Excerpt for The Cruising Chronicles: Threeway Runner by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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The Cruising Chronicles: Threeway Runner

Copyright 2018 Harry F. Rey

Published by Harry F. Rey at Smashwords

I’d been sitting in the park for about 20 minutes, an overgrown tree giving some shade to the bench for me, the watcher. Two guys had already walked into the toilets, one didn’t look too bad, but I stayed where I was. Might have been the mother and pram walking past, then stopping, as if she was waiting to see if I was really a runner taking a break; or a cock hungry slut waiting for a fill.

My shaded park bench sat just at the corner of the car park. To keep up appearances, I jumped up from the bench, ran on the spot for a few seconds and stretched out my calf muscles. I re-tied my trainers, adjusted my shorts and lifted my sunglasses up and down. I lifted my tank top and wiped a few non-existent beads of sweat off my forehead, exposing the hard-won abs under my shirt so anyone who would care to notice would see me as nothing more than part of the park’s furniture.

I began a light jog along away from the toilets and car park. I could run along the path for a couple of minutes, around the wooded bend and be safely out of view, then do an about turn and run back and be in full view of the cruising zone for a good few minutes before I might arise any suspicion. My dick pricked up at the thought, the anticipation of what could come. It would be a full boner in not too long. I just couldn’t get my mind off the future fucking that I was dying for and hoping against hope I would get.

As I ran along the path my naturally smooth ass cheeks gilded easily against each other thanks to the lube I had pre-loaded inside earlier. But it was the feel of my bare butt skin rubbing against the material of the running shorts that really got me going. The jockstrap I wore is well used for sport, but now it’s my lucky charm. I wear it when I’m going to get my ass filled. The years made the once white material grey and spongy from sweat, but the stains of lube and cum from nameless men is something rather new for me. My wife thinks it’s cute that I have lucky underwear that I sometimes wear for running, I smile because I know when I wear them, I get lucky.

I got too lost in my own thoughts and had ran on too far, so I did a quick about turn beside an oak tree and picked up some speed. By the time I reached the toilets again I had broken a sweat, and decided I’d had enough of waiting and headed on in. There’s only so much anticipation anyone can take. I just had to bite the bullet. My heart did a little jump into my throat, my stomach did a little summersault, my balls felt heavy and my dick pushed against the jockstrap, yearning to be free.

It’s always the smell that hits me first, before I’ve even turned the corner from the entrance way. Sure, there’s the stink of the piss stained tiles and urinal water, but when a toilet is also a cruising zone, there’s that little bit more to it, and it drives me mad. Smell a little deeper, let your tongue taste that little bit more, and feel the blood rush straight to your dick. There’s the scent of gobs of spit fallen from the mouths of cock suckers, stale man sweat from a furious fuck in a stall; all underlaid with that intoxicating smell of shot spunk.

There’s something else I experience as I step into the open restroom, much more than one of my senses; the overwhelming feeling of desire.

There’s a couple of chipped sinks by the door, a series of cubicles along one side and a long, rusty urinal trough opposite it. I didn’t know if anyone else would have been in, but I’m in luck. One early thirties man stands at the farthest end of the urinal all in black, t-shirt and pants, short hair and sunglasses. His dick is out, but he isn’t taking a piss. He sees me, but I keep my intentions hidden for now by standing over the sink and staring into the dirty mirror. My tank top shows off my upper body strength, but not my abs, and I want this guy to see what I’ve got. I walk half towards the urinal, but deliberately stop and wipe the now real sweat from my forehead with my tank top, and he helps himself to a good look at my chiseled torso. Done, I have him.

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