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From: Danhol900@aol.com
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Subject: Brutal Trucker Sex #7
Date: Wed, 03 Jan 2007 20:47:22 -0600
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Here's Chapter 7 of the Brutal Trucker Sex story.  I hope you enjoy  it.  Let 
me know what you think.  _danhol900@aol.com_ (mailto:danhol900@aol.com) 
 
 
Brutal Trucker Sex #7 
Recap  of Chapter 6 for context: 
 ...Then Kincaid made a single hash mark on my left butt cheek  saying, "that'
s one men, who's up for number two?"  I was concerned as Madd-dog and 
Kincaid  switched positions, Kincaid's cock was still hard and covered with a gritty 
 slimy paste that had a consistency somewhere between toothpaste and raw  
eggs.  The No-Slip powder had gelled  to a creamy consistency with a chemical 
taste that was hard to get entirely off  Georges cock with my tongue and throat 
muscles but I did my very best trying to  clean the softening cock.  I sure as  
shit didn't want a pissed-off trucker in this nasty horned-up crowd.  My 
mouth quickly became coated with the  slimy mess and I knew the next trucker in 
was going to tear up my throat with  the grit.  I was even more horrified  as I 
felt Madd-dog putting fresh No-Slip powder on his own gigantic black cock  
knowing I was in for even a worse time from the black cock of this sadistic  
trucker.  
The  rest of the night was a blur.  I  became a total fuck tube for the rest 
of the truckers as they lined up and drove  their hard cocks inside me for 
release of their pent up fuck juices.  I learned to control my spasms to give  
them as much pleasure as I could.  I  fell into a sort of trance but 
occasionally I'd hear things like, "That's number  4", "7th down the throat" or "I'm 
fucking lucky number 13 ya fuckers" and so on  throughout the night.   
I had  drifted into a shallow sleep and when I sensed that the truckers had 
spent  themselves I heard Mr. Spignotti get up, still dressed in his fine silk 
suit and  stroll over to the table, pick my head up and slap me to wake me up 
saying,  "You've done pretty well on the second part of the interview kid, 
now its my  turn and I'm not easy like these fuckers here have been", an evil 
grin crossed  his face. 
Brutal Trucker Sex Chapter 7.   
Mr.  Spignotti's turn. 
Mr.  Spignotti knelt down and with his mouth near my ear whispered so as not 
to  disturb the exhausted and drained truckers, "Shit faggot", he snarled, "I 
know  you enjoyed the fuck out of that and we're not even fuckin close to 
being done  yet.  Your hard little dickie here  told everybody that.   I know  
your tight little pussy and throat are still pulsing like my men here", he  
gestured with his arm, "are still pounding away at you, aren't they cunt?"  And 
he was right, it was like my body  had some kind of nervous and muscular memory 
and I could still feel the rigid  cocks of the truckers tearing into me 
causing increasing levels of pain and  humiliation even though the actual rape had 
stopped.  My mind was felt only loosely connected  to my body at this point as 
the physical and psychological torture of the brutal  sadistic gang-rape by 
the band of foul, sweaty, horny truckers was replayed in  slow agonizing motion 
in my mind.  This physical memory is like when you've spent the whole day on 
the ocean  and can still feel the rocking even on land.  In this case it wasn'
t rocking but  fucking, gagging and cumming inside my holes I could feel.   I 
felt violated anew,  psychologically this time, to think that Mr. Spignotti 
actually understood my  inner most thoughts and feelings.  I  tried to block 
this out and fight against this new intrusion yet my nerve  endings were dancing 
and firing like the assault was still going  on. 
And  yet, very quietly Mr. Spignotti coaxed me into a trance-like state; 
reliving the  horrors of the brutal gang rape I had just endured.  With my arms 
and legs still duct taped  to the four legs of the table I was completely 
vulnerable and at the mercy of  whatever these horny sadists wanted.  I vaguely 
remembered that several times during the last 4 or 5 hours  there had been similar 
lulls when I had allowed myself to imagine that the  tortures were over, only 
to be disappointed with the arrival of fresh horny  truckers or the awakening 
of those asleep on the cots and floor.  Now I had the man who had planned 
this  whole thing, the brutal sadistic leader of them all, whispering in my ear 
that  there was a hell of a lot more that I'd have to endure before I "got the 
 job".  Got the job, got the fuckin  job?!!  I couldn't believe it!! I'd  
have run like hell if I could get out of there but as it was I was forced to  
endure whatever Mr. Spignotti and his men wanted.  I tried to tell him this but 
my mouth  and voice had stopped working hours ago and all I could do was croak 
out some  pathetic garbled and incomprehensible, and apparently humorous 
gibberish.   
Mr.  Spignotti loved that fact that his men had subdued me, broken me and 
used me  with such devastating results that I was unable to even voice my  
objections.  "They've fucked the  voice right out of you, haven't they sweetheart?"
 he snidely commented.  Next, he mockingly pretended to  understand my 
comments and added words to my mouth that I did not intend to say  but could not 
rebuke.  He said  things like, "Yes baby, I know you want more hard trucker cock"
, "just can't  seem to get enough can you sweetie pie?". "OK beautiful, we'
ll wake up your  boyfriends here for more fun" and "What's that sweet cakes, 
you say your butt  hole is just aching for more poundin, you disgusting piece 
of white trash slut  you"  The distain was clear in his  whispered voice and 
it was obvious he considered me beneath contempt.   
I had  long ago figured out that when Mr. Spignotti hated you he addressed 
you with  terms of endearment and when he wanted to express camaraderie he 
called you  insulting names like shithead of asshole.  Many times during the night 
he'd addressed his men as "fuckers" or  "scumbags" or worse but for me it 
was obvious that he viewed me with utter  contempt with sweet musings and terms 
of endearments.   
He  added, "I've got to admit it though slut, the boys sure seemed to get a 
kick out  of you.  But now it's my turn to  play, you like that idea baby?"  
My  mouth was unable to form the words of my true feelings but to add insult 
to my  degradation Mr. Spignotti grabbed my hair and forced my head to nod in 
the  affirmative and said mockingly, "I thought you'd want that baby and I'm 
sure you  want me to really enjoy myself, don't you, you baby?" The anger 
again grew in  his voice and I was getting scared about exactly what this sadistic 
and powerful  man had in mind.  After all, if  these horny truckers, who 
really only wanted to release their pent up cum, could  cause me so much pain and 
damage; what would a man like Mr. Spignotti, who  obviously enjoyed my pain 
and degradation, do? 
With  Mr. Spignotti on his knees, still dressed in his expensive suit at my 
head, and  me tied to the table legs with duct tape he got my head into a 
painful head lock  and held me tight and pressed his mouth even closer to my ear as 
he started to  trace the manicured forefinger nail of his right hand along my 
sore and  brutalized body.  Each touch caused  me incredible pain and I found 
myself concentrating solely on his melodious  voice in my ear and the sliding 
of his nail along my skin.  My body involuntarily twitched to his  touch.  He 
purred into my ear with  his guttural voice, "You love the pain this single 
finger is causing you ain't  you sweetie pie?"  He dragged his  nail slowly 
and painfully across my stretched body enjoying my uncontrollable  physical 
reactions, my skin twitched and reddened everywhere he touched me.   
"You  lost your voice while Madd-dog was fucking the shit out of you, do you 
remember  that, sweetheart?  Thought we'd have  to turn on the radio or 
something to drown out the fucking screams but all you  accomplished besides loosing 
your fuckin voice was to bring in a few more  truckers that I hadn't even 
thought to invite.  Shit, babycakes, your 'love callin'  brought in some of the 
worst fuckers in the place and they really got my balls  boiling watchin 'em 
havin their special brand of fun", he informed me to my  embarrassment and 
shame. 
Then  Mr. Spignotti did something that was totally surprising to me, he 
dragged his  finger back along my spine causing a shiver until his finger rode over 
my butt  cheeks and onto my hard sore and swollen cock and balls.  I'd been 
so intent on the truckers using  my mouth and butt hole for their sadistic 
pleasures and urgent release that I  had completely forgotten my own needs.  Mr. 
Spignotti sensed my body stiffen in recognition of this fact and  whispered in 
my ear, "Yes siree baby, your cock has been rock hard the whole  time they 
were fucking the shit out of you.  That's the only thing that kept the  fuckers 
going, baby, knowing that you were enjoying it all, that somewhere deep  inside 
you the scum sucking whore slut inside of you was enjoying the shit out  of 
it all.  All this despite your  fuckin 'innocent pleadings' and protests.  But 
shit, boy, I'm not like them.  It was your fuckin pleading that kept my dick 
hard the whole time".   
My  body had betrayed my true inner most feelings, the feelings I could not 
bring my  self to admit before; that I loved the pain and humiliation these men 
had caused  me, that fulfilling their needs at my own expense fed some kind 
of inner hunger  in me and that I felt contented and satisfied because of it .  
I had unwittingly encouraged the brutal  truckers to be as rough and 
aggressive as they wanted.  My complete inner shame showed on my  face as I blushed 
like a virgin bride on her wedding day.  
Suddenly I realized my balls were painfully full to  overflowing, but I knew 
instinctively Mr. Spignotti wasn't about to relieve  their pent up pressure 
anytime soon.  A man like him would relish the total control he had over me and 
use it  against me for his own pleasure.  He  gently stroked his finger nail 
across my hard cock to allow me to concentrate on  my needs as he kept me just 
shy of climax and retold the story of the last 5  hours in a whispered 
testosterone drenched dialog.  He asked me if I remembered the new game  the truckers 
had developed tonight called "honey buns hockey"?  "You're a fuckin star 
player sweetheart,  a fuckin MVP" he chided me.   
I  vaguely remembered, or had the memories implanted, as Mr. Spignotti 
clearly  relished telling me about a struggle that developed while I was taking one 
horny  trucker in each end.  The one at my  butt started thrusting so hard he 
knocked the other out of my sucking mouth and  shoved the table about 6" 
forward in the process.  Well the pissed off trucker at my mouth  shoved balls deep 
back in my mouth and shoved forward and the table then moved  about 4" back 
the other way.  A  rivalry soon developed as each man tried to show his 
superiority by fucking me  harder and moving the table back and forth in the process. 
  
There  was good-natured taunting between the brutes initiated and encouraged 
by Mr.  Spignotti himself.  I felt shame as  I recalled that I knew 
intuitively that the only way I could make the painful  game end was if I was to make 
each trucker cum as quickly as possible.  I worked my ass muscles and throat  
muscle to try to end the game sooner.  My inner shame came from the fact that 
Mr. Spignotti knew me so  intimately that he knew my thoughts.  Of course for 
these men the one who shoved the hardest and held out the  longest won the 
contest.  It didn't  take long for the men to form teams, with Mr. Spignotti's 
encouragement, so that  once one team member succumbed to the inevitable and 
dumped his slimy trucker's  load inside one hole his teammate took his place.  The 
table apparently made several  complete rounds of the room since it was in 
one corner when I was first taped to  it and on the complete other side now, who 
knew how many trips across I'd been  driven but the sound of satisfaction in 
Mr. Spignotti's voice indicated I'd make  several crossings.   
Mr.  Spignotti then informed me, "You know we have a Honey Buns Hockey 
Champion,  don't you?" He nodded in the direction of a large, muscular man of about 
45  stretched out on a cot.  "That there  is Vinton Brundt and I promised the 
winner there that when it was time to send  you on the road he'd get first 
crack at you for shotgun.  Shit, the fucker tore you up pretty good  so I guess 
we'll need to toughen you up before I send you cross country with  that 
bastard, baby cakes.  But you'd  like that wouldn't you Vinton?" he asked the 
trucker on the cot.  The trucker half-opened his eyes and  just smiled an evil 
wicked smile that spoke volumes.   
Vinton Brundt looked gigantic lying down, at least 6-3 and  about 300 lbs of 
maturing muscle and black body hair.  Brandt looked like a man who had  
outgrown his own skin with bulging chest, arms and legs and shaved head, a thick  
walrus-like salt and pepper goatee and black hair on chest arms legs, balls,  
back and ass crack with Swastikas tattoos on his arms, shoulders, and back.  He 
had about 5 days stubble on his chin  and a prominent dark unibrow and a 
sloping forehead, thick lips and large flat  nose that may have been broken in more 
then a few fist fights.  Most scary to me however were his cold  blue-grey 
eyes and his evil smile and crocked teeth.  He had the look of a man who knows 
what  he wants and takes it without regard to anyone he considers beneath him.  
Vinton Brandt had a body and face that  combined the looks of a trucker with 
those of a biker.  The thought of being at his mercy for an  entire cross 
country trip in a rig made me scared but strangely also made my  cock jerked a 
little. Mr. Spignotti and Brundt both noticed and shared a knowing  look and 
laugh at my shame.  My face  reddened as my shame was exposed. 
Mr.  Spignotti then continued in his smooth masculine voice telling me how he 
 imagined my cross-country trip with Brundt would go; as much for me as to 
let  Brundt know what he expected.  He  informed me that, "Brundt would probably 
call all his buddies on the CB and  suggest a private meeting place, maybe a 
greasy spoon, truck stop lounge, adult  book store or ware house like this 
anywhere across the country.  Then he'd pass around the polaroids of  you tonight 
to give the men ideas and maybe suggest a game of 'hockey' to warm  up the 
men.  Shit, Brundt here would  probably know some of the best players but I'm 
sure he'd come out on top in any  game of 'hockey' after seeing him play 
tonight, wouldn't you fucker?  Shit, the fucker might even make some  extra cash by 
charging a small fee to join the game".  "The secret is volume son", Mr.  
Spignotti sneered condescendingly, "god damned sheer fucking volume", as a  
sadistic smile was shared between the two and both men seemed to dissolve in  
sadistic laughter at the mental image. 
Mr.  Spignotti was such a strong storyteller I felt like I was living the  
events.  I was scared, humiliated  and more turned on then I'd been in my life.  
My dick was so close to cumming, all it  would take was a single stroke of 
Mr. Spignotti's nail to push me over.  A brutal slap of my balls sent sharp  
pain to my balls, nausea to my stomach and drove the urge to cum from my mind  
even as my cock got even more rigid and sadistic laughter purged forth from both 
 Mr. Spignotti and Brundt. 
This  is as good a place to end installment #7 as any.  I'm working to put my 
memories of the  next part on that night down now.   Comments and suggestions 
welcome.  Let me know what you think. 
Danhol900@aol.com
20070103204722
