Dark Passenger: The Mall Bathroom (#8)

Having figured out that sexual please could be derived from myself, especially since my older molester rarely helped me out, I was left with a sense of longing. Again, the Internet didn't exist, and, as far as I could tell, nothing would be there to help. Every bit of documentation I had mustered to find indicated that I was doomed to hell and a life of misery.

At the time in the Atlanta area, only two malls existed. Per our normal routine, my family would travel to one of these malls twice per year — before Easter and before Christmas. With "Jingle Bells" playing over the live speaker, I was bored, wandering the aisles of a major department store (at the time).

The urge to pee overwhelmed me. During this time, I think my unconscious brought it upon myself to pee often. I even had medical tests in which the doctors informed my mother of "psychological" issues related to my frequent urination. So without truly thinking, I stepped through a long series of hallways in the back portion of this store to find the men's room.

 

When I walked inside, I forgot about peeing but not about my cock. Sitting on a toilet, his door wide open, a man with his shorts all the way to his ankles. He held his hard cock and jerked on it. I froze. I stared. I didn't even move a muscle.

After a few moments of this mouth-agape stare, he looked intensely at me, stood, and shuffled over. He removed his hand from his own cock but left his pants down. I stood perfectly still as he unbuttoned my pants and pulled out my rock-solid cock. Without hesitation, his mouth engulfed me. At the time, my cock lacked its full length and girth. But the pleasure. The intensity. The unreal sensation of that warm mouth surrounding every single inch.

I'm not sure how long it lasted. It seemed like forever or no time at all. And I went into convulsions. I unleashed a torrent of cum like never before. I unloaded with such force that this well-experienced tearoom troll took every drop, swallowed it all, except a huge glob that landed on his cheek.

If I could draw, I could do an accurate rendering of his face today and that exact spot where my cum hung there, dripping off his face but never letting go. He turned and shuffled back to his open stall, sat down and resumed his jerking off.

I never pissed. I zipped up. And wracked with guilt, I found a payphone nearby and called the mall police on him. I don't know what happened to him. In many ways, I'm sorry. But I was confused. And the guilt. It didn't seem to abate.