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Room for two at the rest area

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Room for two at the rest area
A sense of relief flowed through my chest as I pulled into the empty parking strip. It was my day off, a rare weekday one at that, and a rare spring morning. I had gotten an early start to explore the nooks and crannies of this part of southern Canada. The warming sun was starting to have its way with the dew and condensation on the sprouting growth. You could smell it, almost feel it. I’d kept the windows down as I drove without a plan other than “keep going north,” up the hills and into this valley meadow.

The landscape was calm. But I was getting anxious on two fronts. 1) Three hours in, and kilometers away from phone reception, the thrill of discovery had devolved into the responsible pang of turning around and heading back. 2) Two big cups of coffee in, I had to pee. Bad. And the longer I drove around scouting for a secluded spot to go, the more lost I got.

The parking strip was more an inset to the winding loop off the two-lane highway, which was no longer visible behind acres of short trees and brush. I put the car in park between long-faded yellow markings, just before the road curved back. Seemed safe enough. There wasn’t a person or vehicle to be seen. A short way ahead was the rest area building, as advertised from the road. It was cinderblock, painted white. There was blue trim at some point. Very cottagey. No trash or overgrowth. Dare I say cute?

I stepped in to notice the spring air was ample inside, thanks to the open door and windows around the roofline. To the left, a steel sink and a single open toilet. No urinal. But about time.

I unbuttoned my fly swiftly, clumsily, as though my cock was gasping for air. I felt my strained muscles relent like they were performing some kind of a diagnostics test before a slow stream of piss dribbled against the basin. I wagged my dick, feeling its pent-up warmth as it met the incoming sun. This might take a while.

Instantly, footsteps. More like clomps, urgent and flat against the concrete. Breathing like horse huffs. A sudden stop and a gasping sigh.

“Hey, uh, room for two?”

Now, I had only been on Earth for a bit over two decades at this point. But never in my experience had I come across a dude sharing a toilet with another dude, much less proposing to do so. I half-chuckled in weak recognition. Yeah, right.

The next thing I saw was a round pink penis head, like a wrong-colored tennis ball peaking out of baggy blue jeans. I mean, when that type of thing is right in front of you, no matter what it’s attached to, it’s the center of attention. And there it was, beginning to let out a brisk waterfall of piss into the same toilet as me.

He was just going to go for it. I shuffled a bit to my left, stunned. We were facing each other.

“Thanks, bud,” he said, turning his head away toward the wall.

My sightline hit the few stray hairs across his balding head. He was maybe a few inches shorter than me height-wise and about 30 years older. He was, in a word, round. His puffy, clean-shaven cheeks seemed to prop up his oversized glasses, which weren’t doing him many favors. The beige, Members Only-style jacket he wore open framed a gigantic, bulbous belly that apexed right in its middle but hung over his waistline considerably. His polo shirt clung, giving up while his belly continued toward his open fly. He was built solely of converged circles, like the Olympics logo rearranged into person-like-shape.

He was leaning back, with a hand on a hip and the other on his dick. There was more of it than I guess I would’ve expected from a man of his size, with a good 4 inches hanging like a rope line out of his long unzipped fly. His balls rested against the opening of his white boxer shorts. They looked bigger than a fist and like a hard a****l to contain. He shifted his hand to brace against the wall and stared down self-consciously to the pot we were both pissing in.

“Long day on the road, sure … feels good to … it’s a wonder, a wonder,” he half-mumbled, friendly and trailing, as though small talk with your dick out inches from another dick is what the situation calls for.

“Boy, I do envy you with a thing like that, just sticking out like that where you put it. Makes it a lot easier to drain the … I mean, you can just go. And me, phmph … .”

Now he was just flattering me. My cock was about average size when soft, cut and straight top to bottom. It’s not like I had a lot of length on him. And he certainly had me in the thickness department, with a mushroom head ending at the small strip of pale skin that tapered back into his dick. He had moved his other hand to his hip now, so his dick flopped on its own, bobbing up and down slightly as his piss continued to shoot into the basin. It rested on his balls like they were a pillow, propped up and out by his chubby thighs.

Seconds, minutes, years went by. He prattled on about something. No idea what it was. He snickered half-heartedly in the middle of his story or whatever it was, self-conscious about the moment he drew our attention to our dicks. It was then I caught myself.

Wait, should I be leaving? Should I step out, pack up, and come back? Drive away and look for another spot to pee? Or just go outside? Where exactly did this old ball of a man come from? Why didn’t he stand outside and wait when he saw me?

Was I getting hard?

My piss continued to dribble, defying the heavy bladder I had built up. Oh god.

At this point, we were both staring down. This was certainly where the show was.

By now the head of my dick had distanced itself enough from the ridge of skin around it so that any man would notice it was at least semi-erect. I struggled to keep my cock in the same position as when I started. Forcing it downward only made it harder, literally. I looked away, nonchalant, as if this were a normal part of the process we all did a few times a day in the comfort of our own restrooms with doors that closed. The prattling stopped.

I heard his feet shift against the floor. He was widening his stance, presumably finishing up. I glanced over. His cock was now clenched in his fat fist, its head now red against his fingers as he shook it in sharp motions.

My heart jumped. Everything from my belt line on down tightened up, stalled. I was passing out? Something was broken? Wait. No. Not broken.

Panicked, I pointed my cock down as far floorward as it would go. It resisted. The first line of cum shot into the basin in one long thin trail, then another quickly next to it. This was beyond embarrassing. I adjusted to tuck my dick back into my pants. But that was just the start.

My balls spasmed so hard it threw my right foot back. And the next shots came in big blobs, shooting far. I looked up.

Three white, gooey puddles speckled his polo shirt, just above where they exposed the bottom curve of his belly.
“OHMYGODIM…OHMYG,” I gasped, my cock now uncontrollably oozing a trail of cum that dripped onto my side of the basin.

He undid his grip from his cock and rolled his fingertips up his belly. Over his stubby index finger crept the thickest mass of my jizz. He raised his palm, with a short, shocked look. Then, slowly, he cupped that hand onto his cock. With his free hand, he gently grabbed for my shoulder and hunched down. His fist squished frantically as he rolled his eyes up to mine behind his slightly fogged glasses.

A beat.

“There she goes,” he made out under heavy breaths.

His hand came off my shoulder as he leaned back, proud. His shirt rolled up over the crest of his giant, smooth belly, now almost fully exposed and bulging for the world to see. He released the grasp on his cock. It was curved up stiff, red, inert, nearly matching the thickness of its mushroom head.

Through its slit trickled gobs of white cum, a slow lava flow down the flat part of his head. The next pulsing shots dropped to the floor below with soft plops. He sighed long.

I panicked, tucking my still-hard dick into my pants, fastening the top button as I rushed out to the car. There still not even a sign of anyone else as I put the car in drive and peeled back through the loop back to the highway.

I drove for minutes, meters, my heart still racing uncontrollably. What had just happened? Should I have played the whole thing differently?

Should I have stayed?

I ran through the story over and over in my head as I meandered, stunned, through the country roads.

When I caught my breath, I traced my tracks, ending up back at the winding loop, pulling in just before the parking inset. Still no cars. By now, my cock would need to be gently pried from its new sticky bed in my underwear to accomplish the small task I thought I had come here for the first time.

I walked up the same path toward the white cinderblock hut, my heartbeat building and threatening to prevent me from walking altogether. I peeked in.

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