The Girl from Juarez
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Slow,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - No choice for Jeremiah but to spend the night, unexpectedly, in Ciudad Juarez. Lonely and horny, he abandons his scruples and hooks up with some kid's "sister" - the "virgin".
I live in New Mexico — Albuquerque, the biggest city in the state. I guess that's not saying a whole lot, because, compared to most states back east, there aren't that many people in New Mexico. We've got lots of wide-open spaces. And mountain ranges — several of them.
Not much water. The Rio Grande runs south right through the middle of the state, and if you get up high on one of the nearby mountains, you can see the narrow green strip that follows along on both sides of the river. That's where most folks live — close as they can get to that little dab of water.
S'funny, the Rio Grande isn't really that impressive, up in the central part of New Mexico. I mean, it would be called a creek, some places back east. But when water's scarce, any significant body of water is going to get the royal treatment. So it's "Great River" where we come from, even if, most places, you could throw a rock clean across the thing, no strain.
It's real pretty country, though. The weather is incredible, the scenery is fantastic, and the people, for the most part, are laid-back, easy going and friendly.
I'm a long-haul trucker. My partner, Earl Turner and I are co-owners of a big rig, a Peterbilt, and we make a good living off it. I mean, paying for that monster tractor and trailer is practically a lifetime proposition, but me and Earl can still draw down enough to live pretty comfortably, payments and all.
Trucking is a hard life, especially if you're one of those people who can't stop driving; the kind who goes at it like a maniac, day after day, trying to finish every haul faster, earn more, and get on to the next job.
Me and Earl are not all that desperate. We both work hard, sometimes together, sometimes on one-man runs, but we decided, long ago, that killing ourselves just wasn't worth it. Driving a big rig like ours can be a good life, if you've got the right attitude toward it. Me and Earl, we've had us some adventures.
Working out of Albuquerque, and owning our own business, we get a lot of over-the-border work. There's a whole lot of commerce back and forth with Mexico, and we have developed lots of good contacts in the border towns and in the larger cities deeper into the country, where there are manufacturing plants like you wouldn't believe.
You've gotta be careful not to involve yourself in illegal trade. There's plenty of that going on, too. Plenty of drug-running, illegal immigrants, every kind of contraband known to man. But me and Earl are straight. We stay away from that stuff, entirely. We work at it. It's not just a matter of morality, it's a question of self-preservation.
My name is Jeremiah Prescott and I'm 33 years old. Please don't call me "Jerry" or "Jer" or anything else. I like to be called all four syllables — "Jeremiah." Earl is 39 and has a wife, Carol, and three kids between eleven years old and three. Earl and his family live only a couple of blocks away from me, here in Albuquerque.
Me, I'm still single. I own my own little place, on the edge of a commercial strip. Right next door to my house, but on the opposite side of a little ivy-covered fence, there's an open lot where we park our rig. It's handy there, for me or for Earl to access the truck, but I've got it arranged so that it doesn't look like it's right there in the yard with me. I don't know why I'm sensitive about that — the Peterbilt is a Helluva lot better-looking, and better-maintained, than my house.
Depending on the length of a haul and a few other factors, Earl and I will share the driving or break it up and take turns taking time off. Despite having the three kids, Earl stays cool about money matters, and doesn't kill himself. He likes his kids and spends more time with them than a lot of truckers do. We have very few hang-ups, Earl and I, and we can talk straight to each other about the work, and just about anything else. My partner is my best friend.
It's a good life.
I'm having a little trouble, though, with the ladies. I don't play the field much, with women. I've had long-term relationships with three women, serially, over the past decade or so. My pattern seems to be to find them, charm them, start a relationship that both of us are happy with for awhile, and then, eventually, lose 'em when they get the whole picture — that I'm satisfied just to go along as we are, with no permanent commitments.
Sooner or later, most young women expect you to offer marriage as part of the bargain. Eva, my first long-term live-in lover, hung with me almost five years.
Rhoda came along soon after and she stayed around for about three years, living with me and sharing what I thought was a pretty nice life. Then one day, she was just gone. She never said why she was leaving. In fact, she didn't say anything at all. She just up and left.
I took some time off from women after that, and played it with just casual-dating for more than a year. Then I met Pamela and we lived together, and went at it hot and heavy, until just about two weeks ago. She asked me if we were ever going to get married, and I guess I said something kinda vague in response.
Pamela got pissed, packed up and left me the next day.
Now, don't get me wrong. I got no problems with the basic idea of getting married. I just didn't happen to see Eva, or Rhoda, or Pamela as the woman I wanted to settle down with.
Maybe I just need to find a woman whose name doesn't end in an "a".
Now, Carol, my partner Earl's wife, is almost perfect. She's close to Earl's age, which makes her a couple or four years older than I am, but if I'd seen her first, I think I would have jumped at the chance.
Carol's a sweetheart, and never loses her temper with those three kids. She works, part-time, but mostly she's just there with the little guys and busy working at making Earl comfortable. I'm amazed the guy can ever tear himself away from her and go out on one of our long-hauls.
Happily for me, Carol likes me just fine, and as a result my social life, as well as my working life, pretty much revolves around the Turner Family. When Earl and I are both in town, I'll have dinner there a couple of times a week. I don't do any cooking of my own that doesn't involve a freezer and a microwave, so I pay back the Turners by occasionally taking them — all five of them — out to dinner in a restaurant.
It's a requirement that my live-in girlfriends have to get along with Carol and Earl, or they don't hang around for long. I don't think Carol was overly fond of Eva or Rhoda when they were around, but this last one — Pamela — Carol seemed to take to, real well.
I think Carol's a little pissed at me for letting Pammy get away. Well, I feel kinda bad about it myself. Pam was a nice woman, and awfully good in bed. I just couldn't bring myself to marry her, though. I mean, I never cheated on her, the whole three years, or whatever it was, that we were together.
But I never could quite see her as the last woman I'd ever want to take to bed, y'know? So I didn't bring up marriage and, eventually, like the others, she got the message and took off.
It's been two weeks, now, and Lord knows I miss her. I mean, I guess I miss her for all the wrong reasons. Mainly, I miss the sex, which was just superior. I had been gone, on a long run, for almost a week just before she left, and then we had our little row the same night I got back, and she started packing, that very night. We didn't sleep together that night before she left, either. That meant I'd been celibate for almost three weeks, and I was beginning to wish my little black book wasn't so sadly out of date.
I had a contract load of machine parts to carry down to Ciudad Juarez, just across the border from El Paso. It was only about a 300-mile run, and I figured to make the trip, alone, overnight. The load wasn't in my truck until around mid-day on Thursday, May 5, but if I could get it unloaded at the Juarez guy's dock, and get my return load onto the truck in time, I could head back on a night run, and get home in the wee hours of the morning that same night. It would be long after midnight. So what? I could sleep in on Friday. And if the trip ran long, I could always just come back across the border and drive a little ways, and then bunk out in the big compartment me and Earl had, behind the cab. It was the last word in luxury, back there.
Well, the southbound traffic on I-25 was heavier than I had anticipated and it was after 6 p.m. when I pulled into Juarez, just across the Rio Grande from El Paso. Not for the first time, I was amazed at the contrast between the Mexican side of the river and our side. Juarez was a little dusty, a little run down. Literally a stone's throw away, on the Texas side of the border, the general prosperity that Americans enjoyed was evident.
Oh, it's not like it was night and day, or anything. The part of El Paso that bordered the river mostly wasn't anything to write home about. But the differences still were all too evident.
I met Hector Martinez, the operator of the warehouse facility that was my destination in Juarez. He came out personally to unlock the big gate into his property and to direct me into one of the truck bays. When I shut off the engine and climbed down, he handed me a cold Carta Blanca and invited me inside.
Martinez' office was air conditioned and comfortable, and the Carta Blanca tasted fantastic. We exchanged pleasantries (in Spanish) and my host lit up a Marlboro as he got comfortable behind his cluttered desk.
I was popular with the Mexican shippers because I made it a point, when in Mexico, to speak to everyone exclusively in Spanish. Most Americans, certainly most guys driving rigs into the country, didn't know enough Spanish to communicate, unless perhaps they were themselves Mexican-Americans. But despite being 100% Gringo, I had lived in New Mexico all my life, had picked up conversational Spanish pretty well, and I didn't mind at all, getting opportunities to practice it.
Martinez was apologetic, but he had bad news for me. "There are no workers available to unload or reload your truck," he said. "It is a big holiday here — Cinco de Mayo, and all the workers are gone. I have their promise that they will be here to work early in the morning, but tonight, I cannot accommodate you."
Well, I had planned to at least start for home that evening, because my past experience with Martinez' operation had been that the place kept crews loading and unloading well into the night. But it was my own fault for not anticipating that Cinco de Mayo might create a bit of an unusual situation.
Martinez offered me accommodations for the night in his own home, but I told him I'd be fine, sleeping in the truck, in the locked-up terminal area. Sturdy hurricane fences surrounded the entire three-acre complex.
"One thing, though," I said, as Martinez prepared to leave for home. "Do you suppose I could have a key to the front gate, so that I can come and go this evening? Not with the truck — just on foot. I'll be careful to keep the gate locked up, going in and out."
"No problem" Martinez replied, and fished out a key from his desk drawer. "There's a cantina just two blocks up the road from the front gate," he said. "A reputable-enough place. The food is decent, and they won't rob you or beat you up in there. But be careful where else you go in Juarez, because some places, they're not so good — especially for Americans."
"I'll just grab a couple of enchiladas and another one of these beers, and then probably head back here for an early night," I told him.
"The crew will be here at dawn," Martinez said. "In two hours' time, we can have you unloaded, reloaded, and ready to travel."
"Thank you, my friend," I said.