From 'Paying My Way' by Lucy Salisbury
Did I dare? That was the great question. I was sure it was practical, and if I wasn’t sure exactly what might happen, then that was half the fun. It was also safe, at least in so far as I had plenty of time and there was no reason whatsoever that anybody who mattered would find out. Whether I was safe in the sense of being likely to get to Paris with my virtue intact was a different matter entirely, but then that was the whole point. But did I dare?
The idea was simple. I would get off the train at Calais, and instead of continuing to Paris on the TGV I would make my way into town. I’d then seek out a café or a bar where the long-distance truck drivers gathered, choose the biggest, roughest, dirtiest-looking bastard I could find and trade the use of my body for a lift to Paris, or at least in that general direction. There were one or two technical drawbacks, such as finding the right man in the right lorry, but the shame and embarrassment of doing so would make the experience all the stronger. I also had to be sure he’d take me up on my offer, because it would be bitterly frustrating to set off and end up being dropped off unmolested.
I’d even made my preparations in advance, sending my luggage on ahead and dressing more or less as I had when I was a student, so that, hopefully, I’d look like a good prospect for sex but not worth stealing from. That meant skin-tight jeans, little fur-lined boots, a top and a jumper, with several spare pairs of knickers in my shoulder bag. My hair was up in a high pony-tail, a style I knew from experience allowed me to pass for eighteen, while my make-up and scent were both a little bolder than I’d have used in the office. I carried a single debit card, carefully concealed, along with a handful of Euros.
After taking so much trouble I knew I’d feel like a fool if I backed out, but it still took courage just to abandon the Eurostar and make my way into Calais. I knew where to go, more or less, and was growing ever more nervous as my surroundings became increasingly rough. My arousal was growing too, with the thoughts of what might happen to me and what I might be made to do becoming ever more vivid. By the time I got to the big truckstop I’d identified on the Internet from the safety of my flat the night before, I was shaking and struggling to keep up the confident smile that was essential to my plans. I need to look like easy pickings for some over-sexed bastard, not a frightened little girl whom even the most rampant trucker was likely to take straight to the police.
It worked. There were a dozen or so men seated outside the crude bar near the gates, each and every one as rough and unashamedly masculine as I could possibly have hoped for. As I approached, heads began to turn and comments were passed, setting me blushing. I’d already decided it would be best to speak only schoolgirl French, making me seem more vulnerable still while allowing me to keep up with what was going on.
‘Is anyone going towards Paris?’
There was an immediate ripple of conversation among them, shrugs, expressions of regret. I’d hoped to get several volunteers and choose between them, picking out the one who seemed most likely to demand sex in payment for the trip and, if he proved to be a gentleman after all, offering myself in payment. As it was, all of them seemed to be heading the other way, across the Channel or north towards Belgium and the Netherlands. I asked again.
‘Paris? The south maybe?’
Again there was a ripple of conversation among them, before one pointed a dirty finger towards the ranked lorries.
I could see the Lantier lorry, a grubby canvas-sided trailer with a red cab, just the sort I’d imagined in my frequent fantasies. Now it was real, and my heart was hammering in my chest as I made my way across. There were several drivers hanging around the lorries, talking amongst themselves. Again they saw me coming, and again my appearance provoked immediate interest, setting my nipples hard as I imagined what they’d do if I found myself having to entertain all of them together. It wasn’t at all obvious which one belonged to my vehicle, forcing me to ask once again.
‘Lantier? To Paris, perhaps towards the south?’
One of them stepped out from among the others and I felt my knees go weak. He was massive, only a little taller than me but with huge shoulders, the bulging muscles showing even beneath his heavy donkey jacket. His arms had to be as thick as my legs and his chest was like a barrel, his belly and hips thick and hard, all encased in grubby, oil-smeared workman’s blues. A bristling blond beard adorned his rounded face, while there was no mistaking the import of his grin, nor the look in his pale-grey eyes. I was going to get it, and then some.
‘Yes, to Nyons.’
I’d answered him, but I’d barely heard, already imagining myself being made to suck his cock in return for my lift, at the very least. Not only that, but Noyon would leave me short of my destination and I might find myself obliged to get a second lift, or bribe him to make a detour, which was sure to really cost me. All it needed was for me to close the deal, but with over a dozen truckers looking at me and exchanging knowing smiles and smutty remarks I found myself at a loss for what to say. My driver cocked a thumb at his massive chest.
‘Lucy. Hello. I’m English.’
He responded with a nod, then tapped his watch.
It was only just after three, which left me with nearly an hour before we set off. I smiled and nodded my understanding, but it was a problem I hadn’t really considered. In my fantasies they’d have passed the time by sharing me between them, perhaps spread naked in the back of some ancient van with a mattress on the floor as they took turns with me, or even forced me to scamper from cab to cab in nothing but my boots, with my boobs bouncing and my bare bottom jiggling behind me to the sound of their coarse laughter. They obviously liked me, and envied Claude, but I couldn’t see them being that mean. I was beginning to feel muddled, and the only thing I could think of to do was to point to his cab.
‘May I sit in the lorry, please?’
He walked me across and as we went I caught a remark from the men behind us, something about the way my bottom moved as I walked, then laughter. I went red, and redder still as another man spoke, in thickly accented French, calling out to Claude to tell him he was a lucky guy. When we reached the lorry Claude opened the door and for a moment his hand was on my bottom as he boosted me up. I thought my moment had come, that he’d follow and start to touch me up, with a straight choice of surrender or getting kicked out of the cab, but he slammed the door behind me and walked away.
I slumped back in the seat, my eyes closed, my hands shaking. He’d touched my bottom. One of his mates had at least implied that I ought to be good for sex. I wanted it, badly, even if only to rip down my jeans and panties and bring myself off under my fingers, but I was sure I’d be getting much more than that, if only I showed a little patience. Claude hadn’t gone back to the others, but was walking towards the bar, to disappear inside and emerge with a steaming mug in each hand. I opened the door for him as he reached the lorry, smiling my gratitude as I reached down for what turned out to be soup. He walked around to climb in on the other side, grinning and giving me a thumbs-up before starting to blow on his soup. I waited, praying he’d proposition me, feeling utterly ridiculous and deeply ashamed of myself and as horny as a she-cat in heat all at the same time.
He made no move, but held the mug in his huge, rough hands and sipped his soup. I watched sidelong, imagining those big hands on my body, hauling my top up to get at my breasts, fumbling at my nipples, his coarse, hard skin against the softness of my flesh as he enjoyed me. Still he sat and drank his soup, only to suddenly turn on me, grinning like a polecat. My heart seemed to leap up into my mouth and I felt the muscles of my sex contract as if I was about to come, but he turned away again, perhaps unsure of his English, or that I’d understand his French. I gave him an encouraging smile and he tried again.
‘You are student?’
It wasn’t what I’d been hoping for, but it gave me an opening.
‘Yes. A student. Very poor.’
He gave a glum nod, but the last thing I needed was his sympathy.
‘I am sorry,’ I tried, ‘but I have no money for petrol, er … gasoil.’
He began to say something in English, thought better of it and reverted to French.
‘It’s not a worry. The company pays.’
‘I should pay.’
‘No, really, I mean I haven’t got any money, but –’
‘It’s not a worry, really.’
I was going to have to say it myself.
‘I mean, to pay … for my ride. I would like to … like to … oh God, how do you say it in French? What’s “to suck”? Er … put your penis in my mouth … please?’
My face felt as if it was on fire, blazing with shame, but I’d done it. He was looking at me, uncertain, before giving the most Gallic of shrugs, putting his soup down and reaching into his workman’s blues to pull out a big, grubby-looking cock and a set of extraordinarily hairy balls. For a moment I could only stare, wondering how I could possibly want to go anywhere near the grotesque thing, let alone suck it, but then I did exactly that, leaning over to take hold and pop him into my mouth. He tasted of oil and man but, for all that my face had screwed up in automatic disgust, the heartfelt moan that had escaped my throat expressed pure bliss.
I was doing it, sucking cock for a lorry driver to pay him for a lift, something I’d fantasised over more often than I could remember. It was heavenly, leaving me weak with emotion as he began to stir in my mouth, and completely vulnerable as he moved a hand to my chest. He began to feel my breasts, groping me through my jumper as his cock got slowly longer and fatter. I let him, telling myself I ought to be a good girl and do my best to keep him happy. My hand went to his balls and I began to squeeze and stroke, then to masturbate him into my mouth.
At that he began to pull up my top clothes, perhaps realising that I didn’t actually feel obliged at all, but that he’d caught a dirty little bitch. I sucked more eagerly still, rolling his meaty foreskin back with my lips in a deliberately dirty gesture as my boobs came bare. He began to grope me again, and to moan with pleasure as his rough hands explored the contours of my chest. I took him deep, deliberately making myself gag on the head of his cock, then a second time. He gasped and called me a slut, his free hand closed in my hair, and any chance I had of escape was gone as he began to fuck my mouth.
[To be continued]