Trucker Piss (Gay Piss Play #3)

Wayne is a long-haul trucker in urgent need of a toilet. He pulls up at a quiet rest stop with only one other vehicle in the parking lot. Full to bursting, nearly wetting his pants, Wayne rushes into the building, only to find the washrooms out of order. Absolutely desperate, he hurries out to the woods surrounding the rest stop and unzips, determined to take a leak behind a tree. But just as he’s about to let it flow, a young man comes through the woods and falls to his knees in front of Wayne, with his mouth open. Wayne, a straight and married man, embarks on a wet and erotic adventure that will forever change him.

5,400-word short story

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I hurry out of the building and toward a thick stand of trees just a little ways off. Halfway there, I open my pants and let my cock hang out, but I hold off on pissing until I get behind the trees.

Right as I’m about to let loose and empty my bladder, I hear the shuffle of footsteps on gravel and dried leaves. I jerk my head toward the sound and spot a young man walking my way, wearing overalls. A plumber, I realize, the person who’s here to fix the washroom. But he’s walking toward me. I catch his gaze and he’s watching me with intensity.

I quickly pack my cock back into my boxers and zip up my jeans. I’m about to apologize to him, but then he stops several feet in front of me and falls to his knees. What’s this about? He opens his mouth, like he’s a baby bird, begging to be fed.

“What are you doing?” I ask. Sweat — from the urgency of my need to piss — pours down from my forehead, rolling down my face. If I don’t let loose any second now, my pants will be soaking and stinky.

He doesn’t answer — he just sits there, on his knees, with his mouth open.

“Are you some kind of fag?” I ask. I inwardly chastise myself for using such a word, as I think of my wife slapping my arm for it.

I look him up and down — he’s young, no older than twenty, skinny, and with dark hair. For all the gay men to hit on me, especially for something as disgusting as what I suspect he wants, at least he’s attractive. That thought freezes me for a moment — do I think he’s attractive? If so, what does that mean about me?

Before I can ponder that question further, I feel another drop of piss snake its way down my urethra and dribble into my boxers, growing the small wet spot. I have no time to think on this — I need to piss or I feel like I’m going to die.

Carefully and slowly, like I’m expecting him to call me perverted and pull out a cop badge or something, I unzip my jeans and nudge them down to the tops of my thighs, then do the same with my boxers. I lean back a few degrees, grab my cock, and angle so my piss stream should arc toward the young man’s face.

Almost reluctantly, I relax myself and let my piss stream out of me. It arcs through the air, looking both golden and magical as it catches the light as it dapples through the trees. With perfect aim, my piss strikes the guy in the face, square in his mouth. I watch as my piss puddles there. I’m entranced as he swallows it down, my piss splattering all over his face, and then he opens his mouth again for another drink.

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