Butt Monkey
by Robert Furlong


Part 13: Coupling Up

I was back at the small toilet building tucked away among the trees in the park.

Curiosity about what I’d seen there on my last visit had got the better of me and I’d left the office early with the excuse of having a bad stomach and the promise that I’d “work from home” (does anyone ever actually do that?).  Even on the drive here I wasn’t sure if I’d have the guts to actually park up and take the walk to the tiny building, but it turned out that my fascination with what men do together in such places was far stronger than my fear of getting caught.

It was earlier in the day than last time and so it was lighter and not so bitingly cold; nevertheless the park was almost empty of people.  If I happened to see anyone I knew – especially anyone from work, as unlikely as that was – I was ready with my excuse.  I’d been caught by surprise on my drive home by a sudden recurrence of the stomach bug which had made me leave early, and had urgently needed to get to the nearest toilet I knew of.

It felt distinctly odd to be doing this.  Not only was it strange for me to be, for the first time, actively seeking sexual contact with other men; the same guy who, just two or three months earlier, would never even have dreamt of doing such a thing.  But it was especially bizarre that I was doing this on the same day that I’d arranged to go out on an evening date with a woman: my first bona fide date in several years.  A psychologist might have told me that the two things were somehow intricately connected in my subconscious; I didn’t want to probe such things deeply enough to find out.

I’d parked up near the sports centre and had cut across the deserted tennis courts and children’s play area to reach the grey stone building.  All the time, as I’d slowly made my way towards the toilet, I’d felt excitement building inside me.

Might I see two men having sex together, like I had last time?  Would one guy put his mouth on the other’s bum if I asked him to?  Would they invite me into their cubicle with them?  Would they ask me to join in with them?

And more to the point: would I dare?

As I’d neared my destination, my erection had steadily hardened in my trousers at the prospect of what lay ahead.  Putting my hand in my trouser pocket as I walked through the park, I’d rubbed its thickening shaft through the material of my underwear; enjoying mulling over the possibilities of what might await me in the toilet.

Would I finally get to rim a guy?  How would it feel to lick another man’s arse after so much anticipation?  How quickly would I climax?

Might he want to rim me, like the guy in the clothes shop had?  Which underpants was I wearing?  How clean were they?

What if he wanted me to fuck him?  Would I be able to do that?  Stand behind him, with him bending over the toilet bowl, grab his hips and work myself into his arse?

Would I be able to get my cock inside him?  How much of it would he be able to take?

And obviously I’d need a – oh shit…

It suddenly dawned on me that I didn’t have any condoms.

Jesus, how could I be so stupid?

I contemplated walking to one of the chemists’ shops in town but I realised it probably wouldn’t be much use.  One of the drawbacks of having a large endowment was the difficulty in finding condoms which would fit.

The first time a girl had asked me to use protection back in my teens, during some pretty steamy groping in the back of her parents’ car, I’d managed to split every regular-sized sheath in the pack which she’d brought with her without even managing to slide one over the fattened head of my cock.  Needless to say, the steam had pretty quickly dissipated.

Following that rather literal anti-climax, I’d gone to great lengths to find a condom that was large and wide enough comfortably fit my engorged member without choking it or making me lose my erection because it took so long to try and squeeze myself into it.  I was determined that any future opportunities with the opposite sex weren’t going to be thwarted due simply to the inadequacies of a sheath of latex.

After a few skulking visits to various chemists’ shops tucked well away from my parents’ inquisitive gaze, I’d found  – following several disappointing experiments locked away in my bedroom – that even so-called ‘XXL’ and ‘Magnum’ size condoms were painfully confined.  I could roll the rubber a good eight inches or so down my shaft, but the ring at the base would dig in too tightly for me to keep them on for more than a few minutes.  I’d needed to hunt around in quite a few bigger shops further afield before I discovered that that there was an even bigger size, designed for “the most generous attribute”, which was called ‘U’.  I’d bought a couple of packets, ignoring the chemists’ disbelieving sneers that a gangly teenager like me could have a need such for a product, and found back at home that they were a reasonable fit.  Even fully unfurled ‘U’ size condoms left couple of inches at the base of my cock which the sheath was too short to reach, but at least the girth was about right.

Since then, I’d always been careful to carry a few spare ‘U’s in my wallet whenever there was a chance that sex might be on the menu, but right now, on the way to what might have been my first taste of anal sex with another man, I realised that I’d left all my supplies in my bedside drawer at home and those were probably well out of date.

(The last time I’d had cause to get them out, I recalled, was during a chat about safe sex I’d had with Jake several years earlier.  He’d been asked to roll a condom onto a courgette in a Biology class at school and had come home horrified about how he was supposed to get something so flimsy onto his organ which was already, according to him, “too fat for it to fit”.  I’d brought a packet of ‘U’s down from my bedroom and had unrolled one for him, explaining that, like shoes, condoms came in a variety of shapes and sizes.  He’d marvelled at the scale of the thing, stretching it this way and that as if he were mentally trying it for size, and then had asked, with a cheeky smirk, if there was such a thing as a ‘U plus’.  I told him that it taken me enough time and embarrassment to find the size ‘U’ and that if he wanted bigger, he’d have to find them for himself.  He’d asked if he could “borrow one” and I gave him a couple from my packet, telling him that this was definitely a loan which I didn’t want returned.)

There was simply no point of making a detour into town.  I knew from bitter experience that the biggest size stocked by most regular chemists’ shops would be Durex ‘Max’ or ‘XL’ and, even with the best will in the world, they simply wouldn’t fit once my shaft swelled to its full thickness.

I wondered if perhaps the other guy – the one I hoped was waiting for me in the toilet – might have had more foresight than me and might have brought a pack of condoms with him.  But on second thoughts, it was obvious that he’d most likely bring out a standard pack of ‘featherlights’, and then, like some of the women I’d dated, would quietly put them back away when he saw what I had to offer.

No – as irritating as it was, I’d have to postpone my first taste of buggery.  My cock would have to make do with my hand this afternoon, while my tongue enjoyed the real fun.

Unless, I were to… you know… just this once?

No, I decided flatly.  There were enough risks in what I was doing without compounding my problems.

I entered the small building and saw that there was a man at the urinals with his back to me.  He was tall with short black hair and was wearing a black fleece with the green ‘ASDA’ logo sewn into the material.  Evidently he must work at a local supermarket.

I walked up to the urinal and positioned myself alongside to him, leaving what I judged to be a respectable amount of space between us.

Glancing in his direction, I saw that he was a young lad – probably in his early twenties and certainly not much older than Jake – with a nondescript face which the right girl might find handsome.  He stared ahead at the grubby wall in front of him without betraying even the slightest flicker of interest that I had joined him at the urinal.  He was holding his cock out from the front of his pale grey jogging bottoms – I didn’t want to bring attention to myself by looking directly at it – and seemed to be waiting to pee.

Perhaps, unlike me, he was here for legitimate reasons.  Perhaps he really had popped in to relieve his bladder.

I unzipped myself and reached in for my cock, feeling more than a little self-conscious to be doing so next to another man.  Urinals are normally a no-go area for me as I hate to expose myself to anyone.  However, it would have looked very odd for me just to stand there gormlessly at the urinal, so I overcame my misgivings and, with some difficulty, pulled my length, still not entirely soft after my earlier musings, through my fly.

As I stared down at myself, wondering whether I was supposed to try and urinate or just stand there with my prick hanging out, the guy from Asda looked over at me, first at my face and then down at my cock.  He made it obvious that he was doing it, as if he wanted me to know that he was checking me out.

Perhaps this was part of the code of such places.

I looked at over at him and saw that he was slowly masturbating himself.  His organ looked quite long and thick, and he slowly worked his pale, almost translucent foreskin back and forth across the dark helmet of its moist, fattened head.

I wasn’t sure what to do now, so I gently wanked my own cock a few times, hoping he would take this as a sign of my complicity.

Abruptly he said, “If you want to suck it, it’ll cost you.”

I didn’t understand.  Cost me, how?  Was this a threat?

I was on the verge of zipping up and getting the hell out of there when, perhaps seeing my surprise, he explained, “If you wanna suck me off, it’ll be twenty quid.  I’ll fuck you for thirty.  For fifty, you can fuck me.”

He glanced at his watch.  “But you’d better be quick.  I haven’t got long.”

Perhaps his shift at Asda was due to start.

I muttered, still thrown by the prospect of having to pay for my fun, “I don’t want to do any of those things.”

He looked up at me with apparent interest.

“What do you want to do, then?”

His voice was deep and a bit husky, as though he was a heavy smoker.  His manner seemed brusque; I got the impression that his natural habit would be to chase girls at the weekend with his mates rather than look for kicks in men’s toilets.

I threw a look towards the open door of the building, concerned as to who might be out there walking along the tarmac path and overhearing our conversation.

“Is this place safe?” I asked quietly.

I had a newspaper article in the back of my mind about policemen – always young, hunky blokes – hanging around public toilets to catch out men who were out for some sex.  “Sickos”, the media always called them, and I realised that label could now be applied to me.

Asda guy shrugged.  “If anyone comes in, we’re just two blokes having a piss, okay?”

I nodded.  There was a risk, but perhaps it was worth taking.  After all, this guy couldn’t be a cop: he had made the first move.  Isn’t that against the law; don’t they call that entrapment or something?

He looked impatient.  “Come on then… what do you wanna do?  I ‘aven’t got all fuckin’ day.”

I decided to take the plunge. This could well be the opportunity I’d been waiting for.

I leaned forwards and said, my voice hushed, “If you’d be up for it… I’d rather like to rim you.”

He looked straight into my eyes.  His were dark brown and at that moment quite piercing in their curiosity.  Obviously no-one had asked to do that to him during the time he’d been earning extra pocket money like this.

After he’d satisfied himself that he’d heard me correctly, he replied, his own voice low as though such base acts could only be whispered about, “You wanna… you know… lick my arsehole?”

I wondered afterwards if he had thought I might not know what rimming was and had felt obliged to spell it out to me.  Like it had been something I’d heard on a late night TV show and had thought it might be cool to say without really knowing what I was getting myself into.

I nodded.  “Yeah…”  I felt a small smile form on my lips as if I were admitting something naughty.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly, as if telling himself that it takes all sorts, and then said, matter-of-factly, “That’ll be twenty, then.  Same as sucking.”

I’d rather forgotten about the whole payment aspect of it.  Did that make what we were doing more illegal or just more immoral?

I said, “I don’t know how much I have on me, actually.  Probably not that much.”

He shrugged, like he didn’t care.  “Well that’s the price, mate.  Take it or leave it.”

I pulled my wallet out, oblivious to the risk I was taking, and hastily leafed through the wodge of receipts and store cards which were stuffed inside it.

I found a couple of notes.  “I’ve got fifteen… that’s all…”

He didn’t look very impressed and I was surprised by how disappointed I suddenly felt that I was likely to miss out on doing something I’d so looked forward to for the sake of barely the price of a magazine.  I wasn’t hugely enamoured with the idea of paying this guy for sex, but now that the prospect had been offered to have it withdrawn over such a paltry sum of money seemed grossly unfair.

Worrying that if he backed out now, I might not have the guts to come back here and go through this again with someone else, I added, rather desperately, “I’ve probably got a couple of quid in my back pocket…”

I think it was the apparent novelty of my request which tipped things in my favour.  Although he was clearly trying to play it cool, it seemed obvious to me that he’d never been rimmed.  I suspected that he had been with enough girls to know that it was extremely unlikely that he’d get any joy if he asked one of them to put her mouth on him down there, so if he was ever going to experience having his arse licked, this could be his one chance.

While making his dissatisfaction clear, to my relief he nodded and muttered, “You better make it quick.”

Then he led the way into the nearest of the cubicles: the one in which the stubbled guy and his friend had so enjoyed themselves.  I figured that the urinals must act as a sort of reception area for such transactions, allowing men to meet up and negotiate who would get to do what, with the cubicles affording the privacy for the done deal to take place.

Feeling a little silly to still be holding my dick which was poking out of my fly, I followed him into the stall.  I closed the door behind me, aware of how sleazy this was for the two of us to be together like this in a public toilet.  This guy was so much a younger than me – just some lad who worked in a supermarket who wanted a bit of extra cash – and here I was paying him for sex.  Most likely this wasn’t something he enjoyed doing – to him I probably seemed hideously old and in any case I was the wrong gender for him – but he was prepared to tolerate what no doubt seemed like a deviant interest for the sake of making a fast buck.

He said, “You can rim me and wank yourself off, but that’s it.  No rubbing your cock up and down my arse, no spunking up against my arse… no nothing unless you happen to find a bit more cash.”

I nodded.  I was going to make a joke about him knowing how to make it seem so romantic, but I wasn’t sure he’d understand.  In any case, the word ‘romantic’ might cause him to misjudge my intentions and could scupper the whole thing.

I handed over the fifteen quid from my wallet and managed to scrape together one pound eighty in change from my pocket.  He took the money, making it obvious he was less than impressed, and crumpled it into a ball which he stuffed into his fleece.

Then he turned around to face the wall and the toilet bowl and hitched his tracksuit bottoms down.  He was wearing blue and purple stripy boxer briefs which he started to pull down but I stopped him.

“You can leave those pulled up,” I instructed him.  “At least for now.”

He glanced over his shoulder towards me and threw me a disparaging look.  Perhaps he thought that somebody who had paid sixteen pounds eighty shouldn’t feel in any position to start issuing orders.  Or more likely he wanted to show what he thought of dirty bastards who got off by sniffing the back of guys’ underwear.

I squatted down behind him – I didn’t want to kneel down on the floor in here – and he pulled the back of his fleece up to expose his arse to me.  It suddenly dawned on me how the term ‘shirt-lifter’ had originated and I felt a little stupid that it hadn’t occurred to me earlier.

His bum looked very attractive in his boxer briefs.  His cheeks were round and muscular – either he regularly worked out or his job at the supermarket involved physical labour.  The tops of his legs, just below the hemline, were quite hairy with a more dense growth on the inside of his thighs leading upwards towards his crack.  This was going to be just what I’d been waiting for…

And yet, in spite of how much I’d yearned for this moment, part of me felt repulsed by how close my face was to this stranger’s bottom.  Part of me couldn’t believe that, not only had I got myself into this unpleasant situation eliciting sex in a toilet stall with another man, but that I’d actually gone and paid for such a dubious pleasure.

Could I really be about to press my face into this man’s backside?  Could I really be about to sniff his arsehole like I was a dog on heat?

I’d expected to feel aroused by this – to be almost climaxing at the prospect of being so close to what I’d fantasized about for so long – and yet I wasn’t.  My cock had gone floppy and hung from my fly like it was spent.

I had the urge to stand up, apologise to this guy and make a quick exit from the toilet.

But I’d come this far.  I had to follow it through: I had to see what it would be like.  Even if it was disgusting, if I found the smell of him offensive and revolting and I wanted no more: I had to find out.  If his backside stunk so bad it made me want to retch – I needed to know.  It was best to find out now, this way, here in a toilet stall with a guy I was unlikely to ever meet again, rather than with someone I knew and would have to think up excuses for.

I could, after all, leave any time I wanted to.  He had his money.  I owed him no more.

I leaned forwards and slowly nuzzled my face into the colourful material of the back of his underpants, gently pressing my nose between his cheeks.  I tentatively sniffed him – so cautious about what I might find – and immediately recognised the same earthy, intoxicating scent that had so excited me when I’d taken a smell of other men’s underwear in the sports centre changing rooms and at home.

Without thinking, I muttered, “Yeah!” and pressed my face further into his backside, pushing the material of his briefs into his crack.

I was finally – after so many weeks of fantasizing about it and reliving what had happened with Guy – getting my face intimately close to another man’s bum.  I reached up and grabbed his hips, almost unable to believe how good it felt to be like this with him; crouching behind him with my face nuzzling between the cheeks of his arse.

I pulled him towards me and inhaled his scent – rich and musky and so much fresher than the smells on the underwear I’d bought online – as I forced my nose and mouth as far in between his muscular buttocks as I could.  He pushed against me, working his arse against my face, as I gasped and panted to breathe in the full force of the thick, pungent odour of his backside.  His whole crack was heavy with it, but low down, around where his hole would be lurking, it was at its strongest and I tried to shove my face into him there, grappling his waist towards me with both hands.

Abruptly he pulled away from and, with a laugh, said, “Whoa, mate!  Don’t get my pants wet – I’ve gotta go to work in these!”

I realised that I’d been so overcome by the captivating allure of his scent that I’d been licking him through his underwear without even knowing it.  There was a round patch of sopping wet material wedged into his crack level with his arsehole.

I sheepishly muttered, “Sorry… I didn’t really mean to.”

He quickly yanked his boxer briefs down, presenting his naked arse to my face.  “There – do it that way, if you wanna lick me out.”

His muscular buttocks were pert and squat, making his crack quite short and distinctly masculine in appearance.  The skin of them was quite hairy, as I’d expected, and he had a thick forest of hair spilling from his crack.  It was a divine sight and I licked my lips at the prospect of getting my face stuck between such magnificent cheeks.

Before I could do so, he laughed again and said, “Jesus Christ, mate.  You’re hung like a fuckin’ horse!”

I glanced down and realised that my avid enthusiasm for pressing my face into this guy’s arse had been shared by my cock which must have rapidly hardened at the first whiff of male rear.  I chuckled awkwardly, aware of how ungainly I must look, squatting there behind him with my organ arching upwards in a state of full erection.

He grinned back at me and chuckled, “It’s a good job you don’t wanna fuck me!”

I looked up at him, hopeful.  “Actually, I would quite like to…”

His smile quickly vanished.  “Yeah, well it’s a good job you didn’t bring enough money to fuck me.  Anyway, I don’t think it would fit.”

He turned back to face the wall and hitched his fleece up again to expose his naked buttocks.  He pushed his arse towards my face, opening his legs slightly so that I could see his large, solid balls between them.  Unlike his arse-crack, his bulging scrotum was practically hairless.

“Eat me out and wank yourself off, mate,” he said with some urgency, jabbing his bum towards me.  “I ‘aven’t got that long.”

I pushed myself forwards and drove into him, using my nose to wedge open his crack so that I could push my tongue deep between his cheeks.  His raw smell, laid bare without the covering of his underwear, was crude and powerful and his taste was overwhelmingly bitter in its intensity.  Its effect on me, however, was electrifying.

I grabbed my cock and took up a rapid masturbatory rhythm as I hungrily licked at his hole, flicking my tongue back and forth against its tight, puckered folds so that I could fully taste its rich, potent flavours.  He grabbed my head and worked me into him, pushing first my nose against his ring and then my mouth; rubbing my face up and down in his cleft.  I licked and sniffed frantically, loving the sensation of him holding my head against his arse, while I rubbed my cock as fast as I could.

I heard him say, “Fuck, yeah…” as he pushed his arse more roughly against me and I basked in the strength of his thick, cloying odour.  I realised there was a second rhythm to our movements: he was masturbating himself as I rimmed him and his hand was working his own organ almost as fast as I was rubbing mine.

He bent lower, opening his knees as wide as he could, and pushed my face between his legs so I could lick his balls.  They were large and surprisingly immobile inside his scrotum, as though swollen hard against it and unable to move around.  I took them in my mouth in turn, finding the sharpness of his sweat on them an interesting contrast to the bitterness of his backside.

He pulled away from me and turned around to face me, his hand still sweeping up and down the length of his now impressively large cock.  The ridge on the fattened head of it was so prominent that his foreskin couldn’t slide over it but just sort of rolled up behind it each time he yanked it forwards.

Taking his hand away, he grabbed my head and pulled me towards his outstretched cock.  I knew what he wanted: didn’t all men seem to want this except, for some reason, me?

I’d have preferred to have continued rimming him – his arsehole, I was sure, held yet more secrets which would yield to the coaxing of my tongue – but I felt obliged to comply with his more urgent demand.  He had, after all, become so aroused because of what I’d been doing to him so it wasn’t unreasonable that he’d expect me to help him discharge his excitement.  He probably also assumed I’d enjoy relieving him orally: however, while sucking other men’s cocks wasn’t something I was repulsed by, it certainly wasn’t something I would actively seek to do.

I opened my mouth and received him, intrigued by the sharp, acrid taste of his shaft as he began pushing himself into me and the leftover saltiness of his precum on the back of my tongue every time he withdrew.

He held my head steady as he steadily fucked my face, developing a quickening rhythm which had his balls slapping against my chin.  While I wasn’t greatly aroused by having another man’s erection sliding in and out of my mouth, I enjoyed the strong, musky smell of his pubic hair every time he pushed into me, burying my nose in its coarse, tangled bush.

He grunted, “Yeah… fuckin’ take it!”

After a few seconds, he stopped to shift his position slightly.  He separated his feet as far apart as he could with his tracksuit bottoms and underwear around his shins, narrowed his knees around my torso as if to hold me more firmly in place, grabbed the sides of my head tightly and then began ramming his cock in and out of my mouth with an urgent, almost piston-like bucking of his hips.

I wasn’t entirely comfortable at being used like this: reduced to being another man’s masturbatory aid.  I didn’t like him holding me so forcefully while my mouth was pummelled by his frantic cock and my chin was battered by his large, slapping balls.

Nevertheless, I sucked at him furiously, incredulous at how quickly and how roughly he was thrusting himself back and forth, and swallowed some of the thick ooze of his precum which was starting to fill my mouth.  I reached around him to grab his flexing arse-cheeks with my hands, working my fingers into the wet sticky crack which I’d so reluctantly relinquished and gently teasing his hot, slimy hole.

He grunted in encouragement, apparently enjoying having me playing with his backside.  I felt his cock growing thicker and harder inside my mouth as his rhythm increased still further, and realised I was starting to have difficulty breathing as I was being held so tightly and my throat was being fucked with such force.

Suddenly, from the side of me, somebody whispered, “Rim him again!”

Horrified at the unexpected interruption, I struggled away from him.  Someone was peering at us through the hole in the partition: the hole which I had looked through on my previous visit to these toilets.

Annoyed that his pleasure had been disturbed, Asda guy hissed, “It’s just some old queen!  Ignore him!”

From what I could see of the guy watching us, he didn’t look that old.  He was probably around my age and was wearing an outdoor jacket with a shirt and tie under it.  He was likely to be an estate agent or some such from one of the streets which overlooked the park.  He must pop across the road whenever he felt like taking in a show.

Asda guy tried to push his cock back into my mouth but I pulled back.

“Come on, suck me off!” he demanded.

“Lick his arse again… like you were before,” the voice from next door whispered.

Asda guy looked down at me, his throbbing cock, wet from tip to base and with strings of my drool dangling from it, wavering impatiently in my face.

I nodded up at him in agreement.  “Actually… I would like to continue rimming you.”

Asda guy looked disdainful.  Perhaps he was annoyed that I preferred getting intimate with his backside rather than with his cock, which he was obviously quite proud of and saw as the superior organ.  Or perhaps he was irritated that I was, after all, the paying customer who’d put in a fair-and-square order to rim him at the beginning.

“You sick fuck,” he spat, and started hitching his tracksuit bottoms and underwear up his legs.

At first I thought he’d had enough and felt I’d already received my sixteen pounds twenty worth of arse-to-face fun.  But he just wanted to adjust his clothing so that he could get one leg up on the toilet seat, giving me access between his legs without him having to turn around.  I don’t know if he did this because he wanted to show his cock off to our voyeur next door or whether he hoped that this way around he could more easily manoeuvre himself into another blow job from me, but as long as I could reach my preferred target I was happy with the position.

I leaned forwards and nuzzled into his large, solid balls as his hand took up a moderate rhythm on his thwarted hard-on.  I licked his bollocks thoroughly, for which he expressed his enjoyment by grinding them into my face as he masturbated, and then went lower to push my way between his legs to work my tongue along the hairy ridge guiding me towards my destination.

With the first few suggestions of the darker, more odoriferous scents lurking behind his balls, my cock quickly recovered the stiffness it had lost when we’d been interrupted, and my hand took up a rhythm of its own as I pushed as deep as I could between his legs.  However, with the position we were in it was difficult to reach up into his butt-crack and, try as we both might, we couldn’t get into a position where I could actually rim him.  He opened his legs as wide as he could with his underwear and tracksuit bottoms confining him, and I craned my neck and extended my tongue as far as I was able, but my prize remained tantalisingly out of reach.

Asda guy pulled off me, took his foot off the toilet seat and muttered, “You’re gonna have to turn around.”

I thought at first he was suggesting that we change places.

“You mean, you want to try rimming me?” I asked, hopefully.

He looked me up and down, unimpressed, and said, flatly, “Mate – there isn’t a hole on your body that my mouth is going anywhere near.”

And a merry Christmas to you too, I thought.

“You’re gonna have to face upwards,” he elaborated.  “Turn around and squat down with your head on the toilet seat.”

I caught his drift and changed my position, swivelling around on my hunkers to face the toilet door and then, steadying myself by grabbing his legs, pushing my head between them so that I was looking up at his backside.  Arching my back upwards off the floor in a way that I knew was going to ache the next day, I rested the back of my head on the toilet seat as he’d suggested.

The position wasn’t as uncomfortable as I’d expected, and the strain on my back was more than compensated for by having the round cheeks and spit-moistened crack of Asda guy’s arse looming just above me.

I heard our voyeur express his approval through the hole in the partition in anticipation of what he was about to see, as well as the quiet beating of his hand against his trousers as he worked his erection as it poked through his fly.

“Sit on his face,” whispered the voice from the next stall.  When I’d been in his place, a couple of weeks earlier, I hadn’t realised I could act as director.

Asda guy squatted down, lowering himself onto my waiting face and using his hands to splay open his cheeks to expose his deep hairy cleft and, twinkling like a jewel inside it, his tiny pink hole.

The voice called in, “Yeah… smell it…” and I craned my neck upwards to inhale once again the deliciously carnal odour between Asda guy’s cheeks.  Through the hole, I heard the rhythm of our voyeur’s hand rapidly double and become a steady thud-thud-thud against the front of his trousers, as I pushed my nose into the furry valley between Asda guy’s buttocks.

The guy kept calling through the hole in the partition: “Go on… shove your nose right in… sniff his shitty hole…”  Although Asda guy’s backside was essentially clean, I liked the coarseness of our voyeur’s language and was immensely turned on by the inference that I was doing something so squalid and deeply unacceptable.

Supporting myself against the toilet seat with one hand, I grabbed my cock with the other and took up a fairly rapid rhythm on myself.  Seeing how aroused I was by where my face was, the guy next door grunted, “Fuck yeah… wank it, mate… wank your cock while you sniff his dirty arse!”

Asda guy pushed his arse further down onto me and our voyeur’s hand sped up further on his cock, the frenetic banging of his wrist against his trousers sounding like a jackhammer.  He commanded, “Lick his shitty hole… go on, mate… shove your tongue right up it… clean it out!”

I extended my tongue upwards and, as before, was immediately overwhelmed with waves of excitement on tasting the strong, pungent flavour of this young guy’s arse-crack.  His body started shuddering and I realised he was wanking himself again; enjoying, in spite of himself, the sensation of my tongue tickling and tasting his most intimate spot.

Just as had happened that first night in the hotel when I’d discovered how arousing it can be to do this with another man, I found myself in a state of near-ecstasy at the smells and tastes I was experiencing.  He was grinding himself into my nose and my mouth, bucking his hips back and forth and pushing his arse down onto my face as he jerked himself.  I think I was pushing my tongue up inside him, but I was so far gone by the sheer pleasure of having my face pressing up between his round, muscular cheeks, that I’m afraid the details of what exactly I did aren’t clear to me.

I heard the guy in the next cubicle call out to Asda guy, “Let me in… I’ll suck your cock while he licks you out… go on, mate… you can fuck me if you like…”

At that moment, it felt like Asda guy’s anus started responding to my tongue.  It seemed to pucker up and then relax, over and over, like a pair of lips reaching out to make cutesy kisses.  I heard him grunting and felt splashes of warm wetness soaking my shirt and realised he was climaxing over me.

His hips kept bucking as he milked his balls over me.  It seemed inevitable that he was ruining my tie as he did so, but I was too immersed in licking his anus to be overly concerned.

With his arse still squatting above me, I pounded at my cock as fast as my forearm was able to.  I was eager to climax before he climbed off me and start pulling up his clothing; anxious to exploit this opportunity to bring myself to orgasm while I was in a position I’d fantasized about so much.

As the puckering of his hole abated and with my face still burrowing into his wet, hairy crack, it occurred to me that the orifice I was tonguing had undoubtedly been penetrated by the variously-sized cocks of a succession of other men; men who had happened to have rather more money in their wallets than I’d had that day.  For some reason, the thought of his bum being recurrently fucked by so many men excited me enormously and I felt a familiar tingling in my testicles which heralded the onset of an orgasm.

I ran with the thought, and imagined the tiny wrinkled hole my tongue was lapping at having to widen and strain to accommodate all these cocks: condom-clad erections of all shapes and sizes poking through so many different men’s trouser flies; men of all types and ages who had discovered, just as I was beginning to appreciate, that they enjoy using some young guy’s arse to pleasure themselves from time to time; men who weren’t averse to paying a stranger to be bent over and buggered with his tracksuit bottoms around his ankles in a toilet stall.

As the tingling in my balls turned into an explosion of pleasure, my own load sprayed across my shirt to join his.

Before my climax had subsided, while my balls were still discharging their last spurts of semen into a pool on my belly, he pulled away from me and staggered towards the far side of the cubicle.

With a glance at his watch, he muttered, “I gotta go,” as if fearing I might have further requests in store.

I pulled myself up from the arched position I’d been in and, as I did so, saw gobs of our copious white mess dribble down from my shirt onto the black trousers I was wearing.

The washing machine was certainly going to be busy tonight.

I looked around for some toilet roll but had to make do with using a couple of tissues from my pocket to wipe my cock and dab up the worst of the semen splashes which my shirt, jacket and trousers had taken.

My tie seemed, I noticed, to have been spared from the onslaught.  It had been a Christmas present many years ago from my ex-wife’s parents.  If it had been one that I actually liked no doubt it would have been soaked and stained beyond redemption.

Asda guy pulled up his tracksuit bottoms and fished around in his pocket.  I wondered momentarily if he was going to give me my cash back, which would not have been unreasonable given that I’d done all the hard work, but instead he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Keep it real, mate,” he said, lighting one up, and let himself out of the stall.

I stuffed my softening cock back into my underwear and did up my cum-spattered trousers.  How long was I supposed to wait before following Asda guy out of the cubicle?  Was there an etiquette about such things?

The guy in the next cubicle, who I’d rather forgotten about, whispered through the hole to me.  “Do you wanna come in here?  You can rim me, if you like…”

I was surprised at his suggestion: had he not seen me ejaculate?

Again I wondered if there was some sort of unwritten protocol governing such places which I wasn’t yet party to.  Was it regarded as bad form for a guy to leave the party before everyone had spent themselves?

Resolving that such niceties would have to be dispensed with here, I muttered my apologies and let myself out of the cubicle.

As I hurried out of the toilet, I cringed to see my neighbour from across the road walking down the path towards me.  Isn’t it just bloody typical?  The one day I leave a gents’ toilet covered in semen, I’m seen by someone I know.

Paul, my neighbour, smirked over at me as we passed and hopefully put the spattered state of my shirt and trousers down to a particularly unruly hand wash in the toilet building.

As I walked away I saw that he was heading into the toilets himself.  I chuckled to myself that he might get more than he bargained for if he were to use the cubicle next to the guy I’d just left.

Walking back to my car, I felt seedy at what I’d just done.  I could hardly believe I’d taken it as far as I did and actually paid a lad who worked in a supermarket to rim him in a public toilet.  Jesus – if I’d had a bit more money and a condom on me, I’d have actually had him bend over for me to fuck him.  I really would have stood there, in that seedy cubicle, grabbing a stranger by the collar of his fleece as I humped his hairy arse.

But then, that was the reason I’d come here, wasn’t it?  Not to pay a guy, of course, but for sex.  Wasn’t that the whole point of leaving work early and driving over to the park?  Hadn’t I even been getting excited at the prospect of what might happen as I’d walked towards the building?

Even so, what I’d done now felt wrong.  It had been one thing to have stumbled across two guys getting intimate together in a cubicle and to watch them, but quite another to go there with the specific intention of soliciting other men for sex.

Not only that, but it suddenly dawned on me that I could quite easily have been mugged or beaten up in the toilets.  Jesus – I’d had my wallet out in front of Asda guy, flashing it around like candy!  It occurred to me with a jolt that he might have seen my name on my credit cards when I’d been riffling through it for cash.  My name isn’t that common: he might be able to work out who I am and where I live.

It was unlikely, I had to concede, that Asda guy had any idea of how much power he could wield if he could figure out my identity.  Nevertheless, I’d have to be more careful in future.  I couldn’t afford to end up being blackmailed by some lout with a cute arse who was astute enough to exploit my unusual ‘interest’ for his own gain.

I was relieved Jake was going over his mate’s for tea, so I could get my semen-stained clothes in the washer as soon as I got home.  If he asked why there were wet clothes in the machine when he got in – and there’s no way he would since it didn’t involve food or his bed – I’d say a valve had blown in one of the labs and squirted grease all over me.

I reached my car and got in.  In the confines of the vehicle, the strong, acrid reek of male seed all over my shirt and trousers was almost overpowering.  In spite of that, though, I could still smell the more squalid whiff of Asda guy’s arse on my face and, looking at myself in the rear-view mirror, I noticed a wiry pubic hair stuck to my chin.  I hoped my neighbour Paul hadn’t spotted that.

I realised I’d have to take a long bath before I went to meet Debbie.  Thank God she’d have no idea what I’d been doing this afternoon!

Pulling out of the car park, I resolved that I wouldn’t do anything so dangerous again.  What I’d done with Asda guy had been very enjoyable, I could hardly deny that, and it had confirmed to me, if proof were needed, that rimming other men was a huge turn-on for me, but the risk of being caught doing something so scandalous, or of being attacked or abused in such a secluded place, was simply too high to make it worthwhile.

I’d have to find some other way of feeding my demon; find some way of getting together with guys like myself.

But how?


Next story: Pleasant Thoughts

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