Date: Tue, 30 Jan 2018 22:42:35 -0500
From: 86tigers <86tigers@protonmail.com>
Subject: The Hitchhiker Archetype 5

The Hitchhiker V

If you want to read about a stunning journey from one end of the Americas
to the other, a liberatory road-trip akin to Motorcycle Diaries or Thema &
Louise, you will not find it here; for fear of the length of such a tale,
and avoidance of the stress and misery of such an ordeal, the author shall
skip a great deal of time and misery.

Traveling is only a pleasure if you have (fantastic amounts of) money with
which to take care of the endless obstacles and nonstop necessities:
parking, sleeping, eating, drinking, repairing, recovering, escaping,
getting lost, having sex, breathing oxygen, and even looking at the road
seem sometimes to cost money.

Fortunately, Miguel had saved a heap of it. Literally. And he was not
foolish enough to keep it all in cash, but had deposited the vast majority
of it where it would be safe. The rest, as I may have mentioned, was inside
a cafe bustelo can discreetly strapped inside the under-chassis of the car.

Passing the U.S./Mexico border was easily the most stressful thing they had
anticipated, and yet it was over in fifteen minutes. Perhaps because Miguel
looked somewhat seedy, the border guards looked in the trunk and a dog came
around quickly to search for drugs, but they had nothing there. They were
waved on, and they passed through Nogales and onward with no trouble.

At nights, they would drive into strange little haciendas and get food and
drink and sit on plastic stools and talk to locals, and Sam's lack of
Spanish would confuse their hosts.

"Su madre es gringo," Miguel said, over and over, by way of explanation:
for Sam's complexion, for Sam's attractiveness, for Sam's lack of Spanish,
for Sam's anxiety around a good deal of the situations they wound up in.
Eventually the boy began to relax a little, and he had picked up more
Spanish in a week than Miguel could have anticipated.

They stayed in a proper hotel once every three or four nights, and it was
in these places that the man and boy had their only real together time.
Lying naked together in the heat, Miguel on his back and Peter lying his
head on the man's chest, holding his cock and balls in one hand. They
constantly got hard again, and were tempted to begin lovemaking once more,
but at some point they needed real rest.

Things only became more stressful. The two of them had less and less to
talk about, as the journey continued, and Miguel's fear that they might be
seen for what they were---lovers---had driven a wedge between them in all
but the most private of place. The older man seemed distant, preoccupied,
prone to snapping and ordering Sam around, or refusing to speak to him in
English.

"Tienes que hablar Espanol! " the man repeated again and again--you have to
speak Spanish.

It took them around two weeks to reach Panama; they drove through hundreds
of small towns and jungles so hot and muggy that Sam thought he'd
suffocate; the air was thick and hot and loud with the noise of insects and
birds. When they stopped at night to sleep, Sam began asking if they could
find a place with air conditioning.

"It's too much," the boy said.

"You mean the cost, right," Miguel said.

"The heat," the boy said. His feet were up on the dashboard again, and he
was wearing nothing but his soccer shorts.

"We'll buy some hammocks," Miguel said.

They drove on for a while, and then, as so often happened, Sam felt horny.
The boy began to get hard beneath the sweat-soaked shorts he wore, and he
felt the urge to strip them off.

"What?" Miguel asked, as the boy removed his only remaining
clothing. "Again?"

"It's too fucking hot," the boy said. "Plus I'm fucking horny as fuck."

"Well you better take care of yourself," Miguel said, "I'm not stopping."

"I didn't tell you to stop," Sam said, already stroking his teen hardon.

Miguel's gaze traveled back and forth from the bumpy, shitty Panamanian
road, and the thick teenage erection to his right. He began to lick his
lips, and get a hardon of his own. Sam stroked himself like this almost
daily, tantalizing the man with his body, looking over and sometimes
squeezing Miguel's bicep, or even grasping his own burgeoning erection to
see if he could get both of them up to speed with his own level of
arousal. Most often, it worked.

Miguel pulled over in a wide patch of road where the palms shaded things
and there was little chance of them being spotted by random palurdos,
bumpkins. As soon as the car had stopped, he whipped his seatbelt off and
threw himself over the console, gripped the boy's taint and balls, and
sucked his whole cock down with a thirst that revealed how badly he wanted
Sam.

The boy reveled in the attention, and thrust himself up and down. Jacking
his boy off, Miguel pulled himself away.

"It's gotta be fast, baby boy," he said. "I can't have the policia pulling
up on this."

"I know," Sam rasped, then begged: "Just suck me."

Miguel sucked and sucked and jacked and tasted with relish the head of his
boy's smooth, teenage cock. At last, he felt the warm jets of salty cum,
and heard the nasal grunts and moans that Sam made as he reached climax and
gripped Miguel's hair.

The man pulled himself away, paused just a second to kiss Sam full on the
lips and spit a big wad of the boy's own load onto his tongue; both of them
did this to the other, especially when they wanted the other to return the
favor of a blowjob. It worked well, because the filthy hot load that Miguel
spat into Sam's mouth only made him all the hornier.

"I can't stop driving," Miguel said, and started the ignition. He zoomed
back onto the tarmac, and they continued their drive through the jungle.

Sam removed his seatbelt and crawled over, and shucked Miguel's shorts down
past his cock, and began his own ministrations. His process was far slower.
He milked his man, and sucked, and slurped, and moaned, and delighted in
the long, slow process of worshipping that big uncircumcised cock. If it
was safe, and if he could have, Sam would have sucked Miguel's cock two or
three hours a day on the road-trip, and there were days when that had
indeed happened. Long, lazy, cum-soaked days.

With a grunt and a sudden, unexpected force, Miguel pushed Sam's head down
further so that the boy's nose was buried in his pubes, and shot off his
load. He grunted and clenched his teeth, and felt his cum splashing against
the back of Sam's throat. And when he was finished, he relaxed, and let the
boy cough and sputter and swallow, and then return to cleaning his man
completely of the mess of the road head.

"Tonight," Miguel said, "I wanna fuck you."

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked. They still had not committed the act; it was too
complicated, and they had very little privacy even at hotels on the road.

They reached the end of the road at last, in sweltering, banana-treed
panama. There, they drove to the docks. They would have to get the car
ferried across to Columbia, and from there resume their journey. And on the
ferryboat, Sam would bust his cherry.

***This concludes our Fifth installment of the Hitchhiker story! Be sure to
keep checking for the next. In the meantime, please check out PERV
PUBLICATIONS: a small publishing company specializing in high quality M/M
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The current series I'm producing is called "Call Them By Their Names" and
comes on the heels of the recent success of the film/book Call Me By Your
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1. The VIRGIN BARBER
2. THE PRINCE AND THE ORPHAN BOY
3. A WELL-ENDOWED BOY

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Thanks a million, and hope you keep reading,

Best,
V.C. Vermillion