From My Side

The sensation of his cock driving in and out of my bowels was really turning me on. My cock throbbed, pressing upwards towards my belly button, and I had to reach for it to give it the attention it had been demanding. As soon as I started masturbating it, I realised I was getting very near to cumming. I started panting, the pleasure from feeling the combination of his cock inside me and my fingers beating on my own almost unbearable.

I started bucking my hips, following his rhythm to push my arse into him and feed his cock with my hole. He loved that and grabbed my right buttock, squeezing it roughly but affectionately.

I opened my legs further, bending further over and pressing my head almost into the toilet bowl. I love being in that position: directing my anus upwards, opening it as much as I can, and bending so far forwards that it’s my arse is the focus of my body. What’s more, guys seem to love it – this one definitely did because he started slamming into my arse so fast and so hard that my balls began to ache as they leapt around between my legs.

I was dimly aware of shouts and chanting as a group of lads came into the gents from watching a football game in the Union bar. I thought that the noise might alarm the blond guy and looked at him over my shoulder.

But he didn’t miss a beat.

If anything his rhythm in and out of my arse became more hurried and his hands gripped my hips more firmly. Amidst the shouts and the noise of the men pissing and swearing at each other, he looked down at my face with a fondness that seemed almost protective.

I was panting like a dog, his look of affection multiplying the pleasure I was feeling from the thrusting of his large cock.

We stared at each other for a few seconds, listening to the noise outside but both too consumed by our own pleasure to care. The blond guy was breathing quickly, enjoying the grip of my arse as much as I was enjoying the frantic fucking I was getting from his cock.

Then he bent over my back, putting his arms around my chest and bringing his face close to my shoulder. I strained my head up to kiss him but he either didn’t notice or didn’t want to reciprocate. He closed his eyes and continued hammering away at my arse, caressing my chest and my nipples with his smooth, gentle fingers.

I was close to cumming, right on the brink, but by now the lads outside had started kicking the cubicle doors and I was becoming distracted. I knew the blond guy was on the edge of his own orgasm – his breathing was fast and laboured – and really wanted to climax at the moment he released his semen into me. It would have proved to him how good it had felt for me; given him something to think over the next few days.

But the disturbance in the toilets was too close for comfort. They were shouting about catching guys on the toilet wanking, laughing like donkeys at how hilarious that would be. But what if they kicked our door in and caught us in here together? Doing the very act that most straight guys, at least of the type shouting outside, would find utterly offensive. Perhaps the blond guy on my back didn’t know how aggressive men can get when confronted by the sight of two men having sex: I did.

I wanted to pull away but he held me firm, his thrusts almost violent against my buttocks and his breathing frantic against my ear. I was still enjoying him fucking me – still loving the feel of him inside my arse and still masturbating my cock as fast as I could – but my rational side was telling me to be cautious. To get my feet up onto the toilet seat, to let him fuck me with me squatting on it. So that the lads wouldn’t see two pairs of feet if they looked under the door; wouldn’t see his black shoes between my brown boots, both pairs pointing forwards towards the toilet.

But he gripped my body and held me down, pummelling my bum and hyperventilating against the back of my head, even as our cubicle door was being kicked. Then he started convulsing and gasping as his orgasm overtook him. I felt the warmth of his semen in my insides, even through the thick rubber of the condom.

Just then I heard a voice shouting at the lads and realised that someone had called security.

The blond guy pulled out of my arse and I continued masturbating. I guess I expected him to pull up his jeans and get the hell out of the toilets as quickly as he could. I assumed he’d be instantly overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and confusion.

But he left his briefs and jeans around his ankles and went straight for my arse with his fingers. He plunged two of them inside me. I was so utterly surprised that I gasped.

Then he started sliding them in and out of me, masturbating my arse at the same rhythm that I was masturbating my cock. He seemed totally comfortable with it. A lot of guys – even out-and-proud gay guys – I’ve slept with and met in toilets, find it difficult to do anything more than stare at me once they’ve climaxed, but this guy got straight back in, needing no encouragement.

I started pushing my arse back against his fingers like I had with his cock. He slid them further into me with each stroke, pushing deeper into the hole his cock had stretched and widened.

Then, with his other hand, he reached around my front and felt my balls banging around beneath my cock as I wanked it.

I looked toward him and saw his cock, still large and thick but without its upward curve, just a few inches from my face. He’d pulled the condom off and strings of his seed hung from his ripe-looking bell-end.

That was too much for me. Jets of white cum started spurting from my cock, splattering my stomach and the seat of the toilet in front of me. He kept fondling my balls and fingering my arse as I came, obviously enjoying watching my orgasm erupt, peak and fade. It was the first time he’d seen another cum at close quarters, I guess.

He kept his fingers inside me until I’d completely finished and was recovering my breath. Again, to my surprise, he didn’t look in the least guilty or ashamed of what we’d just done. I smiled to reassure him, in case anything was going on in his head that his face wasn’t betraying, but he just beamed back at me. It was like he’d made up his mind to fuck a guy, had done so and had enjoyed it. “What’s the problem?” his grin seemed to ask.

We cleaned ourselves up with the toilet roll and, without any further conversation, he fastened his jeans and eased himself out of the cubicle door.

As soon as he’d left, it occurred to me that I hadn’t given him my phone number; not even my name.

But after sex things always appear very different and it no longer seemed important. I didn’t seriously consider following him out and catching him up to give them to him.

It was only a few hours later, and then on and off for the next few days, that I wished I had. Apart from being so physically attractive, he was an intriguing guy: apparently straight but with a flexible approach to sex; naïve about having sex with other men but immediately comfortable with it; reluctant to kiss but otherwise tender and affectionate.

It started eating at me and became an irregular source of irritation. I even went back to the gents a couple of times to see whether he might have turned up again in the hope of seeing me. But he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t anywhere I looked around the university campus. Every blond guy with a leather jacket looked for a tantalising second like it might be him, but none of them came close.

I found it ironic during those few days that, after all of my concerns that he’d leave the toilet cubicle with regrets, I was the one in whom they had materialised.

It was only a few months later, when I’d put him out of my mind as just another face in what was, by then, becoming a weary succession, that I saw him again.

But that’s a different story.