PACO GETS HIS CITIZENZHIP THEN IT'S JURY DUTY

I got my American citizenship and jury duty was not far behind.

WARNING

This blog does contain adult and gay material. If you are under your country's legal age (18 or 21), do not scroll down and leave this page now. Thanks.

By Paco Prado

It was my first day of jury duty, and I was starting to feel totally bored. I had never been called previously. Every now and then, a clerk would read through a list of names of people who were to march into a courtroom for possible selection. I was never lucky enough to be on any of those lists; not yet. It was as if they wanted to prolong my agony.

I actually wanted to serve on a jury; my curiosity about the American judicial system and the workings of jurisprudence was fascinating to me since at one point I considered studying to be a lawyer.

Since I had to alter my schedule to accommodate thi civic obligation, I wanted the system to make use of me. Besides, I assumed that being on a jury would be more interesting than sitting around all day, drinking coffee and trying to concentrate on a book amid all the hubbub and noise of the juror's waiting room.

The waiting room itself was actually made up of three separate rooms. I chose the one that was smallest and most secluded. Even that selection meant that I was among thirty or so other citizens, most of which seemed to view this as a wonderful opportunity to socialize. Then there were others who were clearly annoyed.

I found a corner that provided relative peace. I scanned to room to see if there happened to be any interesting men among the gathered; my gayness never turns off and I am on the lookout for good looking dudes at all times. Even if it is just to delight my eyes, to feed them some eye candy. Seeing no one worth a ritual of exchanging furtive glances, I turned my attention to the book that I had brought. I finally got into it and was making progress with my reading. I even remember the book: It was “All the President’s Men” a 1974 non-fiction book by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, two of the journalists investigating the first Watergate break-in and ensuing scandal for The Washington Post.

Every couple hours, a sinister voice announced that the jury pool had earned a ten minute break. That simply meant that we could leave the waiting area to use the restrooms across the hall or step outside for a quick cigarette if the person happened to be a smoker. The ten minutes often extended to fifteen and getting through security and the x-ray machine added a few more. You just had to do it if you wanted to go outside and get a breath of fresh air and in my case, see if there were any studs loitering about.

Since I did not smoke but always consumed an immense amount of coffee, because I am Cuban, I have at least ten small demi-tasse cups by midmorning. I was always quite anxious for the next restroom break so I can get some coffee. The coffee at the little cafeteria near the entrance was vile stuff. Douche water is preferable. On occasions the breaks were delayed, and it became a race between my bloated bladder and the apparently faulty memory of the unseen person who scheduled the breaks.

During a time when I was feeling a particularly urgent need to hear the announcement of ten minutes of freedom, I actually moved closer to the door so that I could save a few precious seconds when we were released. The long awaited announcement came about five minutes later and I sprinted across the hall to the men's room.

I beat the crowd, chose my urinal and began to relieve myself. It didn't take long, though, for the other male coffee drinkers to fill the rest of the long line of porcelain urinals.

Normally, I admit to having a bit of a wandering eye while standing at a urinal. This time, though, I was only interested in releasing my bladder, and I concentrated solely on that. I started to pee and it kept on flowing, it was an endless stream that hit the porcelain urinal with force and resolve.

I was still going nearly full force by the time most of the other men had cleared out of the men's room. However, this good looking stud entered and took up the position immediately to my left. I was simultaneously curious and a bit hopeful as I contemplated his reason for choosing that urinal instead one of the many that were available and more private due to their distance from me; I mean, after all, there were other empty spots to pee.

I chanced a look at him. We nodded a greeting and a smile.

I recognized him from the jury room, although he had apparently settled in some other part than the one I had chosen. I didn't remember seeing him since the morning.

He was young, maybe three years or so younger than I, which would put him in his late teens. Standing a little over six feet on a solid frame, he was dressed stylishly. His natural blonde hair had highlighted tips that attracted attention to his handsome--almost too pretty--face.

My stream had reduced to a trickle. With my discomfort gone, I decided to take advantage of my position and glanced down and to the left.

Awaiting my gaze was an awakening cock, but the view was a bit startling for me, a rather vanilla Midwestern man. At the tip, just as I had seen in magazines and online but never in person, was a Prince Albert.

For those of you outside of the United States, I'm not sure if the term, "Prince Albert" will be familiar. It is a piercing at the tip of the penis into which a piece of jewelry ring is inserted.

The sight of his penile decoration made me cringe. I fought an urge to double over to protect my own dick from such an unwelcomed mutilation. On the other hand, the gold ring attached to such a spectacular, rapidly expanding penis fascinated me more than it repulsed me. Then my very large eleven inch cock began to grow from the flaccid seven inches to display its full glory.

My neighbor was now openly stroking his cock as I first watched and then imitated his movements. I began hesitantly, as we were in a men's room in a courthouse whose security was in the hands of the sheriff's office. I had already learned that the deputies frequently came in here to relieve themselves as well and the thought of getting busted in a public restroom was not appealing to me.

Apparently my reservations were not shared by my companion. He reached over to give my cock the same loving attention that he had been giving his own. He grabbed it and squeezed it.

I, of course, setting aside my paranoia, returned the favor. I was working his full length with each upward movement halted by my contact with the gold ring. The longer I watched my own hand pleasuring this unfamiliar cock, the more aroused I became. Yet, I was determined that he should have his release first.

Although I was focused on the novelty of what I was doing, I felt the urge to cum building more rapidly than I anticipated. I mentally paused to try to bring myself down to control the urge for an orgasm. This made matters even worse as I was getting hornier by the second.

I thought about how the penis ring would clank against my teeth if, sometime in the future, I sucked him. I wondered if the ring would come out before he begged me to let him fuck me on a faraway secluded beach. What is the standard protocol for sex with a metal impaled dick?

He started working my cock in ways that I had never experienced. This man had developed remarkable skills. I could hold back no longer.

As he aimed me and worked his magic on my penis, I fired shot after explosive shot against the porcelain receptacle. Somehow, as I reached my climax, I was still able to maintain my handywork on his member.

Watching me splash against the urinal pushed him over the edge. I am one of those people who just does not have a regular orgasm, no, mine are spectacular, as they easily could reach clear across the room and plentiful too. I usually shoot from thirteen to fifteen squirts one after another without any pauses. His breathing became rapid as he swallowed a moan. Before my explosions had concluded, he began to match me splash for splash. He finished shooting his load and I was spewing my last ones.

As he slowed to a final dribble, he pushed my hand off his dick, wiped a remaining drop or two from his tip, licked his fingers and hurriedly zipped up. He left the restroom with me standing exhausted at the urinals trying to decide whether to race to a cubicle so that I could use some paper to clean my remnants or put myself away and live the rest of the day with the stickiness. I decided on the latter.

As I returned to the jury waiting room, a little late, I noticed that my new friend had joined a group assembled near the door. Then I heard my name announced with a warning that this was the last call. Apparently, I had been assigned to this same jury.

I was doubly delighted. At last, I would get my opportunity to serve on a jury. Furthermore, I would have an opportunity to at least exchange contact information with my tearoom playmate.

Over the course of the next few days, I learned that actually being on a jury can be as boring as sitting in the waiting room. We spent much of the time filing in and out of the courtroom as we would be removed for many of the motions filed by the highly professional attorneys. There were many things we were not privy to, a lot of things that needed to be said but not heard by us.

Consequently, the blonde object of my lust and I had plenty of time to talk and get to know each other. We had the time, but apparently he didn't have the inclination. We never spoke to each other. He spent most of his time looking out of the 24 story window where we were. The view of downtown was spectacular.

He spent the free moments chatting up each of the three single, younger, female jurors. I overheard him telling two of the young women, separately and on different days, that she was the one person on the jury that he wanted to remain connected to after the trial. They should definitely meet for a drink to get to know each other better. I suspect he told the third of his prey the same thing, but I must have been out of earshot at the time.

I wondered how the women could fall for such a cheap pick-up line. Then I would look at him and understand why they were so easily hypnotized by his transparent charms.

I am still at a loss to explain our men's room game. Clearly, this guy thought of himself as straight. Perhaps that was just what some straight guys do when they have a little time on their hands or a few beers.