Cruising with a Purpose

My Hometown—July, 2015

The day before my friends arrived from Chicago, I got an email from the Fluid Pig—the man who loves cum and piss in either hole.  He told me that he was coming to the area again—and this time he wanted to stay in my hometown.  We chatted back and forth.  He’d arrive the Sunday after the guys from Chicago left.  I’d see him on Monday night, when I was pretty sure to have a little time off.  He talked about how hot it would be to see each other more than once.  I suggested he text me after he took any evening load—and I’d see if I could get away for a quick clean-up and a fresh load replacement.  He loved that idea.  So did I—and it was even doable at this point in my summer.

On Monday afternoon, I suddenly had unscheduled time off.  I went off on a reconnaissance mission for the Fluid Pig…

I am sitting in the shade of ancient Hickory trees. I’m at the rural rest area that is fairly close to home.  It has “unimproved” facilities and people only stop here when they have no other choice.

   

Or to cruise.

I have been out to it only a few times this summer—but never played.  The State Troopers, who patrolled the place into a wasteland the year before, are gone due to budget cuts.  There are still a few truckers, local farmers and guys who drive in just for the thrill of cruising.

A semi arrives.  I watch the tucker, so large he can barely get out of his cab, make his way across the parking lot to the pit toilets.  I give him a pass.

And wait.

A hot young man arrives.  He’s dressed in next to nothing with the hot weather.  He marches into the stall and slams the door—locking it tightly.

No chance there.

I wait—and read, alone again.

A car appears, big—from the 90’s—but impeccably cared for.  A man I know steps out.  The same could be said for him—he’s impeccably cared for as well.  I have no ideas how many years older than me he might be, but a good ten.  His grey hair is always in place, his tanned and toned skin glows.  He’s nattily dressed in crisp slacks and a white dress shirt.  His wedding band is as wide as the tires on his car.

He sees me.  He grins and goes behind the stalls.  I follow.

His dick is out and hard.  A beauty—the head still covered with a succulent looking foreskin. 

“I was hoping you might be here,” he tells me.

I don’t answer; I just get on my knees and suck.  I attack the foreskin with my tongue, working it inside, looking for pre-cum.

The man groans.  He opens his slacks more, to give me access to his full balls.

Between his need, my skill, and the danger of discovery—he shoots in my mouth in no time.

He thanks me and does himself up.  He has no need to wipe his dick down.  I have cleaned him completely. 

I hang back behind the toilets.

As soon as I hear his car door open, I pull a condom out of my pocket, rip it open and spit his load into it.  It’s sizable and very white.

I grin to myself.

Lube for the Fluid Pig tonight.