Trucker Bears - Grunt
#1 of Trucker Bears
_Toonces, the Driving Cat, the Cat Who Could Drive a Car
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Among truckers, you can always tell who's new by who grunts.
It's not a job that breeds enthusiasm. No, your typical trucker is on his ass for twelve hours a day, if not longer, and if you're up for going to a club after that you're probably not going to get far. You don't become a King of the Road with a wellspring of unabetting eagerness, you get it with the kind of temperament more befitting supervising growing grass. That's not to call it laziness, it's not to call it sluggishness, it's to call it patience, easiness. You have to be a pretty chill motherfucker. And you only get more chill, more easy with time. Once you're seasoned, you can sit back and let the stars burn out overhead with a smile on your face like not a one of them or anything else has any bearing on you.
That's how you can tell the Grunters, as they call them. Because they grunt when you fuck 'em. A greymuzzle with a few years under his seat, when the guys get together in someone's cabin, four or five guys cramped on the long seat or on the floor, he doesn't grunt. You bend him over, you get your cock inside, and he just pastes a smile on his lips like taking your shoes off after a long day's work. Maybe you find yourself face down on the well-cushioned seat yourself, he saddles up on your ass like settling into his favorite easychair, and starts pushing at you with a smooth, tempered motion, like he's got every hour in the world to ride that ass from here to Forth Worth. Like I said, it's a profession that destroys any sense of urgency you might have had in the first place.
And if you're new, you grunt. You grunt because that's what you do when someone's fucking you. It's just natural, no one holds it against you, outside of a friendly jab, a quip about breaking in the "new chair." That's what it is, really. Breaking you in, making you soft and palatable like a cushioned seat. So you're grunting and moaning, blushing a little as the guys have made you just a little bit conscious, but it's too friendly an atmosphere for any real insecurities to build. I mean, you've got a dick in your mouth besides, two other gays straddling you for lack of room so as to make out with each other, and maybe one more guy opening the door to a friendly greeting from all participants, who free up their mouths for the moment just to say Hi. How can you really get in too bad a mood?
They're all bears, of course. Well, you know not every trucker's a bear, but it's a profession that certainly draws the guys there. Bears mostly, chubby guys all. It wouldn't take you long to figure that out, if not that all truckers are bears, that it's those types that find themselves in each other's cabins most often, giving each other short friendly greetings. "Oh John, haven't seen you since Houston," he says, helping John to pull his shirt off with no rush, then treating his nipples to a long, friendly tonguebath. You become aware of this wide fraternity where everybody knows everybody, or is too willing to get to know you. Everybody knows the rules, everyone seems to know whose cabin to flock to when everyone is parked at night.
And there's your first time, which isn't immediately, of course not. It's not the kind of thing they tell you about when they hand you your driver's license, not the kind of thing you think to ask about either, but if you're a bear with a little bit of weight on you it won't be too long before someone asks why they never see you. A stocky fellow in a slightly stained tee catches you at the candy machine, wants to know where you've been, and after a moment's confusion you're following him back to another guy's truck. It seems like a dream, or a prank, but you open the door and the first two are already at it, one ass in the air directly at you as he dines on the other's stout cock, turning around for a moment to introduce himself before returning to the other's lap. You're ushered in with a friendly slap on the back, a tint of musky odor not unlike any other cabin you've been in but taking on a new character if only for the fact that you suddenly suspect a new source.
Brown fur rolls over hefty bodies built by Wendy's and Little Debbie, none too big that you wouldn't think they could put together a football team on the spot, but certainly big enough that you fit in. The fellow with his big ass in the air in front of you has a tummy round and large and plush like the cushions your ass is used to, the fellow he's servicing wearing a few extra pound like he's a guy just heavy enough to care about his weight but not heavy enough to want to do anything about it, wearing the ubiquitous mesh hat. And your escort, a guy who splits the difference nicely, is already helping you out of your uncomfortable pants, letting you keep your buttoned shirt on (but unbuttoned) if it makes you uncomfortable, and now he's on the floor with his tongue on your balls smiling with a placid contentment like he just won $5 on a $5 lotto ticket. You're struck by the near silence of the place, the only sighs being those like dipping into a nice warm bath. No one's in any rush to any end, and long after everyone's cum you know they'll still be sitting back to crack open a few drinks and talk about hockey.
Maybe you're used to something a little more fevered. Hot sweaty nights under covers with a guy who can't stop begging, frantic experiences trying to hold off for five more seconds while a writhing body beneath you tenses in divine pleasure. Or maybe you've only seen pornos that generally show the same thing. But then there you are, and you notice that everyone's face isn't contorted into some wicked uncomfortable expression like funneled through it was the shock of every nerve in their body. And you find yourself enjoying a blowjob like you enjoy a nice steak, like you enjoy a cold beer, like you enjoy a baseball game. Lips wrapped tight around your dick, tongue lolling and rolling in easy gentle waves, teasing you until you're hard and full and every worry of the long day on the road just melts away. It isn't sublimated, it isn't hidden behind shrills screams and eager panting, it's drained off like old, thick oil. Five hundred miles don't seem like anything now that you've got your cock deep in this guy's throat, and he's taking it better than any twink in any movie you've ever downloaded illegally. Buried his nose in your crotchfur and rolls his tongue like he's trying to tell your dick it's all gonna be alright, just relax and let me take care of this.
Buzzing on a lazy groove, you see that big ass next to you and find yourself slumping towards it like a magnetic attraction, burying your tongue with no question of social graces. Hands kneading and pulling it like taffy, not greedy not anxious, simply enjoying the cheeks slow, savoring them as you do the bear's hole, giving it slow and luscious licks before burying your tongue inside. The only sound in the room the faint sucking sounds of three mouths at work, and the faint sucking sound as bear wearing only his mesh hat smokes his cigar.
He speaks up occasionally, taking a draw from his stogie and announcing "Jim's gonna be over later, he said if the game doesn't go on too long," or "Don't think it's queer or nothing Greg but you know you have gotten a lot better at sucking cock since Pittsburgh." You nod and return your attention to the ass, your focus surprisingly directed despite your relaxation. Your balls are getting bathed and sucked, the bear beneath you taking to them a certain kind of gentle and examined appreciation, as if he's not trying to impress you with how much he loves your balls and just can't live unless he shoves 'em right in his mouth. He appreciates that they're there, and as long as they will be, he'll take advantage. And you notice that's maybe the whole tone of the thing. Nobody's trying to impress anybody else, nobody's trying to put in an all-star performance. Guys are just sucking dick and eating ass like they simply enjoy sucking dick and eating ass. It gives you this feeling like being so comfortable with your sexuality, you hardly even notice you're four guys blowing each other in a truck.
Your bear gives his rump a little bit of a slap, and you need to be told that means he's ready for some fucking. You maneuver around on the wide but cramped chair and put your paws on each side of that wide ass and bury that cock with little ceremony. He lets out a low moan like falling into bed, and the satisfaction seems so pure and unaffected that you're struck by how satisfying it is. There's something suspicious about joy - you can fake exasperated panting and beleaguered moaning - not a guy in the world can fake a moan of such complete, simple bliss as the one the bear rurrs from his throat while you start to tap his ass with long, mellow strides. His body seems to melt under you, every muscle relaxing, and his gruff voice coos a strangely seductive sigh of relief.
You're not rushing. No one's rushing. You kinda want to rush, kinda want to get going and bring everyone along with you. You've got your paws on his back and you're leaning forward, fucking his ass while you take in a good view of his own work sucking cock. You're certainly a little confused about it all, and it shows in your face, eyes shut and eyebrows raised as you try to withhold the temptation to pound with all your might at the sweet chunky ass, trying to fit into the subdued nature of the situation, and you let out a few minor grunts that earn you a few jabs like "Oh, you brought us a Grunter, I see. Just don't rush along young Pup, we're old folk you see." He's exaggerating, but you blush regardless. Your heart beat slows as you fall into the rhythm like a slow country song.
You let your hands squeeze at the stocky body beneath you, tweaking nipples to a satisfied moan, jiggling his belly beneath you, even sneaking a grip at the bear in the mesh hat's balls, fondling them even, giving a few tentative words of praise that are answered with a wry smile. He moans and sits down in his seat, letting his hat fall over his eyes, the fat bear's ears in his fingers.
The bear in the stained tee resumes his place in the mix, burying his nose under your tail, taking certain and measured licks. He holds your hips if only to keep track of where you are, though eventually you notice his one hand abandon the duty to take on a different, more personal task. You sneak a peek at his cock (as if you feel you still need to sneak it), dripping in his hand, stubby under his tummy but magnificent nonetheless.
"Ohhhh, that's a nice fat one," your bear says like he's studying a fish on a hook. He wiggles his rump just a little, lifts his head to the roof, and indulges himself in a little bit of bliss as you thrust away. "Where you heading to next, boy? You and I could be fishing buddies," he says in an uncultured voice, low and rough yet sweet like honey. His lust is so simple and genuine, his unfettered groans and almost embarrassed pleas for a little rougher treatment echoing so honestly. He looks back at you and bites his lip, not fighting back a wide grin, leaning back into you. "We've got a porn star here fellas, look at him go. Oh shit, if only you guys could feel this."
Your bear's gaze is directed back towards the thinner bear with his slick dick still out. Loose vibrations coursing your body, you watch in a certain kind of awed, astounded surprise as the smaller bear pounds his pud out and, with a grin on his muzzle like sitting down to a thick burger, plasters the chubbier bear's face with a surprisingly large load, a few spurts smothering him before his hungry lips find and drink the rest, giggling about it as if the facial was some kind of sophomoric but innocent joke.
You slip out of your shirt finally and change positions, positioning your bear leaning against the seat, facing the back of the cabin, his arm's resting on the headrest. You wrap your arms around and put your chin on his shoulder, him making no complaints of the closeness, intimacy being uncommon but not discouraged. Besides, you've taken a liking to him, and you're practically dying to really get your arms around him, smell his thick brown fur, and squeeze his ample stomach. You can smell the other bear's seed from so close, a scent that is slowly beginning to fill the cabin now. The bear who first invited you in finds a spot behind you, squeezing into the cramped spot in the cabin then squeezing his dick into the tight spot in your ass. They all get another hearty laugh out of your grunting, never quite in a tone that seems judgmental. "You know, I like new guys," your escort says as he leans forward against you, giving you a curt thrust only to make you grunt, to emphasize his point, "Grunters or not you know it's always good to learn a new ass." He settles into his own groove, a little hindered by the tight space.
"Well give him a break, man, he's only been driving for - how long?"
"Sticking up for your boyfriend, are ya?" They talk over your grunts.
"Oh go to hell, he's got a fat dick and a nice smile, I like him, and he's new so don't give him too hard a time."
And there you are in the middle, feeling ever more comfortable, relaxing ever more so, introducing yourself with a nervous sensation of exposure when a fifth bear drops in, drops his pants, and gets his cock worked over by the bear who has already shot his load. The cabin is hot and musky by now, but it's treated as a passing annoyance, and the almost filial familiarity of the men in the cabin has created an atmosphere too friendly and enjoyable to allow any kind of bitching. The cabin almost takes on the characteristics of a sauna, everyone's tensions boiling off this in small bubbles.
"Who's the Grunter?" the newcomer asks after having waited long enough for his curiosity to not seem combative, all as he buries the other bear's face in his crotch.
"Outta Toledo," your escort says as he thumps at your ass like your cheeks were pillows, not soft thrusts, not gentle thrusts, just easy thrusts, like it took no effort at all to pound. "Glen here's in love with him."
"Oh yeah, we're getting married next Tuesday," he says between now somewhat breathless, his moans a little higher and more regular, his dick leaking onto the seat, not able and not attempting to hide his enjoyment. "Guy's got a fat cock, I tell ya', but you're gonna have to wait your turn."
"You goddamn bottoms, you can have it, I don't care, but if you wanna suck on this huge cock later you're more than welcome."
"Relax, relax, I'll-"
You give him a harsh thrust, if only to prove a point, and cut him off by making him grunt. The jeers come in as your bear blushes deep red, laughing it off, taking his abuse with good humor. "Ok, ok, you got me," he says, paying respects to you. "Now if that's how you're gonna play it, give it to me right, boy."
You listen, of course, and you start thrusting, your firm and rough strokes matched on your own ass as your escort's dick pistons in and out of you with the same regularity. Your bear moans deep and loud as you read around and grab his dick, worrying if maybe you're getting a little too eager for the situation, but still, you're not pounding with unrequited fervor, you're simply giving the bear a deep, rough, good old fashioned fucking. And now he's grunting, too. He's not so seasoned as he might have seemed, you suppose, and as you grunt together there's a certain connection, a shared exposure. He smacks his lips in anticipation, "Oh yeah now, that's the way to do, drive me home young Pup, mmf!" And you feel hands on your shoulders and now your escort's trying to match your enthusiasm, giving what rough thrusts the space allows of him, hitting a few spots inside you just right, making you grunt now with little regard for the norms of this group. You're a Grunter for now, at least, and so long as no one's going to give you too rough a time you'll enjoy this one as you can.
The dick behind you slips out and you feel a warm splash on your back, hear a low but elated moan, feel a paw on your ass held there for balance. The musky scent gets stronger, more pervasive, and all the while your bear is egging you on, begging more like teasing, "Just a little further there Youngblood, now don't you finish before- oh god" another unguarded moment slips from his tongue as you squeeze his dick, cradle his balls in your fingers, and shove him over that edge, feeling his body quiver around your dick as he splats your paw and stains the seat, another thick and creamy load.
Pulling out, you turn him around, take a seat in his lap leaning back against the bear who brought you in the first place, and jerk off to a full explosion, coating your bear's cheat and bountiful stomach with your seed that you release with terse jerks of your body and now exasperated grunts. Holding your dick in your paw you're not exhausted, though sandwiched between the two you feel as comfortable as you've ever felt in a rig.
And you're initiated. It seems strange, it seems like it's on a whole different wavelength. It's the bass to the electric guitar, you know? Truckers are bassists, I guess. I'm just trying to give you a clear picture. It's a strange culture, one that finds its ecstasy in the sigh, its elation in the easy smile, one that travels just a little slower than the rest of us, if you get the connection I'm making there. It might seem a little queer to you, a little bit like the images don't mix - five bears fucking in a cabin and three of 'em talking about baseball scores and guns while they do, asking for dick with a southern drawl. You get accepted pretty quickly. Immediately. Just keep it chill and don't insult anyone's mother, essentially, and any stop you pull into you look for a rig with a bear and more often than not...
It starts to become a sixth sense, which rig to come to. You meet guys, get to know them through the years and the stops, make friendships, get your fur dirty. You settle into an orgy like dipping into a hot tub, make with sucking cock like small talk.