Before I could move, the crunching of the gravel put me on alert. Another truck was parked a few meters away, and from it stepped a figure. He was another man, around 50, but with a distinct air. While the first one was pure muscle and precision, this one had a slower, more deliberate pace, like a predator that doesn't need to run. His silhouette in the light showed a robust body, a neglected beard, and eyes that shone with something between curiosity and hunger.

"What do we have here?" he said, his voice raspy, as if tobacco and asphalt had shaped it. He approached, and the smell of gasoline and sweat enveloped me. He didn't ask anything else, it wasn't necessary. He had seen enough, perhaps from his truck, to know what had just happened. And, by the way he looked at me, it was clear that he wanted his turn.

I tried to speak, but his hand was already on my shoulder, heavy, pushing me back against the wall. "Shh," he murmured, with a tone that was more order than comfort. His fingers were rough, calloused, and moved with a confidence that made me shudder. There were no preliminaries, no sweet words. This was the road: raw, direct, without promises.

He turned me with a firm movement, his body pressing against mine. The metal of the wall was cold, but he was all heat, all force. His hands unfastened my belt with an ease that spoke of experience, and in seconds I was trapped in his rhythm. He was different from the first one: less calculated, more visceral, as if he was unleashing something he had been accumulating for miles. Each thrust was a reminder of his dominance, and I, lost in the intensity, couldn't do anything but yield.

I don't know how much time passed. Everything became a blur of sensations: his breath on my neck, the rub of his beard, the sound of his belt hitting against the fabric. When he finished, he stepped back with a grunt, adjusting his clothes as if nothing had happened. He lit a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating his face for an instant. "Stay on the road, kid," he said, exhaling smoke. "There's always someone waiting."

He got into his truck, and the engine roared, taking him away like the first one. I was left alone again, with the echo of his words and the weight of what had just happened. The stop was silent, but the night wasn't over yet. And, deep down, I knew that the road would always bring more.