A truck driver and a young female companion

The highway stretched into darkness, and the headlights revealed only a gray ribbon of asphalt and the occasional light pole. I'd been driving for three hours now and was starting to nod off. The coffee I'd drunk at the last gas station had long since worn off. The cabin smelled of diesel fuel, and the radio, which I wasn't listening to, crackled through the speakers. A figure stood on the side of the road, at the turnoff to some godforsaken village. They were hitchhiking. I slowed down and pulled over. A girl. Young, wearing a jacket unsuitable for the weather, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her face was pale, her lips pursed. I rolled down the window. - Far? "To the city," she answered. Her voice was so gentle. "About two hundred kilometers from here." I took a closer look at her. Her jeans were dirty, her sneakers were broken. She was standing on a highway where buses don't go, and clearly hadn't been for a long time. - Sit down. She climbed into the cockpit, threw her backpack at her feet and buckled herself in. I set off. We drove in silence for the first ten minutes. She looked out the window, I looked at the road. Then she spoke up. - Thank you. I stood there for two hours, no one stopped. - Happens. - You are the first. I chuckled. - Not the first. It's just that the others, apparently, aren't slowing down. She turned to me. The light from the dashboard showed that her eyes were red. "I left home," she said suddenly. Simply, without preamble. "I had a fight with my parents. Or rather, with my stepfather. He's a real jerk." I nodded. I didn't care, to be honest. But she was apparently expecting some kind of reaction. “Are you going far?” I asked to keep the conversation going. - To a friend's. In the city. But I didn't call her. My phone died. “It happens,” I repeated. She fell silent. Then added more quietly: - I don't even have money. For the bus. At all. This is it. I've been waiting for this from the start. They all lead up to this, one way or another. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She was thin, her shoulders narrow, her jacket clearly borrowed. About nineteen, maybe a little older. Whether she was lying about her stepfather or not, I don't know. But she looked exactly like someone who has nowhere to go. “I don’t need money,” I said. She tensed. I saw her fingers tighten on her backpack. - What do you need? I didn't answer right away. We drove another couple of kilometers. Ahead, a rest area appeared—empty, dark, with a single streetlight and trash bins. I slowed down and turned there. - What are you doing? - she asked. I stopped the car and turned off the engine. The cabin became quiet. Only the highway rumbled somewhere in the distance. "You said yourself that there is no money," I replied, turning to her. "And I'm not a taxi driver. Gas isn't free." She understood immediately. I saw it in the way she recoiled, the way she pressed herself against the door. - Are you... are you serious? - Did you think I'd just give you a ride? Two hundred kilometers? - I thought you were normal... "I'm normal," I said. "I'm just not an altruist." She was silent. She looked at me, and there was something in her eyes that almost made me feel uneasy. But only almost. I'd been on the road too long to start getting sentimental now. “Okay,” she said suddenly. Quietly, almost in a whisper. “Okay.” I didn't expect her to agree so quickly. I thought she'd haggle, cry, threaten. But she simply unzipped her jacket and took it off. Underneath was a thin gray T-shirt with some strange design on the chest. She placed the jacket on her lap and looked at me. - What's next? I climbed into the passenger seat. It was cramped, uncomfortable. She smelled of something sweet, like gum. I grabbed her chin and turned her toward me. She didn't resist. She just closed her eyes when I kissed her. Her lips were plump, but chapped. She didn't respond. She just endured. I pulled away. - Relax. It will be easier. She opened her eyes. There was nothing in them. No fear, no anger, no resignation. Just emptiness. - I can't. - What is there to be able to do? I pulled her T-shirt off. Underneath, I found a simple cotton bra. I unhooked it with one hand—the hook didn't give right away. Her breasts were small, her nipples dark, wrinkled from the cold. She shuddered when I touched them. But she didn't pull away. “Lie down,” I said. She lay down on the seat, tucking her legs under her. I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them down along with my underwear. My cock was already hard. She looked at it and turned away. “Come on, use your hand,” I said, taking her hand and guiding it towards me. Her fingers were cold. She took it clumsily, squeezing too hard. I winced. - Take it easy, don't rush. She loosened her grip. She began to move her hand—slowly, awkwardly. I placed my palm on top of hers, setting the rhythm. She looked away, at the dark window. I saw her reflection in the glass—pale, motionless. "That's enough," I said after a minute. "Lie on your back. And spread your legs." She complied. I pulled down her jeans myself, along with her underwear. She was dry. Completely dry. I ran my fingers between her legs, and she winced as if in pain. - You're not excited at all. - Should there be? I didn't answer. I spat on my palm, rubbed it over the head, and placed it at the entrance. Her whole body tensed. "Relax," I repeated. "Otherwise it will hurt." - OK. I entered. Slowly, but still, she cried out—briefly, as if she'd bitten her lip. I froze, letting her adjust. She was breathing rapidly through her nose, her eyes squeezed shut. - Hurt? - Tolerable. I started moving. The cabin filled with the creaking and smell of sex. She lay beneath me like a doll—no reaction, no moans, no movement. Only occasionally would she tremble when I went too deep. I grabbed her hips and pulled her closer, so I could enter completely. She opened her eyes and looked at me. There was nothing but weariness in that look. “How much longer do I have to go on?” she asked. I got angry. I don't know why. Maybe it was this indifference. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn't even trying to feign pleasure. I continued to thrust into her, and then my gaze fell on her legs. Or rather, her feet. She curled them up, her toes resting on the door. She'd taken off her sneakers when she got in, and now I could see her bare feet in the light from the dashboard. Her feet were small and narrow. The skin on her instep was pale, almost translucent, with a barely visible network of veins. Her toes were smooth and neat, with short-trimmed nails. She had a pedicure, but it was old—the polish had chipped in places, leaving only pale pink patches on her big toes. The rest of her nails were simply filed, unpolished. Her heels, surprisingly, were soft—she must not have walked barefoot much. Only along the edges was a slight dryness visible, a thin strip of rough skin, like that seen on those who wear tight shoes. I don't know what came over me. Maybe I just wanted to do something to break her out of her stupor. Maybe I was just curious. I leaned over, still inside her, and reached for her feet. She didn't immediately realize what I was doing. And when she did, she tried to pull her feet away. “What’s wrong?” she asked, for the first time with some emotion in her voice. - Don't move. I grabbed her ankle and pulled her foot toward me. It was cold—the heater in the cabin wasn't working. I ran my tongue along the top of her foot, from her toes to her ankle. The skin tasted salty, a little dusty, with a slight bitterness—probably from the road. The scent was subtle, warm, almost like everyone else's, but with a hint of something unique. Not unpleasant. Quite the contrary, in fact. I ran my tongue between my fingers. She shuddered and tried to break free again. - It tickles... - Be patient. I took the entire thumb into my mouth, running my tongue over the nail, feeling the roughness of the chipped polish. A thin line of dust had collected under the nail—I licked that off, too. The taste became sharper, saltier. The second finger was cleaner. The third had a faint scent of sweat, which I inhaled, pressing my nose to the base of the fingers. She froze, holding her breath. I moved to the other foot. This one was the same—pale, narrow, with the same neat toes. The heel was a little drier, and I lingered on it longer, kneading the rough skin with my tongue. It was warm, like a crust of bread. I bit down on it lightly, and she gasped. - Hurt? - No. It's just... it's weird. I chuckled and returned to the thrusts. Now I moved more slowly but deeper, still holding her foot to my face. Occasionally, I'd run my tongue over my fingers again, and she shuddered each time. Gradually, her body began to respond—I felt myself getting a little wetter inside. Not much, but enough. "You see," I said. "And you said you couldn't." She didn't answer. She just closed her eyes and turned away to the window. I fucked her silently, watching her small breasts bounce in time with my thrusts, her fingers clutching the seat upholstery. A car drove past the window, the headlights gliding across the cabin and disappearing. I didn't even slow down. I started to cum. I pulled out, and the sperm flowed down her thigh. She lay there, motionless. I found some napkins in the glove compartment and tossed them to her. - Dry yourself. She took the napkins and wiped herself silently. Then she started getting dressed. Her hands were shaking. I watched her pull on her bra, fasten the hook on the second try, put on her T-shirt and jacket. She didn't cry. That was strange. They usually cry afterward. I started the engine and pulled back onto the highway. She sat pressed against the door, looking out the window. She held the backpack on her lap, clutching it with both hands. “Will you take me to the city?” she asked after some time. - I'll take you there. I promised. She smiled, briefly and without joy. - Yeah. I promised. We didn't talk anymore. I drove her to the entrance to the city and stopped the car at a traffic light. - We've arrived. She opened the door and climbed out. She slung her backpack over her shoulder. She turned around. “Thank you,” she said. I didn't understand whether she was joking or not. - My pleasure. She slammed the door and walked along the side of the road toward the city. I watched her disappear, a thin figure in the light of the streetlights. Then I shifted gears and drove on. In the rearview mirror, her silhouette grew smaller and smaller until it completely disappeared into the darkness. I turned on the radio and turned up the volume. The cabin still smelled of sex. My phone vibrated—a message from the dispatcher. A new flight. I tapped the screen and nodded to myself.