by Greg Scott
All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc. In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it. Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.
It was my second day of jury duty, and I was starting to feel like a veteran. I had been called previously. That time, I spent three days sitting in the juror's waiting room, reading and people watching. Every once in a while, a sheriff would read through a list of names of people who were to march to a courtroom for possible selection. I was never lucky enough to be on any of those lists.
I actually wanted to serve on a jury. Since I had to alter my schedule to accommodate my civic obligation, I wanted the system to make use of me. Besides, I assumed that being on a jury would be more interesting than sitting around all day, drinking coffee and trying to concentrate on a book amid all the hubbub of the juror's waiting room.
The waiting room itself was actually made up of three separate rooms. I chose the one that was smallest and most secluded. Even that selection meant that I was among thirty or so other citizens, most of whom seemed to view this as a wonderful opportunity to socialize.
I found a corner resulting in relative peace. I scanned to room to see if there happened to be any interesting men among the gathered. Seeing none that were worth a game of exchanging furtive glances, I turned my attention to the book that I had brought.
Every couple hours, a disembodied voice announced that the jury pool had earned a ten minute break. That simply meant that we could leave the waiting area to use the restrooms across the hall or step outside for a quick cigarette if the person happened to be a smoker.
Since I did not smoke but always consumed an immense amount of coffee, I was always quite anxious for the next restroom break. On occasion the breaks were delayed, and it became a race between my bloated bladder and the apparently faulty memory of the unseen person who scheduled the breaks.
During a time when I was feeling a particularly urgent need to hear the announcement of ten minutes of freedom, I actually moved closer to the door so that I could save a few precious seconds when we were released. The long awaited announcement came about five minutes later and I sprinted across the hall to the men's room.
I beat the crowd, chose my urinal and began to relieve myself. It didn't take long, though, for the other male coffee drinkers to fill the rest of the long line of porcelain.
Normally, I admit to having a bit of a wandering eye while standing at a urinal. This time, though, I was only interested in reducing my discomfort, and I concentrated solely on that.
I was still going nearly full force by the time most of the other men had cleared out of the men's room. However, a new man entered and took up the position immediately to my left. I was simultaneously curious and a bit hopeful as I contemplated his reason for choosing that urinal instead one of the many that were available and more private due to their distance from me.
I chanced a look at him. We nodded a greeting.
I recognized him from the jury room, although he had apparently settled in some other part than I had chosen. I didn't remember seeing him since the morning before.
He was young, maybe three years or so younger than I, which would put him in his late twenties. Standing a little over six feet on a solid frame, he was dressed stylishly. His naturally blonde hair had highlighted tips that attracted attention to his handsome--almost too pretty--face.
My stream had reduced to a trickle. With my discomfort gone, I decided to take advantage of my position and glanced down and to the left.
Awaiting my gaze was an awakening cock, but the view was a bit startling for me, a rather vanilla Midwestern man. At the tip, just as I had seen in magazines and online but never in person, was a Prince Albert.
For those of you outside of the United States, I'm not sure if the term, "Prince Albert" will be familiar. It is a piercing at the tip of the penis into which a piece of jewelry is inserted.
The sight of his penile decoration made me cringe. I fought an urge to double over to protect my own dick from such an unwelcome assault. On the other hand, the gold ring attached to such a spectacular, rapidly expanding penis fascinated me more than it repulsed me.
My neighbor was now openly stroking his cock as I first watched and then imitated his movements. I began hesitantly, as we were in a men's room in a courthouse whose security was in the hands of the sheriff's office. I had already learned that the deputies frequently came in here to relieve themselves.
Apparently my reservations were not shared by my companion. He reached over to give my cock the same loving attention that he had been giving his own.
I, of course, setting aside my paranoia, returned the favor. I was working his full length with each upward movement halted by my contact with the gold ring. The longer I watched my own hand pleasuring this unfamiliar cock, the more aroused I became. Yet, I was determined that he should have his pleasure first.
Although I was focused on the novelty of what I was doing, I felt the urge to cum building more rapidly than I wished. I mentally paused to try to bring myself down.
I thought about how the penis ring would clank against my teeth if, sometime in the future, I sucked him. I wondered if the ring would come out before he begged me to let him fuck me on a faraway secluded beach. What is the standard protocol for sex with a metal impaled dick?
He started working my cock in ways that I had never experienced. This man had developed remarkable skills. I could hold back no longer.
As he aimed me and worked his magic on my penis, I fired shot after explosive shot against the porcelain receptacle. Somehow, as I reached my climax, I was still able to maintain my work on his member.
Watching me splash against the urinal pushed him over the edge. His breathing became rapid as he swallowed a moan. Before my explosions had concluded, he began to match me splash for splash.
As he slowed to a final dribble, he pushed my hand off his dick, wiped a remaining drop or two from his tip, licked his fingers and hurriedly zipped up. He left the restroom with me standing exhausted at the urinals trying to decide whether to race to a cubicle so that I could use some paper to clean my remnants or put myself away and live the rest of the day with the stickiness. I decided on the latter.
As I returned to the jury waiting room, a little late, I noticed that my new friend had joined a group assembled near the door. Then I heard my name announced with a warning that this was the last call. Apparently, I had been assigned to this same jury.
I was doubly delighted. At last, I would get my opportunity to serve on a jury. Furthermore, I would have an opportunity to at least exchange contact information with my playmate.
Over the course of the next few days, I learned that actually being on a jury can be as boring as sitting in the waiting room. We spent much of the time filing in and out of the courtroom as we would be removed for many of the motions filed by the highly professional attorneys.
Consequently, the blonde object of my lust and I had plenty of time to talk and get to know each other. We had the time, but apparently he didn't have the inclination. We never spoke to each other.
He spent the free moments chatting up each of the three single, younger, female jurors. I overheard him telling two of the young women, separately and on different days, that she was the one person on the jury that he wanted to remain connected to after the trial. They should definitely meet for a drink to get to know each other better. I suspect he told the third of his prey the same thing, but I must have been out of earshot at the time.
I wondered how the women could fall for such a cheap pick-up line. Then I would look at him and understand why they were so easily hypnotized by his transparent charms.
I am still at a loss to explain our men's room game. Clearly, this guy thought of himself as straight. Perhaps that was just what some straight guys do when they have a little time on their hands.
Oh, I did discover why he was so good at what he did for me. He was a chiropractor. I briefly wondered whether my health insurance would cover a weekly appointment with him. I set that idea aside and went back to pursuing men with more understandable sexual identities.
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