Date: Thu, 22 Aug 2013 09:02:13 +0100 (BST)
From: Robert Furlong <robert.furlong@rocketmail.com>
Subject: Coupling Up

COUPLING UP
Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong
robert.furlong@rocketmail.com
Find my older stories at screeve.org

===

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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