Mr Martinez Part 1
Trent was driving home from a work meeting. He'd been on the road for the past three days, visiting offices in 4 cities across California's central coast.
As usual the boys around San Luis Obispo were mostly teases. He'd chat with a few on the apps, but when it came time for one to come over and play, they chickened out. College boys! They talked a big game about wanting to serve him as a pain pig or his personal bondage slut for a night or two while he was in town, but when they finally came to his hotel room, they turned vanilla, wanted to be fucked hard and sent home. That always left him feeling unsatisfied.
A night spent in Bakersfield yielded worse results. Nobody responded to his profile but old men and tweakers.
He was finally on the home stretch, though. Friday afternoon, the sun was shining, and Roseville was just ahead. He'd call some friends to hang out. Maybe invite one of his regular submissive hookups to spend the weekend with him.
Unfortunately, the suit was feeling too confining on this stretch of desolate highway. I5 was a very boring drive. Trent decided he would pull over at the next truck stop, stretch his legs, take a leak, change into something more casual, and maybe work a load out.
The next exit was only 5 miles ahead.
Trent pulled his rental car into the expansive parking lot at a big truck stop--the kind with pumps for trucks and cars on opposite sides and showers available for professional drivers. It was early enough in the afternoon that weekenders with their families hadn't yet hit the road. Most of the people at this remote truck stop were actually truckers. The few others were road warriors who, like Trent, spent much of their time behind the wheel.
Trent felt out of place wearing his light grey tailored suit with a pink shirt and brown dress shoes. He left his tie in the car but donned his jacket as the slacks were cut too tightly to hold his wallet without being visible. He'd rather show off his ass than his wallet. The others at this gas station were wearing jeans and t-shirts. Most looked as if they hadn't been washed recently. Most hadn't. That's why they were waiting around here.
Trent carried his gym bag over his shoulder. It would be easier to put on his sweaty gym gear than to dig around in his suitcase for something appropriate. He found himself a Diet Coke in the refrigerator case and headed to the cashier to pay, then walked to the bathrooms.
The men's room needed cleaning, that much was clear from the smells in the room. The stalls were occupied. He waited until one came available. The previous occupant didn't flush. Lovely.
Trent flushed the toilet then started undressing, careful to hang his good suit on a hook over the door so it wouldn't be soiled on the filthy floor. He opened his gym bag and pulled a pair of shower shoes out to stand on. Soon, those were his only clothing.
Trent pulled a paper liner and carefully covered the toilet seat so he could sit while he wanked. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket, found his favorite Twitter feeds and jerked off to pictures and videos of hairless gym built himbos celebrating their tiny cocks locked in minuscule cages and getting used by bigger, manlier, hairier men. While he was fapping his dick, he didn't bother to lower the volume of the videos he watched. He helped him drown out the noises of the truckers shitting in the next stalls.
He was getting close when he heard a knock at the door.
"Fucking move it already! Stop fagging out in there." The comment was followed by laughter from a few guys.
He wasn't sure if the knock was from the next stall or the door. Didn't matter. The mood was ruined. He was hornier than before but with a limp dick. Now his welcome had run out.
Fine. Trent opened his bag, pulled out his running shorts and Under Armor t-shirt and pulled them on.
"Ha! He's naked in there!"
"Probably cruising for dick!"
"You want some of mine, gringo puta?"
He nervously pulled his wallet and keys out of his suit and out them in his gym bag--his shorts had no pockets. The bag held his diet coke, socks, toiletries, running shoes, and a few sex toys in case inspiration struck at the gym: handcuffs, lube, a couple dildos, a vibrating butt plug, and a chastity cage. He did what he could to carefully fold the suit and shirt over his arm. He was shaking.
"Now fag! Flush, wipe, and go!" The voices heckled.
Trent nervously pulled the stall door open, knowing the men were outside ready to humiliate him further--and who knows what else. The man puffed up his chest and did his best not to pay attention to the catcalls as he walked past.
Just before he reached the bathroom door to the safety of the convenience store, one of the men put a foot out and tripped Trent. He went tumbling headfirst into the door. His bag flew one way, his suit managed to hit a puddle near the urinals along the wall. Some of the men laughed. Others realized their games had gone too far and dispersed. A couple stepped over Trent's body to leave the room. Only one seemed to show any compassion at all, barked something in Spanish to the instigators who quieted down, and helped Trent to his feet.
Trent's vision was still blurry but he saw at the 6'3" foot tall, middle-aged, beefy latino in wranglers, pointed boots, and a sweat stained t-shirt a couple sizes too small helped the younger man up with one arm.
"You're okay bro? They were just messin' around. Be cool. I will get you to your car, get some water. You're okay," the man assured Trent.
The tall latino dwarfed Trent's smaller 5'7" frame and was easily able to get the man to his feet. He also collected the gym bag and soiled suit, shoving the piss-soaked suit messily into the bag. Trent started to protest and gave up, realizing it really didn't matter at this point. The man led Trent out the door, waited for Trent to point out his car, and headed that way. He took the keys from Trent's open bag, opened the back door to the car and helped Trent in.
"You dizzy still, mijo? Sit here, lemme get you some water." The man walked back to his own truck, parked nearby, still carrying Trent's gym bag over a shoulder. He returned moments later with an opened, half consumed, bottle of water. He handed it to Trent and told him to sip it slowly.
"Um. Thanks. I just got the wind knocked out of me is all," Trent thanked the man for his help.
"Here's your bag. I put your clothes in here," the man said as he pulled out the stained, wrinkled mess of Trent's favorite suit and tossed them carelessly behind Trent onto the floorboard of the car. "What you got in here anyway?"
As he asked the question, the man reached in and pulled out a few of the items: A dildo, a vibrating butt plug, and a shiny metal chastity cage. "This is some kinky shit! You into all that shit?"
Trent wanted to disappear. "Er. Um. Yeah. Well, sometimes."
You should sit here a little bit until you're ready. I'm going to be in my rig over there for a little while, if you need anything, you just yell and I'll be right here," the man offered a concerned smile.
"Thank you, um Mr. I guess I didn't get your name. I'm Trent."
"Martinez" the man put out a hand for a fist bump. Trent awkwardly reciprocated.
Trent put his head forward so it would stop spinning. It wasn't really even the injury anymore as much as the adrenaline rush leaving his body and the intense humiliation he felt. He tried to pull himself together. He took a deep breath and continued to sip the water.
First things first, he thought. He inspected himself. He reeked of sweat, piss, and who knows what else. He reached behind him and pulled up what was left of his suit. It definitely smelled of piss. The pants were probably ruined--they got the worst of the dirt (he hoped it was dirt)--but the jacket was mostly unscathed. The shirt would be salvageable with a washing machine. He lifted himself out of the back seat, closed the door and entered the drivers seat.
He inspected the gauges and remembered that he needed more gas. His head still spinning, Trent took a deep breath before turning the engine over. He slowly pulled forward and headed toward a gas pump. Unfortunately, Trent's vision must have still been too fuzzy, because he bumped a car ahead of him when he pulled into the pump. Trent avoid any damage, but Martinez was still watching.
Trent got out of the rental car, walked to the passenger side, and began filling his tank. He was replaying the events of the afternoon and trying to get his wits together with his eyes closed, leaned over the trunk of the car. He never noticed Mr. Martinez walking up beside him.
The trucker licked his finger and, in one smooth motion, put his enormous hand down Trent's running shorts and a wet finger deep into Trent's crack. Trent involuntarily moaned and pushed back on the man's finger, pressing it against the boy's hole. Mr. Martinez used his strength to pull the younger man against his massive frame. Trent was stunned as he found his face pressed into Mr. Martinez's sweaty shirt. He could feel the man's solid pecs through the thin knit. He breathed in the scent deeply as the man pressed his finger into Trent's ass.
"You like that gringo? Of course you do, mijo! I will still take care of you," the man cooed into Trent's ear. Trent only whimpered in response as he faded away and passed out in the man's arms.
Mr. Martinez held the younger man up with the arm currently down the boy's shorts and used his other to open the passenger door to sit him down. Mr. Martinez, pulled the gas pump from the car, and drove to the nearest urgent care.
Trent came to pretty quickly but Mr. Martinez insisted he needed a doctor. The small town doctors took Trent into the back while the Latino waited in the waiting room for a few minutes. Eventually, he gave his cell number to the front desk and took the rental car back to the nearest Hertz car rental and dropped the keys off. He called a friend in town who brought him a beat up old pickup truck to use for a few days--or as long as he wanted--and returned to the clinic.
Mr. Martinez waiting for a little while longer before Trent was finally released. The doctors didn't find a concussion but encouraged him to stay hydrated, take an Advil, and get some rest. Trent was surprised to see Mr. Martinez and confused that his rental car had already been returned, but relieved that his belongings were all still there. He saw his suitcase in the back of the rusty old pickup along with his suit on the seat. His suit was sitting on the bench seat of the truck.
Trent protested that he really needed to go home but Mr. Martinez ignored it. "I have a motel. You need to rest. Papi will take care of his boy."
Trent didn't know what to do. Even if he got out of the car right now, his phone, keys and wallet were either in the gym bag or with Mr. Martinez. And he had no way to get home from here--he wasn't even entirely sure where here was! He barely even had clothes on--just a spandex athletic shirt and very short running shorts that he'd rolled around on a filthy bathroom floor in just hours ago.
He went with the flow.
Martinez drove them to a seedy looking motel near the truck stop where they'd met and walked Trent up the stairs to the room, never removing his hand from the boy's ass. Trent knew what would eventually be coming and wasn't sure how to prevent it--or if he wanted to. For now, he was just went with it.