7th April 2003: After 2 years of writing stories as Sebastian Wallace, I was growing frustrated with the constraints that his character and life history placed on the themes I could write about. I therefore started writing stories under a different name which wouldn’t feature Sebastian – except that this first one did, but as a sort of “guest” character. This story tells the same tale as ‘Student Union’ from 2001 but from the point of view of the other guy.
From My Side
From my side, it looked like he was interested in sex from the start. Afterwards – months or maybe years later, when we were more relaxed with each other and able to talk about it with honesty and amusement – he still maintained he hadn’t been. I guess that was probably true: he turned out to be the kind of guy who wouldn’t lie to me.
He started off by taking a piss – which, as I must admit, isn’t the kind of thing guys interested in sex normally do. I saw him pull his cock out from the fly of his jeans and just hold it there, right in front of the hole in the partition between our stalls. It was soft but looked like it might be half-erect from the size of it, and he gently pulled back his foreskin as if giving me a show. I thought, “This could be promising…” and felt pleased that I hadn’t abandoned the Student Union building after nothing had seemed to be going on.
Then a thick yellow stream squirted from the tip of it and my hope turned instantly to disappointment. He was just another semi-drunk lad from the bar at the end of the of the corridor. Taking a break from watching the afternoon match with his mates or from making lewd comments to the girls behind the bar, to come for a piss.
But he had a nice cock, long and substantial, and I watched it idly as he relieved himself. I wondered whether it would be worth heading down to the station to see what was going on in the subway gents but was aware of an assignment which was due in at the end of the week. What had started out as a impromptu idea for quick wank or suck could easily become three hours of nothing.
After he’d finished pissing he disappeared from view for a second and seemed to be bending down. Then his cock reappeared, just sticking out from his flies, as if waiting for some action. I wondered if he might have bent down to take a look through the glory hole I was peering through; maybe satisfying himself that his neighbour was interested enough to be watching him. He might have just desperately needed to piss before he started cruising. I’d never seen anyone do that – it just wasn’t part of the etiquette – but I felt that it wouldn’t present a problem. Not for a guy with a cock like his.
For a minute or so, he just stood in front of the spy-hole between us with his cock poking out from his fly. He didn’t play with it or touch it at all: he just left it there hanging forwards from his jeans. It was large and stood out from the front of trousers. I couldn’t tell whether it was supported by the folds of material around his fly, or whether it was because it was slightly aroused. I chose to accept the latter – after all, if he wasn’t up for some fun then why was he just standing there with his dick hanging out?
I moved away from the hole and stood upright. I assumed he would probably look down again to see if I was reciprocating, so I put on a little show for him with my own semi-hard cock, stroking it and masturbating it to full stiffness in front of the hole. Then I knelt down and looked through it again and found that he hadn’t been watching me at all.
He was still just standing there, his cock poking out though his fly, but by now it seemed a little longer than it had a minute earlier. I started to suspect he was playing games with me – a straight lad flaunting himself to tease and titillate a gay guy he knew was watching him. It had happened to me before on a couple of occasions and a straight friend of mine had once been drunk enough to admit that he’d done it to a gay bloke who’d come onto him in the library gents. It seemed to be some kind of gesture of heterosexuality. A way for a guy to prove to himself that he’s able to lead another man so far and then to just flush the toilet and walk away. Like, “Look at me. I’m not gay. I’m not even tempted to be gay. Could everyone be really impressed, please?”
But then the guy in front of me started masturbating. At first, he was just gently tugging his foreskin back and forth, but after a few seconds he started getting into it and began wanking it in earnest.
He was up for some action. He was asking for it. I needed no additional encouragement.
I climbed onto the toilet bowl and peered over the partition between our cubicles. I’ve never been into peepshows between cubicles and never been a fan of kneeling down on the piss-soaked floor to grope another guy underneath the partition. I’ve always wanted to get into another guy’s cubicle or have him come into mine. And I’ve always found a face-to-face invitation is the most likely to succeed.
When I looked down at him I saw that he had short blond hair and was wearing a leather jacket. He seemed pretty tall and fairly slim. He was looking down at a magazine which he was holding out in front of him while he stroked his cock. He was reading one of the stories but the pictures alongside the text made it clear that the mag was of the straight rather than gay variety.
I felt disappointed again. If he’d have been gay, things could have turned out very nicely indeed.
I looked at his cock again, six inches of it arching upwards from the front of his jeans. His fingers were gently sliding his foreskin back and forth across the bloated pink head of it. It was a very attractive piece of meat and I felt another surge of disappointment that it belonged to a straight guy. It would have been nice to suck it, or maybe even to have done more with it: my bum tingled at the thought of that.
As I watched, he stopped playing with it for a moment and raised his hand to his mouth, wetting his fingers with his tongue. As he did so, I noticed that the stem of his upright cock was laced with prominent veins, pumping his blood towards the throbbing pink head of it. He reached back down and rubbed his wet fingers onto his bell-end, swirling them round and round on it to make it slick with his saliva. He did that a few times, really wetting the end of his cock, and then began masturbating it again more firmly and rapidly. The head was much wider than his stem – almost mushroom-like – and he clearly needed the extra lube to be able to get his foreskin to slide comfortably back and forth across it.
He turned over a page in the magazine and, in the middle of two columns of text, there was a drawing of two girls getting it on together. He obviously liked what he saw because his rhythm speeded up further. I enjoyed seeing him like that – a straight lad getting turned on by a story about girls having sex together – and I began to masturbate my own dick as I watched him masturbating his.
I wondered if this was what he was into – if he had bought the magazine for this kind of story – or whether this was the first time the idea of lesbianism had appealed to him. I imagined him lying on his bed, on his own, carried away by his own fantasies of girls together, masturbating that beautiful cock of his until it spewed copious strings of his white semen.
As you can probably tell, I was really getting into this!
But then he turned his head upwards towards me, like he’d spotted me watching him out of the corner of his eye. I ducked down behind the partition but I knew he’d seen me.
I climbed down from the toilet and waited for him to react. I half-expected him to start banging on the partition or to zip himself up and come out to thump on the door of my cubicle, but he didn’t. There was no sound from his side; just sounds from other men pissing at the urinals and washing their hands at the sinks.
I looked through the hole again.
He was still standing there, his cock arching upwards from the zipper of his jeans. He wasn’t touching it but he made no attempt to conceal it from me. He must have known I was watching him through the hole – perhaps had known I had been since he’d come in – and didn’t seem to be bothered by that.
And yet he was clearly into girls. I tried to make sense of it.
I’d read stories about straight guys going into toilets to get their cocks sucked by other men while they looked at girlie mags. I’d never believed that it really happened – I couldn’t imagine myself, as a gay guy, enjoying a girl blowing me while I looked at a gay mag – but having found myself in this situation, I wondered whether maybe it did. Perhaps this guy had brought his magazine here with the sole intention of getting a helping hand, or a helping mouth, while he read it.
The idea was kind of interesting.
I noticed that he’d started masturbating again – a come-on if ever there was on – and so I quickly climbed back onto the toilet bowl. I looked over at him and saw that he was now looking at some photos of a vacant-looking girl holding her tits towards the camera like they were weapons. She looked utterly ridiculous. The guy’s cock had gone a little softer: I couldn’t really blame it.
He turned the page over and looked at photos of the same girl getting in a bubble bath. As he did so, he raised his right hand back up to his lips and licked his thumb. Then he reached back down and started gently massaging the soft pink head of his cock with it, lubricating it with his spit. He was also coaxing the stem back to full stiffness by gently squeezing it with his fingers.
He was clearly very adept at what he was doing, being both firm and sensual with his enlarging organ. I had to move further forwards over the partition to see more of it. Even though he was trying to pretend he didn’t, he clearly knew I was there – I could see him glancing up at the shadow I was making on the wall above the toilet – and was obviously enjoying the fact he was being watched. He even moved his magazine forwards so I could see more of his cock.
It rapidly grew hard again and arched upwards from his jeans in its impressive glory. He obviously loved to flaunt his cock for anyone who’d appreciate it, because he really showed it off to me. He pulled his jeans down a little, tucked the front of his white briefs under his larger-than-average balls and then started masturbating it with ponderous, almost theatrical, strokes. He looked pretty amazing: blond, tall and slim, gently masturbating a cock that looked about eight inches long. I was captivated.
He didn’t look up at me or acknowledge my presence at all but he knew I was watching him. He was loving the whole scenario we’d got ourselves into: him as a straight guy masturbating his big cock over a girlie mag, me as the gay voyeur, getting off on the sight of what he was doing.
That was all well and good, and I could see why he might get off on that kind of situation, but I wanted to get more involved. I like watching guys wank but I was convinced he’d come into the Union gents for a bit more than that. Like I said at the beginning, he later claimed he was totally innocent and had just happened to pick the magazine up from the floor as he was taking a piss, but at the time it looked like he was after some help. I was more than eager to give him it.
So, knowing full well that there was a risk I might lose everything by doing so, I threw caution to the wind and called over the partition to get his attention. “Pssst!”
He looked up at me and tried to pretend he was surprised to see me. As if he always wanks like he’s the star of a porn film.
He stared at me, piercing me with his intense blue eyes, and I couldn’t think what to say. I don’t know why but I asked him if he was straight.
He said, “Yeah.” He had a nice voice, deep and gentle.
Again I couldn’t think what to say to him. Normally I’d have said, “Can I come in there with you?” but since he was straight and trying to pretend like he was surprised to find me watching him, it didn’t seem appropriate.
I tried, “Can I take a look at your mag?”
It was a bit lame but I couldn’t think of anything better right then.
He looked irritated and I felt stupid. I’d interrupted his jerk-off session to ask to look at his mag. It’s just not the kind of thing guys normally do.
He passed it up towards me and then I thought of a possible way in. It was a long-shot but worth a try.
I said, over the noise of the men outside our cubicles, “No. Can I come in there and take a look at it… with you?”
He stared at me, his expression uncomprehending.
I thought, “Oh Jesus. I’ve misunderstood this… he didn’t come in here to find a guy…” At that moment I really expected to be beaten up right there in the gents and to have to explain myself to security when they intervened.
I was about to apologise and tell him I’d made a mistake when he smiled at me. Like my meaning had suddenly dawned on him. He had a really nice smile; warm and affectionate.
I was a little surprised by his response and I smiled back.
After his smiled had faded, though, he remained a little dubious, uncertain of how to reply. I wondered if he wasn’t used to having guys come into his cubicle with him. Maybe he usually liked to show his cock off to other men but didn’t get involved in anything direct.
I smiled more broadly to encourage him. I was about to tell him that I wouldn’t touch him if he didn’t want me to, but he seemed to make up his own mind abruptly and said, with unexpected conviction, “Yeah. You can come in and look at the mag.”
I didn’t delay. I didn’t want to give the time to change his mind.
I climbed down off the toilet bowl and zipped my jeans up as quickly as I could. Then I flushed the toilet so as not to arouse suspicion and left my cubicle. I was going to go straight to his and tap on the door but I noticed a guy from my course washing his hands and we made eye-contact through the mirror above his sink.
I had to be careful.
I walked over to pretend to wash my hands and made small-talk with my course-mate – Paul, I think his name was – as he used the dryer. Then he left and I dried my hands as quickly as I could, impatient to get back to the cubicle.
Three more lads came into the gents and two of them, chatting about football, walked over to the urinals. The other, a geeky looking guy with short black hair and glasses, walked into the stall I’d just vacated. I’d seen him in here before; I’d even let him suck me off one afternoon when it had looked like no-one better was going to show up. There was no way I was going to let him hit on the blond guy.
When I’d finished drying my hands, I pulled some tissue from my pocket and pretended I was blowing my nose in it. Then I threw it in the bin and acted like I was trying to find more in my pockets. When I couldn’t, I headed back to the toilet cubicles as if I was going to pull some from the dispensers inside one of them.
I dare say no-one was watching me, but I went through the routine I’d performed many times before just in case they were.
I walked up to the first stall – the one occupied by the blond guy – and gently pushed at the door. I moved my foot underneath it so he could recognise me from my boots, but then remembered we hadn’t started out by playing footsie underneath the partition like I normally do in the Union gents.
There was no response and I thought that, during my delay, he must have had second thoughts.
Fucking Paul. Why did he have to come in here right now? Why did he have to see me –
Then I heard a click as he unlocked the door.
It was a wonderful sound.
At that minute, that simple click was more beautiful to me than any piece of music could ever hope to be. The sound of it was quite simply amazing.
I pushed my way in though the door, trying to look casual in case anyone at the urinals were glancing over at me, and saw him in front of me. He was so good looking, I couldn’t believe my luck. I’m not too bad myself, I must say – although guys usually prefer to call me ‘cute’ rather than ‘handsome’ – but this guy was really stunning.
He was about the same height as I am – about six foot – with beautiful smooth skin and sharp, light blue eyes. His pale complexion and light eyebrows proved that hair was naturally blond; I’d assumed it to be bleached when I’d seen him from above. His body was far more athletic and toned than I’d realised and his posture and manner, even in this situation which he was clearly uneasy with, suggested a self-confidence that added to his appeal.
I was thinking, “I’ve got to give him my number; got to meet up with him after this,” as I closed the door. Even though that would have broken all my self-imposed rules on cruising guys in toilets, this guy seemed rather special.
I stood in front of him, feeling suddenly nervous. I couldn’t understand why I felt nervous – me, who’d almost certainly cruised more guys in toilets than this guy had had girlfriends – yes, I felt nervous! And he just stood there in front of me, looking totally at ease with the situation.
I couldn’t think of anything to say; I was drying up again. But instead of risking making asking another stupid question, I decided to get things started.
I undid my belt and pulled down my fly.
He looked at me with slight surprise, like I was supposed to make small-talk or something. This was definitely his first time.
I pulled the tops of my black jeans down around my upper thighs and then did the same with my boxer-briefs. He couldn’t see my cock because my shirt front hung down over it, but his eyes were fixed on that spot between my legs, waiting to take a look at it. His expression was serious; this was make or break time for him. If my cock looked too intimidating to him – too different from his own, maybe – he’d be remembering an appointment or something in about five seconds.
I had to be careful; otherwise, I was going to lose him. I unbuttoned my shirt from the top down, deliberately concealing my cock for the time being. He glanced up at my chest, hairless and smooth, and seemed to like that. Some guys have suggested that I have a feminine body; others, who have a gentler way with words, have called it boyish. Whichever it was, I knew it wouldn’t be too threatening to this straight lad and so I revealed it to him before we got to the parts he might have more issues with.
When my unbuttoning had reached the bottom of my shirt and I’d exposed my cock, though, he didn’t seem too freaked out by what he saw. He just stared at it like he’d never seen one before.
I gently masturbated my dick in front of him and he watched it begin to get harder, apparently fascinated by its behaviour. His interest in it was arousing me far more than my hand was and within a few seconds it was getting close to full size.
He glanced up at me and I smiled at him, hoping to convince him that this was no big deal. He didn’t seem to need it, though: he looked totally relaxed with the situation and threw me a small, slightly mischievous, smile back. Then he turned back to the magazine and started playing with his cock in front of me.
I made no pretence to look at the magazine: I just stared blatantly at his cock as he ran his fingers gently along its stem and fondled his balls. Like me, he seemed to enjoy the attention and it began to gradually lengthen, the stem becoming less and less bendable in his fingers and the head developing the swollen mushroom shape that I’d noticed earlier.
I whispered, “You’ve got a big cock,” and he grinned broadly. He liked compliments, evidently.
Within about twenty seconds, it had grown back to full size: stiff, solid and eight inches. For a short time we just stood there in front of the magazine, both of us fully hard and both of us toying with our dicks. Neither of us were looking at the mag: our eyes were planted firmly on each other’s cocks and we weren’t afraid to hide it.
I loved the look of his: it was curving upwards, as stiff and as solid as a bone. The fat pink head of it throbbed to the rhythm of his pulse, engorged by the bulging veins which coursed up the length of its stem. I wondered again how it would feel to have it pushing its way into my arse; how good it would be to have the mushroom head deep inside me. My anus was tingling again, like it wanted me to turn around and engulf his cock with it; like it wanted feeding.
But I held back; didn’t suggest anything yet. I didn’t want to scare him off.
At the base of his cock was the short dense bush of his pubic hair. Too dark to be called blond, too light to be called brown. I’d never seen pubic hair that colour before, even on a blond guy.
I whispered, “Your pubes are cool,” and he smiled again.
He wrapped his fingers around the solid stem of his cock and started masturbating it properly. His strokes were quite fast and took in the entire length of his large cock. His fist followed the upward curve made by his erection, sweeping up and down in an arc. My own rhythm increased to follow his.
He glanced down at my cock and then back up to my face. He was smiling again, and directed his cock towards me, making more of a performance of his masturbatory technique. Like he was saying, “Look what I can do…!”
He didn’t need to say it, though. I was looking.
Somebody switched on the hand-drier and I decided to take the opportunity of the noise it made to suggest we develop things a little further. I wanted to taste that round-looking bell end of his; I wanted to feel it burying its way inside my bowels. It was time to make a move.
I said, trying to sound casual, “If you want I’ll suck you off while you look at your mag… if you want.”
He looked surprised; a lot more surprised than I’d expected him to given how much he was getting into us wanking together. He obviously hadn’t considered that we might go any further.
He muttered, “I’m not gay…”
That was promising. He was giving me a reason why he shouldn’t but hadn’t said ‘no’. He just wanted me to reassure him that he could have a guy suck him off without jeopardising his heterosexuality. I’d had my answer to that one planned since I’d been watching him over the partition.
I said, “I know. You’d be looking at pictures of women. You could imagine it’s one of them on your dick.”
He smiled and nodded. “Okay.” He hadn’t needed much convincing.
He put the magazine down on the toilet seat and turned back around to face me. I knelt in front of him like I was in awe of his cock. It curved upwards in front of my face, its puckered eye peering into mine. From this angle it looked vast: thick, hard and long; rearing upwards as if to intimidate me.
I wanted to tease him a bit. To show him that there was no need to rush.
I pulled his briefs back up, pulling the front of them over his balls, and then – with some difficulty – tucked his cock into them. It made a thick rod pointing diagonally towards his left hip. I pulled the waistband up at the sides and moved my fingers around the back to pull the seat of them up across his arse-cheeks.
He looked down at me, probably a little confused, but before he could say anything I pressed my face into the front of them.
I love to do this to a guy, to inhale the smell of his crotch cupped in the underwear he’s been wearing all day, and usually guys love having it done to them. This one seemed a little uncertain about it, though. At first he pulled back slightly, maybe wondering what I was going to do, but when he realised my intention he assented and let me explore the front of his briefs with my nose and tongue.
His crotch had a beautiful smell: a little sweaty, rather sharp and extremely masculine. The white cotton was pulled tight by the bulge made by his swollen cock and I moved my face across the straining material, smelling and tasting the terrain all the way from the waistband down to where it disappeared between his hairless thighs. I nuzzled between the paired mounds of his large balls, loving the thick sweaty smell from underneath them; licked around the slit in the material through which his big cock had poked several times during the day; and sniffed along the hard length of his rod, taking time to inhale the musky odour of precum that had oozed out from his ripe bell end.
I grabbed my cock and started wanking it as quickly as I could, my breathing quickening.
Normally guys get really into this and start gyrating their hips to rub their cocks and balls into my face, but this guy didn’t.
I looked up and stopped masturbating. His face looked bemused and I couldn’t help but grin. I’d been burrowing into his crotch like a dog in heat, and he looked totally bored by it.
I asked, knowing that I looked rather sheepish, “You don’t mind, do you?”
He shook his head. But his expression was noncommittal, like he was just politely humouring me; allowing me a bit of fun while he was waiting for the best part to start.
I had an idea. I’d do something that a straight guy like him would almost definitely not have experienced, if my conversations with my straight mates were anything to go by.
I whispered, “Do you want to turn around?”
He looked horrified. Said, quickly, “You can’t fuck me.” He sounded shocked.
His expression was so severe that I thought he was going to pull his jeans up and go. For a lot of guys, a lot of straight guys, getting fucked is one of their morbid fears. The ultimate insult; the absolute violation.
I struggled to make him realise that hadn’t been my intention. I stammered, “No… no… of course not. I just wanted to do… this… but around your arse…”
He stared at me with obvious wariness. I’d gone way too far, way too soon. I’d let my eagerness run away with me.
I had to get him back. Keep him here. It was no longer just about me having a good time; if he left now it would be in a state of repulsion. He’d take that with him from what was probably one of his first gay experiences. He’d steer well clear in future; perhaps worse than that, he’d be afraid of it.
I tried to apologise. “Sorry, mate. I’ll just suck you…” I hoped he still wanted that.
But he shook his head.
He said, “No,” and I felt disappointed. Angry with myself.
Then I heard him add, “You can do that.” He emphasised ‘that’. I didn’t know what he meant. He turned around and his arse, round and firm inside the white cotton of his briefs, was right in front of my face. Even then I expected him to pick up the magazine and pull up his trousers.
But he just waited, his arse in front of me.
And I realised what ‘that’ was.
Before he could reconsider, I pushed my face right in between his cheeks, burrowing deep into his cleft with my nose and chin. Like the front of his briefs, the material smelled quite sweaty: I wondered if maybe he’d been to the gym or had played a game of squash or something before he’d come into the gents.
Back here, though, the sweat was accompanied by the thicker, richer smell of his arse. I loved it and wanted more. He seemed to enjoy it too because he bent forwards towards the wall, pushing his arse further into my face. I forced my nose in right in between his buttocks and moved downwards inside his crack towards his hole. The smell became stronger as I approached his most private area: heavy, musky and undeniably anal. It was a raw, sexual smell – the smell of men having sex together – and it made my mouth water and my cock ache to get inside him. I avoided touching myself, though, and instead pressed inward, inhaling from his cleft and gently licking the white cotton that had clung to his arse all day.
I felt his body start to vibrate and realised he was masturbating.
He was enjoying this!
I reached around in front of him and pushed his hand away from his cock. I grabbed the hard stem of it and started wanking it, sweeping up and down as much of its length as I could in long, rapid strokes. I heard him groan in appreciation.
Then, with my free hand, I yanked the back of his briefs down and stuck my face into his arse-cleft again. Now I could feel it properly against my face: hot, slightly moist and with a fine growth of hair that tickled my nose. Without his briefs, the smell inside was far stronger; thick and rough with his sweat and his arsehole; powerful and uncompromising. Again, my cock demanded attention, its appetite whetted by the smell it has come to associate with sex. But I kept resisting, my attention thoroughly focused, for the time being at least, on pleasuring the guy in front of me.
I found his hole with the end of my tongue. It felt tight and slightly wet. I licked around it, teasing it and flicking it, and tasted the salty sweetness of it. He bent further forwards, opening his legs and pushing his arse towards me again, and, even with my face pressed right into his bum, I couldn’t help but smile. It was like he was offering his hole up to me. Begging me to tongue-fuck him.
I pushed gently at his puckered hole with the tip of my tongue and, after a little resistance, it eased open and an inch or so of my tongue slid inside him. He groaned again. He wanted this a lot.
His anus felt hot and tight around my tongue; the taste inside was intensely strong. The puckered ring of muscle around it kept contracting in spasms as if it couldn’t make up its mind whether to accept or reject me: he was inexperienced; this was probably his first time. Once inside the ring of his anus though, his insides felt soft and wet, and my tongue reached into him to tickle parts he didn’t know he had.
The whole experience of this straight guy’s bum was really getting to me. I was breathing so heavily; the smell and taste of him was overwhelming, but more powerful than that was the idea that I was penetrating a part of him that he probably hadn’t even considered as a sexual organ until now. That tight little hole nestling between his buttocks behind the seat of his jeans: until today he’d probably just made odd jokes about it or treated it with unspoken disgust; now he was accepting it as an entrance as well as an exit.
I really wanted to fuck him. If he’d have been gay, I’d have reached down to my cock while I rimmed him and pulled on a condom from my pocket. Then I’d have stood up behind him, grabbed his hips, and fucked at his arse like a jack rabbit, the smell and taste of it still around my mouth.
But his earlier horror when he’d misunderstood my suggestion restrained me. My tongue might be the most he’d take for now. If I showed him how good it felt, he might ask me to put something bigger inside him, but I had to wait for him to take the lead. Otherwise, I might lose him.
So I kept going. Kept rimming him for far longer than I’d rimmed a guy before. Not that I was complaining; his arse tasted so hot and his inexperience made it so arousing. I just desperately wanted to fuck him.
I took my hand away from his cock to part his cheeks further to try and push my way in a little further. I wanted to get to his prostrate, to make him squirm and writhe in pleasure and feel sensations he’d never dreamed of. I’d done it to guys with my dick, but never with my tongue. To be honest, I didn’t know if it was long enough but I wanted to try. If I could do it, he’d be begging me to fuck him.
Pulling his cheeks apart, I opened his arse as wide I could in front of my face. Its red rim was stretched open like a tiny mouth and I could see the pink tunnel inside it. Then I pushed my face in and slid my tongue as far into him as it could go. He loved it. I felt his body pumping back and forth again and realised he’d grabbed his dick and was wanking it as quickly as he could.
My tongue reached far into his bowels, tasting and feeling its way into the deepest, darkest part of his body. It felt wonderful to be fucking him like this, his whole body vibrating with pleasure from being impaled on my tongue. I reached a hot, fleshy obstruction deep inside him and flicked it with my tongue. He groaned and pushed his arse back towards me, grinding it against my face. Whatever it was, he liked the feel of me poking it.
We stayed like that for a couple of minutes. He pushed his trousers further down, opened his legs wider and kept feeding me with his arsehole, trying to get more of my tongue into him. His balls were banging against my chin as he wanked himself, my nose was pressed deeply into the tufts of hair in his arse crack.
I kept thinking he was about to orgasm because his body would shake and his breathing become frantic, but he would stop masturbating for a few seconds and then start up again when the sensation had passed him. He was drawing it out, milking as much as he could from his experience with me.
By now, though, the thought of me fucking him became too much for me to stand. I realised that, no matter how good my tongue felt, the idea of my cock replacing it would probably not occur to him. I had to ask him. I had to suggest it.
So I stood up behind him, panting for air which seemed bland and insubstantial after spending so long buried in his arse.
He immediately put his hand over his arse, protecting his hole, and turned around to face me. He knew what I wanted. I knew then he was going to refuse. But I tried anyway.
“I want to fuck you.”
He shook his head resolutely. No surprise in his eyes this time.
I went on, “I’ve got a condom.”
He said, “That’s not the problem.”
Yeah. I knew that. But I had to say it. Just in case.
I would settle for second best. With him it might be better, anyhow. With some guys it’s far better.
I asked, “Will you fuck me then?”
Maybe when he saw how much I enjoyed it, he might want to swap places.
He repeated his earlier rejection. He said, “I’m not gay.”
I nodded. “Think of a woman then.”
I briefly considered mentioning the magazine again but instantly dismissed it. To have done so would have seemed ridiculous. We both knew that it was, by this stage, totally irrelevant.
He hesitated and I smiled. His eyes were saying yes but his words weren’t forthcoming. I beamed at him, knowing the path his mind was taking from having seen the same coy expressions on the faces of my straight mates when we’re talking about anal sex.
I whispered, “You’ve always wanted to. To see what it feels like.”
He looked at me intensely, his pale blue eyes burning into mine.
He didn’t need to answer.
I reached down to the pocket in my jeans and fished out my wallet in which I knew I had a couple of condoms and a sachet of lube. I’d stuffed them in there a couple of weeks ago in the foyer of one of the gay pubs, hoping for but not seriously anticipating an occasion such as this.
I handed him the condom and he opened it mechanically like he was deep in thought about the rights and wrongs of what we were doing. I wondered if he might have a girlfriend – actually, from the look of him I assumed he must have a girlfriend – and was reconsidering what he was about to do as a betrayal of her.
The upward curve of his cock was starting to ebb. The pink head was losing its shininess, beginning to shrivel a little. I had to act quickly, before his doubts and guilt managed to get a grip on him.
I couldn’t manage to tear through the plastic wrapper of the lube, though. It was behaving like a sachet of tomato sauce when you’re starving and your burger’s just sitting there getting cold. I kept trying to open it where it was telling me to, but it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t want to look like I was getting desperate, but the blond guy’s cock was really starting to droop in front of him. I had to bite it with my teeth. Even at the risk of letting him see how much I wanted his cock inside me, I had to tear at it like a dog would to get the thing open.
I moistened my arse with the jelly and he stared at what I was doing intently. His expression was totally cold and vacant. Even in the noisy toilet, I was aware of the sound my finger was making as I pushed it inside my hole: a wet, sloppy sound. I thought, “This is too much for him. He’s going to remember that appointment.”
But the effect on him was altogether different.
His cock curved up again, the veins standing out and the pink head becoming moist and shiny as it bloated back to full size.
He threw me a slight smile and nodded. He wanted this. He’d never seen, or heard, a guy preparing to have sex with him – to receive his cock – and the idea of it was obviously appealing to him.
I turned around and bent over the toilet bowl.
He hesitated, staring at my arse. Again, I wondered if this would put him off: the hypothetical idea of anal sex is one thing; the physical prospect of a guy’s lubed up arsehole right in front you something rather different.
But, again, he proved my fears groundless.
He unfurled the condom down his large cock in one swift, eager motion. It was stiff as a pole; as intent on going through with this as I was.
Then he came towards me, slightly hampered by the jeans around his ankles, and pressed the head of it confidently between my cheeks.
I smiled. His cock was far too high up in my cleft: he had no idea where my hole was. I said, “Lower, man.” He fumbled around, sweeping his cock head up and down my arse crack, but every time it passed over my hole, he didn’t realise it had and moved it away. He was, whether consciously or subconsciously, expecting my anus to be similar to a girl’s pussy: gaping open and easily accessible. He was expecting his cock to slide effortlessly in.
I reached behind myself, grasped the hard stem of his cock and guided it towards my anus. I made a mental effort to relax, to dilate my hole, and an inch or so of his cock slid into me.
I gasped involuntarily from finally having him enter me. It sounded loud and forced; like I was acting.
I turned to look at him and his expression was so serious that I smiled. He stared at me, appearing a little confused at first, and then his features softened and he smiled back. That was a nice moment: his cock was an inch or so inside his first male lover’s arse and we were smiling at each other; reassuring each other that everything was all right. Yes, that was a very nice sensation.
He grabbed onto my waist and started gently easing his cock further into me, becoming more confident at what he was doing. My arse, unlike I’d found his to be, was used to intrusions and, once he’d managed to push the large mushroom head of his cock through my hole, he found it easy to slide the rest of it almost completely inside me.
I think it was only then – when I could feel six or seven inches of that beautiful cock pressing up into my body – that I started to relax. I finally accepted that he was going to go through with this; that he wasn’t going to back out with excuses and issues. From then I could start enjoy what he was doing: my mind wasn’t having to think of ways to keep him here; my arse was more than able to do that.
His rhythm was increasing and it was clear he was enjoying himself. He was, evidently, quite comfortable with the idea of fucking me from behind. I’d wondered whether maybe this position would be too stereotypically ‘gay’: that he might be put off by the idea of a guy bending over in front of him. But no: he was really getting into it. Perhaps he’d fantasised about a situation like this for a while; had maybe been looking at his mates arses inside their jeans when they’d bent over to pick things up, mentally exploring ideas he’d previously avoided. Or, perhaps, like those of my straight friends who been drunk enough to admit it, he’d been secretly fascinated by the idea of one guy fucking another since he’d first heard jokes about ‘bum boys’ and stuff at school.
The sensation of his cock driving in and out of my bowels was really turning me on. My cock throbbed, pressing upwards towards my belly button, and I had to reach for it to give it the attention it had been demanding. As soon as I started masturbating it, I realised I was getting very near to cumming. I started panting, the pleasure from feeling the combination of his cock inside me and my fingers beating on my own almost unbearable.
I started bucking my hips, following his rhythm to push my arse into him and feed his cock with my hole. He loved that and grabbed my right buttock, squeezing it roughly but affectionately.
I opened my legs further, bending further over and pressing my head almost into the toilet bowl. I love being in that position: directing my anus upwards, opening it as much as I can, and bending so far forwards that it’s my arse is the focus of my body. What’s more, guys seem to love it – this one definitely did because he started slamming into my arse so fast and so hard that my balls began to ache as they leapt around between my legs.
I was dimly aware of shouts and chanting as a group of lads came into the gents from watching a football game in the Union bar. I thought that the noise might alarm the blond guy and looked at him over my shoulder.
But he didn’t miss a beat.
If anything his rhythm in and out of my arse became more hurried and his hands gripped my hips more firmly. Amidst the shouts and the noise of the men pissing and swearing at each other, he looked down at my face with a fondness that seemed almost protective.
I was panting like a dog, his look of affection multiplying the pleasure I was feeling from the thrusting of his large cock.
We stared at each other for a few seconds, listening to the noise outside but both too consumed by our own pleasure to care. The blond guy was breathing quickly, enjoying the grip of my arse as much as I was enjoying the frantic fucking I was getting from his cock.
Then he bent over my back, putting his arms around my chest and bringing his face close to my shoulder. I strained my head up to kiss him but he either didn’t notice or didn’t want to reciprocate. He closed his eyes and continued hammering away at my arse, caressing my chest and my nipples with his smooth, gentle fingers.
I was close to cumming, right on the brink, but by now the lads outside had started kicking the cubicle doors and I was becoming distracted. I knew the blond guy was on the edge of his own orgasm – his breathing was fast and laboured – and really wanted to climax at the moment he released his semen into me. It would have proved to him how good it had felt for me; given him something to think over the next few days.
But the disturbance in the toilets was too close for comfort. They were shouting about catching guys on the toilet wanking, laughing like donkeys at how hilarious that would be. But what if they kicked our door in and caught us in here together? Doing the very act that most straight guys, at least of the type shouting outside, would find utterly offensive. Perhaps the blond guy on my back didn’t know how aggressive men can get when confronted by the sight of two men having sex: I did.
I wanted to pull away but he held me firm, his thrusts almost violent against my buttocks and his breathing frantic against my ear. I was still enjoying him fucking me – still loving the feel of him inside my arse and still masturbating my cock as fast as I could – but my rational side was telling me to be cautious. To get my feet up onto the toilet seat, to let him fuck me with me squatting on it. So that the lads wouldn’t see two pairs of feet if they looked under the door; wouldn’t see his black shoes between my brown boots, both pairs pointing forwards towards the toilet.
But he gripped my body and held me down, pummelling my bum and hyperventilating against the back of my head, even as our cubicle door was being kicked. Then he started convulsing and gasping as his orgasm overtook him. I felt the warmth of his semen in my insides, even through the thick rubber of the condom.
Just then I heard a voice shouting at the lads and realised that someone had called security.
The blond guy pulled out of my arse and I continued masturbating. I guess I expected him to pull up his jeans and get the hell out of the toilets as quickly as he could. I assumed he’d be instantly overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and confusion.
But he left his briefs and jeans around his ankles and went straight for my arse with his fingers. He plunged two of them inside me. I was so utterly surprised that I gasped.
Then he started sliding them in and out of me, masturbating my arse at the same rhythm that I was masturbating my cock. He seemed totally comfortable with it. A lot of guys – even out-and-proud gay guys – I’ve slept with and met in toilets, find it difficult to do anything more than stare at me once they’ve climaxed, but this guy got straight back in, needing no encouragement.
I started pushing my arse back against his fingers like I had with his cock. He slid them further into me with each stroke, pushing deeper into the hole his cock had stretched and widened.
Then, with his other hand, he reached around my front and felt my balls banging around beneath my cock as I wanked it.
I looked toward him and saw his cock, still large and thick but without its upward curve, just a few inches from my face. He’d pulled the condom off and strings of his seed hung from his ripe-looking bell-end.
That was too much for me. Jets of white cum started spurting from my cock, splattering my stomach and the seat of the toilet in front of me. He kept fondling my balls and fingering my arse as I came, obviously enjoying watching my orgasm erupt, peak and fade. It was the first time he’d seen another cum at close quarters, I guess.
He kept his fingers inside me until I’d completely finished and was recovering my breath. Again, to my surprise, he didn’t look in the least guilty or ashamed of what we’d just done. I smiled to reassure him, in case anything was going on in his head that his face wasn’t betraying, but he just beamed back at me. It was like he’d made up his mind to fuck a guy, had done so and had enjoyed it. “What’s the problem?” his grin seemed to ask.
We cleaned ourselves up with the toilet roll and, without any further conversation, he fastened his jeans and eased himself out of the cubicle door.
As soon as he’d left, it occurred to me that I hadn’t given him my phone number; not even my name.
But after sex things always appear very different and it no longer seemed important. I didn’t seriously consider following him out and catching him up to give them to him.
It was only a few hours later, and then on and off for the next few days, that I wished I had. Apart from being so physically attractive, he was an intriguing guy: apparently straight but with a flexible approach to sex; naïve about having sex with other men but immediately comfortable with it; reluctant to kiss but otherwise tender and affectionate.
It started eating at me and became an irregular source of irritation. I even went back to the gents a couple of times to see whether he might have turned up again in the hope of seeing me. But he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t anywhere I looked around the university campus. Every blond guy with a leather jacket looked for a tantalising second like it might be him, but none of them came close.
I found it ironic during those few days that, after all of my concerns that he’d leave the toilet cubicle with regrets, I was the one in whom they had materialised.
It was only a few months later, when I’d put him out of my mind as just another face in what was, by then, becoming a weary succession, that I saw him again.
But that’s a different story.
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