On the road - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

All characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the characters.

Chapter 2

Three hours later the sun was already gone.

The sky had turned that deep blue-black that only happens on long highway stretches, and the headlights cut thin tunnels through the dark. John was still driving in perfect silence, both hands on the wheel, mustache neat, the Christian radio station still murmuring low. 

Martha had fallen asleep against the window. In the back seat, Peter hadn’t said a word since the last rest stop, but I could feel him looking at me every few minutes.

My jaw still ached. Every time I swallowed I tasted his father again — thick, bitter, unmistakable. My cock had gone soft and then hard again more times than I could count. I kept my forehead against the glass and tried not to think about the way John’s cock had pulsed on my tongue while he fought not to make a sound.

Peter’s voice cut through the quiet, low enough that only I could hear.

“Next exit. We’re getting out.”

I turned my head. He was already looking at me, eyes dark in the dim light from the dashboard.

“What?”

“You heard me. Tell them you need to take a leak. I’ll say I’m going with you.”

My stomach dropped. “Peter…”

“Don’t.” His tone left no room. “You opened that mouth for my dad. Now you’re gonna open it for me. You’re my best friend, if my dad can use you… so do I.”

I stared at him. He just raised one eyebrow and waited.

When the blue rest-stop sign appeared, John signaled and pulled in. The lot was almost empty this time, only two other cars and a single semi parked far at the edge. The building lights were half-dead, buzzing weakly.

“I need to take a leak,” I said, voice thin.

Peter stretched and opened his door. “Yeah, me too. Back in a minute.”

John only nodded without looking at either of us. Martha didn’t even wake up.

We walked toward the restrooms, but the second we were out of the cone of light from the building, Peter grabbed my wrist and pulled me the other way, past the edge of the lot, down a short slope, into a thin stand of trees that ran along the fence line. The ground was soft with old leaves and pine needles. It was dark enough that I could barely see his face.

He stopped, turned, and shoved me back against a tree hard enough that the bark scraped through my shirt.

“On your knees.”

“Peter… you’re my friend.” Of course I wanted, he was hot as fuck and he was my crush since high school. 

I went down myself.

Not because he left me no door. Because I’d been hard in that back seat for three hours with his father’s taste still in my mouth and Peter’s knee against mine, and I wanted his cock next. I wanted the friend I’d watched in the locker room since high school to use me the same way. When my knees hit the dirt it was me putting them there. He grabbed my shoulders after. That part was him. The kneeling was me saying yes without making a speech about it.

He didn’t wait. He shoved me down by the shoulders. My knees hit the dirt. In the low light I watched him unbuckle his belt, shove his jeans and boxers down just far enough, and pull his cock out.

It was nothing like his father’s.

Peter’s cock was thicker at the base, heavily veined, and had a clear leftward curve. The head was darker, already shiny with precum. Even from this close I could smell him — heavy, sharp, pure ball-sweat from sitting in the car for hours. The scent hit me like a slap. His pubes were dark and dense. He was already fully hard.

“Open.”

I opened my mouth for my best friend.

Peter was built like a starting linebacker, broad through the chest and shoulders, thick arms from years of university football, and a solid, heavy frame that already looked fully grown. His hair was a tight buzz cut that showed the hard shape of his skull, and he kept a permanent five-o’clock shadow along his jaw. Everything about him was rougher than their father: louder, more restless, always carrying that sharp, unwashed scent of sweat and locker rooms. Even his cock matched the rest of him, thick, heavily veined, with a clear leftward curve and a darker head, the kind of ugly, powerful dick that smelled strongly of ball-sweat after hours trapped in a car.

Peter didn’t ease in. He grabbed the back of my head with both hands and shoved his cock straight into my mouth until the curved head punched the back of my throat. I gagged hard. He only pushed deeper, holding me there while my eyes watered and spit flooded around the thick shaft.

“Fuck yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “That’s it. Take it.”

He started fucking my face with short, hard strokes, using my throat like it was just another hole. Every thrust forced the curved length deeper. His sweaty balls slapped against my chin. The smell of him filled my nose completely, stronger, muskier, filthier than anything that had come through the gloryhole. I choked and drooled and still he kept going, hips snapping, both hands locked in my hair so I couldn’t pull away.

After a minute he pulled out with a wet sound. A thick string of spit still connected my lower lip to the head of his cock. He gripped the base and slapped the heavy, curved length hard across my cheek. The wet impact stung. He did it again, harder, dragging the sticky head across my lips and nose before slapping the other side of my face.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Already a mess and I’ve barely started, spit on my dick, bitch.”

He slapped my face with his cock two more times, leaving shiny streaks of spit and precum on my skin, then shoved back into my mouth without warning. This time he didn’t hold back at all. He fucked my throat deep and fast, grunting every time he bottomed out. Spit poured down my chin and dripped onto the leaves. My eyes were streaming. Every time I gagged he only pushed harder, using my throat like he was trying to see how much it could take.

“Fucking take it,” he muttered. “You sucked my dad’s cock on that restroom, I saw it. Now you’re gonna take mine the same way.”

He pulled out again just long enough to slap his cock across my face a few more times — left cheek, right cheek, across my open mouth, before forcing it back down my throat. The wet, filthy sounds of him using me filled the quiet trees. My own cock was painfully hard inside my jeans, leaking against the fabric. I seriously needed to cum.

Peter’s breathing grew harsher. His thrusts turned shorter and meaner. He kept one hand locked in my hair and used the other to hold my jaw open wider so he could drive even deeper. I could feel the thick veins rubbing across my tongue with every stroke. The smell of his sweaty balls was overwhelming this close.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warned, voice tight. “And you’re gonna swallow every fucking drop. Understand?”

I tried to nod with my mouth full of him.

He shoved in deep one last time and came with a low, guttural sound, flooding my throat with thick, hot cum. There was a lot of it, heavy pulses that forced me to swallow around him again and again. He kept my face pressed tight against his body until he was finished, then slowly pulled out, leaving another thick string of spit and cum connecting my lower lip to the head of his cock.

I stayed on my knees, gasping, chin wet, face shiny with spit and precum from the slaps, the strong taste of him thick on my tongue.

Peter tucked himself away, zipped up, and looked down at me for a long second. His expression was dark and satisfied.

“Get up.” He gave me his strong hand for support.

I stood on shaky legs. He reached out, wiped a streak of cum from my chin with his thumb, and pushed it between my lips. I sucked it clean without thinking.

He leaned in close, mouth right next to my ear.

“I bet my dad’s not gonna like knowing you’re not just his little secret anymore. You’re fucking mine now, dude.”

Then he turned and started walking back toward the lights of the rest stop like nothing had happened.

I stayed there for a few more seconds, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste of both of them still mixed on my tongue, and the clear knowledge that this road trip had only just started to go wrong.

When I finally followed him back to the car, John was still sitting behind the wheel in perfect silence, eyes on the road ahead, mustache neat, the respectable deacon once again.

He never once looked at either of us.