(The Michael Tapes 01)

by Marc Tremaine

    WARNING:  This story is a product of imagination; it is not a depiction of real life.  It involves sexual acts between two or more males of the human species.  If you are offended by that idea or its explicit description, regardless of whether it's the act that offends you, or the age or relationship of the participants, don't read this story.  If writing about any type of sex between males is illegal in your nation, or in your particular municipality, county, state, province, or other political subdivision, don't read this story.  If your age makes it illegal to read this story, don't read this story.

    Copyright (c) 1998 by Marc Tremaine.  All rights reserved.  You have the right to download this story to keep on your computer, and to print a hard copy if you preserve the title, warning and copyright notice.  You do not have the right to otherwise reproduce or repost this story.  You do not have the right to rewrite this story.  You do not have the right to use this story to make any amount of money for yourself or anyone else.  If you do not understand these rights as I have listed them for you, my address is above:  ask before acting.



    Now why the fuck am I saying that?  I already know the tape recorder works, and besides, you're going to edit this shit when you transcribe it, right?

    Okay.  So...let's see.  How about my first and only Asian adventure?

    There's a mall I like to go to.  No, asshole, you can stop with the shit-eating grin.  Not just for that reason.  Well, yeah, that reason, too.  But it's got a great theatre, four thousand screens or something, and some places I like to shop, one of my favorite restaurants, not expensive but with good food, and a couple of waiters who give excellent...service...yeah, service.  It also has a moderately cruisy john.

    This particular Saturday I actually had some shopping to do.  Well, to be truthful, I'm too damn cheap to drive all the way to this mall just to cruise the john.  Not that I'm going to turn down any opportunities, you understand, but if I am go-ing to spend the time and gas to get there, I prefer to get some return on that par-ticular investment by actually buying something, just in case the john is quiet.  I also prefer having a legitimate reason for being at the mall, just in case I have to do my indignant, how-dare-you-treat-a-regular-mall-customer-like-that routine with some security guard or other mall personnel.

    Now before you get too case this happens to be exciting to any-one but ought to know who you're listening to.  Michael.  Not Mike, well, maybe once in a while.  And I really don't give a fuck how pissy that makes me sound.  That's my name and that's the way I like it.  Stats.  45.  5'11".  150 pounds.  Feels like about ten of those pounds are around my waist.  Brown eyes.  Reddish-brown hair that's goin' grey awfully goddamn fast.  Goin' bald even faster, so I keep my hair cut short.  None of this drape a few strands of hair over my head and pretend crap.  Real average build.  No lifting weights `n stuff.  Hair around my tits and a line of hair down to my navel and then into my crotch.  Real average looks.  Even when I was younger I never could understand why anyone would trick with me...especially some of the occasional really hot ones, like the 6'3" blond in L.A. and his Latino buddy.  Well, I guess that's another tape.  Oh.  The other thing.  Seven inches...just barely.  Cut.  Sticks out straight when I'm hard.  Average width.  Decent-sized balls that hang fairly low, but nothing spec-tacular.

    That Saturday I was in a western mood and, jeans, jeans shirt, western hat.  Never wear underwear and if I do say so myself, I still show a nice box.

    I kinda think this john was designed by a faggot.  It isn't absolutely perfect for cruising, but sure helps a lot.  The floors and walls are all tile.  You go in the door, which makes a noticeable noise as you open it...well, surprise, surprise...and you walk into a sort of short "hallway."  The wall on your right is maybe six, eight feet long, the wall on your left is another four feet.  The rubber dispenser is near the end of the left wall, right at your back as you make the turn through the four-foot opening into the john itself.  Stand there, and you're facing the long counter with the four sinks and the mirror that runs from the counter top to the ceiling.  Nice for checking yourself out and anyone who happens to be there.  If you look to your right the wall at the end of the sinks is actually the same wall as the outside of the john, and it has a couple of towel dispensers and a trash can.  By stepping to the right you're behind the divider wall, and you can't be seen by anyone coming in...well, at least not until they get to the doorway and get a look at you in the mir-ror.

    Turn left and the opening is six or so feet wide.  On your right are four uri-nals, hanging on the same wall as the mirrors and sinks, with a short divider wall sticking out to the edge of the sinks, so if you're standing there pissing your back is right about at the front of the sinks.  Anybody standing at the sinks, or drying their hands, or fussing with their hair, can, of course, just "happen" to glance over at whoever's at the urinals...sometimes get a good look, sometimes not...sometimes the good looks are intentional, sometimes accidental.  Directly behind the wall at the end of the short "hall"...and right across from the urinals, are three toilet stalls.  Two regular sized, the third, at the far end, the handicapped stall.  Steel dividers, no glory holes, but more than enough space between the doors to get a good look at whoever is on the stool...or if you're inside, catch some views of who's out there.

    The john was empty, which doesn't mean you automatically turn and leave if you have more on your mind than a quick piss or shit.  I set the bag of stuff I'd bought down beside at the second urinal.  The first one, right by the sink divider wall, is one of those kids-or-handicapped ones, real low, and if I use one I always feel like I'm gonna miss and wind up pissing on my shoes.  I unbuttoned my 501's, hauled out my cock and balls and just stood there.  Y'see, you gotta hold the piss back as much as possible just in case you need to prove you have a legitimate rea-son for being there.  The second urinal is a good spot.  Look over your right shoul-der, and you can get an idea of who's in the first two stalls, and what they have in mind.  Look over your left shoulder, and ditto the handicapped stall.

    Cruising is as much a science as an art form, `n don't let anybody tell you different.

    I also don't have a lot of patience.  I figure, okay, if I'm gonna get some I'm gonna get some, if not, there are other things I can do with my day.  And I've got a real talented right hand...well trained, years of experience, able to be rough or gen-tle as the situation calls for, and very much an expert in knowing what my cock likes.  I was just about to shake my prick like the end of my pretend piss, when I heard the john door.

    Now, when you're in a public john like this one, even the straights who are at the urinals tend to look over their shoulders, some of them really, really quick so they can pretend it didn't happen at all, to see who's comin' in.  So, it wasn't any big deal for me to do the same.

    It was an Asian man.  Okay, I know that saying Asia could mean Japan or China or India or Pakistan or Vietnam, or any one of the other countries.  But to me an Asian man is someone Oriental.

    Hey.  Is Oriental p.c. these days?  Well, sorry all to fucking hell if it isn't, but there isn't exactly a large Asian population here in the middle of the god-damned country, so I haven't exactly had an opportunity to be able to figure out who is Japanese or Chinese or Vietnamese or whatever.  I also haven't exactly had a "thing" for Asisan men, either.  Maybe I'd unconsciously bought into the great-mind-small-dick stereotype, although I have to admit the only other Asian man I'd ever tricked with...and that was a hell of a lot of years ago...was exactly the stereo-type.  For whatever reason, my "thing" has always been for six foot three blonds.  Well, six-four is okay.  Well, the seven-foot blond who loved to get fucked was okay, too.  Jesus, was he okay!  Oops.  Sorry.  Got a bit sidetracked there.

    He walks in and stands in the entrance for just a second.  He's a little shorter than me.  Black hair trimmed short and combed forward on top, like a crew cut that's sort of laying down.  Flecks of silver scattered throughout that kind of shone in the overhead fluorescents. Black eyes.  Unshaven.  Not a really round face, more squared, with sharp cheekbones.  Thin nose.  Thin lips. My guess was mid-thirties, but what the hell would I know.  He was wearing a moderately tight tee-shirt, plain white, short-sleeved.  He had wide shoulders, thick, muscular arms.  It was tucked inside a pair of grey sweat-pants.  No socks and what I loosely call sneakers.  I have no idea what they fuck they're really called today.  He didn't look directly at me before he turned left and went into the first stall.

    I waited a moment and then looked over my right shoulder, slightly turning my body.  My cock was already half hard, waiting for the slightest encouragement to finish the job.  I got it.

    He was kind of leaning back on the stool, tilting a bit to his left so he could see out the space between the door and the steel divider, but able to pretend he wasn't really doing that if he guessed wrong.  Of course he hadn't guessed wrong.  His sweats were down at his ankles, his hairy legs were spread, and I could see by the movement of his left hand he was playing with himself.  Hot damn!

    My own moving right hand made it real obvious I was jacking off, too.  I swiveled a little further to my right to show him my hard cock and loose hanging balls.  He was definitely interested, since he was leaning over and looking straight at me.  Still playing with my cock I walked over to his stall and looked through the crack.  He leaned back even further and shifted to his right hand.  His tee shirt was pulled up and tucked behind his head. No hair on his chest, and tiny pointed nip-ples.  But down below, a fucking jungle of thick black hair surrounding a thick cock about six or so inches long, with bulging veins, and a kind of reddish-purple color.

    I touched the door handle and he stood up and opened it inward, moving forward in those short steps we have to use when our pants are around our ankles.  Still playing with my own dripping meat with my left hand, I reached out with my right to fondle his balls and then stroke his cock.  That's when he put his callused hand on the back of my neck and gently tugged my head forward.

    You have to understand.  I'm not a cocksucker.  Well, I'm gay, so I'm a cocksucker by definition.  But sucking dick isn't really my thing.  I like fucking hot tight assholes...or loose and sloppy seconds or thirds.  I like getting my own butt reamed out with choice meat, too.  I also like fucking a talented mouth.  But I rarely suck cock, other than to get someone hot and horny, or to get them nice and wet before they plug my butt.  It's not like I'm "above" doin' it, or anything.  I just don't think I'm all that good at it, and the act of sucking doesn't turn me on the way fucking or getting fucked or getting sucked does.

    All that went by the wayside as I bent at the waist and started licking his dick head.  Any ideas that were in my head...either one...about what I was "in the mood for" that afternoon vanished, too.  And so did all the Asian stereotypes.  There was something in the chemistry, in the fucking air, in the slight sweaty smell of his tee-shirt and his crotch hair...something...that made him the hottest man on the planet right then.

    I wanted him in my mouth.  I wanted him in my ass.  Preferably both places at the same time.  I bobbed my head up and down his prick for a couple of strokes...and we heard the sound of the john door opening.

    I was back across the aisle and in front of the urinal in record time, my body shoved forward enough so that whoever was coming in couldn't see my hardon.  The click when he locked the stall door was almost unnoticeable.

    Almost.  Just like my rush to get back to the urinals was almost unnotice-able.  Except I think the boy who came in did notice.  A black teenager.  There was a kind of pause when he made the right turn into the john, but all he did was glance over at me, and then go to the sinks and wash his hands.  That's when I heard the click on the stall door.

    Shit.  Piss.  Motherfuck.  The Asian hunk was leaving.  I shook my dick to get rid of the last pretend drops of piss, angled my body away from the sink area as I forced my still mostly-hard prick back into my jeans, showing a nice long bulge down to the left, and buttoned myself up.  When I turned around, the teen was dropping a paper towel into the can and as he headed for the door he caught my eye.  He didn't wink, but there was just the tiniest grin in his eyes as he left.

    The Asian man finished washing his hands and stood at the towel dispenser.  I walked over, set my package down, ran water over my hands and looked at his face in the mirror and then down to his crotch.  There was a noticeable bulge, just about the length and width of a prick, pointing up and slightly angled toward his right.  He just kept on wiping his hands after they'd probably been dry for several hours.

    Actually doing something in this john was kind of stupid.  A quick suck, a few jackoff strokes, maybe, but the idea here is to be able to go somewhere else.  This is a fucking popular mall and this is the only public john on the lower level, so there's lots of traffic in it.  But this was fairly early on Saturday morning and the stores hadn't been open very long.  Yes.  No.  Yes.  No.

    I swear to God it was like I had been hypnotized by this man, or by his meat, or by the combination.  The what-the-fuck-who-gives-a-shit attitude had engulfed me.  I wiped my hands on my jeans, took a step, and groped his cock.  It stiffened to a full hardon instantly.  With my left hand I played with his tits through the tee shirt, while my right hand groped his prick.  He was looking at us in the mirror and he moved just a little so that he could see his crotch, too.

    I reached inside the elastic band of the sweats, reached inside the briefs, felt the searing hotness of his prick, felt the slime of the precum he was dripping.  He quickly pulled the front of his sweats and briefs out and down so that they were under his heavy balls and his cock was free.  Once again, he put his hand on my neck, but I didn't need the encouragement.  All I wanted in that moment was his dick lodged in my throat and even though my own hardon was aching inside my jeans I didn't bother with it.  Grabbing his hips, my fingers clenched on his tight butt cheeks I swallowed his meat.

    He put both hands on my head, started controlling my head, moving my face and mouth up and down on his prick.  I hate it when someone does that; I hate be-ing controlled in any way.

    I loved every all-too-short second of it.

    My mouth was in a perfect oval; my throat opened up as easily as my ass-hole would have, and he was suddenly ramming this thick-veined, spit slimy prick in and out of my mouth like some Indy 500 race car engine was driving the win-ning lap.  I just held on tight to his hips, squeezing his butt while I let him use me, let him fuck my mouth, setting his own pace...which got faster and faster, some-how without choking me, and then all of a sudden he was holding himself mo-tionless in my mouth after one final hard stroke in and a partial stroke out.  I could feel the cum running up the underside of his cock, I could feel every ripple and spurt as it shot out into my mouth.  Believe me or not, I'd never tasted cum so thick and warm and sweet before in my life.  He gave up just the slightest combination of whimper and sigh and moan, and then began to slowly slide his softening meat out of my mouth.

    Reluctantly I let it go with a few final pulls to get the last juice out.  As I straightened up, swallowing the load and savoring every drop, he pulled his briefs and sweats back into place.  His face was nearly a perfect blank, but there was still something in his eyes that said, "Thanks, man."

    That was when the outer door opened and someone came in, walking quickly.  Five seconds earlier, of course, and moving at that pace, the guy would have come to the end of the entrance wall, looked in the mirror and seen my face getting thoroughly fucked.  But he was five seconds too late for the big climax to the show.  I'd turned back to the sinks at the sound of the door, running water again, and when I looked up into the mirror, the Asian hunk was just disappearing around the wall and heading out.  I quickly wiped my hands but by the time I got down the corridor to the food court, he was gone.

    I've been back there a couple of Saturdays at the same time.  Hoping, of course.  But I've never seen him again.  Still, if I concentrate, I can remember the feel of his cock down my throat, and the taste of his cum, right when I shoot a load onto my belly.