[Breeder] In the Stall

[TheBreeder]

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When the mall first opened several years ago, the second floor restroom was a cruiser’s paradise. The architects had spared no expense in the elaborate and impressive men’s room. The floors and walls were of a dark black marble, polished and gleaming. The fixtures were expensive and state-of-the-art, for the time. And the facilities were tucked away in a quiet corner, away from the hustle and bustle of the crowds.

What the architects hadn’t realized—or perhaps there was a cocksucker on the design team who indeed know and understand—was that they might as well have installed mirrors on every surface. If one was sitting on a toilet and someone else walked into a neighboring stall, all one had to do was lean over and look at the floor to watch the guy drop his pants. It was easy to tell every detail of what one’s neighbor wore, his general weight and height, and even how much hair he had on his sac. To get a good look at his features, or to stare at the dicks of the guys peeing at the urinals adjoining, one would lean back and peer at the wall behind the partition. If the guy was masturbating, you could tell immediately. And count the veins on his dick.

Yes, the reflection that perfect, and pure. And it took about two years of constant cruising activity before the mall took some kind of abrasive to sections of the marble. These days, a few years after that, no longer can you peer at the urinals. It’s gotten harder (but not impossible) to see reflections behind the partitions. The floors are still nicely reflective, but several years of shoes scuffing them over has reduced their shine.

It doesn’t matter. Men still haunt the place for sex, if you hit it at the right times.

Monday was perhaps not one of those times. I knew it when I walked past the Starbucks and down the long hall to the remote men’s room. The mall had opened just a half hour before and didn’t have much traffic. It didn’t matter. I was just curious to see what was going on.

I sat down in the middle stall and dropped my pants, and started to stroke.

I’ve had so much sex in that restroom that it didn’t take long to get hard. I thought about the last time I was there, when I knelt down on the floor and felt a furry mouth wrap around my dick and lick over my nuts, only to find myself on the receiving end of a perfect blow job from a handsome daddy bear in one of the most expensive suits I’ve ever seen.

I remembered the time I fucked a Brazilian guy cologned to the gills in the handicapped stall and afterward smelled like him for the better part of a week. I thought about the local newscaster I met there, then fucked in the more private restrooms in Nieman-Marcus before I started visiting him at his home. While I stroked and began to precum, I thought about the dozens of mouths and buttholes I’d been in over the last decade in those three stalls. Men walked in and out and peed at the urinals, but there was no action.

Until, that is, the boy showed up. I saw him walk past the middle stall and enter the handicapped stall beyond. His reflection glinted in the marble as he crouched down and glanced beneath the partition at my legs. Then immediately he stood up again, exited the stall, and hovered outside my door. I could see his face through the crack.

He was young, that much was apparent. If it hadn’t been a weekday in the middle of the school year, I would’ve pegged him as a high school kid. Very likely he was only a year or two past graduation. Despite the baseball cap that slouched at an angle over his forehead, I could tell he was a redhead by the trail of carefully-tended fuzz around the perimeter of his face. It didn’t cover his chinbone, the way it should; it was one of those amateur beards oversculpted by a hand that didn’t know what it was doing, extending down from his sideburns to run underneath his jaw, just above his Adam’s apple, to the other sideburn. It looked more like the scarlet ribbon chinstrap of a schoolmarm’s bonnet than real facial hair, but the kid was trying.

He was watching me stroke through the crack, too. I didn’t bother to hide my erection. Why should I have? It was what he wanted to see. I leaned back on the toilet and displayed it proudly. I even put my feet together and spread my legs wider, to give him a good view. Back and forth his head bobbed, as he tried to look through the crack to get a better view.

I decided to give him one. I reached out and opened the door and let it swing open. He stepped back at the sound, but remained in view. The kid wore one of those T-shirts so fashionable these days because they’ve had badly-printed Celtic crosses and illegible words in Germanic script stamped on them. He sported a pair of plaid boxers, with the waistband of his jeans pulled down low around his hips. I didn’t move toward him. I simply sat back again, let the stall door bang the inside of my left knee, and stroked.

Gradually he relaxed. Though he kept his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, his fingertips reached out to stroke the denim beneath. After a few passes, I could see the outline of his growing cock. Precum was leaking from my dick like crazy; I dipped my finger in the tip, pulled out a pearl of it, and stick it into my mouth and licked my finger clean.

“Fuck,” mumbled the boy.

I decided to stand up then. The boy flinched like he’d been shot, or as if I’d lunged at him. He disappeared from the door and scampered over to the sinks, it sounded like. When I sat back down, though, he eventually made his way back over. All he wanted to do was watch.

So for a couple of minutes more I let him. I grabbed my balls and pulled them down and out, then let them bounce back into place. I wrapped one fist around my shaft, then two, and let him see that there was still a good two or three inches protruding from the top. He was visibly excited by now. His fingertips danced over the bulge in his pants, but he didn’t unzip. The kid licked his lips unconsciously as he stared, mesmerized, at my dick.

I’d just started some backhanded stroking when the men’s room door opened. I eased my door shut, then very quietly pulled the bolt; the kid shot over to the urinals, where he flushed and pretended to be zipping up. I heard the sound of the intruder peeing at the other urinal, so I stood up, tucked my raging hard-on into my jeans, zipped, washed my hands, and exited. I’d had my fun. I didn’t want to stick around long enough to be a loiterer.

The kid was gone—it was a damned shame, too, because I would’ve put on a great show for him all the way to the finale. He’d been a cute little piece, too, and I’d enjoyed the fascinated, absorbed expression on his face the entire time he’d watched me. Living porn, that’s what I’d been. Even though I hadn’t gotten off, I didn’t mind in the least.

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