Fifty Bales of Hay (7 page)

‘Again,’ she said, ‘bite me again.’ It felt painfully addictive. He sunk his teeth into her dimpled flesh and began to suck. This time harder. Her skin bruised. Mottled where his mouth had been. Bronwyn screamed out. Her cry seemed to open the gate in him. She heard his quickened breath. His frantic hands grabbing, kneading, moulding her flesh, his fingers searching out her cunt until he began dipping deeply in and out of her wetness. Thumb inside her, his other fingers pressing hard and fast on her clitoris. She
bucked against him, her boots scrabbling on the concrete of the race.

‘Fuck me, please, Tom. Now.’ Then she felt his short thick cock plunge inside her. His hands gripped her hips and he slammed into her. She felt the delicious weight of his stomach hitting against her backside. Gritting her teeth against his thrusts, Bronwyn had to grab the sides of the cattle rails to steady herself. Her shoulders collected on the crush, and the solidity of the metal against her body felt good. Next his hands grappling for her tits. She heard his cry of pleasure as his hands roamed over the enormity of them.

‘Oh, god,’ he said, his mind drifting up somewhere to the ether of the outback sky. He pressured himself against her deeply and ground into her. Suddenly the stub of his cock hit a pleasure zone she didn’t know she had. An orgasm exploded and rushed through her body, causing a deep throaty bellow from her opened mouth. As she felt Tommy let go inside her and heard him cry out, she smiled, feeling the thick pulse of his cock.

Tommy stood for a time panting hard, stroking her backside gently as if it was the sides of a sheened and special horse. He stooped to kiss her on each large moonscape of her rounded bottom, then he helped draw her knickers and jeans up from where they were draped above her dusty work boots. He dragged up his own trousers and stepped out of the crush, pulled on the lever and released Bronwyn from the bale.

They rearranged their clothing in silence, breathing heavily, reeling from the surreal encounter, feeling the
earth settle back under their boots. Then, in the glowing light of the outback sun, Tommy passed Bronwyn his water cooler and jammed her hat back on her head.

‘You just made my day, Beanbag,’ Tommy said. ‘In fact, you just made my life.’

‘But,’ she said with a cheekiness in her tone, ‘you haven’t finished your job? What’s your score?’

Tommy pushed his thick fingers up under his hat and scratched his sweat-soaked black hair. He shook his head and his mouth opened up into a wide smile.

‘Off the scales, mate. But if you need a number, I’d score you a ten. Definitely a ten out of ten. You’re a keeper for sure.’

C
elia knew there was a good truck wash ahead, at a big set of saleyards about fifty kilometres out of Brisbane. She remembered pointing out the saleyards to Brian about six years ago. She had then made a suggestive comment about what she wanted to do with him when they got there. He had grabbed her hand as he drove the 18-wheeler and pressed her palm over the erection that was bulging inside his KingGee shorts. As Celia moved to change lanes, she glanced into the big oblong rear-view mirror of the truck to check for traffic and tensed her jaw. Those days with Brian as part of the driving partnership were long gone.

She sighed as she held onto the wheel, twisted her back a little and stretched. Then she flexed the muscles of her clutch leg, noticing her accelerator leg had caught too much sun through the window and was red compared to the tan of her other leg. She’d be so glad to get to the truck wash and have a bit of a walk and a cooldown in that splashing water. Celia knew it would be good to give the old girl a squirt before she pulled into the overnight motel on the outskirts of Brizzie, so the truck was clean when she picked up her backload of cattle tomorrow morning. And she didn’t
want to pong out the motel either, parked there overnight. Anyway, it was always a good idea to tackle the manure and urine while it was fresh; blast it out so it didn’t corrode the steel any more than it already did. It gave the trucks a longer lease of life too. God knows the trucks cost them a fortune. If only Brian would agree, she’d sell the lot of them and retire early. She often pictured herself lying in a tiny bikini on the verandah of one of those marina-style houses in Queensland. Maybe she should forget the backload of cattle, forget Brian and shift up here. She liked the sunshine.

At the ‘Livestock Selling Centre’ sign Celia dropped back a gear, felt the Mack truck ease off, rattling the ramps in the empty stock crate a little as the engine changed its thrum. She wondered if she should call Brian to say she’d delivered the sheep okay. But then, she thought bitterly, what would he care? She was sure he’d sent her on this long haul from Victoria just to get her out of the house and out of what was left of his hair. They had been arguing a lot lately, and in the aftermath of their fights they stalked around each other like cantankerous cats who had brawled enough to pull fur, but not enough to draw blood.

For the past two days of driving, Celia had drifted from anger, hurt and bitterness over Brian, to a loneliness, a longing and a horniness beyond belief. On the rougher roads, the vibrations of the truck had shimmered through the seams of her denim shorts, turning her on at the same time as rattling a dull misery into her that had settled in the pit of her stomach like a slow-moving stomach-ache. Celia longed for something exciting to happen in her life.
Anything. Anything to move her forward from the mire her life had become.

The closest she got to fun these days was cranking her
Best of Alan Jackson
CD to full throttle in the truck and winding down the window to let a blast of hot air ruffle up her bleached-blonde curly hair. Sometimes, for a laugh, she’d let out her ponytail and pull her singlet top down real, real low for the interstate drivers to gawp at on a slow cat-and-mouse double-lane pass. Even though she had no cleavage to speak of, she sometimes got the solid blast of an air horn in appreciation from one of the other truckers. But other than that (and maybe a Bundy at the end of the day), that was it. Her list of fun in life. Full stop.

All she had these days were the trucks and two rank ‘kids’ in the form of an ADHD Jack Russell and a paranoid Pomeranian cross that had a nervous bladder condition. And, of course, she had Brian. A grumpy forty-something-year-old husband, who, no matter how many lingerie outfits she bought from Bras N Things, wouldn’t make love to her. Or if she did finally talk him into it, she’d be left lying in a pool of no-use semen, feeling empty from his lacklustre performance and cold distance. He’d grumble that the ‘no kids factor’ was to do with her being too skinny and having tits like two tiny mozzie bites.

‘Fuckin’ kid’d starve with those things,’ he’d say, pointing at her chest.

But Celia knew different. She’d make a good mum. And the doctor’s tests said otherwise. It was Brian, for sure, who was the dud stud.

When she saw the fifty-kilometre marker, Celia felt relief seep through her that her day was almost over. She was looking forward to a shower, even though she recalled the motel bathroom had grimy checkerboard-patterned tiling in it. The kind that made you feel you needed to wear thongs and have another wash after standing behind the slimy plastic curtain with the small rounds of soap that looked and smelled like they belonged in men’s urinals. Maybe, Celia thought hopefully, they had renovated the motel bathrooms since her last stopover there. But she doubted it.

Celia rolled her eyes. She loved the trucks and the lifestyle they offered, if you could call any of it ‘style’. But, at the same time, she hated the trucks. All the driving gave her too much time to think, especially after reading a certain erotic novel she’d bought from the supermarket and the conversations with her friends that had followed. Thank god they didn’t yet have the books out on audio for the trucker blokes to buy. It would cause a double-lane pile-up for sure, if they listened to it and drove the big rigs at the same time.

After gossiping about the books with her women friends, Celia had discovered most of her girlfriends were quite different to her when it came to sex with their husbands. Most pretended to be asleep each time their men woke with a ‘morning glory’, or others would only ‘pay their husband with the hairy cheque book’ in return for new clothes or a trip to the Gold Coast in winter. It was after those gossipy talks that Celia realised she was different. She was always gagging for it. On that score, she and Brian had been mismatched from the start. Even in the early days of
their marriage, Brian was slacker than a Brahman steer’s pizzle when it came to bedroom action. He’d sooner wash the truck or suck on a smoke than put in a bit of effort in the sack. It took all Celia’s powers of persuasion to coax a quick shag from him on the lounge on a Saturday arvo during the footy half-time.

Celia sighed a long tired sigh that matched the sudden gushing release of her air brakes as she stopped the engine in the truck washbay. When she opened the door, she was hit with an intense blast of Queensland heat. It was a bit much for a Victorian, she thought. As she felt the burn of the concrete rise up through the soles of her steel-capped boots, she glanced around. There was one truck parked in the other washbay and clearly the driver was having a kip in the sleeper. Otherwise it was quiet. It was obviously a non-sale day — not one beast in the yards. Not a soul in sight.

She hauled off her ‘Brian’s Transport Service’ polo top and flicked it up into the cab. Wearing cut-off denim shorts that were vastly on the skimpy side and her white Bonds singlet, Celia went to find the high-pressure hose and try to work out the fancy credit-card swipe system. What did it matter she was wearing no bra? She had no tits anyway, as Brian constantly reminded her.

She stood with one hip jutting out and studied the payment instructions on the washbay machine. It was all Greek to her, no matter how many times she read the step-by-step instructions. She tapped the credit card on her bottom lip and frowned at the machine, muttering at it.

The silence was shattered when Celia heard the vibrating throb of the next washbay pump kick in and a solid jet of water hit the metal sides of the other truck nearby. She glanced over.

‘Smart bastard,’ she said, envious that that trucker had his hose on the go.

After a few more swipes and a few more button-punchings, there was still no response. Buggered if she could get the thing working. She thought she’d better go ask for help while there was someone about at the deserted saleyards.

Walking to the rear of the big B-double, she eyed the Northern Territory plates on the giant International. Judging from the smell, and the soupy slops that were running from the stock crate’s metal sides onto the concrete and through the metal grille of the drainage system, the truck had just carted cattle. She was about to call out ‘Hello’ when a jet of water as powerful as a cannon hit her full force in the chest. Gasping, she saw beyond the spray a thickset man. He stepped back with a look of utter surprise on his face. Then a look of apology ran to his expression when he saw he had hit a woman full force with his hose. He quickly mouthed ‘Sorry’ as he pointed the nozzle away from her, the jets of water juddering up from the concrete, casting mini-rainbows into the air.

Celia was about to give him what-for when she realised the blast of water was a welcome relief from the heat and actually felt bloody good … a bit friggin’ hard, but good. And he had looked really funny with that ‘Oh, shit!’
expression on his face. She began to giggle as she realised they both must’ve looked equally funny. Then Celia began to laugh. She swiped her bleached-blonde hair from her forehead and walked over to the man. She could see the relief in him as he looked at her laughing face.

‘Sorry, love,’ he said, chuckling and grimacing at the same time, comically. ‘Didn’t see you there. Honest.’

He had to shout over the jet blasts spurting from the water gun. Celia took in his bull-like neck and short-cropped dark hair. He wore a faded blue singlet and jeans. He was so stocky the legs of his jeans folded over on themselves and pooled in a ripple of cuffs at his lace-up work boots. Steel caps, she noticed, like hers. She sucked in a breath. Maybe it was the cold water? Maybe the heat of the day? Maybe the stretch of broken white lines and hot bitumen she’d just travelled? But there was something utterly sexy about him. She continued to smile.

‘I just came to ask for a hand,’ she shouted over the thrumming pump, ‘with the credit card.’ She thumbed in the direction of her washbay.

He nodded and smiled, his eyes roving to her erect nipples that were clearly showing through her singlet. When she realised, shocked, he could see every bit of her breasts, she felt blood gush to her cheeks and then, uncontrollably, to her pussy.

‘I’ll be right with you, love,’ he said. ‘I’m on a timer, so just let me finish up here.’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Wish we’d had a camera. That would’ve made it on to
Australia’s Funniest Home Videos
.’
Then she turned and left him to his uncontrollable smiling and the task of hosing out his Inty. As she walked away, she also took from him the haunting feeling of a desire so powerful she could feel her wet nipples burn and tingle.

As Celia went back to her truck, she looked down at her clinging wet singlet, which was already starting to warm in the evening heat. She glanced back at the man. He didn’t know she was watching, but she saw him reach down to adjust the erection that was very obvious in the jeans he was wearing. He saw her looking and, with embarrassment, quickly turned away.

Suddenly a rampaging desire flooded her fully. Shielded now by the giant cliff-sides of her truck, Celia shut her eyes and hopped from one foot to the other in a dance of frustration. If she didn’t come in her pants soon, she thought she would die. All those months of pent-up tension. All those months and months of nothingness.

She thought of the man at the truck and his strong broad shoulders. His big handsome belly. And, mostly, his eyes roaming over her body as if she was as tasty as a chicken Wing Ding. She thought about the erection that she had caused.
She had caused!
She leaned her back against the side of the truck, feeling the hot steel press into her wet skin. Desperate, breathing hard, she hastily undid the top button of her shorts and shoved her hand down the front of her pants. Then she buried a finger deep inside her hot wet vagina and gasped with relief, just to feel her own sex. With her other hand, she grappled at her breasts. It didn’t take her long to find her rhythm. She was stunned at how
wet she was. How soft and pliable her sex was. Her fingers weren’t enough. More, she thought, she was desperate for more. As she fingered herself and pressed the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb onto her clitoris, she felt herself on the brink of climax. Her thigh muscles tight. Her head pounding. Her back pressed hard against the pungent, rich-smelling stock crate. The sky contracting in her vision. Her one aim was to come. To explode the feeling of imprisonment from her tightly wound body. She opened her mouth and rubbed faster. Harder. Almost there.

But at that moment the man appeared around the side of the truck’s cab. A look of shock passed instantly across his face. His expression morphed again into embarrassment, but before he turned away, Celia recognised in his eyes that same wave of desire. Hastily she pulled her hand from her shorts, did the button up and walked after him. He had his back to her, making his way to his truck.

‘Bloody wedgie,’ she said with blokey bravado. ‘Been shitting me since the Gold Coast. Sorry ’bout that. Don’t know who invented G-strings. Silly idea.’ Her cheeks were flame red. So were his. She stood breathing hard before him. A silent pulse of time between them. Her eyes softened. The loneliness washed through her again. The weariness of her life.

‘You asked for a hand?’ he said gently, his voice quavering a little. He did nothing now to hide the wanting in him and the way his penis pressed tight against the fabric of his jeans.

‘Yes. I’d love a hand.’

‘And whereabouts would you like this hand?’ His voice carried the heavy weight of sexual suggestion, but also a dryness of humour, and Celia noted a tone of kindness. His eyes passed over her breasts and looked down at her crutch. Celia realised he hadn’t bought the wedgie line. He knew what she had been doing. She decided to play the haughty card. God knows she’d needed it many times on the trucking route, where some of the driving men were as sleazy as some nightclub bouncers or professional football players.

Celia tossed her head in the air like a right snob. ‘You should know I’m married,’ she said with finality, and walked back to the truck washbay.