My sphincter tightened and my balls retreated into my body cavity when the passenger door of my Dodge Dakota opened, a canvas duffel bag hit the floorboard next to the sack of things I’d purchased only minutes earlier and a hard-bodied bald man wearing dusty black work boots, dirty faded jeans, a blood-stained white tank top, and tattoo sleeves slid in next to me, pressed the barrel of a snub-nose revolver against my temple and commanded, “Drive.”
“But the light’s—”
He cocked the hammer and I accelerated through the red light, causing the driver of a minivan approaching the intersection from the south to slam on the brakes. The minivan narrowly missed the ass end of my truck and bucked up onto the sidewalk on the far side of the intersection.
“Where?” I asked.
My passenger uncocked the revolver, lowered it to his lap and rested it on a bulge at his crotch that was either a roll of quarters or some serious man meat. “Just go straight until I say otherwise.”
I ventured a glance in the rearview mirror and caught a reflection of blue eyes so pale they almost had no color at all. I returned my attention to the road ahead of me, a road that led directly to the interstate, and I didn’t say another word until my passenger asked, “You got a name?”
“Daryl,” I lied. “Daryl Johnson. You?”
“Not important,” he said. “You got a cell phone, Daryl?”
I admitted that I did.
“Give it to me.”
I took my iPhone from my shirt pocket and handed it to him. He looked at it for a moment and then threw it out the open passenger window.
“Jesus!” I turned to face him. He wasn’t actually bald, though he had shaved his head a few days earlier and had only sparse salt-and-pepper growth covering his sunburned pate. “You know how much that cost?”
My passenger lifted his revolver. “More important,” he said. “What’s it worth?”
Not my life, I decided. Though I had lived in the city for more than a dozen years, I had grown up in a God-fearing, gun-toting, small-town redneck family and I understood the persuasive power of the snub-nosed revolver in my passenger’s fist. I concentrated on driving until he asked another question.
“You married? Got a family? Anybody waiting for you at home?”
I shook my head. My boyfriend had moved out of my downtown loft two weeks earlier after spending more than an hour listing every one of my perceived flaws, from lack of spontaneity to passive-aggressiveness.
“So what do you do that you need a truck?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked. In Texas, pickup trucks are as common as concealed carry permits—I knew because I had both—and the Dakota was my third consecutive truck since I began driving. I hand-washed and detailed it every Saturday, something even my holier-than-thou ex hadn’t done with his Prius. “Everybody in Texas drives trucks. It’s a state law.”
“You trying to be funny?”
I shrugged as we rounded a curve and the highway came into view.
“Get on the interstate.”
“Which way?”
“South,” he said. “Toward Mexico.”
I glanced at the fuel gauge. “I don’t have enough gas to reach the border.”
He kicked the canvas bag. “We’ll be fine.”
“What’s in the bag?”
”Gas money.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Drug dealer,” he said. “But he won’t miss it. He’s beyond missing anything.”
“You kill him?”
My passenger didn’t respond so I ventured a glance at him. I asked, “What happened to your car?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Daryl,” he said. “It might be better if you didn’t.”
I kept quiet. Once we were clear of the city and the southern suburbs my passenger made me exit the interstate and take a smaller highway headed south. He adjusted position several times, apparently trying to get comfortable, and finally kicked the sack containing my purchases from earlier in the evening.
He reached down for the sack and opened it. From it he pulled two gay porn magazines, a vibrating dildo and a tube of lube. After examining everything carefully, he stared hard at me for a moment. Then he shoved it all back in the sack and dropped the sack on the floor next to his duffel bag, where it had been ever since he’d climbed into my truck back in the city. We didn’t talk about what he’d found, but I knew from his reaction to it that he was reappraising me.
The more time passed the more comfortable I felt. I knew that, one way or the other, I was sitting on my salvation and all I needed was the right opportunity. I just didn’t know when it would come.
When night collapsed upon us a bit later, I flicked on the headlights. Another hour passed with only the sound of the engine and the tires humming against the pavement to keep us company. We hadn’t passed through any towns for at least half an hour when the pressure in my bladder got the best of me.
I said, “I need to piss.”
At his direction, I took the next exit onto a farm-to-market road in the middle of nowhere, drove a mile or so until the highway was no longer in sight and found a dirt road that led into the scrub. Several hundred yards from the farm-to-market road, I stopped the truck. My passenger made me shut off the engine and hand him the keys.
“You need to piss,” he said as he motioned with the revolver. “Go piss.”
With only the moonlight to guide me, I climbed out of the truck, walked around to the passenger side and faced away from the road, out of sight of any vehicles that might venture past. I heard the truck’s passenger door open as I pulled my cock from my jeans and let loose a long stream.
A second stream joined mine and, after I finished and tucked my cock away, I ventured a glance at my traveling companion’s equipment. The bulge I’d seen in his jeans when he’d first climbed into my truck wasn’t a roll of quarters after all. My glance turned into an appreciative stare.
He noticed. “What are you staring at?”
“Your cock.”
He still held the snub-nosed revolver in his right hand so he used his left hand to shake away the last drops of urine. “You like a big pecker?”
My ex had only been gone two weeks, but it had been months since we’d been intimate in any way, and I had planned to attend to my own needs later that evening. That’s why I’d purchased the dildo, the lube and the magazines. The man wagging his cock in front of me was so unlike my ex in every way—so brute-like and so unlike the men I usually found attractive—that I was surprised I was getting aroused. Maybe it was my sexual drought or maybe it was the thrill of being carjacked at gunpoint and forced to chauffeur my abductor toward Mexico. Either way, I wanted him. I said, “Yes. I do.”
He glanced around, saw nothing of interest, and said, “Get on your knees.”
After I did as instructed, my abductor stepped close. He slapped my face with his flaccid cock, whipping it against one cheek and then the other. When he attempted to slap me with it a third time, I turned my head and caught it between my lips. I quickly sucked in the spongy-soft helmet head and hooked my teeth behind the glans so that he couldn’t easily pull away.
Surprised, he quickly brought the revolver up and pointed it in my face. Staring into the barrel of the revolver I was also staring into the chambers of the cylinder. The revolver was so close that I noticed in the dim light something I hadn’t noticed earlier, and I realized my abductor had lost his position of power.
He grabbed the back of my head with his free hand and shoved his still-flaccid cock completely into my mouth before he drew back. I played with his cock ’til it grew erect, sucking hard as he shoved his hips forward and pulled them back. When his thick cock was fully erect it was too long for me to take entirely. That didn’t stop him from trying to shove the head of his cock down my throat.
As he face-fucked me, the teeth of his zipper scratched my nose, my cheeks and my lips, and the pain only increased my desire for him.
He began pumping his hips faster, and he grabbed the back of my head with his gun hand, the butt of the handgun smashed against the back of my head.
As he face-fucked me, my cock tented the front of my jeans. I wanted to release it and take it in my hand, but there wasn’t time. My abductor came, filling my mouth with hot spunk. I swallowed as fast I could but wasn’t fast enough. Some of his spunk dribbled from the corner of my lips and dripped to the ground near my knees.
He pulled his cock from my mouth and waved the revolver at me. “Go,” he said. “Get that lube from the truck.”
I pushed myself to my feet and stepped over to the truck. I found the sack halfway under the passenger seat and I pulled the tube of lube from the bag.
Once I had it, my passenger waved me to the back of the truck. He had me lower the tailgate and then lower my pants. He made me squeeze lube onto my hand and reach behind my ball sac to lube my own ass.
Then he made me lube his cum-covered cock, which rapidly regained its former stature, before he had me turn around and bend over the open tailgate. He stepped up behind me and for a moment I worried that he might stick the barrel of his gun into my ass.
He didn’t. He also didn’t bother to drop his pants when he pressed the head of his cock against my tight sphincter. I easily opened to him as he sank his thick shaft deep inside me, but his zipper scratched the cheeks of my ass just as it had scratched my face a few minutes earlier.
As he drew back and pressed forward, I braced myself with one hand and grabbed my cock with the other. Soon my pistoning hand matched the rhythm of his cock driving in and out of my ass, my pace quickening when his pace did.
I came first, sending a thick stream of spunk against the back of my pickup truck.
My abductor slammed into me three more times and then he came, filling my ass with hot spunk. We remained stuck together, catching our breath, until we heard something rustling through the scrub.
He pulled away and spun around. “What was that?”
I had been raised far from the city and hadn’t been startled, but I knew from my abductor’s reaction that he was a city boy clear through to his bones.
“Nothing to worry about.” I pulled up my pants. “If we don’t bother whatever it is, it won’t bother us.”
He used his free hand to tuck his cock into his pants and pull his zipper up.
I closed the tailgate and we each walked around the truck to our respective sides.
We climbed into the truck and, with the revolver still pointed at me, he handed me the keys. They slipped from my fingers and dropped to the floorboard. The entire time I had been driving toward Mexico I had been sitting on my salvation. As I reached down for the key ring, I reached under my seat and pulled my fully permitted automatic pistol from the holster affixed there.
I sat upright, drove the barrel of the automatic into my passenger’s gut, and said, “Get out.”
His eyes widened in surprise, but he kept his cool. The handgun he had pointed at me never wavered. He said, “Looks like we have a stalemate.”
“You go first,” I said. “Pull the trigger.”
He did and the revolver’s hammer snapped down multiple times, slamming the firing pin against spent bullet cases, as I had known it would when I looked into the bullet-less chambers while giving him a blow job. Whatever he had done before he climbed into my truck had used every bullet, leaving only spent cases behind.
He swore.
“Get out,” I repeated. “Leave the bag.”
He eyed me, perhaps calculating his odds. Then he slid from the truck and stood where I could see him.
“Take your boots off and throw them in the back.”
As he did as instructed I used my left hand to key the ignition. Then I shifted the truck into gear, spun the wheel and pressed the accelerator. The Dakota spun in a half circle, causing the passenger door to slam shut and gravel to pepper my abductor.
I drove away, his cum leaking from my zipper-scratched ass to stain my underwear, but I didn’t care. If my abductor survived the night in the scrub, if he managed to walk barefoot back to the highway and catch a ride and if he remembered the name I had given him, it would lead him to my ex. They deserved each other.
Like my ex said. I’m passive-aggressive.