Rest Area

A painter would have captured the landscape in the darkest shades of navy blue, perhaps, or pitches of black. A broad stripe of the inkiest oils imaginable across the bottom third of the canvas, to represent the invisible terrain at night; a sinister shade of indigo to capture the moonless night sky. And then, from the center of the picture, shining yellow so brightly that it’s almost difficult to focus upon, a clean, modern building of glass and brick and blazing lights. Within that, just beyond the door, a man in a white T-shirt, brighter even than that.

It was two o’clock this morning on I-94, and I’d pulled into the rest area out of both habit and curiosity. After a day without electricity, I’d spent the evening halfway across the state, watching a theatrical production in which a friend of mine was involved. I’d gone out for drinks and a good, good talk afterward, and then started the long trip back home. It had been one of those trips in which the roads had been so deserted and the highway so dark that I’d had to use the high beams on my car for the first time in years.

When I parked in the deep curve of the lot snaking behind the rest area, a woman was sleeping in her reclined driver’s seat nearby, snoring loudly enough to be heard through the crack in her window. Several other cars stood by empty; on the building’s opposite side, a number of trucks idled. Within the brightly-lit rest area itself, however, only a single lonely soul wandered—a furry young cub wearing a white Hanes T-shirt.

I walked past him as I made my way to the men’s room, getting a good look. He was half my age at most, with a scrappy blond-brown tuft of hair adorning his chin. Chest hairs fought to poke their way from the neck of his shirt, climbing over and curling above it. He had a belly that poked out, and his shoulders slumped from how deeply his hands were plunged into his pockets, but he wasn’t at all bad. I smiled to myself as I watched him check me out while pretending to stare blandly ahead. When I planted myself in front of one of the urinals inside, I knew he’d follow.

It didn’t take long. While I tugged at my soft dick through the fly of my jeans, I heard a stirring at the door. The cub walked in, and staggered over to the urinal next to mine. While pretending to be sublimely unaware that we were the only two men in the building, and that we happened to be less than a foot and a half away from each other, he unzipped and shook his dick as if in preparation to pee. Then he stood there. And stood there.

I backed away from my urinal slightly, and inclined my head in his direction. He responded by looking me in the eye directly, and then standing on tiptoe to peek over the partition. By then I had a handful of hard dick to show him.

I backed further away and showed off my dick, squeezing it in my hand to make the head redden and flare. He played furiously with his own meat, making it buckle and flop with his stroking. It wasn’t the biggest of dicks, but it was thick and attractive; his balls were enormous, and his sac shaved and full. His fingers scrambled to pull out all his goodies from the fly of his gray cotton briefs.

He couldn’t take his eyes off my dick. I leaned back against the wall and showed it off. His hand reached out for my face, running a moist palm over my chin and beard, my chest, and my stomach, returning to tweak my nipples through my gray striped polo. Finally he looked up at me, as if for asking for permission, before he seized my cock in his hand.

He didn’t stop playing with himself as he stroked me. His finger dipped into my slit to play with the precum blossoming there. He grabbed it in an overhand grip and began to beat at me, freeing my own hands to cross behind my back. I simply reclined there, letting him do all the work as my excitement grew.

The next thing I knew, the tops of his grungy Nikes were scraping the tile as he dropped to his knees. He didn’t suck me, but he drew his face close to my meat, inhaling to smell the aroma of soap and arousal. My balls beat against the cold metal of my zipper as he continued to beat me off. From time to time his head would whip around to look behind him, but I had my eye on the door. I could have seen in the window’s reflection if anyone was coming in.

The urgency and unexpected heat of the situation brought me close to climax in the space of a couple of moments. He was ahead of me. I watched as his furiously-jerking left hand arrested itself and a single glob of semen oozed slowly from the tip and descended to the floor. I was carrying a three-day load, myself; I came copiously and silently as his right hand flew up and down my shaft. A spurt of it landed on his waiting tongue. A second spurt iced his chin, while a third decorated the front of his shirt.

He swallowed the first part of the gift, and used the inside of his forearm to wipe my semen from chin and then to wipe it on his shirt. The cub stood up, zipped, and nodded at me as he wandered back out again.

I stayed long enough to wash my hands and check my hair before leaving. As I exited the building, the cub was reclining against the wall near the door, hands deep in his pocket. It was exactly where I’d spied him as I’d entered. Was he waiting for another dick? Waiting for me to leave?

I didn’t know. I had another hour to go, and wanted to be home. What I did know was that whether he was conscious of it or not, my sperm was decorating his shirt just above the sternum, the thick fluid barely beginning to soak into the fabric.

I wonder how long he wore that necklace last night.