Page 8 of The Highwaymen

Jamie hastily yanked his shorts down, sighing in relief as he pulled out his dripping cock. He fisted it roughly, twisting his wrist on the upstroke just how he liked it.

He stroked himself frantically as I fucked his face with increasing abandon, chasing my release. The cab was filled with the obscene sounds of slurping and choked grunts, filthy wet noises that only spurred me on further. I could feel my orgasm building, my balls drawing up tight.

“I’m gonna cum in this filthy smart mouth of yours,” I growled, tugging Jamie's hair. “You're going to swallow it all like a good little whore or I’ll bash your fucking brains in.”

Jamie moaned around my cock and his hips jerked. His cock twitched, and he came all over the bench seat, making a complete mess everywhere.

Watching him pushed me over the edge. With a guttural groan, I held his head down and spilled straight down his throat. He swallowed convulsively, drinking down every drop just as I'd ordered.

I held him there for a few moments after I finished, his nose pressed against my pubic bone as he struggled to breathe. Only when his face started turning red did I finally release my grip, allowing him to pull off with a gasp.

He looked up at me with glazed eyes, lips swollen and slick with spit and cum. A few pearly drops had escaped to dribble down his chin. He looked thoroughly debauched.

“Fuck," he panted, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “If you fuck half as good as you face-fuck, those corpses of yours must die happy.”

I tucked myself back into my jeans with a dark chuckle. “Lucky bastards.” I grabbed a rag from the glove box and tossed it to him. “Clean yourself up. We've got a long drive ahead of us.”

Jamie wiped the cum from his face and hands, then shimmied his shorts back up over his hips. He leaned back in the passenger seat with a satisfied sigh, looking like the cat that got the cream. Which I suppose he had.

I stared out thewindow of the rumbling truck, watching the endless expanse of red desert and towering mesas roll by under the scorching Arizona sun. I could feel Stu's eyes boring into me from the driver's seat, the intensity enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my dick twitch in my shorts.

The taste of him still lingered on my tongue, but now a new tension hung heavy in the air, coiled tight as a rattlesnake ready to strike. Two predators trapped in a small hotbox never turned out well, and we were about toturn up the heat.

The truck rumbled towards the border patrol checkpoint, a squat concrete structure rising from the shimmering haze of heat like a mirage. My heart pounded against my ribs as I caught sight of the uniformed agents, their hands resting on the butts of their holstered guns. Stu seemed utterly unfazed, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel as he guided the truck towards the checkpoint with easy confidence.

“You got anything to worry about?” he drawled, those piercing eyes flicking over to pin me in place. “Any warrants out there with your name on them? Trails of breadcrumbs you forgot to sweep up?”

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly bone dry. Images flashed through my mind - crimson stains on the motel carpet, vacant eyes staring into oblivion, the cold weight of a knife in my hand. Had I slipped up somewhere along the way? Left some crucial piece of evidence for the cops to sniff out like bloodhounds?

“Nah,” I replied, trying to force a casual tone. “I'm clean as a preacher's sheets. You?”

Stu's lips curled into a razor-edged smile. “Clean as a whistle. Ain't nobody connecting me to a thing. I'm a goddamn ghost.”

He sounded so certain, so completely self-assured. I envied that unshakable confidence, the way he seemed to glide through the world without leaving a single ripple.

As we pulled up to the checkpoint, a stern-faced agent in mirrored sunglasses stepped up to Stu's window, one hand resting on his holstered sidearm. “Afternoon, gentlemen. Citizenship?”

“American, born and bred,” Stu replied easily, flashing the agent a disarming smile. He handed over our IDs with a steady hand.

The agent studied the cards for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the photos and our faces. I could feel sweat beading on my upper lip, my heart thudding like a war drum against my ribs.

Finally, the agenthanded back the IDs. “Where you headed?”

“Los Angeles,” Stu said.

The agent nodded, his gaze drifting to the trailer hitched behind us. “Cargo?”

“Just a load of auto parts,” Stu replied smoothly. “Picked 'em up in Oklahoma City, headed for a distributor in LA.”

The agent's expression remained inscrutable, his jaw set in a firm line. “I'm gonna need to take a look in the back. Standard procedure.”

Stu shrugged, the picture of easy compliance. “Sure thing, officer. Lemme just grab the keys and I'll pop it open for ya.”

Stu obliged, sliding out of the driver's seat with fluid grace.

I remained in the cab, my palms slick with sweat as I gripped the worn upholstery of the seat. The sun beat down mercilessly through the windshield, the air inside the truck thick and stifling. I could feel rivulets of perspiration trickling down my back, soaking into my already damp shirt.

Outside, I heard the metallic groan of the truck's rear door sliding up, followed by the heavy tread of boots on gravel. Muffled voices drifted through the thin metal walls of the cab - Stu's easy drawl and the clipped, official tone of the border patrol agent.

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