Mind Caviar Fiction

Shane Allison's poems and stories have appeared in Velvet Mafia, suspect thoughts, Babel, Can We Have Our Ball Back?Saints & Sinners, Wild & Willing, Coal City Review, Absinthe Literary Review and Unlikely Stories. His book of poems, Ceiling of Mirrors is out from Cynic Press.

Email Shane Allison.

Trip to a Tea Room

"There hasn't been anyone in here all day," Lyle complained as he sat on the white commode with the black rim reading a dated copy of Vanity Fair. He lifted the sleeve to his baby-blue shirt to check the time. "Shit, I got to get back to work soon. My break is almost up," he whispered. "My legs are starting to fall asleep sitting here and I haven't seen a decent trick come in here yet, just the run of the mill cock-teasing regulars. The problem with them is that they're so scared to do anything. They come in here, wave their dicks in your face and leave," Lyle complained. "They wouldn't know a good piece of dick if it stared them in the face."

Lyle began to caress the back of his thigh. It was cold and felt numb. He unfurled a few tufts of toilet paper, crumpled it into his fingers and wiped his asshole clean. Just as he was about to flush the toilet, he heard someone walk in. "Let me see who this is," Lyle said as he peeked through the slot of his stall door. A somewhat tall, thin man flashed past Lyle's sights. He was balding and limped slightly on one foot. Lyle stood on his tiptoes to look over the stall. "Oh shit, that ain't nobody but Carl," said Lyle disappointingly. "He's always in here. He's sucked more dick than a Times Square whore. All he do is write notes to guys on tissue paper the whole damn time he's in the bathroom." I swear, he can put together a damn book by now with all that note taking," said Lyle. 

Carl stood in front of a urinal at the far end of the bathroom, jacking off. Lyle dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen and scribbled something into the paint. "Where's all the action? Need to suck some dick, leave time to meet." Lyle thought about writing his e-mail address, but didn't want to get a bunch of weird e-mails while he was on his computer at work. Lyle again, heard the squeak of the door open. The trick walked by so fast; Lyle didn't get a chance to see what he looked like. He went into the partition next to Lyle's and shut the door. Lyle watched the man's black, spit-shined shoes shuffle across the floor and his dress pants drop and cinch around his ankles. 

Carl walked over and started looking into Lyle's stall through the slot. Lyle covered his face with the magazine so Carl couldn't see him.  What the hell is he doing? Lyle asked himself. The trick spread out his legs. He's playing with himself, thought Lyle. Lyle was a pro at these sorts of things. He had been cruising since he was fourteen, and at twenty-five, he knew all the tricks of the trade.

Does he want to do anything or not? Lyle asked himself as he glanced down at the trick’s shoes. If he’s not going to make a move, he needs to get up and give somebody else the damn stall. I can’t stand it when they bring their asses in here and don’t do nothing but sit there. Carl’s face was pressed slightly against the door of the trick’s partition as he stroked steady his limp, hung cock. 

Lyle noticed the trick tapping his right foot slightly. But Lyle played it safe. He wasn’t going to take the chance of getting busted by the cops. He got wind from a friend that there had been complaints from students about suspicious activity going on in the toilets. Lyle was growing impatient. I’m going to let him make the first move, Lyle said to himself. He sat with his arms resting on his knees. Man fuck this, he isn’t going to do anything. As Lyle stood up and began to pull up his pants, the trick shoved a small piece of yellow padded paper beneath Lyle’s stall. 

Lyle unbuckled his belt, pulled his pants back down around his ankles and settled himself back upon his toilet. Lyle graciously took the note from the trick, with his finger grazing against Lyle’s thumb. Lyle read the contents. “Will you piss on me?” it said. 

Lyle’s head jerked back in shock. Disgust settled in his face like wrinkles. “What the…?” Lyle asked himself. He thought about tossing the yellow-papered morbid request in the feces-filled commode. Is this guy for real? Lyle asked himself. He took a pen from the pocket of his shirt and scrawled something on the back: “What are you into? he inquired. 

As the trick took the note, Lyle noticed a wedding ring. Shit, he’s fucking married. Seconds later, another yellow piece of paper. “I like to get pissed on,” it read. 

This guy’s kinda freaky, thought Lyle. As he pondered the trick’s sexual interests, another note was ushered beneath Lyle’s stall. He crumpled the old one into his palm and began to read the new piece. “I need someone to piss on me,” it said. 

“That’s it,” Lyle said. “I’m outta here.That’s enough of this shit.” Lyle pulled up his trousers, picked up his burgundy suitcase from off the floor and walked over to one of the three sinks to wash his hands. Carl stood steady at the urinal jerking off. While Lyle pressed pink liquid soap into his hand, he heard the latch on the trick’s door unlock from its secure position. Lyle leaned back to see what was going on. Carl walked over and stood in the doorway of the trick’s partition. Lyle ran his soapy hands beneath the tongue of warm water and rubbed them dry beneath the hand blower caulked to the wall. 

He turned once more, and to his surprise, the trick was semi-nude with his dark blue slacks and Joe Boxer under pants down around his knees standing in the entranceway of his stall, jacking off. His dick was no bigger than Lyle’s thumb. The front end of the trick’s shirt was draped half way over a peach fuzz of autumn-toned pubes. Lyle began to get hard as he watched the trick and Carl playing with their bone-hard dicks. The guy looked at Lyle with his eyes of seduction and said, “Piss on me.” 

“Excuse me?” Lyle asked. 

Carl rubbed the trick’s nipples like a Genie’s lamp. Lyle massaged his cock through his black polyester slacks. “Piss on me,” the trick said once more. As Lyle was about to walk over to join in, the door to the bathroom flew open. Lyle turned around swiftly to zip up his pants. Carl stood back at the urinal pretending to take a leak as the trick ducked back into the comfort zone of his stall. A young Hispanic twink in baggy, FUBU jeans, a bubble jacket and cap turned backwards, walked down to the last urinal, tugged his dick out of his pants and began to piss. The three men held silent in their positions until the twink left. 

Lyle’s eyes wondered as he ran his already clean hands beneath cold water. The twink flushed his urinal, walked over next to where Lyle was standing, took off his hat and ran his fingers through tufts of gelled black hair. When he left, the trick opened the door to his stall and resumed to jack off.

“Piss on me,” he whispered. 

“You want me to pee on you?” Lyle mouthed as he stroked his cock and rubbed his balls. 

“Yeah,” the trick confirmed, “I will pay you, if you piss on me,” he said. 

“Come piss on him,” said Carl. “I want to see you pee on him.” 

The three men stood masturbating in unison, the heads of their cocks rubbing together, piss slits kissing. Carl reached beneath Lyle and began to massage his come swirling ball sack. 

“How much money are we talking about?” Lyle asked the trick. 

“Fifty bucks,” he said. Lyle upped the ante. 

“A hundred,” Lyle said. 

“Okay,” the trick agreed. 

Lyle and Carl stuffed themselves into his stall. Lyle took off his white oxford shirt and laid it on top of the tissue dispenser. Carl slid the back of his hand up Lyle’s stomach and chest and circled his hairy, pink nipples. “I don’t want to get my pants wet,” Lyle said as he pulled them from his smooth, ashy legs. He hung them on a coat hook screwed behind the trick’s door. 

The trick sat on the toilet as Lyle and Carl stood on separate sides of him with their cocks milling over his naked, warm body. He spread his thighs wide like pliers, took his cock in his hand like a gearshift and stroked and jerked himself slowly and firmly. 

“Piss on me,” the trick pleaded. Lyle and Carl looked into each other’s eyes lustfully. They both saddled up closer to the trick as their thighs grated against his legs. 

“Piss on me,” he pleaded once more. “Piss on me, piss on me,” he begged. 

“I can’t, nothing’s coming out,” Lyle said. The trick took hold of Lyle’s dick and whacked him off in hopes that Lyle would get the urge to take a leak. With each stroke, he kept saying, “Piss on me.” It seemed like that’s all he would say, or wanted to say. As the trick continued to work Lyle’s pecker, he looked up innocently into Carl’s face and said, “Pee on me, please pee on me.” He waited patiently for their urine to rain upon them. 

“I don’t think this is going to work, man,” Lyle said. Lyle gradually started to pull away, but the trick held onto his cock, tugging and gripping it with great, uncomfortable force. “Fuck man, what are you doing, that hurts,” objected Lyle. 

“Pee on me,” the trick pleaded. 

“Come on man, let go of my dick,” Lyle said. The trick refused Lyle’s request and gripped Lyle’s cock even tighter, holding on like it was the last cock he would ever have. Lyle struggled, but the trick’s fingers were caged around Lyle’s fat shaft. 

“Pee on me man, pee on me,” he began to shout. 

“Dude, be quiet, someone’s going to hear you,” Lyle said. But the trick kept yelling, each time louder than before. 

 Carl got scared, zipped up his jeans and struggled out of the stall as the trick tried unsuccessfully to keep him at bay by holding onto his shirt tales. 

“Piss on me,” the trick demanded. 

“I can’t piss on you,” Lyle said. “Nothing’s coming out man, damn.” Lyle continued struggling. “If you don’t let go of my cock, I’m gonna punch your ass,” Lyle threatened. 

But the trick just stared up at Lyle, smiled and repeated, “Piss on me, piss on me.” Realizing that the trick wasn’t about to “unhand” Lyle’s dick, Lyle began punching the man upon the head with his fist. 

The trick held on, refusing still, to let go of Lyle’s member. His punches didn’t seem to have any sort of affect on him. He was immune to the pain of Lyle’s punches, enjoying it even. 

“Let go of me man, I gotta go,” Lyle said. “We’re gonna get caught,” he yelled. 

“No one’s coming,” the trick laughed hysterically. “Pee on me,” he repeated. The trick reached around and stuck his finger up Lyle’s ass. 

Lyle reached back and pushed the trick’s hand away. “I gotta go, this is too dangerous,” said Lyle. 

“Come on dude, we had a deal,” said the trick. 

“The fucking deal’s off,” Lyle answered. 

“Now let go, shit.” 

“Piss on me,” begged the trick. “Piss on me.” 

Lyle cupped his hand over his mouth, but could still hear his muffled plea of piss on me. “All right, shut up, shit, I’ll pee on you,” Lyle said. “Just let go of my dick.” 

Lyle’s hands remained cloaked over the trick’s mouth. “I’ll piss on you, I’ll even take a shit on you, if you promise to shut the hell up,” Lyle said. “Will you chill out for a fucking minute?”

The man shook his head, yes. 

“Now I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. You’d better not yell or fucking scream or I’m leaving,” said Lyle. “You promise you won’t holler?” The trick touched Lyle’s wrist warmly and shook his head, yes. 

The trick leaned back against the steel pipes pressed against his spine and commenced to jacking off. Lyle checked his cock for any scratches or abrasions. “Damn man, that shit fucking hurt,” Lyle said with an objective tone. The trick sat silent rubbing the inner region of his thighs. 

“Where you want it?” he asked. 

“All over,” he replied. 

Lyle straddled himself over the trick’s stomach. The trick began to whack off even faster, spreading his thighs further apart. “What the hell am I doing?” Lyle asked himself self-consciously. He could feel a strong wave of urine lavaling up through the recesses of his cock. “I feel it,” he said to the trick. 

“Piss on me,” the trick demanded. Lyle tugged his cock and balls further out of his slacks. 

Little beads of urine dripped from Lyle’s pee hole onto the trick’s thighs. 

 Suddenly a stream of hot, yellow urine splashed against his pale-white stomach. “Piss on me,” the trick yelled. 

“Shut up, stop yelling,” Lyle demanded as he soaked him up in hot urine. It trickled down his guts, rolling into an Afro of odorous lap hair and down the trick’s calves, staining his brown, argyle socks. Lyle’s liquid kept coming, spraying him about the arms, neck and face, stinging his eyes. 

“More,” the trick begged. “Piss on me.” 

”It must have been all that coffee I had,” said Lyle. 

“Oh yeah, baby, piss on me,” he sighed. Urine flowed forming a puddle on the bathroom floor at the trick’s feet. “Piss on me, oh piss on me,” he moaned. The trick sat up off the commode and turned around, bending over. 

“What are you doing?” Lyle asked. 

“All over, piss all over me,” the trick implored. He opened his ass cheeks like two French doors. “All over,” he said once more. 

“You want it in your ass?” Lyle asked. 

“Pee on me,” the trick said. 

Lyle’s piss hosed his ass, seething into his tight, pink, shit-stained scum hole. Pee curved down the trick’s anus and down the base of his rigid ball sack. Lyle was running on empty as he spewed forth the last drops of urine on the back of the trick’s thighs. 

“Hey, I’m done,” said Lyle. 

“Pee on me,” the trick said. 

“I’m done man, I’m tapped out,” Lyle said to the trick. The trick reached inside the front, left pocket of his pants and pulled out his wallet. He opened it up and gave Lyle a crisp one hundred dollar bill. 

“A deal’s a deal, right?” asked the trick. 

Lyle got dressed. 

“Man you sure are weird,” he told the trick. He sat back on the toilet, polishing himself with Lyle’s piss.

“I like to get pissed on by black dudes,” he said. 

“Sorry I was so rough with you earlier,” said Lyle apologetically. 

“It’s cool,” said the trick. “I like it rough.” 

“You want to watch me jack off?” he asked. 

“Nah man, I’m already late getting back to work,” Lyle replied. Lyle fastened the last button on his shirt and walked out of the trick’s stall without a hitch. 

“I’ll see ya,” he said. 

Lyle kept on, not looking back. 

"I've got to stop coming here,” Lyle said. “This shit is so unhealthy for me."

Copyright  ©  2003 Shane Allison. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

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