Happy Trails To You

I've always considered myself a fairly average guy in most respects. A moderately attractive, but unimposing heterosexual; within the norms of sexual appetite, preferences, and porn consumption. Until that last one changed with my divorce, and the dominoes started to fall.

Once the sex in my marriage began to wane, I'd watch porn whenever I found myself home alone with time on my hands. Back then, a protracted wank session might last as long as an hour or two, but always with one ear open for the sound of her car in the drive and the garage door opening. Although that risk added a furtive element that carried a certain appeal, I had no idea how much I was missing until I was living alone.

Watching porn can be a much richer experience when you know you won't be interrupted. There's the additional perk of being able to incorporate toys, or cross-dress, or whatever floats your boat. I didn't have inclinations along those lines, but I did take delight in the freeing feeling of being naked, comfortable, and able to edge as long as I wanted; knowing that the eventual climax would be of my choosing, in my time. Most importantly, it would not be stolen away or rushed by an unexpected arrival.

My porn consumption had been static for years. The same theme, mainly beautiful naked women, was usually enough; and if those women were sucking cock, it typically wasn't a very long session. But I found that once I began devoting more and more time to it, those previously exciting images lost some of their intensity. I was still a fan of all the same things, but they no longer stoked the same desire. I guess that's what porn consumers mean when they say their "tastes evolved over time".

I was accustomed to getting off to a picture of a beautiful girl sucking a cock, usually with a hot caption. I tended to save my favorites, like the one where a guy about to be serviced looks down at the woman kneeling in front of him and tells her:

I want you to relieve me of my burden. My balls are full of sperm that I need to release, and I want to unload them into your stomach.

That kind of shit always did it for me.

When my tastes did evolve, it was along lines so predictable as to be boring. I went from imaging myself as the man being sucked, to the person doing the sucking. I mean, how often have you heard that one? I only deviated from the standard path in that I pictured myself as the

person

doing the sucking, not the woman. I had no desire to be a woman, or even to feel like one. Despite all the captions suggesting I would love to wear panties (if not entire female wardrobes), the thought did nothing for me. What I saw when I looked at the cocksuckers was not their gender so much as their passion. I particularly identified with the ones who were submissive. Their expressions of worship, gratitude, and variations on those feelings resonated with my desires, sending me through the roof.

Once I imagined myself as the cocksucker, it was a short trip to imagining eating the cum. After all, it was a logical progression. The culmination of the activity; the most powerfully charged part of the whole experience. Something men understand completely, and women can only imagine by extension. Cum eating became my favorite flavor of cocksucking porn. It was inevitable, I couldn't resist a caption like:

She played with it. She reveled in the thickness of it, then relished the taste as she swallowed it down.

It would make me blow every time!

Being a logical guy and knowing the value of practice, I obeyed the pretty girls in the pictures imploring me to

eat your own cum

, or

eat your load

. I didn't particularly like the taste, but I still did it, telling myself it was conditioning. I wanted to have no aversion, should I ever be lucky enough to be faced with the opportunity. And I fantasized about that opportunity non-stop. My old favorite captioned pics were supplanted by things like:

Dude, just stop pretending already. Stop pretending you're a man and just do it.

Making it become reality is what I now yearned for. Wanting to suck cock -- to be a cocksucker and a cum eater. It became my obsession, to the effective exclusion of all others. Had a beautiful women fallen into my arms at that time, I would have taken full advantage. But short of any such windfall, I wasted no time in pursuit of a female companion. Instead, I spent all my free time imagining submitting to my first cock, or practicing; not only cum eating, but sucking on a realistic dildo I bought for just that purpose. When I wasn't doing that, I spent hours scheming the best way to make it happen.

I can't say I explicitly decided to proposition someone in a public men's room, but it certainly occupied my imagination in a powerful way. The illicit and dirty nature of it appealed to my submissive side. I started to increase awareness of my surroundings and neighbors whenever I was at a urinal. Mainly I hoped to steal an "accidental" peek, while maintaining plausible deniability. I also increased my usage of public facilities, often electing to visit one with a half-full bladder, where previously I would have held it until I got home. Even when these outings yielded no salacious encounters, the rare glimpses I got, along with the few reactions from those that might have suspected something, were potent fodder that fueled my masturbatory fantasies.

So now, here I am once again at a urinal in a public men's room, visions of cock dancing in my head. This men's room is a one stall affair at the back of a home improvement warehouse store. Two urinals and a single sink. Perfect for my mission! Multiple urinals allow for either too much distance, or raises too much suspicion over why I chose the middle urinal in an empty row of three. Nothing strange going on here,

they

mounted these things so close together on the wall - I have no choice!

I've geared myself up for sucking cock, on the off chance that everything goes perfectly. I'm alone at the moment, so I stand at the urinal and play with myself, make a couple trips to the sink and back, pretending to be engaged in legitimate activity, waiting for eventual company. All the time thinking of who will walk in, and whether I'll find them compelling (attractive isn't a scale I know how to apply to men).

So, I'm standing at the urinal, idly fondling my dick, when the door opens and a guy walks in. Glancing over my shoulder, I size him up while he's far enough away to take in the complete picture. He's not remarkable in any way, built like myself in general. He steps up to the other urinal and unzips. Not wanting to appear too eager, I wait until I hear his stream establish, hoping he won't notice that I'm not producing one of my own. That worry is quickly dispelled when I realize he wouldn't expect to hear my stream at all, given that he was closer to his own, and his sounded like the rush of class three white-water rapids. I steal a glimpse and am drawn to the surprisingly thick stream before I follow it back to the pipe releasing it. His hand is blocking the first three inches of his cock, but another two-plus inches of flaccid meat extend beyond his hand, and the girth is as impressive as the apparent bore of his shaft.

Finally, I'm standing alongside a nice big cock, just like I dreamed! As I'm planning my opening gambit, I hear another guy walk in and he heads for the stall. I can't do anything now; no way I'm going to risk it with company. All I can do is pray the guy in the stall is also there to piss and finishes before we do. As the seconds slide by, I can hear my neighbors stream subsiding. Fearing I might miss out, I sneak another glance, wanting at least burn in a lasting memory of his manhood. He doesn't seem to notice, but now he's shaking off that slab of meat and tucking it away. As he steps to the sink, I struggle to come up with something to say, something innocuous and legitimate, that might keep him here until the guy in the stall leaves. I draw a complete blank and before my mind lands on anything, he's gone.

I stand there dejected, only now realizing how hard I got while imagining kneeling at the feet of that stranger in front of the urinals. I play with myself in earnest, only vaguely mindful of the guy in the stall, knowing I'll hear the stall door open in time to stop stroking. When he eventually does come out, washes up and leaves, I scurry into the stall to jerk off uninterrupted. As I enter, I'm immediately grateful that he didn't take a dump in here and stink the place up. But given that he didn't, I wonder why he took so much longer than my hung friend.

I close the door, and there on the back, right in front of me - three distinct trails of fresh cum are running down the door. I didn't even notice the man that just walked out, but would it really have mattered? The only question is, what am I going to do now? I reject my initial fleeting thought -- it's just too filthy. I'm already hard, and then I read the words scrawled below the lurid imagery on the walls. The sketches are crude, and so are the words. 'Suck it, bitch!' 'Eat my spooge, faggot!' 'Drink my ball slime'. Each one gets me hornier than the last. The cocks so crudely pictured on the wall are all hairy and spurting.

I pull down my pants and start to jack off; but my thoughts are now divided -- torn between the fantasy of sucking that big cock back at the urinals; and the reality of the cum that's slowly sliding down the dull, industrial green metal door. The closer I get to spurting, the hornier I feel. I'm enjoying this - I don't want it to end. I want to get the most out of the gift the stranger has left me. Maybe there's a way I can get off even harder. Maybe if I play with his creamy offering.

I try to picture the man who shot his thick nut-jelly onto the door. Was he a white-collar guy wearing a suit and tie, with a clean-shaven rigid dick poking out of his pressed trousers? Or was he some grimy construction worker, or a pot-bellied trucker with a sweaty, uncut, thick, hairy cock. I like to think the latter. In fact, picturing it brings me so close to the edge that I have to stop moving my hand. Rhythmic squeezing is enough to keep me perilously close.

Tentatively, I reach out a finger to the lowest point on one of the slime trails and drag the thick drop up through the remains of its wake. The drop grows larger, like a snowball rolling along, picking up more white stuff as it advances. By the time I push it up to its headwaters, it has piled up against the side of my finger and threatens to spill over the top. I rotate my finger, unwilling to risk any of it falling to the floor. That would be a waste -- I'd never eat it off the floor. But wait a minute... does that mean... I

would

eat it off this wall? No... I mean... NO! I hadn't decided that. The thought had barely entered my mind. I was excited merely to be touching it with a single finger.

But now the thought

was

in my mind, and as my slime-coated finger left the wall, I resumed slowly stroking my dick and brought the finger to my lips. Sticking out my tongue, I touched it to the tip to my finger and allowed myself the tiniest sample. I was disappointed to discern no taste at all -- I took too small a taste. Well, that would never do -- I had to know!

Impatiently, I stuck my whole finger into my mouth and sucked, then withdrew and did my best to appreciate it, like a perverted sommelier. The main note was metallic, something I had read about, but rarely ever detected in my own. Then it hit me -- duh, it's a metal door! Oh well, natural or not, it wasn't revolting. In fact, it tasted like more. I attacked the second trail as I had the first, scooping up a nice finger-full and feeding it to myself. It was every bit as yummy, and the taste built as it more fully coated my mouth. It had cooled in the open air, which I didn't enjoy. When I thought about why it was no longer warm... where I got it from... the filthiness of the situation hit me anew and I sucked my finger with increased vigor.

I closed my eyes and imagined looking up with gratitude at the man who had left this deposit for me, wishing I could see him looking down with disgust at the cum eater I was. Opening my eyes, I looked at the door, and the single trail that remained to consume, knowing it would never satisfy me. The remains of the two trails I had wiped up still glistened on the door. Once I had swallowed the third trail, I knew I'd be licking the wall for the residue my finger had left behind. Why not make the first lick a richly rewarding one?

I got down on my knees and faced the door, only too late thinking to check whether anyone else had come into the room. Luckily, I was still alone. I had to bend down low to get to the last advancing drop of the third trail. In the bright florescent light, I was close enough to see that the middle of the drop was thick; thick enough to contain a swirling, pearlescent cloud within. Was that actually the sperm swimming in the semen? I stuck out my tongue and as it made contact with the cool metal, I pictured my fantasy man's sweaty, uncut, thick, hairy cock laying down the rope of jizz I that was now piling up on my tongue as I traced its path up the filthy door. I felt like the dirtiest cum slut imaginable! My mind could no longer contain all the pent-up feelings, and I began to plaster my own load across the bottom of the door. I swallowed all the cum from trail three as I furiously stroked out my load. As soon as my spasms subsided, I licked off the remnants of trails one and two from the door, savoring the filthy taste. Then I wiped the last drop off my cock head, brought it my lips, and contemplated my oral assault on the very bottom of the door, now painted with my own ball juice. Turns out, sometimes, even my own cum has a distinctly metallic edge!