Nighttime at the Rest Stop

When I step into the men’s room, Monday night, the familiar scent of urine and floor cleaner assaults my nostrils. I breath it in, letting it fill my lungs, and inflate my dick. I’m already half-hard by the time I’m unzipped, and pissing into the closely-spaced floor-to-waist urinal. Once I’m done, I shake, and stroke, and wait. It doesn’t take long until I hear the tentative creak of the door leading to the parking lot, and the sound of footsteps.

New York City had been buffeted with high winds earlier that afternoon. I’d spent most of my Valentine’s Day sitting in LaGuardia, which had shut down all but one runway. My flight had been delayed by about three hours. I spent most of the long day planted in my seat in a super-crowded waiting area, afraid that if I’d gotten up to piss or grab some food that I’d lose the rare commodity that was my chair. By the time I hit my car, it’s late at night. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Common sense tells me to drive on home.

My dick tell me to drive to the rest stop on the way home, and take a break.

When the man walks into the room on soft leather soles, I’m glad I listened to my dick. He’s a short fucker—maybe all of five-foot-six, thirty-five or so. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested in a way that’s like a former muscle stud gone slightly soft. There’s some narrowing between his chest and his round, bulging ass, but not much. He’s wearing a pressed cotton shirt printed with broad stripes in aquatic colors, and a pair of dress slacks fastened by a glinting monogrammed belt buckle. His shaved head is as shiny as his expensive shoes. He’s a businessman, cruising the rest stop at nine-thirty at night.

He stands at the furthest urinal from me and hauls out his dick. It sprays a thick stream of piss against the porcelain. When I glance over, casually working over my hard meat in the recess of the urinal, I can see his thick mushroom head, his hairy nuts. I want that dick in my mouth.

He flips his meat when he’s done, gives me a look, and walks over to the sinks to wash his hands. I stuff my hard dick into my pants, zip up, and follow him there. We look at each other in mirror as we clean up. Our eyes are locked, save for the moments when they dip down to look at our bulges. He stands at a hand dryer across from the toilet stalls; I lounge by the one at the room’s other side. We rub our hands together, over and over, as if we’re both plotting Machiavellian schemes.

Then his machine shuts off. Still staring at me, he walks over to the toilet stall and disappears inside. I hear the clink of his belt buckle as it slams against the tiles.

I wait until my hands are dry. Casually I stroll over. His toilet stall door is open. He’s sitting on the john, legs spread, little hand wrapped around his short, thick meat. He’s whipped his tie up and over one shoulder, to keep it out of the way. One of his knees is propping open the door. He looks back at me, spread his legs more widely, and nods.

I look toward the men’s room entrance, then step forward.

His hands lunge for the snap of my jeans. He yanks down the denim and roughly tugs down my trunks. When my cock springs out, unleashed, his mouth envelops it. He’s hungry. He doesn’t give a shit who I am, or where I’m going. I’m some stranger in a rest stop with a big dick—a dick he wants. A dick he needs. He uses more teeth than I usually like, but from him it almost feels good. The gentle scraping gets me harder.

His eyes are closed as he sucks. Occasionally he’ll open them to look up at me, checking to see if I’m enjoying myself. Mostly, though, they’re shut tight. His face looks almost pained as he slurps up and down my shaft. It’s obviously how badly he’s wanted to suck.

Up and down his stubby shaft flies his fist. The two eggs below bounce up and down, flying furiously. The guy is seriously loving my dick. He gulps the shaft, then rubs his smooth face against it , eyes shut, mouth open and drooling.

There’s a sound outside. The door opens and shuts. I pull up my pants and prepare to bolt into the adjoining stall, but what I hear is the sound of tapping heels. He half-stands, fingers poised at the waistband of the pants around his ankles. But when we hear the women’s room door open, we relax. His eyes close again as he nurses at my dick.

My hand reaches for his ass. It’s a muscular, sexy round butt of a type I really like. When we connect, he turns around. He knows I want to see. He bends over the toilet, his hands on the wall. For the first time I notice the ring on his left hand. The tips of my fingers dip into his smooth, warm cleft. They nudge against his hole. My dick follows, nosing its way into the flesh and rubbing against the entrance. He groans, more loudly than he probably should for a public restroom. Somehow it only turns me on.

“You fuck bare?” he whispers.

I don’t reply. He already knows the answer. Instead I put a glob of spit on his hole and rub the head against the slickness, working it into the hole. He braces himself, and pushes back.

“I shouldn’t do it raw,” he whispers.

Again, I say nothing. I’m halfway in him now and not doing a damned thing save stand there. He’s the one backing up on it, taking the stranger’s raw dick more and more deeply into his most private place. He reaches the bottom of the shaft. There’s no more to take.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Goddamn.” His breathing is shallow and labored. “You’re so big.”

When he starts to shake and shudder, I think it’s because he’s trying to deal with my length and girth. But no, he’s shooting. All over the toilet seat lands his seed. Onto the floor it spills as it flys from the tip of his dick. His wedding ring is covered with the stuff, a fact I note and find hot. Almost immediately my dick starts to slide from his hole as he pulls off me. It doesn’t matter. I’m shooting myself, onto his round butt, down his thighs. A hefty squirt lands into the wells of his pant legs, on the floor.

We can hear the tapping heels again as the stranger leaves the woman’s room. The noise brings us back to reality. I pull up my pants and button them before visiting the sinks again. He shuffles in the privacy of the stall for a moment before he emerges. His slacks have a large splotch of a wet stain in the back, where I shot. We watch each other as we wash up. When we leave, I’m walking ahead of him, but we exit at roughly the same time.

I watch him wander back to his SUV as I return to my own car. Our lights flick on in unison. He gives me a quick salute as he passes behind me on his way back to the freeway. A moment later, and he’s nothing more than a memory and a flash of lights across the horizon.

Then I’m off, back into the inky night, and homeward bound.