Date: Sun, 17 May 2015 19:18:43 +0200
From: jt.poopinhinder@mail.com
Subject: Stallboy Baxter

STALLBOY BAXTER
By J.T. Poopinhinder
M/b, oral, anal, w/s, scat

The following story is a work of fiction. No real boys were involved and we
don't condone these types of situations in real life. It's offered as
fantasy only, and if reading such a story offends your overall taste or
delicate sensibilities, or if it breaks the rules of the city, state, or
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It was the Great Airport Sighting of 2015!

The time? Yesterday

The place? Sky Harbor International Airport, Phoenix.

And by international, I assume they mean a couple of guys from Mexico fly
in occasionally, because believe me, it looked like a bunch of grumpy-ass
locals when I got to the C gates.

Anyhoo, I was just bemoaning to a pal via text message the complete lack of
gorgeous boys at my gate (or any cute boys in the viewing bay at all for
that matter) when off of the latest incoming flight steps this 12-year-old
Adonis holding his mom's hand, with a face like an angel and a form like
mortal sin.

Jesus, gents, I'd taken the cap off my iced latte just a moment earlier and
I kid you not, when I saw him, I nearly choked on an ice cube. And even
better, he and his mom headed straight for the restroom. Ahhhhhhhh!!!

"Baxter," she called him.

Isn't that a great name?

"Over here, Baxter," she said, as she nodded toward the restroom.

I glanced at their gate sign. Southwest 2235, arriving from Boston. "Oooh,"
I thought, with a certain tingle in the midsection. "Baxter from Boston."
If you knew me better, you'd understand how much I appreciate a good
alliteration. Especially one with, you know, a 12-year-old cock in its
pants.

Now, I once discussed with a BL friend the way we all sometimes purposely
brush against a boy in a line somewhere -- that need to touch him
"accidentally" just to soak up his aura and physically take his warmth and
energy into our own – but, admit it now, gentlemen – have you ever
followed a boy into a public restroom, just to stand a couple urinals away
from him, for the express written purpose of seeing if you can watch him
pee?

To watch his dingle make sweet dripping honeydew. To shake the snake right
next to young Billy Bob, hoping you can spot a drop from his Georgia
peach-pointer, or to stand near young Yoshi, hoping you can catch a sniff
of his Orinoco flow.

If the view is impossible, and likely it is, you stand there anyway, just
to be near him. You're hoping for a peenie peek, but partitions and
dividers make that next to impossible, so you just want to be near him in
the moment, knowing he's touching his own weenie. Holding his own little
cocklet. Making water. Splashing his yellow-sweet tinkle onto the porcelain
just a few feet from where you stand? Hosing whitey with his lemon
juice. Spraying the canvas with his hot steamy peter piss.

Well, I have done that, gents. Many-a-time. Sometimes I don't even have to
pee myself. Sometimes I just stand there with my chubber out, knowing the
boy's substantially-smaller sugar cane is out, knowing he's a beautiful boy
and I'm standing three feet away from him touching my penis while he's
pissing like wildfire. Because boys who gotta go, my friends, don't piss
any other way.

Sometimes just THAT is over the moon hot to me. Sometimes I'll just go into
a stall when he's done and just jack off over THAT. I'm a man, he's a boy,
and we are touching our penises and pissing together in the same space, in
the same time, and it's exciting me terribly, and he has absolutely no idea
my whole body is tingling with excitement and adrenaline, just having this
private secret pee-place moment with him.

Anyway, I digress with a boner already, so let me tuck it back in and try
to continue my story.

I followed Baxter from Boston, the boy Adonis, into the restroom, where he
unzipped and peed. I stood two urinals away and could actually smell it
coming out of him over the familiar puffs of disinfectant cakes. There was
no one else there to see us, so I just totally faked my own piss and just
basked in the glory of his. I didn't even take my dick out. Just stood
there and closed my eyes and inhaled the hot maple steam of the bladdernut
he'd been pinching off since just over Denver, by the thick, raunchy scent
of it. Pure, hot, boypiss glory. Like Log Cabin and ammonia. God, it was
fresh.

And I heard him sigh when he started. A sweet little boy sigh. And his
shoulders shivered. He got the pee shivers, gentlemen! The pee shivers!! It
was adorable!!! All boys do it. That involuntary "held it too long, now it
feels so good to release it my whole upper body just trembled." Watch at
the urinal the next time a kid gets off a plane. You'll see it too. His
shoulders adorably pee-shivered.

Now, it's one thing to stand next to a boy and pee in a public
restroom. Actually trying to see a boy's penis at a public urinal is an
entirely different proposition. It's difficult. There's an art to
it. Mostly you can't look over the partition...that would be too
obvious...(damn the invention of those partitions anyway)...but if nobody
else is around, you can finish or fake your own piss, quickly "zip up,"
then walk by him and do a "drive-by neck crane" and usually catch a brief
glimpse of his peeny. And I'm so wired for boy-cock, a brief glimpse is all
I need to burn it into my brain -- shape, size, color, taper -- right down
to the color of the piss that's coming out of it.

It's delightful that most boys of the 8-9-10-11-12 range stubbornly will
NOT use the "little boy's urinal" at the end of the row, which is usually
against the wall. It is beneath their dignity to be called "a little boy,"
even at a urinal. My 9-year-old nephew for instance, would rather stand on
his tiptoes and piss all over himself at a "grown-up" urinal than sink so
low as to piss in the little boy's model. Which is fine with me, because it
allows for easier drive-by peeks. It's hard to do that when boys are up
against the wall at the end of the row.

So, penis peeks are rare, but possible. What I see most often is very
little boys at a urinal, still in the "daddy help me" stage, with their
pants and their undies pulled down entirely, their little bums showing,
while daddy right beside him offers cheers and advice. 12-year-old boycock
is rare at a urinal, but 3-year-old bottom abounds. Not much you can
fantasize about sexually with those tiny hineys, but they're cute to see
and go "awww" over.

But Baxter at the urinal? He was no freebie threebie. He was pure, grade-A
12-year-old boyflow, and if I wanted to see his piss-firing cocklet (and
believe me, I wanted to), I knew I'd have to work for it.

Quickly I "fake zipped up," strolled over slowly for a long, good walk-by,
and as I passed, he stepped back maybe a half-a-step...no...a quarter of a
step, still pissing to beat the band, and there in all its glory was his
beautiful, uncut, intact little penis, with a tiny little uncircumcised
nozzle at the end!

It was absolutely magnificent to see, even for that fleeting second, in all
its sweet little cuteness and its perfect color and shape. Oh,
gentlemen. It was beautiful. Like a doll house penis. Like a pretend
penis. So pretty. So tiny.

Normally, I'm not a fan of the uncircumcised peter tweeter, nor do I go
bananas over one so small you can hardly see it from the squatting
position. I like mine mushroom-tipped and ready to plump, thank you. The
boys of my childhood were all fairly long and neatly trimmed. So am
I. That's just where my mind goes for "regular penis." But Baxter's little
piss-shooting babymaker was exquisite. No misshapen nozzle at all. Just a
lovely little taper at the end, a shade darker than the rest. I could see
the shape of his tip underneath it and the yellow piss fired into the white
wall in front of him.

And his whole penis was no bigger than my pinkie finger to the second
knuckle. It was just a tiny little thing. Seriously, half of my pinkie is
bigger. His was just tiny and perfect. Just a little nub of joy and
heaven. Oh, lucky lucky boy to have such a pretty, perfect penis to touch
and grow up with.

The color was a peachy white. Not pink, but flesh colored. And I saw it for
all of a second gentlemen, maybe one-point-five seconds at the most, but my
body was so overly-wired with the eidetic nearness of him, every centimeter
of his 12-year-old babycock was absolutely imprinting itself on my neurons
and my dendrites and wherever else little cock images go. I was so tuned-in
to the excitement of him, his beautiful little penis would have burned
itself into my memory instantly whether I wanted it there or not. (And
P.S., I wanted it there).

"Come here, Baxter," I whispered to him in my imagination.

He looked at me, in my fantasy, now standing at the furthest handicapped
stall at the end, holding the door open, beckoning him in.

He walked slowly toward me, hypnotized and blankly compliant, with a soft
smile on his face like the boys in my bathroom fantasies always give me.

"Up you go then," I encouraged him firmly, as I locked the door behind him
and picked him up under the armpits and stood him on the toilet seat. In my
dream, he looked at me naughtily, a knowing glimmer in his eye since he
knew what he was coming. He stood on the toilet seat and waited for my
mouth to find him. Maybe just a scooch of his head might have been showing
above the stall door and the stall partition, but I needed to suck some
Baxter cock, so honestly gents, who gives a shit.

I got on my knees in the fantasy and I tugged his pants down and looked at
his little mini-me – that sweet little peeny twig, and immediately, like
a man late for lunch, buried my face in it, taking his dick, balls and
whatever else I could find down there into my salivating maw in one fell
swoop.

And God, the taste and the scent and the flavor was a firecracker, a
winner, a blue ribbon at the Cock County Fair. His little pink dicklet was
bursting with salt and stale piss-taste. His hairless V smelled like sweat
and boy and stinky-sharp cinnamon. My nose nuzzled up and down the bare
skin of his pubis and I inhaled voraciously – actually snuffled his hot
pubic boy scent into my grateful lungs like a pig snarfing truffles. The
right metaphor doesn't exist yet for how hungrily I ate his pungent little
cock.

"Oh, you fucking monkey," I growled through mouthfuls of mini-cock. "Give
me that babybone. Give me that crotch smell."

The Baxter of my fantasy ground his hips against me, grabbed me by the head
and began to skull fuck me with whatever small offerings the good Lord gave
him.

"I'm gonna piss in your mouth," he giggle-growled in my fantasy. "You
better drink it, dummy. Here comes your fucking piss lunch."

I didn't even have time to moan, because there it was – a golden hot
squirt of boypiss, shooting out of Baxter's thin tinydick and into my
mouth. One, then two, then three, then four. Fiery hot squirts like
piss-sizzle firecrackers, piercing across my tongue and all the way up to
the top of my palate and tasting like bland-salty nourishment, all the way
down. Like the miso soup you get before they bring out the sushi. Salt and
hotness and I tingled all the way down to my taint, drinking it as fast as
he could squirt it into me.

"Drink my piss squirts you shitty dumb cock twat," the Baxter of my dreams
growled clearly and loudly. I heard a cough from the stall next door. A guy
in there cleared his throat to warn us we we're being too loud.

"Aw, cram it," Baxter giggled, "or I'll give you the next drink, old man."

The guy shut up.

Baxter pulled his dick out of my mouth and pissed on my face. Pissed on my
shirt. Pissed on my pants which were now bunched around my ankles because
I'd dropped them wildly, trying to jack off.

"Finger my butt," Baxter whispered. "Smell my stinky piss and finger my
butt."

I did moan this time. I brought my finger up to his lips and he sucked it
wet. It was soaked with his saliva. I brought it downtown and I pushed it
against his sticky back door.

"Oh yesssssssss," he hissed as it starts to slide in. "Oh yessssssssss, oh
God, oh fuck, oh yeah..."

I felt it lubed by the own brown cream inside him as I finger fucked his
hole. And I wish you were in back of him, gentlemen, viewing from the
backdoor to watch it slide in and out of that perfect stinky rump. In and
out. Back and forth. Whimper, quiet. Whimper, quiet.

Baxter liked to be finger fucked. He liked it a lot. The whole stall
smelled like his shitty little ass. Did he want the whole thing?

He sure as fuck did.

"Do it," he hissed. "Fuck me up my butt."

He jumped off the toilet and turned around rapidly, popping my
fingersmeared fuck digit out of his hole and into the air, where it smelled
even stronger. He bent over the stall and spread his ass cheeks. His hole
came into view, pink and pulsing, with two shades of frosting.

"Now," he growled at me. "Stick it in hard."

And I hocked up spit and I slathered my cock and I stuck it in him.

He grunted and he winced, but straight in it went.

"Oh fuck," he grunted. "Oh fuck that feels good."

I banged it into him, in and out, pushing him forward on every thrust. He
had to grab the porcelain to hold himself in place. Secure purchase, you
little shitboy, because your new bathroom daddy's gonna fuck you now.

"You want it?" I whispered. "You want it up your ass? My cum? You want it
in your shitty butt?"

"Oh fuck yeah, oh fuck yeah," he grunted to my rhythm. "Give it to me,
fucker. Give to me good."

I grabbed his hips and I thrust up his rectum, holding still and shaking
like a madman and giving him all-holy hell up the brownhole in his shitter.

"You motherfuckin' monkeeeeeeeeee!!!!!" I grunted. "NNNNNNNNNNNGHHHH, OH,
FUCK YEAH!"

And I blasted loose with a cum load like I was shooting a lady out of the
cannon at the circus. I actually saw him lurch forward and wobble on
buckled knees when I jizzed in him.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah," he whispered. "Burn it up my ass. Fuck that hot cum in
me. Stir it up."

And heart pounding, I held him there, grinding in him, my dick pressed
firmly up his ass, way deep into it, gyrating and stirring it into him,
gurgling seed up into his well-fucked bottom. The smell of shit and sex was
all around us. When I pulled out my dick it was two shades darker than when
I started.

I grabbed some toilet paper and gave it a half-assed wipe down. I wiped
Baxter's ass too, out of simply courtesy, and dropped the brown paper in
the bowl. I wiped my shitty fuckfinger on his magnificent ass globes before
he reached down to pull his pants up. I left my mark on him, like war paint
on the face of an Indian. Native American. Whatever.

"Bye, fucker," he smiled at me. "I gotta get back to my mom. See you next
time if you're lucky."

And he was off like a shot, leaving me standing there with my dirty dick in
my hand and my pissed-on pedo pants around my ankles.

What just happened? Drive-by pissing? Drive-by sucking? Drive-by fucking?
Full-force fantasy.

Whatever happened, it only happened in my mind...and it only took about
one-point-five seconds from start to finish, because that's all I got to
see of the real Baxter's tiny little pisscock before fear of discovery and
standard restroom protocol took me right out of dicksight and straight out
the door.

I left first and quickly stood outside the door, hoping to sneak a picture
of Baxter on my iPhone when he came out, but damn the bad luck, he left via
the other exit.

I did however, follow him (and mom) to Auntie Anne's pretzels, where he
ordered pretzel bits and I stood in line behind him, inhaling his
plane-weary boyscent and the porcelain maple piss drops I could still
imagine. I stared at his perfect ass and wondered what smells were really
inside it if I'd ever be so lucky. Baxter the perfect Adonis. This boy
whose penis I had just seen. This boy I had just fantasy fucked in a
bathroom stall at the airport.

Have you ever done THAT, gents? Followed a boy into a bathroom and THEN
into a food line? Like a hungry puppy, starved for attention? Just to look
at him? Just to breathe his scent in the air and imagine the other scents
and smears he might be capable of?

Good Lord, gents, let's add that to our standard, private perv list. Let's
see, there's (a) "accidentally" touch or rub up against a boy in line, (b)
follow him into a bathroom with the express purpose of standing next to him
to hopefully see his penis, and (c) stand in a food line and order
something you're not going to eat just so you can stand behind him again
and prolong your nearness to him.

I wound up ordering a fucking pretzel dog I threw in the trash can later
just to have an excuse to stand behind him in line and be near him for
sixty seconds longer.

And then we went our separate ways. He went to baggage with his mom, I went
back to my gate to fly home from my business trip, but oh, what a beautiful
fleeting moment it was.

As he walked away, all I could think is, "You're beautiful, you're
beautiful, you're beautiful, Baxter...and I know what your cute little
piss-squirting penis tastes like. I've had your shit on the shaft of my
dick, and guess what? It slid just fine, like the finest brown lotion."

In my mind, I could say that anyway.

And some days to a boylover at an airport, the mind is all that matters.

It was one of those moments, guys, when the planets align and the gods of
boylove, whoever they are, throw a little mercy on you and give you a
glimpse to remember, a drive-by of compassion, and a fantasy-memory to
smile about long after your plane takes off and Phoenix is just a little
bitty peener dot on the aviary horizon.

It was only 1.5 seconds in heaven.

But sometimes all you get is all you really need.

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