The trucker

Her breath came shallow, chest rising and falling as the cool air hit her wet sex. Every nerve screamed that someone could see her, that someone should see her.

The door to the petrol station swung open.

He was massive. Thick arms under a faded check shirt, heavy gut pressing against his belt, a trucker cap pulled low over his eyes. He looked like he’d stepped out of a greasy cab straight off the motorway, rough and tired, on his shirt a name tag "Wayne". A copy of Escort magazine hung in one hand. In the other, the envelope.

He flipped it open right there on the pavement, his eyebrows shooting up as he thumbed through the photos. His lips curled into a grin.

Mark rolled her window down.

Wayne’s eyes flicked from the glossy images in his hand to Emma’s bare body in the passenger seat, her spread legs, her pink cunt glistening, nipples tight against the glass.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, low and guttural. “That you, love?”

Emma’s stomach twisted. She wanted to close her legs, to cover herself, but Mark’s glare kept her wide, open, displayed. She gave the faintest nod, cheeks blazing.

Mark slipped from the driver’s seat. He and Wayne spoke in low voices by the bonnet. Emma caught snatches: “… seven days … yours … no limits …”

Her mouth went dry. This was it. The fantasy she’d whispered to Mark weeks ago, said in half-jest, half-desperation, Give me away. Let someone else own me.

The car door wrenched open. Cold air rushed in.

“Out,” Mark ordered.

Emma hesitated only a second, then slid one trembling leg out, then the other, heels clicking against the tarmac. Naked. Middle of a petrol station car park. She stood shivering under the fluorescent lights, her cunt wet from excitment, blonde hair loose around her flushed face.

Wayne looked her up and down, slow, greedy, openly smirking at her humiliation.

“Posh bit of stuff, eh?” His voice was gravel. “Bet you’ve never been bent over a truck cab before.”

Emma’s lips parted. She couldn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Mark’s voice cut through the night. “She’s yours for a week. I’ll pick her up here, same time, seven days. Do what you want with her.”

Wayne spat to the side, then jerked his head toward his lorry. “C’mon then, princess. Time to find out what a real man does with posh cunt like you.”

Emma’s body quivered, fear and arousal tangled tight. She turned, barefoot on the grimy tarmac, and followed him toward the looming shadow of his truck.

Mark didn’t call after her.

Wayne opened the cab door, grabbed her by the arse, and shoved her up the steps. The smell hit her first: sweat, diesel, stale takeaways. She was pushed onto the passenger seat, leather cracked beneath her bare skin.

“Clothes?” he barked.

She swallowed. “I don’t have any.”

His grin widened. “Good girl. Saves me rippin’ ‘em off.”

He leaned close, his breath hot, his stubble scraping her cheek as he growled:

“Seven days, posh. You’re mine. No one’s gonna hear you squeal but me.”

Emma’s cunt throbbed so hard it hurt.

She was gone. She was his.