18th June 2006: This story is more funny than erotic and so it wasn’t as well received as I would have liked. It’s difficult balancing the humour in erotic stories: most readers are only really looking for the sexy parts and move quickly onto other stories if there’s too much humour.

What Are You Doing In There?

When I was about thirteen, my mother started letting me and my brother Gareth catch a bus up to Watford to go shopping together on Saturday afternoons when we were home from boarding school. Gareth is a couple of years older than me and was always the more responsible of us, so I guess she felt I’d be pretty safe under his supervision.

Although my tastes and interests back then were at the opposite end of the spectrum from those of Gareth, it was good to feel “grown up” and to get away for a few hours together. We quickly came to an agreement that he’d spend a couple of hours with me looking in sports, music and clothes shops, so long as I would tag along with him without complaint while he browsed through the shelves of collectable comic and action figure stores.

The first half hour or so of our weekly trip was invariably spent in the same place, though: the bus station gents. Gareth always insisted that he needed the loo as soon as we stepped off the bus and I’d prepare myself for a long stint of boredom waiting for him, wondering how long he was going to take this week. The shortest time he ever took in there was fifteen minutes; the longest – after which he said he’d had a really bad stomach – was two hours.

The bus station gents at Watford back then were pretty squalid and dilapidated. The stink of piss hit you almost as soon as you stepped through the door and the walls were scrawled with graffiti. Worst of all was the fact that the plywood partitions between the stalls had holes hacked out of them, some large enough to get your hand through. I would never have wanted to pull my trousers down in there, knowing I could so easily be observed by other people.

In spite of their poor state, though, the toilets were always busy on Saturday afternoons. Sometimes all the stalls would be in use and Gareth had to stand and wait in a queue of men until one became free. And quite often the trough urinal on the far wall would have five or six men standing alongside each other, squeezing into the small space, with others waiting to take their places when they’d finished.

I once asked Gareth why he always had to use the toilets in the bus station when there were much cleaner ones in the main shopping centre, but he’d said, snappily, “I can’t help when I need the loo! The vibration of the bus must make we wanna go, or something!”

I’d said, “Well, the time you spend in there has to come off the time we spend in your shops, not mine.”

He’d tried to argue with me, acting like I was unreasonably counting every second he was taking to go to the toilet, but had quickly conceded when I’d threatened to ask mum what she thought was fair when we got home.

I was pretty naïve back then and I accepted, without question, my brother’s claim that he needed the toilet after bus journeys – though why I didn’t wonder about car journeys not having a similar effect, I’m not sure – and believed completely that Gareth was spending so long in there because it just happened to take him a long time to use the toilet.

After all, what else could he be doing?

One afternoon during that winter, when it was so cold that I couldn’t stay for long on the bus station benches, I decided to go and sit in one of the cubicles in the gents to wait for Gareth and bought a magazine from the shop to read while I was in there. The gents were pretty cold too, but at least I would be out of the icy wind.

I chose the stall at the nearest end to the door, locked the ill-fitting door, wiped the toilet seat, and then sat myself down it to read the magazine.

My eye was drawn to a crude sketch scrawled on the back of the door. I knew enough, even at thirteen, to understand that it showed two men having sex together rather than playing leapfrog. I remember thinking that what they doing looked painful and that I wouldn’t particularly want to be in either man’s place, but I didn’t give any thought as to why the drawing might have been made in these toilets.

Just then someone came into the cubicle next to mine, slammed the door shut and, after fumbling with his zip and clothing, began pissing noisily into the toilet bowl. I glanced to my left and noticed that a hole had been carved out of the partition, level with where his cock would be. Intrigued, I leaned across to peer through it.

The man’s cock looked very large as he held it between his finger and thumb and it shot a steady stream of piss into the toilet. He’d withdrawn his foreskin to expose a bulbous, helmet-shaped bell-end that looked about as big, on its own, as my entire cock did back then. I was quite fascinated.

He finished pissing, shook his incredible cock a few times and then forced it, with some difficulty, back into his underwear inside his fly.

A few minutes after he’d left, someone else came into the cubicle and I watched him pull a much smaller cock out from his black trousers. It looked similar in size to my own and I might have thought the guy was around my own age if it hadn’t have been for his worn, craggy-looking hands.

He finished up quickly and was replaced by a guy wearing jeans and a leather jacket. This guy unfastened his jeans, hitched down his blue checked boxer shorts exposing his white pimpled arse, and sat himself down on the toilet seat as if preparing to take a crap.

I left him to it and got on flicking through my magazine.

After a couple of minutes of silence from his side of the partition, I heard a ‘psst’ sound from him and glanced down to see him holding a scrap of toilet paper under the partition between our stalls.

Intrigued, I reached down to take it from him, unfolded it, and found that he’d scrawled on it, in blue biro: “What do you like?”

I stared at the message for a while, wondering what he could mean. I turned it over to see if there was further explanation on the back of it, but there wasn’t.

Was he expecting to write back about my interest in basketball, Nirvana and clothes? For me to ask him about his interests and whether he had any brothers and sisters?

Unsure as to what was going on – this seemed an unlikely place to try and find pen-friends – I pushed the note between my legs down into the toilet bowl beneath me.

After a couple more minutes, during which his foot darted around beneath my side of the partition as if trying to find a note I’d written in reply, he flushed his toilet and left the cubicle.

A few moments later, I peered through the hole again to see a man in a dark blue tracksuit enter the cubicle and slam the door shut behind him.

I watched him hitch his tracksuit bottoms down a few inches to reveal a pair of dark green briefs with a pretty large bulge. He pulled out his cock, which was very thick, and tucked the waistband of his briefs underneath his balls which looked extremely hairy to me.

He didn’t start pissing, as I’d assumed he would, but to my surprise, began masturbating his foreskin back and forth across his moist red-looking bell-end. His cock developed rapidly, thickening to fill his fist and almost doubling in length in the space of less than a minute.

I thought, “Jesus – he must be really horny to need to do this!”

My mother had hissed at me a couple of years earlier never to ‘touch myself’ except when I was in bed or in the bathroom. I guess she must have noticed me playing with myself through my trouser pocket or something around the time I first discovered how much fun having a cock can be.

The idea that men might wank in a public toilet was actually quite alien to me at thirteen: as absurd as it might sound, back then it seemed just a small step from wanking in the street.

The guy stopped stroking himself and allowed his cock, now looking larger than the first man’s cock, to stand upright on its own and to throb intermittently as if demanding further attention.

I was hoping my own cock would one day look as large as his.

Just then, the man bent down and his eye stared through the hole straight into mine.

I jumped straight off the toilet, yanked the lock open and bolted out of the building. I was convinced he was going to chase me as soon as he’d put his cock away. It seemed as if he had to: after all, I’d been spying on him doing a most private thing.

But he didn’t follow me.

I walked quickly over to the far side of the bus station and stared over at the door to the gents, ready to duck behind a board of timetables if anyone in a dark blue tracksuit emerged.

The place was busy, with men trotting in and out of the door every minute or so, but no-one in a tracksuit came out.

I sat down on a bench at the far side of the bus station in spite of the cold, and leafed through my magazine keeping an eye on the door of the gents.

After a quarter of an hour or so, Gareth emerged from the toilet accompanied, to my horror, by the man in the dark blue tracksuit – a black haired guy in his early twenties by the look of him. The two of them were saying something to one another.

I assumed, stupidly on reflection, that the guy in the tracksuit was telling Gareth what I’d done. That somehow he knew Gareth was my older brother and was reporting me.

When they’d parted – they only said a few words to another – and the man had gone, I walked over to meet Gareth.

I said, “What did he say?”

Gareth blushed. “Who?”

“The guy in the tracksuit. Did he tell you what happened?”

Gareth shook his head. “No-one was speaking to me. I just came out.” He was lying. He could never tell a convincing lie.

“He told you that I was watching him wanking, didn’t he?”

Gareth looked horrified. “What?”

I felt myself blush at how ridiculous the story I was about tell was going to sound. “I went into the toilet to wait for you and I saw him through a hole in the wall…”

“Saw who?”

“The guy in the tracksuit.”

Gareth looked like he was about to deny he knew who I meant but then seemed to think better of it. He said, “Oh right.”

“So what did he say to you?”

Gareth shrugged. “I dunno. He didn’t say anything really. Maybe just, ‘Some of us have places to get to,’ or something. Maybe I was dawdling.”

The lie was so obvious as to be derisible, but I let it drop.

We set off towards the shops. Gareth had lost forty minutes from his comic stores this week.

After a few minutes, he asked me, “So what happened?”

“I told you. I saw him wanking.”

“Anything else?”

I was surprised. “Isn’t that enough? I couldn’t believe it.”

“Come on, Seb. He was doing it in private.”

I shrugged. “I suppose… but in there? With all those other men so close? It seems weird…”

Gareth smiled. “Some people take a piss or a crap. Others have a wank. What’s the difference?”

I nodded. “I suppose… hey! Is that why you take so long in there? Is that what you do?”

We both laughed and Gareth said, “Don’t be stupid.”

And it did seem like it would have been stupid for me to have thought that. After all, we could both masturbate to our hearts’ content in our bedrooms at home – why would Gareth want to do it in the public toilet at Watford bus station?

A couple of months later, after weeks of sitting outside the toilet waiting for Gareth to emerge, I had to take a piss when the two of us got off the bus and so ventured back into the seedy building with him.

Normally I tend to take a piss in the cubicles of public toilets because I get uncomfortable standing at standing at the urinals with strangers, but since all but one of the stalls were full, I let Gareth take that one. His need, after all, was greater than mine.

Two men were standing at the urinal – not pissing, just standing there – and I went to one side of them, as far away as I could manage in the confined space, and pulled my cock out.

I suppose I’d expected them to finish off, zip up and leave the gents to allow me space to piss on my own, but they didn’t. They just stood there, staring ahead; making no attempt either to coax their cocks to start behaving themselves like most guys do when they suddenly find they can’t go, or shaking their cocks to signal that they’d just about finished.

I became tense standing alongside them and knew, to my embarrassment, that I wasn’t going to be able to go. They were going to think I was what my mates called a ‘cock watcher’, standing at the urinals just to spy on other guys’ dicks.

I glanced over at the two of them and was surprised to find that they were both fully hard. The guy nearest to me was the more erect of the two – his cock curved upwards and his foreskin was pulled back to reveal a red and plump bell-end. The other guy was less aroused and his cock stood out at more of a right angle to his body with his foreskin retracted across its head.

The guy nearest to me must have been in his late twenties. He turned to me when he saw that I was checking out his cock and threw me a grin and a wink.

I felt my face flush with embarrassment at being caught, once again, looking at another guy’s cock, and quickly pushed my own back into my jeans and turned to leave.

As I headed out of the toilet, I saw something that – only after I’d emerged back into daylight and recovered my composure – occurred to me as being really odd.

A guy was coming out of one cubicle but, instead of going over to the sinks or leaving the building, tapped on the door of the stall next to his and was let in.

At the time, like I say, I was hell bent in trying to get out of there without showing how freaked out I was by what was going on. I don’t think I even looked over at what was happening at the stalls, but I suppose I must have noticed enough for the incongruity of what was happening to come back to me during the twenty or so minutes of sitting on the bench outside of the gents.

When Gareth appeared, looking as red-faced and sheepish as he always did when he’d spent a long time in there, I told him what I’d seen at the urinals.

He shrugged it off. “All guys get hard-ons sometimes, Seb. You don’t need your big brother to talk you through that, do you?”

I humphed, pissed off that he was being so supposedly mature and patronising about it. I said, “I know guys get stiffies sometimes, but not in a public place, and not just standing there like it was okay…”

He shrugged again. “I dunno… maybe he was as embarrassed as you.”

“There were two of them, remember.”

“So they got nervous ‘cos they couldn’t piss in front of each other, ended up with hard-ons which just made it worse, and –”

I snorted. “Guys don’t get hard-ons when they’re nervous!”

“Some guys do.”

“How d’you know?”

“I dunno… I must’ve read it somewhere.”

That was one of Gareth’s stock answers when he was losing an argument.

I made a suitably contemptuous grunt and then went on, as we crossed the bridge heading towards the main shopping centre, “Anyway, one guy went into another guy’s cubicle. I saw it.”

“How d’you know the cubicle was already taken?”

“He sort of tapped on the door of it and someone let him in.”

Gareth seemed a little uncomfortable. “You saw a lot of stuff while you were in there… you weren’t hanging around, were you?”

I threw him a look of irritation. “Of course I wasn’t! Just ’cause everyone else was being weird, don’t make out like I was the one doing anything wrong.”

He seemed edgy but tried to act like he was indifferent, “Well I didn’t hear anything weird going on. Maybe they were mates or something…”

I chuckled dryly. “Come on, Gazz, mates don’t go to the toilet together. Or did you read somewhere that that they do?”

“Well, I dunno…” He was starting to look pissed off with me. “Maybe you got things wrong. Maybe he was just tapping the door to see if the cubicle was in use and let himself in when it wasn’t.”

I was going to argue with him that the door had clicked open from within, but thought better of it. After all, I’d only been vaguely aware of what was going on and so Gareth might have been right: I might have misinterpreted things.

My next few visits to the toilet during the spring and summer of that year were pretty uneventful. Occasionally, I’d get off the bus needing a piss from drinking too much coke on the journey to Watford and so would follow Gareth into the murky building. These days, though, I never dared to stand alongside other men at the urinal: I always sneaked into one of the cubicles.

I noticed that, of the five stalls in the gents, the one farthest from the door was definitely Gareth’s favourite. Neither of us said anything about it, of course, but it soon became obvious that if that cubicle was free, Gareth would quickly dart into it, and that if it wasn’t, he’d more often than not disregard vacant ones and wait for the end one to become available. I assumed Gareth preferred that one because it adjoined only one other toilet and so the opportunity of being spied on by other men was less likely.

One day though, during one of our first visits to Watford after we’d broken up from school in July, the two of us walked into the gents to find that all but the end stall were occupied.

Gareth muttered, “You just want a piss, yeah?”

I nodded and he gestured for me to use the toilet before him.

I went into the cubicle and locked the door behind me. As I approached the toilet, I noticed that a large hole had been chiselled out of the wooden partition to one side of the toilet, affording the guy in the next stall a graphic view of everything that went on my side. I could see that someone was in there – I could see his hairy thighs and the edge of his arse sitting on the toilet seat – but hoped he wasn’t looking my way.

I pulled out my cock and directed it downwards towards the toilet bowl. I knew that it was going to be hard to piss with someone sitting next door potentially watching me, but I really needed to go and thought I might be able relax enough to make something happen.

I must have just stood there for a minute or so, holding my cock and trying to think of waterfalls and dripping taps and anything that might encourage me to want to piss.

It was then that I must have glanced over at the hole in the wall and noticed that the guy next door was rubbing two of his fingers against the bottom of the hole. I watched him repeat the action a couple of times, wondering why he was doing it.

After he’d withdrawn his fingers from the hole for the third time, I reached over and rubbed at the rough, broken plywood myself, wondering what might be so interesting about it. Finding nothing particularly special about it, I pulled my hand away and got back on with trying to piss.

Abruptly the guy next door stood up and, to my surprise, started pushing his cock, which looked semi-erect and about seven inches long, through the hole towards me.

I quickly zipped myself up and hurried out of the cubicle.

Gareth was eager to get in after me, but I yanked at his arm and whispered to him, “The guy in the next stall just pushed his dick through the hole at me!”

I’d expected Gareth to be shocked and to suggest we both got out of there, but instead he just looked irritated with me. He grunted, “Don’t be stupid, Seb.”

“I’m not being stupid. He really did it!”

“He was probably just joking or something,” Gareth hissed, pulling away from me in his impatience to get into the toilet stall.

I tutted, “Yeah, right… some joke,” as Gareth pushed his way into the cubicle and slammed the door shut behind himself.

Three quarters of an hour later, after Gareth had skulked out from the gents, I asked him if the guy in the next stall had done the same to him as he had to me.

Gareth looked vague like he’d forgotten what I’d told him it was all so unimportant.

I reminded him: “I told you the guy next to me pushed his dick through the hole. Did he do the same to you?”

Gareth shook his head disinterestedly. “Oh that… no… of course not.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

Gareth shrugged. “I dunno. I wasn’t really taking any notice. I think he finished up and got out of there just after I went in.”

As we waited at the pelican crossing on Exchange Road , I asked him why he preferred to use the end cubicle when some of the others didn’t have such large holes carved into their partitions.

He shrugged again like this was all so irrelevant. “I haven’t really thought much about it, Seb. Obviously not as much as you have, anyway.”

I chuckled. “Come on, Gazz. Like you haven’t noticed a great big hole right next to you and guys looking through it. Like you haven’t thought about trying a different stall which doesn’t have that.”

Gareth glared at me. “I like that one because it’s the furthest one from the door and so less guys use it. Okay? Can we stop talking about the toilets now?”

I wasn’t going to drop it so easily. I went on as we crossed the road, ignoring Gareth’s attempts to change the conversation, “But doesn’t it freak you out a bit? Having guys perving on you?”

Gareth swung his head around angrily. “Can we just drop it, Seb? If guys get off on watching me take a crap, then good luck to them. That’s the end of it.”

I didn’t pursue the subject any further, even though Gareth’s supposed indifference towards being observed on the toilet was so blatantly at odds with his normal attitude. My older brother usually went to great lengths to avoid being seen in the nude – even by me and my dad – and at the swimming pool or in the locker rooms at school, he’d always wrap a towel around his waist when forced to change communally.

It was obvious that whatever was going on in the bus station gents on Saturday afternoons, things weren’t as innocent as Gareth would have them seem.

During the following week, I tried to work out what Gareth’s attraction towards the gents might be. I figured it most likely that he enjoyed taking the odd peak at other guys’ cocks and found their different shapes and sizes interesting. After all, I’d done exactly the same thing one afternoon and had found it pretty interesting, though why Gareth would want to spend so much time over so many weeks doing something which would quickly become repetitive, I wasn’t sure.

It also occurred to me that he might enjoy showing off his own cock off. I knew, from the few times I’d seen his cock, that Gareth was pretty well-built. It stood to reason that he’d be quite proud of that fact and so maybe he enjoyed the interest he’d arouse in guys watching him through the hole in the partition. I wasn’t sure that whether, in his place, I would enjoy having guys rather than girls getting turned on by the size of my cock, but I could see a certain appeal to it.

I was pretty sure, though, that Gareth wasn’t doing anything I would have classed back then as being ‘gay’. He’d always seemed as disgusted about gay stuff as everyone else my age did. Once when I’d told him about a couple of boys in my house at school who’d been caught by the housemaster sucking each other’s cocks, Gareth had pulled a face and said something like, “Ugh. Not nice.”

And I’d once found a well-worn ‘Fiesta’ under his mattress.

The next Saturday afternoon, I gave Gareth five minutes to settle himself into the gents and then followed him in.

The toilets didn’t seem too busy that week and only the two cubicles furthest from the door were occupied. I assumed Gareth to be in the far one, and so went into the middle one, two away from his.

I sat down on the toilet seat and peered through the small hole, the size of a ten pence piece, in the partition into the next stall. My view was quite limited and the cubicle next to mine was dimly lit, but I could make out straightaway that I was looking at two male bodies, rather than one.

There was a lot of movement and it was difficult to make out exactly what was happening inside the cramped confines of the stall. I could see part of a guy’s thigh and then another man’s stubble; a pair of balls with a hand wanking the cock above them and then the other guy’s nose pressing into some unidentifiable flesh.

They moved to one side and I saw the bottom part of Gareth’s face peering through the large hole in the wall opposite me. Watching them and betraying just enough rhythmic movement for me to know he was wanking.

So that’s why he was so keen to use these toilets every week: he was getting a free peep-show.

The guys’ bodies lurched back into view, moving less quickly together.

I saw one guy’s face from the side, licking at something. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties and had a rough face with short dark hair; he might work on the nearby market.

What was he licking at? Was that a knee? a chest?

I realised abruptly, with equal doses of repulsion and fascination, that his face was pressed into the other man’s arse crack. That he was licking at – feeding on – the other guy’s arsehole. And that he was wanking the other guy’s cock as he did it.

Before I had time to consider how I felt about see two guys doing that, the guy who’d been doing the arse-licking stood up and his cock, large and stiff, pointed momentarily towards the other man’s backside.

The other man swung around and their cocks briefly touched. The guy who’d been having his arse eaten had the smaller cock of the two of them but his balls, lightly dusted with wisps of his gingery pubic hair, were much heftier. He also had a foreskin that looked like it wouldn’t retract completely over his bell-end; the dark-haired guy’s foreskin had, in contrast, been pulled fully back and his dark purple cock head glistened as though it had been polished.

The man with the smaller cock fell to his knees and started licking, kissing and sucking the dark haired guy’s expectant organ. This was nothing like the insipid cartoon drawings of cock sucking scrawled onto the walls around me and carved into some of the desks at school; nor did it resemble the occasional photos I’d seen in magazines of surprised-looking women smoking cocks like cigars between pouting lips. This guy was fervently devouring the other man’s organ; kneading it between his lips, caressing it with his tongue and slavering up and down its length with rapt enthusiasm. He was feasting on it with such pleasure and purpose that it was as if it were his own.

I had to admit that this was pretty amazing stuff to watch: I’d had no idea that men could have sex together with such passion and emotion.

Was this what interested my brother so much?

I wasn’t finding the view as sexually exciting as Gareth obviously was – I don’t remember, to be honest, whether or not I became aroused at all – but I could recognise, even back then in my early teens, the captivating beauty of what I was seeing. This was a form of sex unlike anything I’d seen or imagined; raw, intense and entirely masculine.

The ginger haired guy stood back up and the tip of his cock, half-covered with his foreskin, gently touched the wet ripened plum of his partner’s. It looked as if the two men’s cocks were kissing; it struck me as very unlikely that the two men’s faces were doing anything so affectionate.

A condom was produced from somewhere and the dark haired guy rolled it swiftly and assuredly down the length of his large cock.

The ginger haired guy turned around, exposing his pale, hairless arse to his partner again, and his cheeks parted slightly as he bent over the bowl of the toilet.

I saw Gareth staring intently through the large hole. His face was agog, his eyes planted firmly on the arse of the bending man. His head nodded almost comically with the rapid rhythm of his fist on his cock. He was about to see one man fuck another up the bum and he was evidently highly excited by the prospect.

I was surprised at how difficult the two men found it to do something that I’d always believed – from after-lights-out jokes and schoolyard stories – to be so simple that it would be possible for it to happen almost by accident. The dark haired guy really had to push and strain to force his cock into the other man, and the ginger haired guy had to adjust his position, bending lower and opening his legs wider, and to grab the buttocks of his arse to pull them open before he was able to take an inch or so of it.

It took a couple of minutes before the dark haired guy’s cock was far enough into his partner for him to begin slowly fucking him.

I wasn’t as disgusted by what I was watching as I might have imagined I would have been. I was pretty sure that I would never want to do anything like it myself, in either position, but seeing other men doing it wasn’t particularly repulsive.

I suppose I’d have probably expected – again from listening to too many stories at school – the dark haired guy’s cock to look a lot more unpleasant as it slid in and out of the other man’s arse. But, aside from the odd discoloured smear or two, it looked as clean and slick as it had when it was being sucked.

There were rumours at school that a small group of sixth form boys enjoyed doing this to one another and I could now see that, if a guy happened to have a taste for it, fucking another male really wasn’t as grotesque as most people made it out to be.

The dark haired guy’s cock was pumping in and out faster and he grabbed his partner’s hips to hold him more firmly. His thrusts into the ginger guy’s arse became deeper and more powerful and his loose-hanging balls thwacked against the other man’s thighs with every stab of his cock.

Without warning, the dark haired guy withdrew his cock and, following a brief whispered conversation, the two men awkwardly changed positions inside the cramped cubical.

Now the dark haired guy was bending over the toilet, exposing an arse far hairier and with much rounder buttocks than the ginger guy’s.

I thought, with a smile, “Oh wow! They’re taking it in turns!” For some reason that really appealed to me.

There was a tearing sound and the ginger guy smeared something which looked like wallpaper paste inside the dark haired guy’s arse crack and around his hole. A condom was rolled down his cock – the tightness of his foreskin making that more difficult than the dark haired guy had found it – and then he shuffled into position to push his cock up the other man’s arse.

It was then that I noticed that Gareth was no longer watching what was happening: the hole opposite me was empty and the brightness inside that cubicle showed that the door of it was wide open.

I jumped and flushed the toilet behind me. My brother must have cum and gone outside to find me.

I hurried out of the cubicle, leaving the men to their fun, and then pushed my way out through the main door into the bright daylight outside.

Gareth was sitting on the bench opposite the door of the toilet.

He said, “What were you doing in there?”

I smiled at all the times I’d asked him the same question and said, “Just taking a piss.”

He got up from the bench and we started walking towards the shops.

I was wondering if he was going to tell me about the two men he’d been watching; something like, “Ugh – you’ll never guess what I saw in there! You’re going to be so grossed out!”

I kind of hoped he would because it would have meant that he’d just happened to notice two guys having sex on that particular week and that this wasn’t part of some weird hobby he’d developed.

But he didn’t say anything.

I even tried to prompt him with, “It seemed pretty quiet in there this week. Guys weren’t fighting to get into the same cubicle…”

But he just nodded and looked impassive.

So I figured it was pretty clear that what he’d seen was no surprise and he’d been watching a lot of stuff like this before. This week hadn’t been just a one-off.

I didn’t go back into the gents for a few weeks and instead chose to sit outside, waiting for Gareth and wondering what was going on within its dank confines. But eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I ventured inside for what would turn out to be my final visit.

I assumed Gareth to be in his preferred spot, shut away in the farthest stall from the door, and so wanted to position myself in the middle cubicle so that I could watch what was going on without Gareth realising.

I had to wait a short while for that cubicle to become unoccupied. I offered another guy – a young lad in a combat jacket not much older than Gareth and I – the chance to jump ahead of me and go into the one next door to Gareth’s. I don’t know what he thought my motives were, but he gratefully accepted with a broad grin.

After a few minutes the occupant of the middle cubicle noisily finished up, spent an age fiddling with his clothing, and then flushed the toilet and came out.

I immediately shot in before any of the other loitering men could beat me to it, and clicked the door shut behind me.

I wiped the toilet seat and then sat down on it to peer through the small hole to see what the guy wearing the combat jacket in the next cubicle was doing. I was careful to stay well back from the hole in case he happened to see me; he hadn’t looked like the type of guy who’d turn violent, but he might cause an embarrassing commotion if he saw me watching him.

It looked like he was staring through the large hole which I knew had been carved out of the partition opposite; the partition adjoining his stall with Gareth’s. His head was moving a little as if he was nodding. Perhaps Gareth was showing him his cock and the lad was nodding his approval…?

Just then he pulled back from the partition and stood up.

I saw that my brother’s erection – it’s large size and his blond pubes making it unmistakable – was poking through the hole and was wet with the spit of the guy in the combat jacket.

Gareth quickly withdrew his cock and the bottom of his face appeared at the hole. He was nodding enthusiastically.

The guy in the combat jacket had already pulled his jeans and underwear down and approached the hole with his half-hard cock – looking long and thin – in his hand. He carefully fed through the hole and, presumably, into my brother’s eager mouth, and then his backside started flexing as he rhythmically bucked his hips against the partition.

I felt irritated by my own naivety. Gareth wasn’t just watching other guys’ peepshows: he was trading blowjobs as well. It seemed immediately obvious to me, once I’d seen it happening, that his interests here were far more than just voyeuristic. Why else would he choose the cubicle with the biggest hole in the wall when he could have watched other guys playing around together from a far more discreet vantage point?

I could hear Gareth’s mouth slurping as he fed on the other lad’s cock, trying to take as much of it as he could. The guy in the combat jacket’s thrusts grew faster and stronger as he became more aroused by the actions of my brother’s lips and tongue.

They kept that up for a minute or so and then the guy withdrew from the hole and Gareth licked his lips. The guy’s cock was now fully stiff – my brother, if nothing else, had clearly learned how to give a good blowjob during the hours he’d spent in here – and, although it didn’t look much longer than it had when he’d pushed it into the hole, it had thickened up considerably.

Gareth stood up to take his turn and carefully directed his cock through the rough, splintered hole. It now looked even more excited than it had a few moments earlier: it’s stem was reddened from being masturbated and the fattened bell-end was now a deep purple colour with dribbles of precum oozing from the puckered piss slit.

The guy in the combat jacket fell to his knees in front of my brother’s organ and started licking the beads of precum from the head of it and sweeping his lips, in open-mouthed kissing motions, up and down the swollen length of it. Then he hungrily took as much of Gareth’s cock into his mouth as he could and began pumping it with his lips as he sucked it noisily.

These guys sure knew how to suck cocks!

When Gareth’s turn was over, the guy in the combat jacket pulled away from the hole and just stared at my brother’s cock, slick and twitching in excitement, curving upwards towards through the hole. After a few seconds, Gareth withdrew it and knelt down, obviously expecting to take his turn at sucking.

The guy in the combat jacket stayed kneeling, though, and whispered something to Gareth when his face was near the hole.

Gareth whispered something back, questioning him, but I couldn’t make out his words.

Then the guy said something in reply and I heard the word ‘fuck’ in among the rest of what he said.

Gareth nodded and asked him another question.

The guy laughed and said, more loudly, “No worries! I’ve got two or three packets, mate.”

Gareth smiled at him and then nodded.

The guy stood up, pulled up his underwear – a pair of dark blue boxer briefs – and arranged his erection inside of them. Then he yanked up his jeans, flushed the toilet behind him and let himself out of the cubicle.

I felt a little disappointed for Gareth that he’d been rejected by the guy in the combat jacket. Whatever had been said between them obviously hadn’t gone too well for my brother.

Just then I heard a click from the far cubicle and realised that Gareth was letting him in.

They’d arranged a meeting! They were going to get together!

Again I felt a little stupid for not having worked this out, but until then I really wouldn’t have expected anything like this from Gareth. He’d always seemed so prude and so uncomfortable when exposing his body: the idea that he’d push his cock through a hole in a toilet wall, never mind play around face-to-face with another guy, would have seemed utterly ridiculous just half an hour earlier.

Another man let himself into the cubicle next to mine and I was annoyed at the prospect of having to try and watch what was going on in my brother’s stall past someone sitting down to take a crap.

The guy looked like he was in his early thirties and was wearing a dark blue suit with a white shirt and red tie. He probably worked in one of the council offices over the road from the bus station. Why couldn’t he use the toilets in his own building?

He hitched down his trousers and white briefs, exposing a limp cock and low-hanging balls which looked far browner in colour than the paleness of his thighs.

He sat himself down on the toilet and stared forwards for a minute or so, perhaps reading some of the graffiti on the back of the cubicle door.

He seemed to notice the large hole almost accidentally and idly leaned across to take a look through it.

I smiled, expecting such a formal-looking well-groomed man to be horrified at what was going on in Gareth’s stall, but he just stared through the hole with interest, clearly quite ofay with the sight of two teenage lads playing with or sucking each other’s cocks, or whatever they were doing in there. Without taking his eyes from them, his reached automatically for his own dick and he kneaded it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

He stared at them for the next few minutes as his cock slowly grew and thickened under the ministrations of his hand. Soon it was large enough for him to get all of his fingers around; after that, he started wanking it properly, sweeping his loose brown foreskin back and forth across the darkened head of his cock. His balls jumped around between his legs, dangling down into the toilet bowl.

Then he got up from the toilet and knelt down in front of the hole. In the couple of seconds I could see into Gareth’s cubicle, I managed to see that my brother was bending over, staring down into the bowl of the toilet in there. It looked as if he was gripping the toilet seat with one hand and rocking gently with the rhythm of his other hand on his cock.

Was he having his arse licked like the guy I’d seen a few weeks earlier? Or was he bending for another reason?

My brother wouldn’t allow a guy to actually fuck him, would he?

Would he?

The guy in the suit crouched down and peered through the hole, clearly fascinated by whatever was going on behind Gareth’s bending body. His arm beat frantically at his own cock, the rhythm of his elbow thumping the partition quite blatantly.

Was Gareth actually being fucked?

I really wanted to know; I don’t know why but it seemed quite important that I find out how far he’d go.

I knelt down on the filthy floor of my own stall, taking care to avoid the wet patches, and peered beneath the partition.

I saw the white arse of the guy in the suit, splayed open in his crouched position and with a thick line of wiry black hair bristling out of his crack. His tanned balls jiggled about between his legs to the rhythm of his hand on his cock.

I looked past him and into Gareth’s cubicle.

My brother’s trainers were directed forwards towards the toilet with his jeans and underwear in a tangle around his ankles.

The other guy was kneeling behind him. His bare knees were on the floor and his own jeans and underwear around the black leather boots he was wearing.

So that was what was going on: Gareth was having his arse eaten out. I wondered what it felt like.

Within just a few seconds of me looking at them, the guy in the combat jacket got to his feet and shuffled closer to Gareth. The fronts of his boots were almost touching the backs of Gareth’s trainers.

I heard a wrapper being torn and the guy in the suit whispered an encouraging, “Yeah!” His balls started jiggling more frantically.

After a little more shuffling around in my brother’s cubicle – Gareth struggling to open his legs further and the guy in the combat jacket having to strain onto tiptoes – the two guys’ feet settled into position and I realised that my brother was now receiving the other lad’s cock into his arsehole.

Again, I wondered how it felt.

The guy in the suit whispered something into them and then stood up. I got up and sat back on the toilet seat to see what happening through the hole.

His hips were thrusting towards the hole like the guy in the combat jacket’s had been. The lower half of his arse was exposed beneath his jacket and white shirt and his pale buttocks wobbled slightly with every buck of his hips.

I realised that my brother was sucking one guy’s cock while he was being fucked by the other. All these weeks when I’d been sitting outside thinking he was chronically constipated; I was almost amused, now, at how naïve I’d been!

The guy in the suit pulled away from the hole after a minute or so and I saw Gareth’s face, with an expression of intense pleasure on it that I’d never seen before, at the hole.

The guy in the suit knelt down and whispered something. Gareth stared blankly through the hole at him for a few seconds, so the guy repeated it and then Gareth smiled and nodded.

The guy in the suit stood up and reached down to get something from the trousers around his ankles. Then he stood up again and wanked his cock while he waited for the lads in the next cubicle to adjust their positions.

Abruptly, Gareth’s cock stabbed through the hole, looking so red and stiff that I’m sure it must have been sore. It bobbed around to the rhythm of what was happening behind him.

The guy in the suit smiled and knelt down to gently lick at my brother’s large cock. He was very tender with it, no doubt aware of how swollen it looked, kissing the throbbing bell-end and licking the precum from it.

Then he tore open the packet he’d extracted from his pocket and expertly rolled the condom from it down Gareth’s curving erection.

He spat on his fingers and worked a little of the moisture into his hairy arse. Then he shuffled around, backing himself towards the partition, and, with both hands, slowly worked my brother’s cock into his arsehole.

This was amazing! I would never have dreamed that a guy could fuck someone through a toilet wall! It just wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years.

It took the guy in the suit about a minute to work Gareth’s cock into himself, opening his legs as wide as he could and bending forwards as he struggled to accommodate such a large organ. Halfway through, he had to fumble at his top button and yank his tie down: he was sweating at the excitement of what he was doing.

After he’d succeeded in opening his arse enough to get Gareth’s cock at least partway into it, he started pushing his backside back and forth against the partition, almost like he was wanking my brother’s cock with the grip of his arsehole. Then his hand went back to his erection – I happened to notice a wedding ring on it – and he started masturbating himself quickly and roughly.

I peered beneath the partition again, wanting to confirm in my own mind what was going on.

As I expected, there were three pairs of feet standing in a row, all facing towards me. The guy in the combat jacket’s black boots at the back, Gareth’s trainers right in front of him and the black shoes of the guy in the suit in front of Gareth.

It was as I’d assumed: Gareth was fucking the guy in the suit while the lad in the combat jacket was fucking him. One guy doing it both ways at the same time: again, the idea would never have occurred to me as a possibility.

I was amazed that Gareth was doing this. Not because I thought it was wrong or disgusting or illegal or whatever: I just wouldn’t have expected that my brother, usually so quiet and introspective, to have the guts to have sex with strangers in such a public place.

It might sound silly but, even then and after everything I’d seen, the possibility of him being gay just didn’t occur to me. He was, quite obviously, having sex with other males, but it seemed to me that it was just a step up from what I’d been doing – what we’d both been doing – when we’d been watching two men having sex a few weeks earlier. It was an act of curiosity; the seizing of an opportunity.

I was in no doubt that he’d done similar things before, probably countless times, but I suppose I just thought he was taking advantage of having a free suck and fuck. I wasn’t too eager to follow my brother’s example – the thought of having another guy’s cock in my mouth or, worse still, up my bum just didn’t appeal to me – but if Gareth was happy to give as well as take, then that was his business.

Once, at boarding school, a boy in the next year group up from mine had offered to wank me off in the showers. I’d made sure no-one was around and I’d let him; he’d been pretty good at it. I hadn’t considered that to be a ‘gay’ thing, at least not on my part, and I suppose I regarded what Gareth was enjoying now in a similar light.

My thoughts were disturbed by the click of a cubicle door. I looked back over at the feet beneath the partition and saw that the guy in the combat jacket had let himself out of the stall. He must have cum inside my brother’s backside, zipped himself up and fled.

Gareth’s trainers were still facing the backs of the man in the suit’s shoes, almost touching the back of his dark blue trousers which were trailing on the floor.

I got back up and sat on the toilet again.

Peering through the hole, I saw the man in the suit really enjoying being fucked by my brother. He was bent forwards, working his arse back and forth against Gareth’s cock poking through the hole, wanking himself with a hand that was a blur.

He must have noticed a movement in my direction and leaned over towards the hole I was looking through. Seeing my eye, he grinned and gave me the thumbs up, still pumping at my brother’s cock with his rear.

Then he took his hand from his cock and pointed at it with his hand, gesturing for me to come into his cubicle, presumably to suck it or be fucked by it while he was, in turn, being fucked through the hole.

I smiled and shook my head, not considering that he couldn’t see either gesture.

Just then I heard a grunt and realised that it was Gareth reaching his climax. My brother was shooting his cum into a thirty-odd year old guy’s arse through a toilet wall! It seemed unbelievable; almost comical.

I got out of my cubicle and left the gents, aware that I was probably disappointing the guy in the suit by not tapping at his door.

Gareth took a few minutes to join me. I’d sat myself down on the bench outside the gents, hoping that the redness of my face would fade before he came out.

If he noticed I looked a little flushed, he didn’t say anything about it. He was just his normal, quiet and slightly sullen, self.

I asked him, “Everything okay?” as we walked towards the town.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I dunno. I thought you were walking a bit funny.”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I pulled something.”

“Sitting on a toilet?”

He chose not to answer and just stared ahead.

On the bus on the way back, I told Gareth that I was getting tired of our weekly trips to Watford .

He turned to face me and asked, “What’s up?”

“Nothing, really. I just get sick of sitting outside those toilets.”

“I don’t take that long, do I?”

“You were nearly an hour today. I get really bored. I could be out with my mates and stuff.”

He nodded and faced the road ahead again.

I tried: “Couldn’t you use the loo at home before we left? Then we’d get more time to spend together, shopping and stuff. I like that part…”

He thought about what I was suggesting for what seemed like ages; just staring blankly at the buildings and the street lights we were driving towards, mulling it over.

Eventually he replied, “I need to go into the toilet when we get there… I can’t help that.”

“Can we agree, then, that you have just five minutes in there or something?”

He turned to me and said, curtly, “No.”

“Okay. So count me out.”

And from then on, he always went alone.

 

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