shirtless in the mirror selfie he was taking, ink crawling over his chest and arms, abs carved deep under a faint sheen of sweat. His jeans hung low on his hips, that worn belt barely holding them up. He caught my stare in the reflection and turned, eyes narrowing with predatory interest.
“Like what you see, boy?” His voice was gravel-rough, manipulative edge sharp as a shank. He didn’t wait for an answer, just stepped closer, filling the cramped space with his raw, musky scent—prison yard sweat, cheap soap, and pure man. I was average, nothing special, but the way he loomed over me made my pulse race. He knew it. “Been locked up too long. Need to stretch somethin’ out.”
Before I could think, his hand was on the back of my neck, guiding me down. He freed himself—thick, heavy, already hard—and shoved into my mouth without ceremony. “That’s it, take it.” Cocky as hell, he face-fucked me deep and relentless, hips snapping forward while his free hand gripped my hair. Saliva dripped down my chin as he groaned low, using my throat like it was his personal stress relief. I loved it—the taste, the smell of his musky body overwhelming me, the power radiating off him.
He pulled out suddenly, spinning me around and bending me over the grimy sink edge near the toilet stall. Jeans yanked down just enough, he spat once and drove in hard. No warmup, no mercy—just selfish, pounding thrusts that slammed me forward with every stroke. “Fuck yeah, tight little hole,” he growled, one hand pinning my shoulder, the other slapping my ass as he railed me fast and brutal. Exactly how I craved it. The mirror showed his reflection—cap tilted back, jaw clenched, tattoos flexing with every thrust. He didn’t care about me finishing; this was all for him. Minutes later, he buried deep, came with a grunt, and pulled out dripping.
“Gotta hit the road,” he said, already zipping up. A quick slap on my ass and he was gone, door swinging shut behind him.
I stayed bent over for a second, catching my breath, legs shaky, his musk still clinging to me. When I finally straightened and reached for my back pocket… my wallet was missing. Cash, cards, ID—all gone. That manipulative bastard. I couldn’t even be mad. Not yet, anyway.
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