This is a work of fiction, only mildly informed by experience. The usual warnings about explicit content apply. Although I have written in the past for my own amusement, I have not attempted to write any fiction since I was at school over forty years ago. This is the first time I have ever attempted to write any kind of erotic fiction and I have written it in a few hours on an unexpected day off. It is also the first time I have submitted any fiction for others to read. Be gentle with me, but I would be interested in reading any comments if you have any observations and the time to share them. I have no idea whether I shall pursue this line of expression, but I wanted to give something back for the pleasure I have had from reading the stories on Nifty. Thanks.
"God!" he thought, "I need a piss!"
Michael had been driving for two hours since he left the coast. The traffic had been heavy and the going slow. Normally he could make it home in two hours, but today he had only got as far as Deringham. It hadn't helped that he hadn't taken the opportunity of using the toilet before he set out. At first it didn't matter. Then came the awareness. Then the conscious effort to ignore. Then the insistence that the bladder was not going to be ignored without an effort. He had got to the stage where, if he didn't piss soon, he was not going to be able to hold it back. He hadn't yet got to the involuntary leaking from the tip of his cock, but he was beginning to feel that dull ache in the kidney and he definitely did not want to go any further down that route. The sharper pain in the bladder would in time be eclipsed by the kidney ache and he didn't think that time would be long in coming. He considered letting go and just pissing himself to delicious relief, but apart from not having a change of clothes it would make a mess of the car and he was not convinced that he would ever get the smell or the stain out of the upholstery. "If I were in France I would just pull over on the side of the road and piss anyway," he smiled to himself. He had often marvelled at the French man's lack of inhibition in such matters. Once he even saw one man watering the fence at an unmanned car wash while his mate was continuing to hose down the car. "All that running water must have been too much," he grinned at the memory.
Off the trunk road, turn left, at last. About a mile along the A3122 was a picnic place, a space in the forest that was rarely used for picnicking these days. He had often stopped there for a rest when feeling drowsy or simply when looking for somewhere to eat a packed lunch. The trees on this extremity of Deringham Forest would provide him with enough cover to maintain his modesty while he attained the bliss of relief. The late afternoon sun was about to dip below the tree cover as he pulled off the road and on to the rough, pot-holed track that led into the conifer and deciduous plantation. Two other cars were already there, parked some distance from each other further down the track. Late afternoon dog-walkers. He hoped they weren't walking his way. He swung the car round in a u-turn and pulled over under the shade of a small clump of oaks. He knew one of the Forestry Commission tracks off the potted roadway had been blocked with a mound of earth, presumably to prevent access to people driving and parking, but along that track were bushes that would offer the privacy to do the necessary. Locking the car door carefully, he negotiated the low mound and found himself on the path that cut between the trees on either side. He half-walked, half-ran to a space out of sight from the roadway and stepped off the track facing into the wood. Quickly he fumbled with his belt and unclipped the button at the top of his jeans. He pulled down his zip and pushed his jeans down a little. Even in his desperation he instinctively touched the front of his pants, lightly tracing the outline of his balls and his prick and marvelling at the evolutionary processes that had produced such a wonderful arrangement of plumbing. "Women have no idea," he thought as he slipped his right hand inside the elastic waistband of his pants. He liked to piss in the open and he liked the feel of the air on his equipment. With instinct born of habit he cupped his hand under his scrotum and lifted out his balls and cock. He thought of it as "hefting". Hefting, a good word to describe how he felt about the required care and imagined weight of the goods he was handling. He pushed the waistband of his Homs under his sac, making sure not to let his trousers slip down into the line of any wind or shrub-induced splashback and with a deep sigh let go. In the seconds that it had taken him to assume his feet-apart posture his piss had already begun its journey along the urethra and he barely avoided soaking his pants. In those last moments when relief was still only a promise he became acutely aware of how the body seems to know and the tension that was hitherto controllable gave way to unstoppable inevitability. He had performed the ritual several times daily in the decades since he could first stand unaided and still the sight of a stream of urine was fascinating. Pissing in the open he could push harder and create a golden arc that glinted and sparkled in the light, twisting within its plaited cascade to splash and disperse off the foliage to bless the normally matt surfaces of the greenery with a renewing gloss. He thought himself stupid for wondering if plants had feelings and if they did would they object to being pissed on, but he knew that any moisture must be welcome on a hot day like today had been. His urine was deep gold, a sure sign that he had held it in too long. "Pee pale" he whispered the mantra of the health and safety talk he had heard at work. Drink plenty of fluids and pee pale. His fluid was not pale. It was dark and strong and angry. He could smell its strength. As he released the stream he felt the gradual relief in his bladder. The gnawing of his kidney in the soft part of his back did not subside, at least not immediately. As the bow of piss lost its power the arc began to break and the white noise of urgent urination assumed an irregular rhythm against the bushes. He squeezed to expel more of the precious fluid and when his contractions produced no more results he pulled back his foreskin to stretch it and force it to give up any piss it was still harbouring. He shook his cock to flick off the water and when no more droplets flew off he pulled the waistband of his pants away from his body with his left hand and once more slipped his right hand inside, under the ball-sack and pressed against his perineum. Maintaining the pressure he scraped his fingers from near his anus, along the hairy track tracing a line over his balls along the length of his cock, imagining the path the piss must have taken, until he reached the slit in the crown of his glans. This action always produced a drop or two more of urine and when that happened he squeezed again along the length of his prick from base to tip to eject the last drops. He reached into his pocket for a tissue with which he gently wiped around the crown, pulling his foreskin back hard as he did so. The final act in this oft-repeated sacrament was to dab at the piss-slit allowing the tissue to absorb the last of his moisture. For years he had never thought about wiping his cock after pissing, it was certainly not anything he had been taught as a child, but as he had grown older he recognised that his muscles were no longer shutting off the valves as effectively as they had done in his childhood and youth. As he wiped he remembered, as he did every time he performed this act, a day years before when Steve, in a meeting at work, had returned from an unagenda-ed "comfort break", They had been meeting in a small and almost airless room on a hot July day. Everyone was in shirtsleeves. Thirty-five year old Steve wore a blue patterned tie, white shirt and light Chinos. The room was of such a size that people had to tuck their chairs in to allow Steve to squeeze by to get back to his place. Michael had been both horrified and fascinated to see, as he side-stepped behind the chairs around the table with his crotch full in Michael's line of sight, that Steve had a tiny dark patch in the front of his trousers. It was exactly where the end of his cock came to rest in his pants and that dark and slowly spreading spot betrayed Steve's indifference to finishing his piss properly. Since that day, Michael had been fastidious and always took the time to wipe.
Since he had devised his post-piss rituals Michael had noticed he could often get two-days' wear out of his pants before consigning them to the linen basket, specially over winter when he was also less likely to get sweaty.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a twig cracking. Someone else was nearby. He turned and craned his neck to look along the path in both directions. He certainly didn't want to be caught in the woods with his dick out by some old lady exercising her dog. Quickly he stuffed his tackle back into his pants and pulled them up tight. He closed up his trousers and dealt with zip, button and belt in short order. He turned so that he could be back on the path to make it look like he was just out for a walk when whoever it was came into sight. "Yeah! Whoever goes just for a walk in the woods these days by themselves?" he thought and as he turned he realised that a man had crept up behind him and installed himself in the blind spot in his vision. He was standing in the pre-piss position slowly stroking the cock that was poking out of his fly. Michael's first instinct was to get as much of an eyeful of the scene as possible and flee back to his car and get out of there. Almost immediately, reason kicked in. If the stranger wasn't cruising he would hardly be likely to be standing fifty feet from Michael in full view and wanking himself into an erection. Michael fought down the urge to run and just stared. The stranger stared back, his face betraying no expression. Neither man spoke. Seeing that Michael wasn't moving away, the man took a step closer, by now his strokes had turned to light finger-drumming along the underside of his thickening penis. Michael still stared and didn't move. Taking another step forward the man finally spoke, "All right?" It was a familiar, common and slightly blokish greeting in the area. Women used it too, but somehow it always sounded odd when a woman said it. Michael's throat had suddenly become too dry to speak, but he managed a nod in acknowledgement. That was enough for the stranger. With his willy bobbing as he walked he stepped up to within a few feet of Michael and resumed playing with himself as he said,
"Are you looking for something?"
Michael swallowed and replied, "Er, not really, I was just desperate for a pee and ..."
"I know," the stranger interrupted, "I saw you. You looked like you needed it."
"Oh," was all Michael could manage, "I didn't mean for anyone to see me. I thought I was being discreet. I'm sorry."
"No need for apologies, mate. We all have to do it." The stranger at last gave a hint of a smile and Michael felt his shoulders unlock as he relaxed.
"Yes, I suppose so."
There was something absurd about Michael apologising for answering a call of nature to a man who was by now halfway to displaying what was obviously a cock to be proud of. Neither man acknowledged the exposed penis although the stranger continued his lazy stroking as he asked, "Do you come here much?"
"I sometimes stop here for a break on my way home if I'm feeling tired. It's about halfway if I'm working on the coast."
"That's handy," the stranger grinned more openly now. You're obviously not tired today."
"I suppose not," mumbled Michael. He knew where this was heading and he knew this was his last chance to retreat.
The stranger looked down at Michael's left hand. "Married?" he asked, "We get a lot of married men here."
Michael automatically lifted his hand and followed the gaze to his ring finger. "No, not married."
In an instant the stranger's hand reached out and brushed over the soft bulge in Michael's trousers, giving him a light squeeze before withdrawing. "Maybe there's something we could do to compensate you then."
Michael fought off the instinct to recoil from the shock of being touched unexpectedly and with little conscious thought pressed into the stranger's light grasp.
"That's better," he said, "What are you frightened of?"
Michael didn't answer, but like a snake's victim he was hypnotised by the stranger touching the front of his trousers and tracing the outline of his bollocks.
"Nice," said the stranger. Michael breathed in, deeply. "Let's have a proper look, shall we?" His fingers traced their way to the pull on Michael's zip and slowly began to ease it down. "Sometimes have to be careful, specially if you don't know if a guy is going commando, but I know you're not. You're wearing nice black ones."
"How on earth could you see from that distance? I didn't think I was showing much at all."
"Ways and means," said the stranger, "Ways and means."
He had lowered the zip completely and his fingers plucked at the opening. Slowly he eased them inside and began to feel the filling pouch in Michael's pants. Michael shuddered with the pleasure of being groped gently. He undid his belt buckle and once more pulled at the top button on the jeans to open a v-shaped window to his underwear.
"Oh, yes," murmured the stranger, "Now we can see what we're doing." He cupped and fondled Michael's balls. He brushed up and down the length of Michael's cock. He squeezed and he teased. He slipped a finger inside the elasticated leg and Michael felt another shock at the contact of the stranger's finger on his shaft. Leaving the thumb outside to caress Michael's cock through the soft fabric, the stranger's first finger was followed by the others. His fingers ploughed through a trim stubble of pubic hair and closed around Michael's now fully erect prick. "Nice to feel you look after yourself. It's also nice that you haven't shaved it all off. A man should still look like a man."
His hand moved up and down in the wanking motion known by all men. A small damp spot darkened further the brushed cotton of Michael's pants. The stranger noticed it and rubbed it gently with his thumb. "Time to make you more comfortable," he said. With his hand still clasped round Michael's cock he pulled him over to a tree stump and sat down. His face was level with the opening in the trousers. Slipping his hand out of Michael's briefs the stranger grasped his jeans and eased them gently down. Once over his arse the jeans slipped easily to Michael's knees. He was in full view of anyone who happened to have walked by, but he was not able to resist the inevitability of the stranger's attention. "Hold up your shirt," ordered the stranger. Michael obeyed and the stranger's hands went to the waistband on the briefs. First he eased them down at the rear until Michael's arse was fully exposed to the air. Still inside the waistband he slid his hands round to the front and pulled the elastic out and over Michael's erection. He slipped the pants down to Michael's knees and pushed both pants and jeans down to his ankles. Michael was utterly exposed and vulnerable. The stranger cupped one hand under Michael's balls and closed the other round his cock and resumed the gentle up and down motion. Michael felt another flow of pre-cum seep from the end of his cock. "Can't waste that," purred the stranger. As his thumb rubbed the lubricant around the inside of Michael's foreskin and over the top of his glans he moved in closer and, pulling the foreskin back hard took Michael into his mouth. His tongue brought Michael sensations he had never felt before and found the most sensitive underside of the glans and the frenulum as he licked and sucked Michael's knob. Holding Michael's cock like a microphone, with the foreskin still pulled back hard he fellated him slowly. The other hand let go of the balls it was kneading and gripped Michael's arse cheek. With each squeeze the fingers probed further into the crack between his buttocks. As the stranger's middle finger made contact with the edge of Michael's arsehole Michael suddenly shuddered.
"Oh my god, I'm coming, I am coming!"
The first wave of his orgasm ripped outwards from deep within his balls. He felt the surge of spunk along the length of his cock. The stranger moved his head back, releasing the head of Michael's prick and, wanking him hard and gazed in awe and pleasure as Michael shot a blob of white jizz several inches into the air. The first was followed by three more strong arcing shots and then by aftershocks that dribbled the cum out of the end of Michael's cock and over the stranger's hand. As Michael's orgasm subsided and his cock began to soften the stranger wiped and rubbed the cum into Michael's cock, into his scrotum, into his pubic hair and over his belly. He spread the slippery nectar between Michael's legs from his balls to his arsehole and in a final act of worship thrust his face back into Michael's crotch and inhaled deeply. Michael's knees had buckled. He had never experienced an orgasm like it and he could not collect his thoughts to begin to make sense of this whole encounter.
"It looks like you needed that!" winked the stranger. He pulled Michael's pants up from his ankles to his knees and wiped his sticky hands dry on the inside of them. Taking a pen from his pocket he took Michael's hand and turned it up to expose the palm. "Here's my mobile number," he said as he wrote. "I hope you might like to return the favour one day."