I’ve been kind of busy with work the last three weeks, haven’t had a lot of time to go out and make another video yet. So here’s a story about my first time getting stuck with a company truck.
Stuck in the Boss’s RWD Chev
In the early 2000’s I worked on a salmon farm off the southeast coast of Vancouver Island. It was the company’s test site; there were only half a million fish across 12 pens instead of 2 million over 24, and we were testing new technologies and feeds. Unlike every other site in the company, this one had a road leading right up to it on land, with a ramp from shore onto the dock at the back of the bunk house. Like most farm jobs, there are some chores that really suck. On a salmon farm, hauling mortalities up to the death pit, as we called it, was one of the grossest jobs there was. And on this 8 day shift, as the most junior tech on site, it was my turn to handle the dumps.
I’d been unaware of the severity of the storm that had rolled over the southern Island, and hadn’t had a chance to review log books from the previous shift. Even the pilot who flew me in from my home town 250km away hadn’t mentioned the rain squalls that had blown through. I’d stepped out of the co-pilot’s seat of the DHC-2 Beaver float plane right into the last cage’s veterinary dive; the previous crew had loaded the boss’s white 95 Chevy RWD pickup with the totes full of dead fish, and were finishing up with helping the divers out of the water. I stowed my gear in the bunkhouse, and we had our shift handover meeting, then I went to dump the totes.
The path off the road into the boneyard and death pit was really soft; I could hear the damp earth sticking to the tires as the open-differential rear wheel drive sloppily traversed the muddy path. Looking in the mirror, I could see the ruts created by the truck as I idled down the gentle slope into the boneyard and mort pit area. It occurred to me that getting back out might be a little difficult, but me being me, it wasn’t a real “problem.” Pulling up to the cinder block structure of the pit, I killed the engine and stepped out of the truck.
Immediately my rubber boots sank into the soft ground as I made my way to the back of the pickup. The ruts leading in looked to be several inches deep; mud was already caked on the tires’ sidewalls and filled the treads. The stench of decay was heavy in the air; the rain had soaked into the pit and pushed some of the decomposing sludge of the dead fish out the bottom of the cinder block pit structure. I couldn’t help but step into the ankle deep sludge to get the pit open and dump the bins. Throwing the cinder block and plywood lid off the top, I held my breath as I dumped the six totes of dead fish into the pit. Once the empty totes were stowed, I covered the pit back up, and wiped the death off my boots off in the grass growing in the middle of the yard. I climbed back into the truck, and lit a smoke, trying to get the stench out of my nostrils. Time to get back; there wasn’t anything important happening around the farm that day but the boss, a 6’6, 350 lb brick shithouse of a Maori dude fresh from New Zealand, appreciated when the work got done properly and quickly.
Reversing out of the area, the tires gripped and grabbed, pulling back to the bottom of the gentle slope out of the boneyard. With as easily as it pulled out, I wondered, maybe I wouldn’t be stuck in after all. That wonder lasted about 10 seconds; as I put it in drive and feathered the gas lightly; the rear wheels dug, making a that sweet sticky sound that turned me on. I felt the twinge in my cock as I stuck my head out the window to see the tires spin. With every touch of the gas pedal, the wheels sunk further in the muddy ground. It didn’t take long for my dick to poke a sizeable tent in my salmon-orange rain gear as I lightly spun the tires deeper and deeper. The heat of arousal washed over me; I knew the boss and the rest of the crew would be able to hear the pickup struggling in the mud. How long before they came up to help? It was a good 15 minute walk from the site to the pit; would they even bother coming up at all?? I let out a small moan as I grabbed the bulge in my rain pants and squeezed. My cock responded to the pressure, sending a surge through my body and flushing me with passion. I slammed my foot to the floor; the V8 roared and the wheels spun fiercely, trying, and failing to get any traction at all. Mud sprayed up on the body and canopy, but the truck only sank deeper. I reached under the bib of the rain pants, freeing my cock from the basketball shorts and boxers underneath. As I pumped the pedal, trying to get some forward traction, I squeezed and stroked my iron-hard prong, feeling it belch out it’s juices, making it slick. I was pretty close to the edge already; it wouldn’t be long until I had another sticky mess to deal with.
Knowing it wasn’t going to help, I put it into reverse, and touched the gas lightly. To my surprise (and disappointment, I suppose) the tires gripped, and pulled out of the mud holes with a sucking sound. The pickup moved back a few feet, digging a shallow rut; maybe I’d get out without help after all... Somewhat emboldened by what seemed like progress, I put it in low and feathered the gas. Again, the tires just spun uselessly, flinging wet dirt into the wheel wells with a squishy wet sound. A hot flash hit me and I almost creamed on the spot as I pushed the pedal to the floor. The engine roared and the rear wheels sunk to the lug nuts. I kept hammering on and off the gas, feeling my prick pulse and jolt with every rev of the engine. It felt like pure ecstasy; I was as hard as I could ever remember being, and my big uncut cock was leaking copious amounts of pre onto the inside of my rain gear. I couldn’t resist any more; I had to get off before help showed up. Putting it in park, I slid out of the driver’s seat and went to the back to inspect my handiwork.
The back half of the box was coated in thick, sloppy clay mud. The truck was sunk in to the axle, the dish of the wheel packed with it. I unclipped the suspenders from the bib of the rain pants and let them drop into the sludge at my ankles; my cock sprang free, pointing skyward. I gripped around the foreskin covered head and stroked furiously, feeling my sex tightening up, preparing to unload with force. My hips bucked forward, percussively, instinctively, my pole trying to bury itself in my grip. The pure lust feeling, the tension, released like a spring. The first blast flew straight up, landing on the roof of the topper with smack. The second, third and fourth overflowed in my hand as out of guilt I tried to cover up and not bathe the company truck in cum; it oozed off the edge of my palm onto the bunched up rain pants at my feet. The powerful contractions from the orgasm racked my body as the baby batter continually spat out of my cock, into the dirt, onto the driver’s side tire, and all down my shorts and onto my rain pants. I felt exhausted, but also... relieved.
As the afterglow subsided, I realized, there was nothing around to clean myself off with. Oops. I’d also been gone for a half hour now, too; It wouldn’t be long before “help” arrived, if it was coming. Surely they’d heard the engine screaming from the farm site. I gingerly pulled up my rain gear, snapping the bib back into place, my cold wet cum smearing my t-shirt and shorts. Sliding back into the driver’s seat, I put the truck in reverse, and lightly touched the gas. Again, the tires gripped, and pulled the truck out of the axle-deep holes it had dug, but trying to go forward only dug it in. I started to imagine walking back down to the site in my cummy rain gear to tell the boss that I got his truck unrecoverable stuck; how embarrassing it would be. I remembered how my stepdad would get mad when I got the old GMC stuck in the fields of the potato farm I grew up on; at that point, I decided- I had to get it out myself. And looking over into the boneyard, I had an idea.
One of the things about working on a sea farm is that there’s an awful amount of polybraid rope that gets used and disposed of; on this particular farm, we had just re-done the anchor lines on the main steel cage system. All the old 3 inch anchor line, coated in barnacles and mussels from a year in the ocean, were all piled up in the far corner of the dump. I jumped out of the truck and went to work, cutting six foot lengths to wrap around the tires for traction. I wrapped the two drive wheels with two lengths of the 3 inch rope, splicing them together through the rims. Once they were in place, I surveyed the scene again. Times I wish I had a camera... ah well. Slipping back into the driver’s seat, I started the boss’s truck up, put it in low gear, and feathered the gas. The rope caught, and pulled the truck forward up the slight grade, slowly, moving a little more each time the rope “chains” caught the mud. It took ten minutes to move the 150 feet or so up the hill, but eventually, I was back on the gravel road. I stopped long enough to cut the rope off the tires, then returned to the farm site.
The boss was waiting on the back of the floathouse. He walked up the ramp to me as I was spraying my rubber boots and rain gear down with disinfectant.
“Oi, mate, got a little stuckers?” He said in his heavy New Zealand accent. “Figured you would. You’re just the only one all week we didn’t have to bring the come along to pull you out of there. Smart cunt, are you?” He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “go get a shower, you stink like you swam in the pit. Then come to my office and you can tell me all about how you managed to get it out of the yard with the directional grippy tires installed backwards in under an hour.
