Dan Needs A Public Education

If there's a difference, if there's a reason I might've not recognized him, it's the surprise on his face. Or, more accurately, how that's so different to the expression I remember him with: that knowing, self-assured, ever-so-slightly amused look which left me feeling like I was both an amusing experiment and also prey. 

Then again, if that was the case, I was clearly the sort of prey that obediently followed its predator. 

Now - an apron half-tied around his waist, over a crisp white shirt - it's like that wry amusement has been tucked away behind a mask. Or, maybe, it was the mask, and the man I'm gaping at now in shock is the real one. 

And then he smiles, and I feel that same shiver of recognition flood through me. The one which had made me stand up, from that park bench, and follow him down the quieter paths and into the undergrowth. That has to be the real him, it couldn't be any other way. 

"Hello again," he says, sounding entertained. 

There's a name badge on his chest, "Keenan" printed in white letters. It seems strange to find out that detail from a chip of pinned-on plastic. Like I'm cheating, somehow. 

"I'm... uh..." I have to swallow, my throat feeling dry and thick. "Here with, um, friends." 

He glances past me, even though we can't see the main part of the coffee shop from here. Nor, for that matter, can anybody sitting there see us. 

Something about that makes me realize how close he is. A half-step away, still, the two of us having barely recoiled after our near-collision. Awkwardly, I take a quick pace back, only to have Keenan narrow that gap again. 

"I've not seen you in here before," he observes, still grinning. 

It's jerky, when I shake my head. As though, the more my brain is spiraling in something close to panic, the lower the frame-rate of my body gets. Twitchy and shuddering, like an old black and white movie. 

"No... it's my first time," I manage to stutter out. 

The grin spreads. "Seems like I keep getting to watch your first times, doesn't it." He winks. "Lucky me."

He can't have missed how antsy I am, just like he can't have missed the way my throat flexed as I swallowed just now. 

"You... you work here?" 

It's a ridiculous question, I know that, and yet anything more insightful is beyond me. 

Keenan glances down, at the apron, and then back up. I'm giving him no reason to change that wry, knowing expression, I realize. 

"Looks that way, doesn't it." Another look down, only this time it's at the baggy sweatpants and loose t-shirt that I'm wearing. My borrowed clothes, to cover my bad decisions. "How about you, have you been... served, yet?" 

I open my mouth to answer, then just nod instead. Fewer words feel safer, right now; less likely to get me into trouble, anyway. 

I gesture at the restroom door, instead. "I was just gonna..."

"Do you have the code?" 

For a moment I blink at him, confused. Then spot the keypad lock. No, no I don't have the code; had stormed off too quickly to realize I might need one, in fact. 

My mistake is clearly visible in my expression. Keenan smiles again. 

"Let me help you, then, sir." The civility exaggerated. 

His arm brushes mine, as he reaches past. Finger stabbing at the metal buttons; there's a click, and then he pulls the handle. 

I take a step back, into the restroom, eyes widening as I realize he intends to follow. Matching my movements, keeping that narrow gap between our bodies, until he can swing the door shut behind us. The lock snapping with a sharp thunk. 

"What're you..." I start, but he interrupts.

"I felt a little bad, for leaving you. I wondered if I should've helped you find the path again."

There's nothing in his expression, on his face or in his intonation, which makes it seem like his contrition is genuine. Even if I can't help but remember that flood of panic and self-recrimination that washed through me, after he left me sprawled on the mulch and fallen leaves. Mouth still tingling from the intensity of our kiss, the taste of cum fierce on my tongue, feeling like my world had been upended and left teetering at an unfamiliar angle. 

"I was okay," I say, feeling lame and slow in the face of his mockery.

A wink, at that. "You were better than okay. Are you sure it was your first time?" 

It's half a nod, half a shrug. "I... I don't really know what I'm doing," I admit. Not sure where the urge for honesty comes from, but unable to escape it. 

"Oh, that's not true," Keenan says, eyebrow arched. "Maybe you're inexperienced at it, but you know what you're doing. What you go out looking for."

I take a half-step back, but there's only the wall behind me. Nowhere to go when he closes in further: enough that our chests are almost brushing. 

"Hard to stop, isn't it," he adds, voice little more than a murmur now, "when it feels so fucking good."

I hold my breath, shocked, as he leans in and takes a deep sniff of me. Nose almost pressed against the side of my neck. 

"You've been out again today, haven't you." It's neither a question nor an accusation. Something conspiratorial, maybe. 

When I nod, my cheek brushes against his.

"I can smell them on you. How many times did you cum already?" 

I'm hard now, I realize, the knowledge sharp and shocking. Cock rigid, fighting the cling of my borrowed underwear. Some part of my brain wondering if Luka has peeled these particular briefs off Xander before, eager to feel the heft of his boyfriend's dick slap across his face. 

"I haven't," I admit.

Keenan pulls back, and the look on his face makes it entirely clear that he knows exactly what that means.

I expect him to ask for details. To describe what it was like for me, to bend over for strangers and let them plow me. To feel like an anonymous hole, valued for my complicity and tightness. But he doesn't. 

"You want me to get you off?" 

I can't help it, that glance over his shoulder. Knowing the door is locked, but fearful all the same. Not knowing if he'll be missed, or if Xander and Luka will wonder what's keeping me.

Then gasp, at the soft stroke of his fingers across my bulging hardness. 

Maybe it's the absence of any protest, or maybe he's just run out of patience. Not that I even try to stop him - not that I really want to, anyway - when he pulls at my sweats, shoving them down my legs. Hands skating across the taut cotton of the briefs, but it's the t-shirt's hem they seize: dragging it up, my arms raising obediently, to allow Keenan to strip me. 

When he wraps his fingers around me, squeezing my length, it's like he's weighing my potential. A thoughtful expression on his face. 

I'm sticky, dripping, when he peels my underwear down. Enough to leave a huge wet spot behind, Xander's designer briefs tumbling to my ankles as Keenan's fist wraps me. Not even a tight grip, yet, but I'm already trying to lever myself through his fingers. Chasing the friction I've been denied. 

He nudges up my chin, my wide pupils catching on his smirk. 

"Sit."

No way to stop the mewl of frustration, as he releases me. But I'm obedient, nonetheless: back to the wall, sliding down until my bare ass is on the cold tiles. Looking up at him, as Keenan sheds the apron he'd not long finished knotting. Shirt next, crisp white tossed down, and dark blue jeans to follow. My gaze fixed to the half-hard loll of his cock as he strips down his trunks.

He crouches, in the splay of my thighs. Watching my face as his fingertip runs up the underside of my erection; barely halfway and it's already glistening and slick. Tempering the roughness of the digit as he makes languid circles across my throbbing head, before he lifts it to my lips. 

I don't need his order to ease it into my mouth, to lick around it. Tasting the sharp-sweetness of my own precum, some needy and desperate part of me hoping that seeing my good behavior will make Keenan take pity on me. Let me cum, in whatever way he sees fit.

When he shakes his head, grinning, it's like he's read my mind. Knows the shape, the quantity of my compliance now. How far I'll go - how far I'll let him take me - as he grabs my legs and pulls me into a lazier slump. Spreads them further, pushing my ankles back until I'm fully splayed for him. All the most intimate parts of me on display.

His fingers between my cheeks are sly, probing. Not that my ass is much inclined to protest as he digs inside me. 

"How many?"

Again, I don't need more to know what he's asking. My face still blushes, though. 

"Uh... five."

A nod, and suddenly I wonder if for him that's amateur, underwhelming. Not that I have the words to ask that, not with my brain in its current state. 

"All strangers?" 

I go to nod again, then stop. "Not the fifth," I admit. 

His eyebrow lifts. "Who, then?" 

It feels like a betrayal, to tell him. And yet it wasn't like Luka seemed all that reluctant at the time. Not at first, anyway; not when Xander guided him to play with my gooey, gaping hole like Keenan is right now. Not when he felt the soft, pliant twist of my ass kissing the head of his cock, practically sucking him inside so that he could rabbit-fuck me with his boyfriend's hands clamped across our whimpering lips. 

"My friend," I explain, figuring vagueness should suffice. 

He chuckles, and then we both watch his cum-smeared fist stroke my length. Repurposing those almost-all anonymous loads, as Keenan turns away from me and then presses his ass in close. 

"Wait..." 

But he doesn't; ignores me, in fact, as he reaches beneath me - my legs still pressed back, my cock pulled forward between my thighs almost painfully - to position my swollen head against his hole. 

"I don't..." 

Not even sure what I'm protesting now, what I'm seeking to delay, as I feel him bear down on me. The resistance of his ass and then, with a grunt from somewhere deep in his chest, its sudden yielding. A tightness around my tip that makes me gasp in surprise. 

I need him to pause, to wait, to give me a moment so that I can get used to the riot of sensations as he stretches around me, and yet he's not inclined to grant such leniency. Pressing down on me instead, feeding my cream-slathered prick into his body as I twitch and try not to cry out at the suddenness of it. 

"Fuck, yes." Keenan's voice is guttural, rimed with lust. When he tips his head back, it rests against my cheek as I pant and try desperately not to burst in him. 

He's moving before I can steady myself, though. Legs flexing, dragging my length from his incredible clench, from the heat of him. 

When he reaches down, beneath himself and the point of our joining, to hook three fingers in my exposed hole and tug, I can't help the yelp that squeaks out of me. 

"Shit, you feel good," he mutters, pumping his hand in time with the rise and fall of his hips. As though I'm fucking myself as much as I'm screwing him, the lewd, squishy noises from my ass competing with those my own dick is making. 

It should feel dominant, fucking someone, but the roles have been reversed. My body the tool, here: my cock the method by which Keenan will take his pleasure, and my hole a plaything as he squeezes in a fourth finger and rides me harder. Nowhere, too, for me to go - no way for me to protest - as he yanks his hand free and pushes it against my lips. 

For a second I'm reluctant, but his fingers are insistent. The taste strong on my tongue, and some dizzying part of my brain realizing that part of that is Luka, that I have my best buddy's cum in my mouth now, as well as what's left of it in my ass. Not that I have time to dwell on that, as Keenan forces his spit-slicked digits back into my hole and hooks them to grind the swell of my prostate. 

There's drool spilling down my chin, body jerking and shuddering as I rocket my way towards that point of no return. The grip of Keenan around my dick, and his relentless torturing of my sensitive inner-walls, and the knowledge that all this is happening while Luka and Xander sit outside waiting for me. Not realizing I've been stripped, and fingered, and am about to lose my load inside the incredible tightness of someone who's still pretty much a perfect stranger. 

He reaches back and grabs a fistful of my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, and that's what topples me over the edge. 

Muffling my shout in the space between his shoulder blades, feeling as though my body is twisting inside out as I erupt in him. The orgasm almost painful, my hole spasming around his hand as he keeps on riding me, until I'm trying with weak arms to push him away. Frantically seeking a reprieve from the hyper-stimulation. 

Keenan relents, finally. My cock tugging from inside him with an audible pop, cum splashing thickly down onto my crotch as he pushes himself up and turns to face me in my exhausted slump. His own erection already in his fist, well-slimed fingers stroking himself urgently as I pant and stare up wide-eyed at his look of frowning determination. 

My mouth's still hanging open as he sprays my face. Half of that first blast hitting my tongue, the rest across my lips, before he laces cream down my nose and cheeks. A facial so thick and heavy, I can already feel it dripping down me. 

He sounds hoarse, when he laughs. "Fuck, you're a fucking mess." Entertained, as if the sight of me slumped against the wall with his load oozing down my chin is hilarious. 

I think he's planning his exit, when he turns. Wonder if I'll ever have the strength to actually stand up myself, wipe my face down and pull my borrowed clothes back on. Only to realize Keenan isn't leaving, not yet anyway. Is pushing his hips back, instead, his ass pressed into my face as I find my nose and lips buried in the cum-soaked cleft between his smooth, muscular cheeks. 

"Don't wuss out on me now," he warns, somehow both scolding and amused, and it's as though my mouth is on autopilot. Tongue snaking out on instinct, adding the taste of my own load to that of Luka's and the other men who railed me earlier. Quickly fascinated by the way his hole flutters against me, as I lap the cream oozing out of him and then push in further, chasing more. 

He lets me slobber on him for a minute or so, messy and ungainly, before standing. I can't imagine my face is any less of a disaster than his ass is, both smeared with spit and cum. 

It's somewhat gratifying, when he looks down on me with a fairly smug grin, to see his face is flushed as well. Almost like it's an achievement just to make him lose his cool. 

Even so, he's quick to tidy himself up again. Wiped down, jeans buttoned, shirt restored, and the apron tied; he winks at me, in the mirror's reflection, as he runs his fingers through his hair. 

Only speaks, though, when his hand is already on the door. 

"Now, don't monopolize the bathroom, please, sir." That knowing expression restored, as crisp as his dressing had been. "Other customers might want to use it."

I can't even begin to think about a retort before he's slipped out into the corridor. 

Part of me wants to stay slumped there, on the floor, my body wet, and sticky, and exhausted. Until they close the coffee shop, perhaps, and I can creep out under cover of darkness. Only I need to get up, I know I do, because it's not like Keenan locked the door behind him. And - after I lever myself up from the cold tiles, and stumble on shaky legs sparkling with pins and needles to snick the latch across - it only takes catching a glimpse of myself, how much of a travesty I look right now, to push me into grabbing fistfuls of paper towel and trying to make amends. 

Even dressed, scrubbed as clean as I can manage, the Dan looking back at me in the mirror is a mess. I probably smell, too, of sweat and cum. What I really need is thirty minutes in a scalding-hot shower and a half-gallon of soap, but I'd settle for just being able to make a surreptitious exit and stumbling home. 

Only Luka and Xander are sitting out there, waiting for me. In varying degrees of anger and frustration, too, because I know my best friend is royally pissed at me about the stuff he's discovered I've been doing. And - because I know him so damn well, can predict the trajectory of his moods far better than I even understand myself some days - caught up in the fact that he fucked me, something neither of us saw coming even after the unexpected ways our friendship has escalated in intimacy over the past week. 

He's not going to be handling that well, and I have a strong suspicion he'll take it out on me until he figures out the long and short of what happened and how he ought to feel about it. 

I don't blame him for that, just like I don't blame his boyfriend for goading us into it. Can't even say I disliked it, or didn't enjoy it, or didn't get off on the feeling of my closest friend hammering into me. The memory of it still crisp and stark, even as what those other guys did to me melts into a cum-soaked blur. 

The Dan in the mirror looks a little more resolute, than the red-faced guy there just minutes before. Still confused, and borderline shellshocked, but not quite floundering any more. Because I have questions for my best friend, and the guy he's apparently dating, just like I know they have them for me.

---

This is a spin off from "Xander Shows Me My Prostate" which, along with more stories, is over on my site. Or check out my latest story, "Same Old Bobby": it's about what happens when you accidentally fall for your best friend's hot older brother 🥵 Thanks for reading!

-Alex