The drive series was started because I spend a lot of time travelling, driving to be exact. To amuse myself I often try and imagine what my fellow travellers get up to when they leave their cars and carry on their lives.
This particular story comes out of someone I saw a couple of weeks ago while waiting to pull out onto a roundabout on my way back from a client. He was the passenger in a white Ford Transit. Obviously a builder, high-vis jacket and covered in cement dust, the open back of the truck filled with builder’s tools.
He looked at me in the strangest way. The driver of the vehicle was talking to him, about what I have no idea, but he seemed more interested in looking at me. It was that look that started me thinking. When I met his gaze he did not immediately look away, but he looked sad, distant, as if he was lamenting the loss of something he’d never had. If that’s possible. It wasn’t that he was looking at something unattainable, but that he knew he was already defeated, that any attempt to reach out to me, or any other man for what he wanted was doomed and therefore already a failure.
Maybe this is why …
James slammed the door of the van shut and waved a “See ya” to Frank from the pavement as he drove off. Friday night and a shower awaited him, then the ritual night at the “Three Tuns” with Steph.
His small flat was just big enough for him and that suited him. It was cosy rather than cramped, uncluttered, but welcoming. He hung his filthy yellow jacket on the hooks next to the door and stripped to his underwear on the mat behind the door. His clothes were bagged in a black bin liner ready for tomorrow’s wash. A quick detour to turn on the TV and select MTV Dance, then into the shower with the door to the living room open and the volume on the set turned up to a neighbour annoying level.
James allowed the shower to wash away the week. Not just cleansing him of the grime and soothing his fatigued, aching muscles, but the job itself. He would have been a designer but just like most of his friends circumstances and more specifically money had conspired to force him into a job at 16. He’d always intended to go back education when he had sufficient savings, as if that was going to happen. There was never quite enough to take the plunge and after all this time books and classrooms seemed unfamiliar and intimidating.
That’s what was driving him mad. He was becoming something he wasn’t. He’d once had dreams and the enthusiasm to pursue them. The job was sapping that from him, the people he worked with would never be like him. They were good people for the most part, hard working and stoic, just not like him. They would happily continue in the same jobs, the same trade until they retired. The realisation that had made him begin to loath himself was that despite his respect for them he would never be as content as they were in their straightforward, honest existences.
The shower began to wash away the discomfort he felt. Shower gel foamed on his muscular frame, dust and sweat replaced with a fresh glistening sheen as the water cascaded over his skin. The bathroom began to fill with steam, cloaking James in an ethereal fog. He slid his hands purposefully across his body towards his cock.
He cupped his balls in one hand and took his semi-erect phallus in the other. He masturbated slowly, enjoying the water from the shower head blasting the back of his neck as he squeezed and stroked himself. He slid his hand from his balls to his perineum, slowly, applying the pressure that always gave him a lump in his throat. With his cock now hard in his fist he moved his hand from his perineum to anus, pressing gently and moving around the opening in slow, circular motions.
His mind drifted to the plasterer who had started the previous Monday. He was Polish, straight off the boat from Europe, swarthy, olive skin suggesting some Mediterranean lineage rather than purely eastern European. James had seem him several times, working on the freshly boarded ceilings in the housing development they work working on, and unloading supplies from the delivery trucks. James didn’t know his name, which on one level didn’t matter, but on another robbed the object of his masturbatory fantasies of a soul. He wanted to know so he could imagine stroking his lover’s hair, caressing him, working his hands slowly over the plasterer’s perfectly defined six pack towards his cock …
He could feel the precursors to orgasm, the warm tingling in his groin and lower back. Reluctantly he stopped his auto-stimulation, he ought to save it for Steph.
He decided to name the plasterer Ben. Until he could find out his real name.
The pub was quiet when they arrived, but within half an hour had been filled with the familiar faces. They all told the usual jokes and spread the same gossip every Friday. All that changed was the subject of the gossip, stories without provenance and rumour of dubious origin about anyone and everyone.
James sat and listened, nodding, agreeing, being shocked at the appropriate moments. By the judicious consumption of beer from the bar and a few swigs of whisky from a hip flask he always carried (he refused to pay bar prices for cheap blended whisky decanted into single malt bottles) the evening evaporated. The relief of “Time Gentlemen (and Ladies) please!” allowed him to drag Steph from her enrapturing conversation with some woman he vaguely recognised as working at one of the local stores.
They walked back to his flat his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist. Steph almost dragged James into bed. She left on her bra and panties, blue satin, trimmed with black that accentuated her classic curves perfectly. James slid into bed and slipped his arms around her, he felt comforted by her and protective towards her, but his slow acceptance of his true sexuality meant that each night he spent with her was becoming more difficult. He Loved Steph, and he felt like he was in love with her. She was certainly in love with him, but she couldn’t give him what he wanted.
He thought of the plasterer again as he fondled Stephs breasts through her bra. It had the desired effect, his cock began to stir when James imagined running his fingers through Ben’s hair. Steph ground her groin into his, loving the feel of a turgid member, readying itself for action.
James held her close both imagining it was Ben and not wanting her to see the look of guilt and sadness on his face caused by his duplicity. He slipped a hand to her bra clasp and deftly flicked it undone. Then he turned off the bedside light, leaving only the amber glow of the streetlights too illuminate the room.
Steph slipped off her bra and pressed her breasts into James’ pecs. They kissed, as they always did, with a tenderness and passion combined into a gentle sensual experience that Steph had not known from her previous boyfriends. It was at times like this that she wanted him to propose to her, something else that she’d never felt before.
Steph pushed him away to allow her to manoeuvre. Her blue satin knickers were discarded leaving them both naked. She slid down the bed and kissed the end of his cock before taking the now throbbing member into her mouth.
James felt Ben’s lips slide over his glans and a skilful tongue swirl around him. A hand that he wished was calloused and roughened by manual labour grabbed his balls in a firm grip. His hips began to buck and force his cock deep into Steph’s throat making her gag. For a moment she stopped, regaining her composure. She was shocked by the force of his thrust but also turned on by it. He could be a little too considerate at times and occasionally she liked to be fucked hard and used. Steph felt her pussy becoming wet and slid around to allow James access to her pouting labia.
His hand came to rest on her mons, two fingers parting her then slipping into her wet opening. He found her g-spot making her writhe almost immediately, he knew her body better than she did and knew he could make her come in just a few seconds. He needed release too, it was almost within reach. In his mind Ben was tasting the pre-cum that was now seeping down Stephs throat. The hand that James used to press Steph’s head almost cruelly onto his cock was in Ben’s jet black hair. When he began to pump his semen onto Steph’s waiting tongue it was Ben who tasted it.