A Moment of Truth
by Rob Corn
Slowly, I pull his throbbing cock from the depths of my throat,
and with every pulse, a dwindling stream of his hot cum spills out.
Him, exhausted. Me, grinning with satisfaction,
gazing up at him from below,
before seizing that overwhelmed moment to get off myself.
His cock, semi-rigid, dangling in front of my face,
a final drop of cum hanging on a thread.
I come so hard that afterward,
I inevitably collapse into myself,
resting my head against him.
A deep breath floods through me.
A thought flares up: “Should I tell you the truth?”
I smile.
What would the truth be? In this moment?
In this exact moment, the truth would be
that I’ve come for the third time today.
Or, to be precise, not even today—
it’s the third time within six hours.
Every two hours. Not a bad average.
Number one knocked me out cold today,
number two was a horny, willful accident,
and number three was planned for good measure.
Number three, whose taste still lingers in my mouth
as I write these lines—
an athletic ex-twink, late thirties,
with a damn fine, firm, shaved cock
and an unrelenting urge to be milked.
Him, on his knees at the bed’s edge.
Me, on my knees in front of it.
Him, bent over me, gripping the stair railing for support.
Poppers bottle in hand.
One mouth, two free hands—
the ending’s a given. Glorious!
And it brings me back to my truth.
Number one, oh my God!
Not a boy, not yet a man.
19, more like a fleeting dream of youth,
taking every detour out to Potsdam,
including a car-sharing ride with tinted back windows—
worth the risk that no one’s waiting by the roadside.
I can’t help but thinking of the scent of sweet, boiled milk.
Pale skin, an unshaven reddish-blonde bush,
that shy, uncertain, yet boldly curious gaze.
An unbelievably gorgeous, bulging, rigid cock
with full, hairy balls,
a fire raging inside them the moment
we both stripped off our sweatpants
and took each other in.
The roll of toilet paper he brought along
and then forgot in the car—
he didn’t need it.
This insanely young guy,
with the light fuzz on his face,
gave me more than just his cum today.
He sparked a memory in me—
what it was like back then, for me.
That rush when I did these things
for the first time in my life,
with men the age I am now.
His reckless youthfulness,
a true fountain of feelings for me.
On the drive back from my 19-year-old Potsdam adventure
to Berlin, I passed the sign for the Parforceheide rest stop.
How often I’ve wanted to pull over here,
to see if the cruising rumors about Parforceheide hold up.
Today’s the day.
Tuesday, early afternoon—
not cruising rush hour,
but prime hunting time
for tradesmen or dads clocking off early.
Lady Luck smiled on me:
a nice, cut cock on a slightly shy mid-thirties guy
standing in his work pants at the urinal.
After a quick mating dance,
the path led out of the restrooms,
through a slit in the fence,
into the woods.
I couldn’t hold back.
There, kneeling with my back against a tree in the snow,
in front of this hairy little powerhouse
with his mocha skin
and that beautiful, firm, cut cock
deep in my throat.
I came the second I dared
to pull my throbbing dick out of my pants.
The level of horniness was perfected.
I smile.
My truth.