Serious Business

So, you're standing there, taking a piss. You're all alone in the men's room until the door opens and this hunk comes in. Part of you wants to zip-up right away, but you haven't finished yet... Besides, a bigger part wants to see what he's got, because he hasn't gone into one of the stalls: he's chosen to stand next to you at the trough. And the corner of your eye has flicked just long enough in his direction to tell you he's drop-dead gorgeous.

No, you think: this only happens in fantasy-land! You stand for three hours that are really two seconds. You look at the tiles in front of you as if they have been handcrafted by Michelangelo. Your instinct is telling you to turn to him and say: "Hi!" with a nice smile. But you don't smile because taking a piss is serious business.

Meanwhile you are getting a hard-on because your eyes have again flicked just long enough to notice that he has this amazing, sheathed weapon from which piss spurts in a golden chain as thick as your finger. You tug at your own foreskin, shaking only a couple of times, so that he knows you've still got a gallon of piss in you.

You, of course, know you've dried up completely and now have no reason to stay standing at the trough. You stare at the tiles some more, not noticing that the blurred grouting is less than perfect, because your eyes are more focussed on the sideways glances you think he hasn't noticed.

He has. Your latest eye-flick established that he's also dried up - but is not in any hurry to zip his pants. For a second your eyes meet: his blue, yours brown.

But you still don't smile, because cruising is a serious business.
Instead, you give your tight foreskin another tug, but it isn't as generous as his and you know the illusion of still being soft is ridiculous when you try to shake your dick and it reacts like an iron rod. Blood has pumped up the arteries so that your seven-inch muscle looks like it's tied up with pulsing string.

At least he's not pretending he hasn't noticed: he's rolling thick folds of flesh backwards and forwards over his gleaming knob and you're impressed when he steps back, so that his swelling length doesn't nudge the stainless steel. Now his whole hand has gripped the thick, vein-knotted shaft and egg-sized balls slip out of his fly as if individually laid. Covered in fine down, they look half-hatched: the weight of them makes them hang from the root of his pulsating pole on cords of flesh in their sacks of sheer silk.

Next time he pulls his hood forward, a clear pearl of fluid drops from the kiss-like lips. He cups the heavy bead in the palm of his hand and works it down his shaft, drawing his fleshy sheath back as far as it will go. The plum shines in royal purple, before it is covered and uncovered again.

Of course your own shaft is slick by now and you are pumping faster than he is. You've also had to step back from the trough, but your balls have not had to escape like his, because your pants have slipped down your thighs, leaving your huge, hot, hairy nuts to swing freely with every piston-stroke of your hand on your cock. Your pumping hurts and you long for your balls to thicken and clamp to your hot shaft and spurt their rich cream...

But not yet! Oh, please, not yet...!

Too late. Because he has beaten you to it. His balls have darkened and clenched like small fists and his male weapon has fired four successive rounds of thick opal - almost fierce enough, you think from the sounds of ricochet, to buckle the steel. 

He watches you squirt your three foot ribbons of man-milk and then licks remaining jewels off his hand as he wrestles his heavy balls and re-hooded rod back into his pants. It takes him more than a minute to fight his zip over the still huge bulge. And then he leaves...

Still no smile. Sex is a serious business.