Heavy Haulage Ch. 1

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Warning!The following is intended for adults over eighteen years of age only. Please note that the text contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts between males. If you find such matters distasteful, or if the perusal of such material is illegal in your circumstances, you must go no further. Brand names are used without implication or prejudice in regard to intellectual property rights. Names, places, persons and organisations herein are fictitious. Any similarities are purely coincidental.

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Although the following is a work of fiction, some of the story is based closely on one of my own experiences. The rest is based on what I wish I had experienced!

Chapter One “Concrete Cock Up”

Steve woke up with a raging hard-on as usual. He rolled onto his side with a groan to ease the pressure on his straining cock. Then he slipped a hand out from under his duvet and tried to smash his buzzing alarm clock into oblivion. He didn’t succeed, but at least it stopped its noisy reveille. Blinking open his eyes, he established that it was exactly five in the morning. He grinned to himself: He’d have plenty of time to get up for work, after he’d taken care of the more urgent need between his legs. He shuffled himself upright and leaned against the headboard, taking his time. Nothing could beat a long slow wank in the morning. Well, nothing except a fuck, but being single, it was time to say hello to Mister Palm and his five friends.

Steve let the chilly air in his room raise a few goose bumps on his flesh, exposed from the bedclothes from his waist up, before wriggling his duvet over his thighs. His cock sprang up as the duvet slid down, long, hard and pointing at the ceiling, ringed by a bush of curly dark pubic hairs at the base. No need to rush Steve thought. He began with running his hands over his broad, muscular chest. He’d been to the gym four evenings a week since he was eighteen, so by his current twenty-four he’d developed a pretty stout physique. Standing a good six foot two, he was a big lad, thick with muscle. He could do with losing a stone to bring out the definition, but that could wait until summer. In his cold room in the middle of November, a slight layer of blubber from too many indulgences in truckers’ cafes wasn’t a disadvantage.

He ran his fingers over the slabs of his pectorals, letting the covering of dark hairs tickle his palms, before wetting his finger with his tongue to smooth down the hair over his stomach. As the tips of his fingers began to tickle his pubic bush, his cock gave an eager twitch of anticipation. He wriggled his legs, kicking his duvet off completely and stretched out naked; quickly glancing over to the window to make sure the curtains were shut. He reached to his knees and brought his hands slowly up his hairy thighs. His cock was aching for attention now, his scrotum shrinking, tightening his balls up against his body.

He reached between his legs and cupped the damp sacks in his palm, gently exploring the large globes. He stroked gently up the underside of his cock, from his balls to the thin fold of foreskin sheathing the tip. Gently, he began to peel back his foreskin, to expose the smooth pink glans, the piss hole oozing a few drops of clear pre-ejaculate fluid. Steve gave his thick shaft a gentle squeeze, and a few more drops accumulated at the tip. He pushed his foreskin back over the glans before tightly pulling it all the way back again to smear the fluid over the tip of his cock.

His body was beginning to twitch with arousal, but he fought back the urge to grab a tight hold and pump away. Steve took a tight grasp on his prick sending a ripple of pleasure through himself. He felt the force of an orgasm building up behind his bollocks, so paused for a moment, to relish the sensation. When he’d calmed a little he started to rub, slipping his shaft slowly in and out of his fist. He started slow, and then stopped holding back and increased the pace, thrusting upwards with his hips. A couple of minutes of firm pounding, quietly groaning to himself was all he needed.

He felt the rush of semen build up in his balls, and with a final groan, let himself come, his orgasm shuddering through his whole frame as several hot, wet spurts of semen shot from his cock, splashing down over his stomach, and dribbling over his fist. Steve moaned with release, and squeezed the last drops of spunk from his cock, onto his fingers, before wiping them onto his belly with the rest of his mess. He paused to catch his breath, satisfied that there were few better ways to start the day than emptying your nuts.

Wide-awake at last, he had a quick rummage through his untidy pit of a room, and eventually found a reasonably clean towel hanging over the radiator. He wrapped it around his waist and headed off to the bathroom for a shower to clean the increasingly tacky spunk off his belly, while giving his bollocks a good morning scratch. The bathroom was one floor down from Steve’s room. He was usually the first up, maslak escort which proved to be a good thing, as none of his house mates were likely to bump into him in the morning, half naked and smelling sweaty and seminal.

He’d shared the house in Birmingham with a couple of mates for the last two years. They’d all become bored with the inhibition of living with their parents, and had rented a small Victorian terrace in a street of the same. The state of the place was a testament to the fact that there were three typical scruffy blokes living there; the surface of the kitchen table was currently buried under various fast food cartons, brimming ashtrays and empty lager tins.

Both Frank and Mike would still be fast asleep at this hour, each of them in boring nine to five office jobs. Steve was happy to leave them to it. He’d had a variety of jobs after he’d left school: He’d started out as an electrician’s apprentice but didn’t enjoy it much Eventually, he’d ended up with a multi-drop driving job for a furniture firm. It was hardly fascinating, lugging Transits all over the city, but he’d enjoyed the freedom of being out on the road. Eventually, after some good advice and a bit of financial backing from an uncle who’d been a lorry driver for years, he managed to scrape together a couple of grand.

When he’d reached twenty-one, he put it to use paying for his HGV training and eventually acquired a Class One Artic license. Again with a good word from his uncle, a mildly respectable haulage firm with depots in the midlands and the north had set him on. Steve caught the bug from the very start. He’d never done any intercontinental driving, but he’d been to just about every destination in the UK, hauling everything from frozen food to toys. Truth be told, there was perhaps a touch of boys and their toys to it, but lorries turned him on. There was a sense of responsibility and indestructibility to piloting 38 tons worth of vehicle up and down the nation’s highways, especially at his young age, and compared to Frank and Mike’s boring office jobs, the brass wasn’t bad.

Steve shuffled down the cold corridor to the bathroom, locked the door and shrugged his towel off his hips. He had a good stretch and yawn and could help indulging in a bit of vanity, bollock naked, in front of the full length mirror attached to the back of the bathroom door. He definitely had a good physique and enough between his legs to keep all but the most demanding of partners satisfied. He rubbed a hand through his short, dark brown hair, and looked into the reflection of his brown eyes.

He was almost good-looking, if in a slightly rough, untrustworthy sort of way. Steve sighed, shaved and brushed his teeth before stepping into the shower. The hot water felt great, as he soaped off the spunk matting down his body hair. He soaped himself all over, feeling the bulges of muscle at his shoulders and biceps, before rubbing the lather into his groin. The soapy warm feeling soon began to trigger another erection. He glanced at the clock on top of the cabinet. He’d time to squeeze in another tug.

Eventually, 15 minutes late, he made it to the depot and clocked in at 6:15. He made an excuse about his bus being late and helped himself to a strong cup of coffee to wake him up, and had a moan with the other drivers about HGV excise duties and diesel taxes. There were only a few of the lads in that morning, along with Ruth, the telephonist, who also sorted out the despatching and administration. She’d been starting early to catch up with a recent backlog of work, but most of the drivers had been teasing him mercilessly, suggesting the real reason was to see Steve every morning. “Watch out Steve, she’s after you.

She’s always on the look out for a bit on the side when her husband’s at sea!” It might have been true, but Steve knew that she was barking up the wrong tree. What they didn’t know was the fact women left him cold sexually. He could and had performed with women before, but a pair of bollocks did for him what a pair of breasts never could. Even as an innocent kid, before he’d learned that the thing between his legs was supposedly for sticking into girls as well as having a piss, he’d always had a stronger physical interest in other blokes.

He didn’t advertise his sexuality, and, if honest with himself, he wasn’t particularly comfortable with it. In fact he sometimes found it a pain in the arse. Often literally. If pressed, he’d be honest about his occasional indulgences with other men, but he couldn’t really accept himself as gay. He wasn’t camp or anything, he just saw himself just a typical, ordinary, working class bloke, who didn’t mind a bit of fun with another bloke. Besides, thinking of Ruth, he couldn’t see what a woman would find attractive in him this particular morning. All he could see in the washroom mirror when he went for a piss was a scruffy, half asleep young lorry driver in a pair of battered steel toed boots, grubby, badly ironed checked shirt, reflective aksaray escort yellow waist coat and grease stained 501’s.

Nevertheless, he usually called round to Ruth’s office to say good morning. Not only did she share his offbeat sense of humour, but she also kept a framed photo of her husband on her desk he could have a surreptitious drool over. Ruth’s other half was a strapping Staff Sergeant in an Infantry regiment. The blurry snapshot showed him in his barracks, smartly dressed in his uniform with the three stripes at the biceps, taken at just the right angle to show off his stocky physique. His green trousers were slightly rucked up in the snap, nicely emphasising a mouth-watering bulge between his legs. Lucky cow, he thought. What he wouldn’t give to have something like that thrusting between his legs each time he came home on leave.

“Wake up Steve!” she called, pissed off that he hadn’t noticed her expensive new hair cut. “You’re a million miles away this morning!”

“Sorry!” Steve replied, taking his eyes off the picture and trying to dismiss the erotic mental image he’d been forming. “I’d better get going.”

“So you should. Still, it’s not a million miles away you need to be. In fact it’s nearer two hundred and fifty. I’ve got an easy couple of days for you young man, but you’ll be away for a couple of nights. Today you’re taking a load of building materials up to Barnsley.

You’ll need to load up at the builder’s merchants and get there for ten o’ clock if you can. Then you’re picking up about 10 tons of injection moulded plastic components from Newcastle to go back to Barnsley. Drop your trailer at the Barnsley depot. Next day you’re back up to Newcastle to do some local runs. You’ll need to hook up a refrigerated trailer at the Newcastle Depot as it looks you’ll be hauling perishables that day. I’ll let you know when I find out for sure. We need you to drop the refrigerated trailer at the Barnsley depot tomorrow and ferry the cab back here next morning. You’ll have to stop over at Barnsley tonight and tomorrow.

All on your own.” Steve didn’t comment on the latter. He just collected his driver’s sheet and taco disks from her, admiring her flawless efficiency, and made for the door. “Just a minute Steve. I forgot to tell you something.”

“Yeah?” he grunted. “Your flies are undone.” Steve hurried out to the lorry park, blushing, pulling his zip up. He could still hear the guffaws of the drivers who’d overheard Ruth as he banged the door behind him. It was true that the drivers were a rough lot, who gave her a fair bit of stick as a woman, but she’d quickly learned to give as good as she got.

When he’d first started, the other drivers had told him it was Ruth’s job to give each of them a blowjob on their birthdays as a wind up. When Ruth found out about this untruthful rumour, she promptly got her revenge by pouring liquid paraffin into the canteen’s tea urn. Steve couldn’t figure out why she was so pissed off. He’d have been happy to get down on his knees for at least half of them.

Eventually, after he’d checked over his cab and trailer, and sorted out his tachometer he was on his way. With the 12-litre diesel rumbling contentedly, he slipped the 16-speed gearbox of his Scania sleeper cab into first Low and headed off to the builder’s merchants. He’d never minded the merchants as they did most of the work. They had an incredibly efficient computerised system for collections, and a team of forklift drivers to load up the lorries as they came in. All Steve needed to do was fold back the curtain-side trailer and let them get on with it while he had smoke in the tradesman’s waiting room.

He flicked through his drivers sheet and road atlas, trying to work out where his load was going. From what he could gather, it was some major building project in the north; an enormous new complex of offices under construction, and the delivery was going straight to the site. One of the older drivers had sketched him a map on the back of a Marlboro packet to show the entrance he’d need for HGV deliveries. Before he’d got back to his cab, one of colleagues ‘phoned him on his mobile to ask if he needed any help zipping his flies up.

“Fuck off!” Steve snorted indignantly and hung up. Steve couldn’t help thinking, given that the driver who’d rung wasn’t that bad looking, he’d have accepted his offer if only he’d wanted to pull his flies down. Half an hour later, he was heading north on the A38, listening to his immense collection of cassettes and chucking tab ends out of the window every half hour. At least his employer wasn’t fussy about the drivers smoking in the cab.

He stopped for coffee and breakfast at a trucker’s greasy spoon before continuing north. The drive was pretty boring apart from a stretch where he was stuck behind a slow moving police motorcyclist. It had given him a chance to run his eyes over the copper’s meaty leather clad thighs, straddling the white yellow striped ‘bike for a couple escort istanbul of miles. Steve couldn’t help feeling a slight disappointment when he roared off at the next exit, giving him one last look at his backside, tightly sheathed in matt black hide. Steve understood Ruth’s attraction to a man in uniform. He wouldn’t have said no to him slapping on the cuffs and sticking his truncheon up his hole. He soon snapped out of his daydream when he realised he was about to smash his artic into a line of cars queuing at a roundabout.

Soon enough, he got to Barnsley, avoided the town centre and headed out again. The drop was just off a main road heading out the other side of the town. After 20 minutes, Steve turned off the main road and as he rumbled down a wide straight B road until he noticed the site along side him. The sheer scale of the operation he glimpsed through the wire mesh fencing encompassing the area impressed him. He spotted the main entrance to the site next to the firm’s name plastered in foot high letters over a hoarding attached to the wire fencing.

HGV deliveries were directed to a different entrance a little further down. Steve checked against his fag packet map. He found the sign for the lorry park and swung the artic in. As he drove in he saw the total area covered by the construction site must have been over two square miles. He drove in over the bumpy, dusty ground, feeling the axles bouncing and followed the signs to the delivery area. He pulled up near a couple of other trucks, alongside a huge “Good Inwards” warehouse, both being hurriedly unloaded of bags of cement. Steve checked his driver’s sheet, which told him to ask for Mister W. Wilson as he glanced out across the site and glanced over the busy site. He’d delivered to dozens of sites but this was by far the biggest.

He’d never seen so many JCB’s in one place. The shells of the main offices and warehouses were complete and most of the building work was now limited to an assortment of secondary buildings. In addition to the builders, there was a range of tradesmen on site from glaziers and sparkies to tarmac gangs and plumbers. The place had a dusty, oily, woody smell and continually seemed to buzz with activity, the noise of vehicles, machines, pneumatic drill, electrical generators and shouting men. There had to be a hundred blokes in hard hats running around. Steve sighed. He knew this was going to be awkward for him.

Building sites were always full of the type of men Steve couldn’t help being attracted to, big rough types, with boots and hard hats, oozing sweat and testosterone. He noticed a couple of lads nearby treating him to frequent glimpses of arse cleavage showing at the tops of faded jeans and dusty combats as they bent over picking up bricks or whatever. He’d never found anything alluring about twinky types or anything too well groomed. Someone a bit earthy, rough around the edges and overtly masculine, from squaddies to scaffolders, firemen to farmers, even his fellow lorry drivers, made his prostate itch. Occasionally, he admitted to himself it was one of the reasons he’d wanted a trucking job in the first place. The thought of some hairy bit of rough barging up his hole was beginning to give him another hard on. The pressure in his jeans became uncomfortable as Steve’s currently one-track mind began to wonder.

“Oi! Get tha fucking hat on mate!” The shout snapped Steve back from his usual daydreaming. Ten yards off, a big, irritable builder was pointing a thick finger toward a sign on the outside of the warehouse announcing, “No Hard Hat no Job” with “Visitors Required to Comply” underneath. Steve nodded and reached into the cab to fish out his orange hard hat.

He usually chucked it onto the dash to lean against the windscreen, but he eventually found it wedged under the seat among half a dozen empty fag packets. He knew he’d have to clear his cab out soon before his supervisor caught onto the state it was in and gave him a roasting. The firm had made the high-viz waistcoat he was already wearing compulsory for the drivers and issued hard hats as standard, given the number of contracts they had for hauling building materials to deliver direct to site.

Quite rightly, most sites they delivered to insisted on appropriate head protection, but Steve usually forgot until reminded. Not that he minded at all. In truth, he loved wearing his mucky gear, as much as he liked other men wearing the same. It was a fetish he’d had for years, which his job luckily gave him opportunity to indulge. Something about a bloke in a pair of BTR steel-toed wellies gave him an instant erection; in fact, the Arco work wear catalogue was almost as good as pornography to Steve.

“That’s more like it mate.” responded the hefty builder, in his broad, flat South Yorkshire accent, satisfied on seeing his hat in place as he emerged from the cab, arse end first. “We were expecting thee thirty minutes ago. Better get you unloaded.” Steve loved that accent. He could listen to it all day, deep and earthy, yet honest sounding at the same time. The builder turned out to be one of the foremen, eagerly awaiting Steve’s delivery to complete his schedule on time. The big, heavily built foreman introduced himself as “Billy”, and seemed to be friendlier under the surface than his gruff manner first suggested.

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