The smell of stale urine, and of disinfectant which fails to mask
it. The harsh light overhead, blinking occasionally, threatening to
leave me in darkness. I stand with my feet as wide apart as my
shoulders. Both hands are in my crotch, one holding my penis, which has
shrunk with nerves, and the other holding the jagged opening of my zip
clear of the highly sensitive skin it surrounds. I squeeze and pull at
my foreskin, willing my shaft back into life but it refuses to respond.
My fingers are cold; the whole place is cold.
The bang of the outside door. Small, light footsteps and my heart leaps
into my mouth. Please come to the urinals, please come to the urinals.
Don't go to a stall.
He comes. Oh my God. Nervously, not exactly sure, but he comes anyway.
There are four urinals, and I am at number two. If he's not interested
in looking, or if he's too nervous, he'll stop at station four. If
perhaps he is the one in a thousand, then he will come to one or three.
It's three. He stands to my right. I risk a glance across. He is ten,
or maybe eleven. Blond hair hanging shaggily off his head. Very slender
- thin, golden brown arms stick out of the arms of his t-shirt and the
legs of his shorts. Hasn't started growing yet, at least judging by his
height.
We are alone in the toilets. He has nothing to fear for being
discovered. He starts to fumble with the button and the zipper, but
he;s not really making that much of an effort, because he's distracted.
Distracted by the sight of my suddenly rampant manhood sticking
straight out as my fingers fly up and down. I feel my stomach cramp as
a mix of nerves and excitement send my muscles into spasm. He keeps
watching me, his hands still at the crotch of his shorts but now
immobile. He watches me openly, unabashedly, as I wank for him. It hits
me hard and fast, my semen splattering into the bowl of the urinal. His
eyes go wide as I come, and he is muttering to himself. I can't make
out what it is he's saying, because the blood pounding in my ears is
too loud.
Guilt washes over me. I shouldn't have done that, I tell myself, even
as the last drops of semen still cling to the very end of my foreskin.
He is still watching, still fascinated as I rapidly shrink once more.
It is still half hard when I ram it back through the zip and make
myself decent, checking for stray drops of semen on my jeans. Finding
none, I turn to leave.
But a voice comes, a small, slightly desperate voice.
"Please don't go!" he says. "I can't get my zip down. can you help me? I'm going to piss in my pants."
I can't leave him there, not like that, not to piss himself in public.
I turn back to him. He is pushing his crotch out at me. A noticeable
bulge sits behind the zip, standing straight up. Piss-hard perhaps, or
is it arousal? I kneel down and guide my shaking hands to his crotch.
He's not lying about the zip, it really is stuck, trapping a piece of
fabric in its teeth. It will be easy for me to remedy with adult
strength, but I cannot resist the chance to run my fingers over the
shaft beneath, hard as a rock, harder than ought to be possible. He
gasps as my fingers touch it, even though there are two layers of
fabric between his skin and mine.
The zip comes free, and he spins immediately back to the urinal. Amber
liquid arcs up out of the tip of his erect penis to splatter into the
bowl. He sighs in relief as the stream continues unabated. Its arc
drifts downward as his erection subsides, and eventually a small hand
comes up to hold his boyhood as it returns to its flaccid state.
I stand and watch, unable to tear myself away from the sight before me. I am hard again. He doesn't seem to mind.
"Thanks," he says, turning his head and smiling up at me. He's shaking
the last drops of his dick as he does so. It's dry now, but his hand
remains, tweaking and pulling at the foreskin. He hardens in an instant.
"I saw your dick," he says.
"Yeah, I know."
"It was hard. Do you want to see mine?"
I already have, but I nod anyway. He turns to me, his hand leaving his
crotch, pushing forward his hips, just as he had when his zip was
stuck. Now, though, there was nothing in the way of his wonderful stiff
little thing. It is pulsing with his heartbeat. Foreskin is pulled
taut, a tiny opening at its end, red inside where I can spy his glans.
His head is outlined starkly in his pale skin, skin which is
criss-crossed with tiny blue veins.
"Can I see yours again?" he asks.
I fumble with my zip, then grow frustrated, pulling open the button and
pushing my jeans to mid thigh. I am too far gone to worry about what
will happen if someone comes in. He gasps as my manhood springs out to
bob fatly in front of him. I am not large by any means, but compared to
his it is a monster.
"I want to rub mine," he says. "Are you going to rub yours too?"
I don't answer with words, but with actions. I grab my shaft, fingers
and thumb frantically flying up and down. He copies my actions, his
motions even faster, his foreskin pushed far past the end on the
upstroke, and pulled so tightly that it gleams on the reverse.
I come first, semen flying out as it hasn't done for years. It lands
with noisy splatters on the tiles between his feet. He watches it spit
out, fascinated again, as his fingers still work at full pace. He
doubles over as his orgasm hits him painfully. He gasps, then gives a
high pitch moan and shudders. He face is bright red when he lifts it to
look at me, a grin plastered across it.
"I've got to go," he says, zipping his shorts back up and turning on
his heel before I regain the ability to speak at all. I watch his round
little bottom go, and wonder what might have been had we met in
different circumstances.