Getting a New Peterbilt


I’ll be your Trucker Sucker from here on out.

I was named for my fraternal grandfather, Sterling Rogers, an independent trucker who drove trucks for General Patton’s 7th Army during World War II. After the war, he worked as a long-distance truck driver the rest of his working life, and as I was named for him, I guess it was no surprise that I would follow in his footsteps. I joined the Army shortly after high school and planned on making the military my career. However, after being passed over three times for E-8, I was out with only sixteen years of service, no pension, a wife of twelve years, and three young children to raise.

My last duty station was Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and while still on active duty, my wife and I had purchased a small house on five acres near Lebanon, Missouri. We loved the house — absolutely the nicest place we had ever lived — and with the kids well established in school, Kelly and I both agreed we would never move again. With no other job skills, a mortgage to pay, and a family of five to feed — I opted to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps and enrolled in truck driving school. A short three weeks later, I received my CDL and a job offer from the TD Walker Freight Company.

The job with Walker allowed me to be home most evenings and weekends. So, my time at home and with the family was actually better than when I was in the military. The only downside was my pitiful take-home pay. It seemed like I was actually making more when I was in the Army. And as our financial situation grew tighter and tighter — the lure of long-distance driving was always on my mind.

After three years with Walker, I managed to talk Kelly into allowing me to buy a used Kenworth W900 with a sleeper. My career as an independent ‘gypsy’ trucker now lay ahead of me on that endless ribbon of highway. The work was hard, and the hours were long, but the freedom was intoxicating. I had never been my own boss before, and I loved it. Unfortunately, I may have loved it too much. Kelly began calling the truck ‘my mistress’ as I certainly did spend more time behind the wheel than I spent at home.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I had actually found my calling. But like the old adage says, ‘when the wheels aren’t turning — you’re not making money,’ and I was making money, as I drove as many hours as the regulations would allow. I promised Kelly that if she could hang in there with me for three or four years, we’d have enough money to buy several more trucks, and we could start our own trucking company. We would manage it together from Lebanon and hire other drivers to handle the road.

Six years later, it was still just me. I was only home four or five days every six to seven weeks. I basically lived in my truck, and home was just a rest stop to see my kids, do my laundry, and if I was lucky, get in a night or two of marital intimacy with Kelly.

On one of these stops at home, my life changed forever. The kids were all happy to see me, and everything seemed normal with Kelly when I walked into the kitchen with my laundry slung over my shoulder. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and a little slap on the ass — she didn’t respond. But that was pretty normal over the last several years, and I just grew to expect it. I should add, I do my own laundry — but she does all of the other household chores and single-handedly raises our kids.

At dinner that night, again everything all seemed normal enough. The kids peppered me with where have you been, what kind of stuff did you haul, and of course — what did you bring me? However, after dinner, as I walked out to check on the truck, my neighbor was passing by and stopped to say hi; or so I thought. “Hey, Sterling,” he said as he pulled into my driveway and stepped out of his pickup.

“Ryan,” I said with a friendly wave of my hand.

Hey,” he said, rather seriously. And then, after a quick handshake, he looked around to make sure no one else was within earshot. “Kelly is cheating on you, Sterling.”

“What?” I said in disbelief.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but she’s cheating on you,” he said, with a look of sincere concern on his face.

I just stood there in shock. I hated that my neighbor had to be the one to tell me. But I knew he was just trying to protect me — and I guess from a good friend’s point of view — trying to protect my kids as well.

I stood there in silence for a moment before I said, “Okay — ah, what do you mean — I mean, how do you know?”

“She goes out several nights a week — leaving your kids home alone,” he said, in a hushed tone. “When you’re out of town, I’ve seen her come home late at night. And to be honest, based on her driving, I’ve been concerned that she’d been drinking.” He paused and looked around again to make sure no one was approaching. “Last Friday night, I was at the Double Eagle with some guys from work, and I saw her flirting with a guy I’d never seen before. Around eleven o’clock, I watched them walk out together, and 1xbet yeni giriş out of concern for her safety, I followed them out. I then watched her get in a pickup truck with him — and if I can cut to the chase, in less than a minute, she had her head down in the guy’s lap, and she was giving him a blow job.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, “Thank you, Ryan,” I said. “I know this was hard for you to come and tell me. But it’s my fault — I’ll handle it. Thank you for telling me.”

Over the next two days, I just worked around the house doing all the chores I could find. I went to one of my younger son’s baseball games and helped my daughter with a 4-H project she had been working on for several months. In bed, I tried snuggling with Kelly — but that never went anywhere. And besides, I couldn’t have gotten an erection if my life depended on it, and I’m sure she sensed that.

After three days at home, I took a short haul from Springfield to Oklahoma City and returned with an empty trailer the same day. I didn’t go directly home but instead parked my rig at the Petro 44 outside of Springfield. I considered the Petro 44 sort of my home base. That was where I always had my truck serviced, and I knew almost everyone that worked there.

I borrowed a friend’s pickup truck and headed up the Interstate to Lebanon. Then driving by the house about seven that evening — I found that the lights were on, but Kelly’s car was missing. I cruised around town past all the likely places she might be until I found her car parked outside the Double Eagle. The Double Eagle is a local dance hall with a Country-Western theme and a favorite of many of the soldiers from Fort Leonard Wood. I parked a few cars away and waited.

A little after nine, she came stumbling out of the club with some guy I’d never seen before. She didn’t appear to be completely drunk — but she sure wasn’t stone-cold sober either. When she reached her car, but before she unlocked the door, the guy playfully pushed her up on the hood of the car. With Kelly now lying flat on her back, and this guy leaning over the fender, first he playfully ‘pinned’ her to the hood of the car, then he leans over and kisses her. As I sat silently in my borrowed pickup, I watched them make out for three to four minutes before she playfully pushed him off, got into her car, and after blowing him a kiss, drove off into the night.

I followed her home, keeping a safe distance so she wouldn’t spot me. Of course, she didn’t know I was in town, so she wasn’t expecting me to be following her — and besides, she was probably three-sheets-to-the-wind anyway. I pulled into the driveway moments after she did and confronted her as she was getting out of her car.

“Where have you been,” I asked in an accusatory voice?

For a moment, she was honestly shocked to see me. Her complexion went ashen, and she stumbled to find an answer. But, then in a burst of courage, she said, “I’ve been out — so what of it.”

“It’s all over town that you’re having an affair,” I said defiantly, putting the blame on town gossip in order to protect Ryan.

“I’m not having an affair,” she said with equal emotion, but deliberately holding her voice down so as to not involve the kids. “I’m just enjoying an occasional night-out. I deserve that, Sterling! You’re never here. Never — you spend your entire life out on the road, and I’m stuck here with three kids to raise by myself. I deserve a little adult companionship.”

“Does that include fucking whoever you picked up for the night,” I asked?

Her face got red with anger as she shifted from defense mode to offense. “I’m not fucking anyone, Sterling — and so what if I was? You have abandoned me — you have abandoned your family. So, I’m free to fuck anyone I want. So, fuck you, Sterling — Fuck you,” she spat.

“Kelly, I haven’t abandoned anyone. I send you every God Damn cent I make. I work my ass off to clothe, and feed, and house my family and have been 100% faithful to you from the day I met you,” I said as I started to get emotional myself.

“Money doesn’t make a family, Sterling,” she said as tears began to well up in her eyes. And with that, she turned, walked into the house, and flicked off the porch light. A moment later, I heard the front door lock. It was clear the discussion was over — as was our marriage.

An hour later, I was back at the Petro 44. The Petro 44 has several fast food outlets, but I have always preferred their full-service restaurant — The Iron Skillet. As I swung up onto my usual counter stool, I was quickly greeted by Maggie with a fresh cup of truckers’ coffee. Maggie is a long-time waitress at the Iron Skillet and my preferred server. I have known her for more than six years, and I’ve always considered her a good friend. She is probably five or six years older than me and probably not what most men would consider attractive — she has a chiseled face, short loosely curled salt and pepper hair, and I guess what you would call a weathered ‘ruddy’ complexion 1xbet giriş — but she has a warm heart. She has always been a source of friendly advice and comfort when I needed it.

“Why so gloom?” she asked as I wrapped my hands around the cup of steaming coffee.

“I caught my wife cheating on me tonight,” I said without looking up.

She paused for a moment. “Did you suspect anything before tonight?” she asked as she wrapped her hands around mine from across the counter.

I slowly shook my head no. “No — not really. I mean, I knew things were getting strained, but I really didn’t think she would actually cheat on me,” I somberly replied.

“So, do you know the guy?” Maggie asked.

I looked up at her for the first time since sitting down. “No, that’s the weird part. I don’t think it is anyone guy. I think she is going out at night — leaving the kids home alone — and just picking up guys at random.” After looking back down into my coffee, I added, “I don’t know if she is actually sleeping with any of them — but she is giving them sex — if you know what I mean.”

“How do you know she is giving them sex?” Maggie asked as she tightened her grip on my hands.

I thought long and hard before answering. “My neighbor saw her giving one of them — some guy — a blow job in the parking lot of the Double Eagle.”

“Jeez,” Maggie exclaimed. “Did your neighbor tell you that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I didn’t let on to Kelly that he told me. There is no need for her to know that.”

Maggie stepped away for a minute and then came back with a piece of cherry pie — my favorite. “Here,” she said. “It’s on the house. I think you’ve earned it.”

Three months later, Kelly filed for divorce. I didn’t protest it, and in fact, I volunteered more child support than she requested. She didn’t qualify for alimony, and my oldest son was already sixteen, so I figured it would be enough to keep her and the kids in their current lifestyle. I had no desire to screw my kids just because their mother screwed me. Three months after that, the divorce was final, and I was a free man — but somehow, I didn’t feel all that free.

Almost everything stayed the same. I still sent Kelly almost everything I earned, I still only saw the kids about once every six weeks or so, and I still wasn’t getting any sex. I guess the only major changes were that I did my laundry at truck stop laundromats, and when I did stop by the house to see the kids — Kelly was generally not there. I did talk to the kids more often on the phone after the divorce, so I guess that was a plus.

About six months after I settled things with Kelly, I was in a truck stop diner just west of Omaha. I had dropped a trailer in Omaha and was waiting overnight to pick up my next load, which was heading to Salt Lake City. Interstate 80 was always a favorite of mine.

I had just about finished my dinner when a woman sat down on the counter stool next to me. She ordered French fries and a Coke. I didn’t immediately look over at her — but I was a little curious why she picked that stool when there were plenty others available. Moments after popping the first of her fries into her mouth, she asked, “So, are you a trucker?”

I turned to look at her for the first time. She was probably in her mid-thirties, rather skinny, long stringy dark brunette hair that split at her shoulder, half running down her back and the other half across her modest breasts. A weak smile formed on her sunken and drawn face as my eyes met her dark, brooding eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess you could say I’m a trucker.”

She paused for a second and said, “Just because you drive a truck doesn’t make you a trucker.” Before I could respond, she added, “It’s a line from King of the Hill.”

I knew what King of the Hill was, an animated TV sitcom, and I’d heard that line before referring to Hank Hill being told by a ‘trucker’ that just because he drove a truck didn’t make him a ‘trucker’ — but I hadn’t actually seen it. “I think I qualify,” I said rather matter-of-factly.

She popped a couple more fries into her mouth and then wiped her hand on a napkin before offering it to me and said, “Hi, I’m Donna.”

Accepting her handshake, I said, “Hi Donna, I’m Sterling.”

“Sterling,” she said, “that’s a pretty name.” I nodded but didn’t offer any background or explanation. “So, what do you drive?” she asked before releasing her grip.

I realized she was flirting with me, but at this point, I wasn’t quite sure where she was going with it. “A Kenworth — a Kenworth W900,” I said.

She took a long drag on the straw in her Coke before saying, “Wow — a K-Whopper.”

“It’s simply a Kenworth,” I said with some pride.

She paused again and then asked, “Does it have a sleeper?”

“Oh yeah,” I said.

“I’d love to see it,” she said. And then, realizing that I was still a little uneasy about her curiosity, she added, “I’ve always been fascinated by big trucks.”

“Okay,” I said. I paid my dinner 1xbet güvenilirmi tab, and Donna appeared to leave the exact amount for her Coke and fries — no tip. As we walked out to where the trucks were parked, I noticed for the first time what she was wearing. She had on a white Western-style shirt with snaps instead of buttons, a blue-Denim mini-skirt (very mini), and clog-style high heel shoes. I deliberately fell a little behind as we walked across the parking lot. My first thought was, ‘how in the hell can she walk in those shoes?’ But, my second thought, and probably more the prevailing thought, was, ‘I wonder what’s under that skirt?’

As we approached my truck, she noticed that Kelly’s name was still written on the side of the sleeper. “Is your truck named Kelly?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “That’s my ex-wife’s name. I just haven’t scraped it off yet. I just call the truck ‘Old Blue’ now,”

“Old Blue, because you miss your ex?” Donna asked.

“No, just because she is old and she’s blue — that’s all,” I said as I unlocked the door. As the door swung open, Donna scampered up the boarding ladder and quickly settled into the driver’s seat. I tried to glance up her skirt — and it appeared to me that she wasn’t wearing anything at all. Of course, I didn’t get a very good look, and it was possible that she was wearing a thong.

“Wow, do you know what all these gauges are for?” she asked as she tightly gripped the steering wheel as if she was driving her daddy’s pickup.

“Yeah, I certainly hope so,” I said, still not quite sure of her motivation.

She then placed her hand on the gear shift and wiggled it. “How many gears do you have,” she asked.

“Thirteen,” I said as I stepped up on the boarding ladder — primarily to keep an eye on her.

“Wow, do you use them all,” she said. But before I could answer, she looked back over her shoulder at the sleeper and asked, “So is this where you sleep?”

I climbed up to the cab and peered in, she already had her hand on my bed, and she was patting it. “Do you mind?” she asked with a guilty smile.

I shook my head no, and she immediately moved from the driver’s seat to the bed. She stopped long enough to kick off her clogs and then laid down on her back, looking up at the ceiling. I first moved to the driver’s seat and then to the edge of the bed.

“Are these your kids?” she asked, looking at the pictures I had taped on the sleeper wall.

I nodded yes, but before I could say anything, she was already starting to rub my thigh. I realized she was moving fast and that I was just along for the ride. I had not had sex in over a year — and I was now a divorced man — so what the hell. This chick was going to fuck me, so I might as well let it happen and enjoy it.

In less than a minute, she was rubbing my crotch and said in a low sexy voice, “Now there’s the K-Whopper I was looking for.”

It was certainly nowhere near a bona fide erection, but I was definitely twitching. And figuring that I needed to get one going pretty fast, or this party would be starting without me, I began rubbing Donna’s exposed legs. That did seem to help my shy pecker, but I definitely needed more if I was going to get the pending job done.

I’m sure sensing my need for additional stimulation, she raised her opposite knee and rested it against the sleeper’s back wall. This caused her mini-skirt to ride up, exposing her crotch. Well, that at least answered the question as what she was wearing beneath that next-to-nothing piece of fabric she had on around her waist. It was a black satin thong, and it certainly wasn’t covering very much, which seeing, further helped my budding erection.

This continued for about two minutes until she could start to actually feel things developing under my zipper. Sensing that I was getting properly aroused, she removed her hand from my leg long enough to grab the collar of her western shirt, and with both hands, pulled it wide open. As her shirt came flying open, I instantly realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. With her chest now fully exposed, two very nice titties were immediately revealed. Now, since she was laying on her back, her ample B-cup boobs were sort of flattened out and rolled softly to the sides. Her dark brown nipples were hard and erect, and it was pretty apparent those supple mammaries had nursed more than a couple of kids. But still, to a man that hadn’t had sex in almost a year, they looked awfully good. Sort of like two milk-chocolate Hersey Kisses sitting atop two fluffy mounds of fresh snow.

As I leaned over to kiss those sweet milk chocolate nubs, she quickly returned her hand to my zipper. I kissed one titty and then started gently sucking on the other. This was clearly getting her aroused — as well as me — and there is no doubt she could begin to feel the rise in my Levi’s.

I felt her start to struggle with my belt buckle, and as soon as I realized that she wasn’t making much progress — I sat up, unbuckled my belt, and zipped down my fly. She quickly helped me push my pants down to my knees, and then just as quickly, she hiked up her skirt and swung her outside leg over my head. I scooted up between her legs, supporting myself over her body with both of my arms out straight.

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