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Whenever I need to use a public toilet, I invariably go into one of the cubicles even if the entire row of urinals is empty. This used to be because, having had some bad reactions from women at the large size of my manhood, I was self-conscious about exposing my genitals to other people and preferred to hide myself away.
These days, that no longer bothers me at all. Since I’ve never had a bad response from men on that score, I’ve become far more confident about revealing my large penis to my own gender. In fact, I’ve rather grown to enjoy it.
I use the cubicles now because I like to read the graffiti on the walls and partitions: it’s fascinating to find out what can take place behind the cubicles doors in the most inauspicious of public toilets. Even the respectable-looking conveniences tucked away in National Trust properties can at times be home to the most decadent of homosexual activity.
On this particular day, I’d popped in to take a pee in the toilets at the bus station in town and had, as usual, made a beeline straight for the middle of the three cubicles.
I decided, while I was peeing into the toilet bowl, that this must be a largely inactive venue as far as male-to-male encounters went. There was very little graffiti and what there was, was non-sexual.
“Earn 50K a year, no tax, no effort. Call -“
Not the sort of advert I was interested in.
I wondered if the bus station might be too busy to harbour any attempts at gay activity: the outer door was constantly banging open and men were forever tramping in and out. Or whether, perhaps, the people here were, not unreasonably, more interested in simply relieving themselves before hurrying out to catch buses.
Whatever the reason, this clearly wasn’t the sort of place I was likely to have any fun in.
I’d actually come to the bus station on my son’s behalf. Jake had booked himself a ticket through a budget coach company called Go-Ahead intending to pay me a visit at the weekend but had subsequently found something more interesting to occupy his time. Given the breadth and variety of his social life at university, this was not an especially surprising change of plan.
When he’d gone onto the company’s website to try and change the date of travel, he’d found – just as I had a few hours later – that there was no obvious way of doing that.
Hence the trip into town on the way to work to see if someone in the bus station office would prove to be more helpful. And hence me standing taking a pee in the bus station toilets to help pass the time before the office opened at nine.
Not that I was in any rush to leave: as you’ve probably gathered, I’ve developed something of an interest in what goes on in gents’ toilets.
Since divorcing Jake’s mum and following a sporadic succession of failed relationships with women, I’d discovered by chance that a surprising number of other men are willing to attend to my high sex drive in exchange for me assisting them with theirs. I knew that many such men would not identify themselves as gay or even bisexual and would probably see occasional arrangements with their own gender as being a merely physical release, but in the right mood and setting – and public toilets seemed to offer both – they would seek occasional sly couplings.
After my first few tentative fumbling encounters, I had quickly come to develop a taste for this furtive and exciting form of sex and had started to appreciate the appeal of my fleeting companion’s erections just as they seemed to enjoy mine. Not only that, but I had discovered in myself a fascination for the male behind; in its hairiness, its smell and – most tantalisingly – in its taste. Perhaps inevitably I’d soon been drawn to the earthy appeal of anal intercourse with like-minded men, and, after initially preferring to assume the more active role, I had, to my astonishment, found it hugely rewarding to allow my own rear to be similarly used.
Things that would once have never have occurred to me as being even remotely stimulating, were now a source of intense arousal. The smell of a stranger’s well-worn underwear, the feel of his large, paired bollocks heavy against my fingers and the sensation of his hot semen squirting into my throat never ceased to surprise me in the power of their eroticism. Which was why I now so often sought out, in between the occasional evenings I was allowed with my on-off girlfriend Debbie, the pleasure of male company in places such as this.
Except on this occasion I quickly decided that I wouldn’t be coming back to these toilets in a hurry. The lack of graffiti obviously meant nothing much went on here and I normally had little reason to stop off at the town bus station.
I’d have to continue my regular visits to the largely ignored toilet building hidden away in the park; always a good bet for a salacious after-work liaison. I’d also just discovered that the small gents’ behind the town library wasn’t as sleepy as one might expect, especially on Sunday evenings casino şirketleri after ‘Antiques Roadshow’.
As I was shaking the last few drops of piss from my organ and preparing to tuck myself away, I saw a movement underneath the partition through the corner of my eye. Looking down, it was a muddy trainer making a deliberate jabbing motion into my cubicle.
I knew this to be a sign that the man next door wanted my attention – and that it was unlikely that he’d simply run out of loo roll.
I finished shaking my cock and, with it still unzipped, did a quick scan of the partition between us. There seemed to be nothing unusual about it, other than a square piece of wood at waist-height which had been screwed onto it, presumably to repair a hole which some obliging soul had carved out.
I began to wonder if the bloke in the next stall simply had a twitchy leg.
When I looked more closely at the square of wood, though, I noticed that three of the screws holding it in place had been usefully removed by some obliging soul, allowing it to be slid diagonally upwards.
I peered back underneath the partition: the foot belonging to the man next door foot was prodding quite deliberately in my direction.
As it seemed probable that he was trying to let me know that he was looking for sex if I was willing, I rotated the wood to reveal the large hole underneath I had expected.
The guy immediately jumped up from the toilet he’d been sitting on and stood in front of the hole. He was wearing a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms which showed off the bulge of his crotch, but these were quickly yanked down, along with his faded stripy boxer-briefs which had seen a good many better days.
His cock was still limp and insubstantial. It was a coffee brown in colour, as were his balls, and thickly surrounded by a forest of black pubic hair. However, the skin of his belly and his thighs was considerably paler: he probably wasn’t as dark-skinned as his genitals would suggest.
If I had to guess his ancestry from what little of him I could see, I’d say it was Eastern European. Quite a number of Polish men were working in town and we’d also had an influx from the Baltic countries.
Wherever he was from, he knew the drill as far as sex in public toilets went. Whatever his sexual persuasion, he knew that when a guy opened up the hole in the partition between your stalls, you could assume that you were about to pleasured in one way or another.
His cock, still limp, was therefore promptly and unceremoniously thrust through the hole, demanding gratification.
I was keen to demonstrate to him that I knew the drill too.
I squatted down and, before doing anything, carefully examined the organ that was being presented to me. It was fully flaccid – he wasn’t even slightly aroused by the prospect of what another man might be about to do to him – which made me think he was probably straight. This was a guy who enjoyed the simple pleasure of having his penis stimulated by another person, regardless of whether they were male or female. It was an all-embracing outlook, and one with which I could greatly empathise.
I reached up and gently fondled the slack foreskin covering his withered, brown shaft. It was almost rubbery in texture – warm and yielding – and I massaged it as sensually as I could between my forefinger and thumb. I felt a tingle of excitement that this was a stranger’s manhood I was stroking; that I was touching the private part of someone I wouldn’t even recognise if I saw him in the street.
His cock was of a fairly average size. I knew from experience that it might, when aroused, enlarge dramatically in girth and length to become as large as my own, or that it might, just as likely, remain the same size as it was now but just point upwards. Such things didn’t really bother me: this was another man’s cock being offered to me and, no matter what its proportions when either floppy or hard, I intended to have as much fun with it as I could.
Just a few years earlier, when I’d still been married to my wife, the idea that I might enjoy stimulating other men through toilet partitions would have appalled me. And yet I had, in a relatively short space of time, developed a deep appreciation for the sheer variety of other men’s cocks – not to mention their balls and bums – and was now most adept at pleasuring them in a wealth of situations, all the while frantically stimulating my own.
Grabbing his foreskin more firmly, I eased it back across the head of his organ, exposing his wrinkled pink-coloured helmet. Underneath was wet and slimy and the sharp smell of his piss and testosterone hit me.
I felt my mouth water from how moist it was and how harsh this stranger’s sex smelt. I put my face close to it and sniffed at it, enjoying its characteristic odour and especially the forthright, acrid whiff of the head. I loved having another man’s organ so close to my face, marvelling at its unique and secret smells, something I once would never casino firmaları have thought possible.
I slowly masturbated his foreskin back and forth across the pea-shaped cock head, feeling the shaft growing very slightly but not as much as I would have liked. My own manhood, in contrast, was growing markedly larger: the bitingly masculine smell of this stranger’s cock was most arousing and the surprise of having it poking through the cubicle partition for me to play with was proving most exciting.
I tried a different approach and repositioned my hand. Putting my fingers underneath his shaft and my thumb on top of it, I tried to stimulate his whole organ in the way that I would my own. Again, I thought I could feel a slight hardening as I wanked him like this, but the overall state remained resolutely floppy. It seemed that being fondled didn’t really do it for him.
That was disappointing: until then I had thought I was becoming quite accomplished at the delicate art of masturbating other men.
I tried a few other techniques, hoping to stumble on the one that would get his cock growing so I could beat him off properly and perhaps even coax him to climax in my mouth, but his organ remained stubbornly unresponsive.
Above the background noise of men clumping in and out of the toilet, I heard him whisper through to me, “You suck!”
I assumed he was making a request rather than offering an opinion on my masturbatory skills, and leaned my head towards his limp cock.
I licked the head of it and found the taste very strong. It wasn’t unpleasant: just far more astringent and sour than I was used to. I wondered whether, if he was Eastern European, there was some peculiarity of his diet which gave his sexual secretions such a distinctive flavour.
I licked it again, curious as to the source of such an unusual taste, and I heard him whisper again, more insistently, “You suck!”
Christ, he was impatient. Didn’t anyone ever teach him about the joys to be had in savouring the moment?
I did as he commanded and put my mouth over the entirety of his organ.
I heard him gasp again and almost immediately his cock started lengthening and thickening in my mouth. Evidently, he liked having a blow job administered to him and he’d learned that, in Britain at least, such services are offered freely by men of a particular persuasion in certain public toilets.
At first, I simply caressed his cock with my tongue and lips, lapping at the flavoursome drool from his slit and working his hardening shaft inside my mouth. But as he grew steadily more aroused, I elaborated my technique into a full-on blow job, sucking gently at his fattening cock head and developing the movement of my lips into a more rhythmic pumping.
He liked that and I heard him say, in a low voice, “Very good! I like!”
His voice was rough – he was almost certainly a smoker at the very least – and his accent pronounced. He might be Russian, I guessed, or from one of the former Soviet republics. I felt, however, that whoever had taught him English should have spent a little more time on how to properly express appreciation when being given a blowjob through a toilet stall.
I kept going, starting to work my head back and forth to stimulate the shaft of his cock with a more regular motion. I sucked more firmly, teasing his precum from his slit with the lapping of my tongue against the sensitive underside of his plump, round head.
His cock steadily hardened to full size in my mouth.
Wherever he was from, he responded to being sucked in a largely predictable way.
He started working with me, pounding his cock in and out of my mouth to the same rhythm as I was employing on him, and making the partition shudder with the force of his hips. Fortunately, the noise of the other men in the toilet was too loud to make it obvious what was going on between us and so I kept going, sweeping my mouth up and down his rock hard organ as he slammed it back and forth through the hole.
I raised my hand to glance at my watch as he pleasured himself inside my mouth. It was coming up to nine o’clock: I should really be finishing up in here and heading for the bus station office by now.
I hoped he wouldn’t take long and would soon climax in my mouth. It would be fascinating to see how his semen tasted: whether it would bear the same acrid taste of his cock drool, or whether it would have a taste all of its own.
I’d swallow what he produced – I always enjoyed that – and would have to stifle any indigestion afterwards. Whatever happened, I’d have to avoid burping in the bus station office and betraying to whoever was serving me what I’d just drank down.
However, just as I thought he was pushing himself towards orgasm, he pulled out of me and backed away from the hole.
I stared through it, at his arching cock looking longer than I expected and with the upper half of it wet and shiny from my mouth. I thought he might use his hand to finish himself off güvenilir casino as some men like to and was rather looking forward to seeing his preferred masturbatory technique after it had so frustratingly eluded me.
He didn’t attend to his cock, though: he just stood there with it pointing upwards and his balls dangling down, fat and heavy, like they were straining with his collected seed. His pubic bush was huge: unlike me, he’d made no attempt to keep it trimmed.
He leaned over and whispered through the hole to me: “Show your ass! I like ass!”
Thinking I might be about to get a rim-job in return for what I’d done to him, I dutifully complied and quickly stood up with my back to the partition. I yanked my trousers and briefs down so he could see my bare bum, and then bent forwards for him, pressing the hairy crack between my buttocks against the hole. It probably wasn’t the best view of me that I could have offered him, but with just a little persistence he would soon reach my arsehole.
I momentarily felt his breath against the cheeks of my bum but the anticipated wetness of his tongue was not forthcoming.
Instead, there was the sound of fumbling and then a tearing noise as a wrapper was hastily opened.
My heart jumped with excitement: I was about to be fucked!
Wherever he was from, he wasn’t averse to using an Englishman’s backside to assuage his sexual needs!
I spat on my fingers and quickly rubbed some of my spit into my hole, my cock rising upwards between my legs in its eagerness at what was about to happen. Then I put my hands on my knees and bent forwards slightly, relaxing my anus to accommodate his organ.
Glancing down, I saw the front of his dirty trainers appear under the bottom of the partition as he shuffled forwards: one foot on either side of my black leather work shoes. Then I felt the rubber-clad head of his cock, warm and blunt, prodding insistently between my buttocks.
He seemed desperately impatient: he really needed his dick inside someone.
And I was more than willing to provide. Ever the philanthropist: that’s me.
His approach was anything but sensual: he made no attempt to try and find my entrance, neither with his fingers or by manoeuvring his cock, but instead just jabbed himself roughly between my cheeks hoping to hit lucky and slide into me.
I had to move my bum around against the partition to try and work myself onto his thrusting organ; I even pulled my cheeks apart with both hands to help guide him in.
Eventually, more through chance than skill, his cock found its target and, with an audible gasp from its owner, drove into me. Almost immediately, he took up a rapid, pounding rhythm, mechanically pumping the arsehole that was being so willingly provided for him.
He paused to shuffle his legs further apart – he was evidently a man who liked his balls to swing back and forth during sex – and to grab the top of the partition with both hands for leverage.
Then the fucking began in earnest, as fast and furious as he could manage. He clearly loved feeling his cock driving in and out of another person’s body, although, I strongly suspected he would ordinarily prefer the recipient of his pounding to be female and the orifice to be a vagina.
I put my hands on my knees again: pushing my bum back against the partition to meet his driving manhood with every rough, powerful thrust. The height of the hole made the way I was standing uncomfortable for me – I had to bend my knees at a painful angle to ensure my arsehole was level with his cock – but I ignored the aching of my thighs and shins and enjoyed the sheer pleasure of having an extremely intimate homosexual encounter in what had at first seemed such an unlikely of settings.
Having never had sex in this particular position, I loved the fact I was here in a toilet cubicle allowing a stranger to butt-fuck me from the cubicle next door. For some reason he wasn’t able to slide fully in and out of me and his cock, if I’m honest, did little more than jab mechanically in and out through my anal ring. Nevertheless, though, I was standing in a near-public place being buggered by man I hadn’t even met!
The sheer thrill of having this done to me in such a busy toilet made my cock throb upwards in its incredulous excitement.
Men were standing at the urinals, walking over to washing their hands and use the hand-dryers, and yet here I was just feet away from them, having my arse shafted by the cock of some bloke I wouldn’t know from Adam. He was an Eastern European wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and dirty trainers: that was pretty much all I knew about him.
I started rubbing my swollen organ, feeling hugely turned-on at being penetrated like this. I must have looked so innocuous coming in here in my suit; just a boring nine-to-fiver caught short on the way to the office. Not the sort of guy you’d expect to end up bending forwards to press his buttocks against a hole in the partition between stalls; not the sort of guy you’d expect to be beating himself off while some anonymous cock pumped in and out of his hairy arse-crack.
I glanced down at my trousers and briefs around my ankles, working my butt-cheeks against the thin chipboard wall.
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