Dan Needs A Public Education

The shower is almost hot enough to scald, but my skin still isn't satisfied. Wasn't with the rough, scoring touch of the washcloth as I scrubbed across my chest and belly; wasn't with the frantic shove of my fingers through my hair, a third round of shampoo and weighing a fourth after finding a crust of dried cum where desperate fingers had gripped my scalp. 

My lungs are protesting, though I'm not so sure if it's from the steam or my own, rapid panting. One of the universe's small mercies saw me get home and upstairs without running into my parents, first. Had already seen me get back from the park without passersby startling in shock at the bedraggled eighteen-year-old stumbling past them. 

After spending that whole journey desperately wishing I could see what I looked like, I studiously ignored the mirror when I made it to the bathroom. 

Locked the door, instead, and twisted the faucet to as hot as it would go. Peeling off my sticky clothes as I waited: a growing, cum- and sweat-soaked heap on the floor as I tried to shed the evidence of what I'd done. Even if I knew too well that the knowledge of it would be far, far harder to escape. 

It wasn't the first time that getting ridiculously, overwhelmingly horny had got me into trouble.

And yet frantically jerking off in the high school restroom, or clicking on the camera on my laptop and - after making sure you couldn't see my face above my lips - jacking off for whoever might stumble across me on one of those anonymous video roulette sites, felt like kid stuff compared to what I'd done in the forest. Laughable, even, when contrasted against raw-fucking a stranger whose ass was already lubed up with who-knows-how-many random loads. Against sucking him and swallowing his cum, or at least however much of that didn't spill down my face. 

Compared to kissing another guy, too, the intensity of it so great, so fierce, it was as though we were trying to chew each others' lips off. 

I have Luka's voice in my head as I scratch at my skin, imagining the scent and sweat of those strangers fading with each rough scrape of my nails. My best friend would be shocked, I know. Horrified, even. Worried for me, and angry at me, in almost equal measure. 

Not because I'd discovered I enjoyed being with guys, he wouldn't care about that. Might even find it reassuring: the knowledge that he himself wasn't alone in that dawning realization. Because it wasn't like Luka hadn't ended up on his knees for another man, he'd told me as much himself. 

No, his problem would be the risky way I'm doing it. The fact that it was in public; the fact that I was so indiscriminate in my screwing around, that I couldn't really tell you what those guys today had looked like. Even though I was rinsing their DNA off me, and watching it spiral down the drain.

The mental Luka, the one in my brain, is judgmental enough for now. Sufficiently scolding that I know I can't bring this shit up with the real version, even if I wish I could. 

I'd ask him what it was like to get fucked. He was embarrassed when he told me it'd happened, self-conscious. Probably thinking that I'd judge him for it, or think differently about it, even if I'd been the one who got him started playing with his ass in the first place. Sending him hunting for his prostate, that bud of incredible sensations that I'd already discovered could make jerking off so much more intense. 

There was something different about it being another dude's cock strumming that, compared to your fingers, but I couldn't bring myself to be judgmental about that. Not when I'd seen how much the guy I screwed myself, today, had been getting off on bottoming. Not when I'd felt the force of his load hit the back of my throat when he finally got to cum himself. 

Still dripping, a towel wrapped around my waist, my hand is reaching for my phone before my brain quite knows what's happening. 

"So when do I get to meet him?" 

I have to wait a little while, roughly toweling my hair and stealing glances at the screen, before Luka's reply pops up.

"Meet who?"

I snort in disbelief. "Your dude, idiot."

The dot-dot-dot ripple of a reply being typed. When it pops up, it's about as defensive as I half-predicted he might be. 

"He's not 'my dude' really."

My best friend's naive attempt at self-deception would be annoying, if I wasn't so used to it by now. "Fine. When do I get to meet the guy you're occasionally screwing?"

I'm trying to keep it light, as playful as we'd usually be - teasing each other being a good stand-in for what teenage guys seem to have so much trouble with, admitting the depth of their dude friendships - but at the same time I have to grit my teeth not to scream. 

What I want is to see them together. Not having sex - though that would probably be hot as fuck to observe, in any permutation they'd be willing to let me watch - but just... together. So that I could see if my oldest buddy looked different alongside the guy that had changed him so much, or awoken some part of him, or whatever best described how the Luka I'd grown up with had evolved into something so fascinating. 

"I dunno," the reply pops up. "It'd be weird."

'Weird,' I think, is a relative term. 

"I'll be on my best behavior," I tap out instead, "promise."

I can imagine his laugh, at reading that. 

"Your 'best behavior' isn't saying much, is it."

I was still thinking about that when I went to bed, hair still damp. Was still thinking about it when I dragged my tired ass into work the next morning. Luka's words floating in the corner of my eye, as if the little text bubble had snapped free of my phone and drifted up like a party balloon.

I know he's teasing, but there's a thread of frustrating truth in there, too. Frustrating because I dislike the idea of him shutting me out of something that has suddenly become a big part of his life, but also because I know my best friend's portrayal of me as irresponsible and unpredictable isn't entirely unwarranted, either. Even if I've tried my best to be supportive, I can sometimes be... well, destructive seems like a stretch, but the way Luka is talking, it's like he thinks I'm going to meet his new guy and instantly say something completely out of line.

Part of me wants to remind him that they might not have got this far, had I not been the one to nudge him into taking those photos and sending them. To point out that, if it wasn't for me being more impetuous and spontaneous, Luka might still be um'ing and ah'ing about it all.

And then I get angry and frustrated at myself again, because I don't want to think about my closest friend that way, and I have to remind myself that nothing is so black and white as my easily-worked-up brain automatically thinks it is. So by the time I clock out for the day, my head feels like a pressure cooker desperately pumped full of steam.

My legs are taking me to the park before I consciously know where I'm headed. 

Down the path from the street, along the curving pavement that skirts the edge of the pond. Around that, dodging people walking dogs and couples out strolling. Because it's quieter than during the daytime, but not dead, not abandoned, and that should be sending up red flags in my head only I can't focus, now. Not on what I know I'm doing, what I'm lying to myself and pretending isn't happening - pretending isn't my destination - even as I close in on the restroom I know I should just keep walking past. 

I don't, of course. 

I walk in, and past the sinks, and around the corner. 

All the way down, past the scuffed partitions and everything lit up with a row of grimy light bulbs, to the last cubicle and its battered wooden door on creaky hinges. And it's only when the door is locked and my jeans and underwear are shoved off, that the rest of my head seems to wake up and ask myself what the hell I'm doing. 

Only it's too late by then. Far too late. Because I can hear footsteps where my own rang out just a minute before. 

It could be innocent, but it's not, and something in me - some learned intuition, something astute in a way you can't ever admit to possessing - knows that he's going to take the next cubicle along. Isn't surprised, at the sound of the lock snicking across, or by the shadow looming close to the thin wall between us. 

A sneaker. Suddenly, I'm on more familiar ground. Another thing good boys don't admit to. 

I nudge my foot closer to the gap at the bottom. Not touching his, no, but near enough that I'm sure he'll see it. 

His foot taps. 

I tap mine, echoing that one-two-three.

Nothing. For a long, drawn-out moment, and then the foot moves and I hear the click of his door unlocking. Wonder - even as I'm telling myself I wasn't wrong, couldn't have been - if I misconstrued the situation, confused his innocent presence for interest, somehow. Spiraling confusion that's ended by the unexpected sound of his voice.

"Unlock the door."

I'm clenching my jaw so hard, my teeth are aching. Torn between wanting to close my eyes in the vague, childish hope that I'll disappear and this whole situation will stop, and reaching out to slip the latch just like he's asking me to.

"Why?"

"You know why. Unlock the door."

I'm still telling myself it's a terrible, not good, dire idea, even as I'm sliding the little metal bar across. 

For a moment I wonder if I did it too quietly for him to even hear. If I'm going to have to announce my compliance, make clear I'm just the sort of boy he's assumed I am. 

Uncertainty ended by the door swinging open. 

Late twenties, maybe, or early thirties. Part of me feels like I should be memorizing his face, making sure I never forget the details like eye color, whether his nose was big or small, whether his lips were full or narrow. But all I can see is the way they're smirking at me. 

"Nice." 

He's looking down at my cock, the way it's jutting up from under the hem of my t-shirt. Throbbing with an urgency I can't even begin to describe, and maybe it's that need which stops me from intervening as he tugs the shirt up and off me. 

There's something unspeakably intense about being naked, in a restroom stall, being watched by a fully-clothed stranger. No way not to wonder what he thinks of me, what his opinion of my body is: whether he's pleased with what fate has thrown his way today, or if I'm not really his type but he'll make do nonetheless. Willingness a reasonable stand-in for a more ideal physical connection. 

I jolt, my whole body flinching, when his fingers wrap around my erection. 

His hand is rough, the friction enough to make me whimper. Only amplified, somehow, as he strokes the precum down my shaft. His movements aggressive rather than teasing; like I'm so much meat, or livestock, and he's weighing me out before issuing his verdict.

"You came to get fucked, right?" 

The blush gives me away. Makes me long for the wordless tap of feet beneath the stall, because while that code might have seemed impenetrable, it was better than being put on the spot like this. Forced to announce that yes, I'd come out tonight - put myself in this public stall - in the hope that some stranger would wander in too and bust my ass open. 

His fingers squeeze tighter, and it feels like punctuation to his question. I nod, obediently. 

Just as quickly as he grabbed me, he's letting go. "Turn around."

It's not like I expect romance. That isn't what I came for, isn't what any of these guys come for, I know that. Not so naive as to assume they'll want my story, or need to hear my motivations; not like, even, I want to share that with them. The anonymity of flesh on flesh meaning those secrets I can keep for myself. 

His hand pushes between my shoulders. Easing me forward, my arms automatically extending to brace myself on the tank of the toilet ahead of me. Knowing, too, what he's looking at as I do it, how I'm exposing myself. It didn't matter if I was too coy to do more than just blush and nod before, because it's not like the way I push my ass up and back makes it unclear what I'm hoping for. 

The sound of him spitting tells me he's got the message, too. 

I close my eyes as his finger pushes at me. Nothing tentative or cautious about it; nothing which speaks of concern for the inexperience of my body, or the fact that the stall door is still open behind him. Sending me onto my tiptoes as my hole briefly protests, my panting loud in the tight confinement of the cheap partition walls, and then he's sinking into me. One long, inescapable slide until I feel the press of his knuckles. 

"Fucking tight." Said with a crumb of admiration. Said like he saw that as a challenge.

It burns, as he drags his finger back, and then saws it inside me again. My body unused to this, this unpredictable toying. So different from how it feels when I play with my own hole.

"Yeah, you want it."

Only realizing, when I hear him crow that, that it's true. That my muscles are already softening, relaxing; that the burn has faded, and a different, more urgent friction is there in its place. My hips rocking back to meet each of his strokes, and the sound of him spitting again and the push of a second finger alongside the first now feels like a promise, not a threat. 

"How old?"

My brain teeters at the question, two words and yet it's taking real effort to understand what he's asking. 

"Uh... eighteen," I manage, eventually.

A grunt of acknowledgement all I get for my mental processing. 

That's the extent of what he needs to know about me, I realize, in a dizzying moment of clarity. That, and my willingness to bend over for him. My willingness to undress, and spread myself, and not protest at his groping, digging fingers.

I hear the sound of his zipper, and part of me wants to look back. To see the details, even if I doubt I'll remember them any more clearly than I can picture his face. Anonymity already having stolen that image from my mind's eye, replacing it with the sudden understanding that I'm even more sparing in my curiosity than he was. That all I need from this, all I'm concerned about in this moment, is his interest.

I feel empty, when he tugs his fingers out of me. Hollow, and it's all I can do not to push my ass back toward him, searching out that fullness again. 

It can only be the head of his cock, nudged in-between my spread cheeks, and yet my brain can't process that. Lacking the context, the experience to rationalize the bluntness of his skin's slicked kiss against my entrance. Wanting to reach back, to wrap my fingers around him and follow that shaft down to the point of our contact.

No time for that, though, not when he pushes forward. 

It's like before, and yet not, because however big he is, or long, or thick, or whatever, it's bigger than a finger. Bigger than two, and now the reality of what I've invited into myself is shockingly, unmistakably clear, as his hand grips my bare hip as if to hold me in place. 

"Fuck, open up," he grunts, under his breath as though the instruction isn't for me but the universe around us. Like he knows I'm beyond instruction, my body bow-taut. 

A jolt of his hips makes me gasp out, fingers white where I'm clutching the cracked cistern lid, and then I yelp again at the sharp slap of his hand across my ass. Flinching at the unexpected ripple of pain, more from the surprise of it than the sensation, but that's all it takes to have my muscles briefly soften. Enough, at least, that he can overcome my resistance and push inside.

"Oh fuck..."

It's my voice, or at least I think it is, the hollowness rendering me almost unrecognizable to my own ears. Too caught up in the feeling of spreading around him to process that, and the realization that he's not stopping, not pausing for even a moment. Pulling me back to him, both hands clamped around my waist as he buries himself all the way.

I can feel the heat of him, pressing into my butt. That sensation understandable, at least, something my whirling-top brain can comprehend, even as it struggles to process what seems to be a tree trunk shoved up inside me, nudging the pit of my stomach. And if I was in my right mind, if I could think beyond that body-rearranging intrusion, I might even make some comment about it, some sort of joke, but I can't. And, it dawns on me as he drags his hips back and my insides feel as though they're being inverted and pulled out with him, maybe I'll just never speak again because the memory of this moment is too intense and overwhelming. 

His second stroke is harder, rougher. My silence taken as compliance, as willingness, and perhaps it is. Maybe I've only ever been looking for this all-consuming sense of being filled, the stab of cock forcing out any other conscious thought or concern beyond the growing friction. Hearing nothing beyond his panting, and my own gasps, and the slap, slap, slap of his hips against me. 

At some point I went soft, my dick flopping untouched between my splayed thighs, but now I'm hard again. That change, the ebb and flow of my erection, recognized in some dim and distant corner of my brain, as I watch cords of my precum slop across the toilet with each of his punishing thrusts. 

I can't grab myself, though, only watch as what seems like a constant flow of dick-drool spills out of me. Hearing the stranger hiss behind me, and even though I'm new to this, brand new, I don't need that sound decoded to understand he's close. 

I could pull away, if I wanted to. Force myself from his grip, avoid what I know he thinks is inevitable. And yet there's no way not to picture that guy I fucked out in the forest, the way it felt when I looked down to see his hole gaping around my cum-slicked shaft, and the knowledge that I was going to add my own to the uncounted loads that were squelching and bubbling so lewdly around me with each deep stroke. 

There's no question in my mind that I'm gonna let this stranger breed me now. 

Fingers, digging into me. Tighter than before; not so much from a fear that I might try to escape, at this point, but for support. The flail of his hips against me more desperate, urgent, and I wonder if he's been trying to hold back. Trying to pace himself, prolong all this, or if that was never the intention. That all he ever wanted was something willing and submissive to slam into and unload inside, the end justifying the hurry of the means.

"Fuck, take it."

My only warning, the only notice, and then he's stabbing deep again. Barely an inch of movement either way, as if success here, achievement, demands his cum be piped as far inside me as possible. 

A pause. Three seconds, four at most. And then he's yanking himself out. 

No way to hold back my moan, loud but not loud enough to miss the second voice from the hallway outside of the stall. 

"Good going, dude."

The stinging realization of an audience, of another person watching as what remained of my virginity was taken. I'm almost afraid to look back, my flushed face peering over my shoulder at where the guy who just nailed me is tugging his jeans together. Never more undressed than his cock lolling from an open fly, but it's that second set of eyes behind him that makes me truly feel my own nakedness. Another strangers' leer at the smooth expanse of my folded body, and if the first guy needed to be sure I was down for this, looking to get plowed, then this new man need only take one glance at me to see my willingness. 

He pushes his way into the stall, the other guy disappearing without a word. Fingers instantly jammed between my cheeks, digging roughly into the gooeyness of my insides; other hand pressing at the small of my back, proprietorial. No mistaking the message: that my proper place is bent over like this; ready, willing, and usable.

"You legal?" 

I nod, wondering about the scope of this formality. Whether it's arrest he's concerned with - an ill-suited partner on top of a public show - or if that's all wound up with the arousal for him. 

As intimate as what we're doing is, that feels like a question I can't ask.

No time for it, anyway, not when I hear the rustle of sweatpants being shoved down. Fingers pulling from me - that moment of itching emptiness - as I realize what he's using for lube, now. Slicking his hardness with the load the first guy left inside me.

"I'm not..." I start to say, unclear on how that sentence finishes even as I begin it. Not ready, not experienced, not used to this or of its etiquette. Or not inclined to have him hold back, perhaps, the possibilities spiraling in my head even as his thickness presses against me. 

Easier than the first time, even if it's not easy. That same sense of my body spreading, yielding: being forced to readjust itself around the heft of his erection. Thick enough to have me gasping already, just with a few inches in. The sound of his chuckle makes me think he's heard that reaction before. 

"Was that your first?" 

I didn't expect conversation, not while he was plugging me. And even if I can get my head around that - martial my brain to do two things at once, reply to him while also processing the way his cock in me is making me feel - I'm uncertain of the question. Thrown by its double-meaning; pretty sure this stranger is asking whether the guy he just replaced was the first of my evening, not the equal truth that he was the first inside me, period.

"Yeah," I manage to grunt out, the word becoming a gasp as he jabs his hips forward and my hole spasms around the intrusion. Hoping he has low expectations for whatever he might want to talk about, because it's clear that our fuck is going to dominate what few of my braincells are still functioning. 

"You're tight," he adds.

It feels like a compliment, though all I can manage is another grunt in thanks. Trying to squeeze around him, clench my overwhelmed muscles around his thickness. 

He chuckles, through what sounds like clenched teeth. "You really want this load, don't you."

And I do, I realize, a jab of understanding managing to pierce the fog in my head. I want him to cum in me, this stranger who stumbled upon my willingness this evening; I want to feel the reward of my attractiveness, my allure to other guys, even if that's only expressed by him adding to the anonymous cum currently squishing around his shaft as he plugs me. Because for as unusual as that might be as feedback, it'll still scratch the uncertainty in myself, that hunger to be appreciated. 

So I push back, into his thrusts, feeling them grow ragged and impulsive, losing the pace and measure he had just moments before. Tightening my hole on him as best I can, picturing myself as if some wet, eager fist that's singularly focused on milking every ounce of cream from in him. 

"Fuck!" 

Satisfaction in that word, and toppling pleasure, and I can feel him throb - the jerk and pulse of his hardness - as he breeds me. My own cock forgotten, or at least ignored, even as it drools its own excitement beneath me. A couple of strokes all it might take to get me off too, and yet there's no way I can unlock the rictus grip of my fingers to deliver that. Not if I want to stand any chance at all of staying upright. 

I can almost hear the wet pop as he tugs his cock out of me. Still panting as he backs out of the cubicle.

"Thanks, kid. I think you're gonna be popular."

Confused, I just about manage to lift my head. Look back, over my shoulder, to where he's pulling up his sweatpants with a grin. 

Not that I'm watching that. Not when there are two more guys behind him, each watching me with a look that says my evening is far from over.

---

Thanks for reading - This is a spin off from "Xander Shows Me My Prostate": it, and more stories, are available here on GayDemon and over on my site. Appreciate you checking them out!

-Alex