Date: Mon, 25 Mar 2013 15:27:30 -0400 From: Terry Rushbrook Subject: Scott Lane and Mark Even though I had used the bathroom before my wife and I left for church, I felt the urge to go again as soon as we got into the building. I think it was the two cups of strong coffee and glass of orange juice that did it. Oh, yeah, and the yogurt and fruit I had for breakfast. Yogurt always does that to me, I remembered. We were a little late and the song service was in full swing. I figured the men's room would be empty due to the impending start of the service. I crossed through the lobby and down the short hallway to the men's room. There was a boy standing at the sink, apparently trying to make some sense of his overgrown mop of hair using a comb and the mirror. His hair was about half grown out, to the point that it was flipping up on the ends. It looked like he had wet it and was trying to subdue it with his comb. He seemed frustrated and more than upset. I don't know how I managed make all these observations in the split second I saw him. I think I startled him. He bolted up, ramrod straight, when he saw me enter the men's room. He scurried to the handicapped john and closed the door. I could swear he had been crying. His face was flushed and his eyes seemed red. Again, this was based on an instant snapshot and impression of him. I didn't have time to do a lot of thinking about it, because I had a mission. I had to pee really bad! I stepped up to the urinal and fished out old faithful and turned him loose. I was surprised at the volume and force of the issue coming forth from my bladder. Ever since I had been catheterized for the removal of a monster kidney stone it was like pissing through a garden hose. Finally, as the stream wound down to a dribble and a couple of squirts, I was able to once again pay attention to my surroundings. The boy was still holed up in the handicapped stall. I heard some sniffling and murmuring and realized he was pacing back and forth in the limited space, talking to himself. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but it seems to be he was beating himself up over something. What could a young teen or tween like him be so upset about? His hair? Who knew? I remembered being that age, twelve or thirteen, and I didn't know if I was animal, vegetable or mineral. I did remember though, that most of my thoughts were occupied by my developing sexuality. Puberty was tough. Pimples, odd smells coming from everywhere, hairs sprouting, and boners! Constant boners! Not that I disliked boners; when I was by myself, I absolutely adored my developing dick! It got bigger by the week and I kept track of its length with great regularity. I wondered where my little friend was in the progression of puberty. I zipped up and washed my hands. As I dried them on the rough paper towel I walked to the door of the stall where he was. He had stopped pacing and I could hear his sniffles and labored breathing. "Are you all right in there?" I asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?" Then the dam broke. His sniffling turned to sobs, which turned to bawling. He sounded nearly inconsolable, but I thought I'd try. "Open up and let me help," I said. Surprisingly, the latched clacked open and the door open enough for me to see him as he stepped back to let me in. I closed and latched the door behind me and went to him and put my hand on his shoulder. His head hung down and tears ran down his face. I grabbed a strip of toilet paper and wiped his face. He raised his head up and offered his face to me to dry with the tissue. He seemed to calm down some in my presence. "Now, what can I help you with?" I asked. He didn't respond verbally but looked down toward the front of his pants. I could see that the fabric was tented out under the strain of turgid teen member. "I, I, umh," he stammered, "I can't go out there like this!" He thrust his hips forward to accentuate the problem. "I know what you mean," I sympathized. "Sometimes those things just have a mind of their own. Want me to help?" He looked up at me with those innocent blue eyes. "You can do that?" he asked. "Sure!" I responded. I put my hand over the protrusion below his waist and felt a hard as a nail teen dick straining to break through the fabric. As I rubbed over the material and felt his hard shaft, he pushed into my hand and leaned against me. "That feels good!" he breathed. "What's your name?" I asked. "Mark," he replied. "How old are you, Mark?" "I just turned thirteen," he said as he humped into my hand. "Have you ever masturbated or jerked off, Mark?" I asked. He looked up at me quizzically. "No, I don't even know how," he said, "but I have heard other boys talking about it. I know that our youth Pastor says it's a sin to touch yourself down there." "Mark, you know that pressure you feel building up that caused you to have this condition? Don't you think there should be a way to relieve this pressure?" "I suppose," he said. "I mean, I sure hope so!" While he was thinking that over, I undid his belt and waistband and lowered his zipper down. He didn't have much of a butt to hold his pants up, so they slithered to his knees. "Nice boxers!" I remarked. "They are to blame for this," he said. "I usually wear briefs and they hold me tight, but these let my penis rub against the material and it gets all hard." I lowered his boxers and saw his beautiful cut dick and smooth ball sack. It was just about 4 ½ inches long and about as thick as my thumb. There was just a smattering of fine hair above his dick. I got behind him and took his hard penis between my thumb and fingers. I moved them back and forth and his knees started to buckle. I edged him toward the toilet until he was positioned with his dick over the rim of the bowl. I picked up the pace and had him groaning and moaning. From where we were standing in the handicapped stall, I knew no one could see us or our feet to know there were two people in the stall. Further, I knew that there wouldn't be a lot of traffic because the pastor had started to preach and it was bad form to walk out while he was preaching. "Are you doing all right?" I asked. I continued jacking on his little stalk, going quite rapidly. "Mmmh, yeah, oh, yeah," he mumbled. "Oh God, I think I'm going to pee!" "No you're not," I reassured him, "you are going to have an orgasm. Just concentrate on the feeling and let it happen." I felt him lean back against me and start to thrust his dick into my fingers. His breathing got ragged and his body got stiff just before he began to shudder and writhe in pleasure. His dick seemed to get even harder and I felt the tube on the bottom of it twitch and pulsate. His body worked overtime to expel the contents of him immature balls. At last, he moaned and arched his back and my hand was rewarded with warm and sticky fluid that seeped out of his dick. Mark fell like dead weight into my arms. Some of the watery spooge dripped onto the toilet seat. I brought my hand with its slimy covering up to his face where he could see it. "Is that sperms?" he asked as he looked intently at it and gave it a sniff. "Technically, it's semen, the fluid that carries the sperm," I explained. "Taste it, it's really good." He tentatively thrust out his tongue and gave it a lick. "Not bad," he said, "though I never would have thought to do that." I reached down and pulled his boxers and pants up over his now flaccid penis. He took over and tucked in his shirt and buckled his pants. While he was busy doing that, I licked the rest of his offering off my fingers. Yum. "Looks like we solved your problem for the time being," I observed. He looked down and was pleased that he didn't have a protruding tent leading his way. "We had better get going to where we're supposed to be. I hope I don't have to remind you that this has to be our little secret, or we'll both get in trouble." "I won't tell anybody," Mark said. "Do you think we could meet in here next Sunday? I would really like to see yours and maybe return the favor." "Sure, kid," I said. "You can count on it. Now you go out first and I'll leave in a few minutes, OK?" "OK, and thanks," he said as he gave me a hug. "I forgot to ask your name." "It's Scott," I answered, "Scott Lane."