Ah, another satisfying conversation with Gareth on the CB. I haven’t spoken to him for a while–apparently his travels haven’t brought him through my neck of the woods lately, but as soon as he can, he dials into my frequency, begging me to let him shower. It’s been weeks, he tells me, but his fear of water just gets worse. He reeks, he says, but I console him. Surely he must enjoy it, I tell him.

He eventually admits that he does, and soon I have him sniffing his pits and jacking off on the road. He begs me to stop, to let him go, but then he’s back to his usual piggy self. Still, it was a bit unfair for him to never get a shower.

He tried not to listen when I told him to piss himself, when I told him that the only kind of showers he really wants anyway are golden ones from biker gangs and other dirty truckers like himself. He fought for a little, but then he did it–pissed his pants on the road, and came right after. I talked him into two more orgasms before he slipped out of range again, but he’s gonna be plenty soaked from here on out. Dang, I should’ve had him swing by my place–now I have a hard-on and it ain’t gonna suck itself. Oh hold on, there’s Clyde. That pig’ll do anything for a cock in his cunt–I’ll meet him out at Indian Crest and give him a good fucking instead, and maybe ram my fist up there for good measure.