Villa Marine hugs the Breton coast. Whitecaps crash below. I lounge in baggy joggers, shapeless sweatshirt. Lunch tray on the patio. Black coffee steams. Headphones hum soft jazz. Languor settles, perfect boredom. Then, the journal. Marc-An’s gift on the desk. Lucrin leather, warm as my skin. Caran d’Ache fountain pen, ostentatious gleam. Matches my tone. Coquettish. He knows nothing of my spiral notebooks back in Paris. Rue Santos-Dumont, his visits brief. Here, alone, the virgin pages call. I grab my trusty Bic. Ink flows. Title: Who Remembers Max Meynier? Memories surge. My trucker theme. Big rigs, big cylinders. Marc-An blind witness. Highway stops only.
Cafeteria at the vast service station. Past noon. No plans. Life’s architect benevolent. Trench-saharienne drapes me. Short skirt hikes—slutfied per Lily-Rose’s scale. Rain spits, tropical heat steams. Moist air clings. Tray down. Scan horizon. Eight men opposite. Green-yellow overalls. Family firm trucks—I know them from Bachelard colloques. Rigid lines like parked rigs. They elbow. Eyes dive under my table. I lock the view. Laughter booms. Far from philosophy. Silence drops. ‘Who remembers Max Meynier?’ I Google later. Their eyes pierce. I don dark glasses. Reflect lust back. Whispers, smirks. Coffee arrives. I slip to my Mini-Cooper. They to rigs. Eight green-yellow beasts.
The Privilege
I lead. Head truck flashes. Rearview pulses. Heart matches. Warnings blink reply. Clignotant right. Rest area ahead. Rain pounds. Pulse races. Empty lot, off-season. Trucks circle tight. No rest promised. They descend, grins victorious. I lock doors. Mist ghosts them. Voices coax, harden. ‘You’ll take it, slut!’ Car rocks. They’ll peel it open. Palm wipes glass. Skirt up. Finger dives deep. They whip out cocks. Stroke mad. I unbutton blouse. Press tits to glass. ‘Slut, whore, cocksucker.’ Tongue hardens nipples. Skirt off. String aside. Finger plunges. Free window crack. Ass out. ‘Fuck my ass, boys.’ Cock rams hole. Passenger door flies. Dick throats me. Gushes thick. ‘Another! Fill my mouth, bastards!’ They lap ass, jerk pussy. Queue shoves in. Carousel around car. Ass to mouth, mouth to ass.
The Excess
Rain begs inclusion. Strong arms lift me. Impaled, passed man to man. Tongues devour. Cocks piston slick vaginas. Rain slicks to ice. Rods slip free, pleasure spikes. Bodies hairy, paunchy, rank. Cocks blend: salt rain, bitter cum, sticky heat. Bitume bed. Tees cushion knees. Mouth doubles: cheeks bulge. ‘Eat my ass!’ Face machine. Tongue lashes balls. Love anal—me too? Beg: ‘Finish in my ass.’ Cum floods thighs. Lick pavement if I could. They pound holes, groan. Some jerk tits. Others watch. Slow. Flaccid. I suck soft cocks. One pisses asphalt. Hangar memory stirs—Uncle Henry’s piss orgasm. ‘Piss on me!’ Bitume down. Jet hits tits. ‘Fucking slut.’ ‘Bitch.’ ‘Piss on the bitch!’ Eight streams lash. Gargle hot sour. Erections spark. Final ass fucks.
Some slink off. Others gentle. Circle breaks. Alone in Mini. Heart steadies. Claudine blouse. Barrette hair. Repetto flats. Professor specs. Unrecognizable. Cruise calm. To Mamy’s. Happy rare. Men’s sex scent lingers. Geisha balls clench perineum. Post-love ritual. Table merry. Marc-An, Mamy, friends. Testosterone glow. Radio: trucker strike tomorrow. ‘Fuck all else,’ he says. ‘Nothing else to do,’ I purr. ‘Polish chrome,’ I quip. He laughs. Hand on knee. ‘Your day, love?’ ‘Dull. Dusting.’ ‘Polishing?’ Tipsy. ‘Spot on.’ Laughter erupts. Home in hysterics. Secret sealed. Glass walls whisper nothing.
