Dan Needs A Public Education

You don't need to catch up on it first, but this a spin-off from "Xander Shows Me My Prostate" from the POV of Luka's best friend Dan. He's falling down a rabbit hole of his own, unexpected kinks - this story explores the mischief they get him into (and the ways they get him off).

Comments appreciated, feedback prized, and eager readers welcome to check out my site for more stories. I have two books on Amazon, if you're a Kindle reader: "I Knew I Was In Trouble" and "A Rumor and a Grebe" 

Happy reading!
-A

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Still wearing yesterday's clothes, and still kinda sticky underneath them from a couple of loads, I drive down to the gas station. Right off the highway, hence the crazy-high prices and the battered plexiglass between me and the price-gouged customers. I'd wondered why it was so necessary the first week, right up until some guy decided to make it absolutely clear how fuckin' pissed he was at what a gallon cost. 

After that, you don't look at the scuffed, chipped plastic in quite the same way. 

Despite how much the fuel cost, and the shitty wage I get, it wasn't like the owners were putting the profits into the store itself. Burnt coffee in a big serve-yourself urn that wasn't even worth the ninety-nine cents we charged for it. A few racks of the sort of super-processed snacks that would probably survive a nuclear apocalypse. And then, behind me on the safe side of the plexiglass, a couple shelves of the good stuff: the painkillers, smokes, gum, candy, and the rest. 

Being near the highway meant we did good business, even if only one in twenty or less came inside. Mostly I just watched through the dirty window and spent my shift on my phone. Periodically one of the receipt printers would run out of paper, or something like that, and then I'd need to go reload it. Usually while getting glared at by whatever unlucky schmuck had been left waiting for the proof they needed to expense what we were overcharging. 

Like I said, it's shitty, but bad pay is better than no pay. 

The only way I'd figured out to stomach the coffee was to drink it as soon as it'd finished brewing. It still tasted like muddy, acid slop, but at least it didn't have that distinctive musty flavor that the never-washed urn so generously added. I was pretty sure that the truckers only saw it as a caffeine and sugar delivery system, given the number of sweetener packets we seemed to go through on the daily. 

The lack of sleep is catching up with me, and the second Big Gulp sized cup is doing a number of my bladder, even if it hasn't really stopped me from yawning. I sling the "Back In 5" sign onto the little hook on the partition, and slip out through the back door to the restrooms. 

I'll confess, for all I've thought about understall stuff lately, the idea of doing it at the gas station didn't really occur. Or, at least, I'd maybe thought about it for a minute, and then discounted it. On the grounds of, well, you don't shit where you eat, and getting caught here could mean saying goodbye to my job. 

All the same, that didn't stop my brain from working through the mechanics of how it could happen. There were only two stalls and a urinal, but the partitions ended well before the tiled floor. As gas station bathrooms go, I didn't think it was too unpleasant. Some guy with a mop and a bucket came by a couple of times a day to make sure it wasn't a total disaster. 

You could kneel down, anyway, and the wall between the two cubicles would be at just the right height to slip your cock under. Or, for that matter, it wouldn't be an uncomfortable crouch to push your hand through to the other side and grab onto a guy there. Like, if that was the sort of thing you were looking for. 

Maybe it was all the shit that'd gone down at Luka's, and all the surprising things I'd heard about him doing. Or, maybe I'm just perpetually horny and messed up in the head. Either way, when I pushed the front of my sweats down, standing at the urinal, my dick was rock hard and pointing eagerly upwards. 

When you've got the room to yourself, you treat yourself to a couple of strokes, right? Only natural. 

It was easy to forget that I was in, officially at least, a public place. Round the back of the gas station, the noise from the highway is a muffled roar. You can hardly hear the clicking, hissing sound of the pumps; only the occasional truck starting up and pulling out sends a rumble through the building. 

Hardly any distraction, then, from staring down at your cock in your fist, as you milk a few drops of precum out of the swollen tip. 

It was difficult to believe that Luka had watched me cum last night. Difficult, too, to think back through the stuff he'd told me about; to be able to picture my best friend tugging on himself, using my own cream as lube. Like porn, but right in front of you. 

The mental pictures are fun, but they're not doing anything to get rid of the erection. And that means that pissing is going to be a fucking nightmare, too, with more of it probably getting on me than in the urinal. I'm about to step back, admit defeat and duck into one of the stalls, when I hear the door swing open behind me. 

I freeze. Dick still throbbing in my fist, as whoever it is walks past me and into a stall. Latch rasping across with a crude, metallic click.

I have to move, because I still really, really need to piss, and I'm only meant to be gone from the counter for like five minutes, max. But that means walking down to the other stall so that I can sit down and angle my dick rather than make a total fucking mess, and that seems like it's gonna be hella suspect to whoever the guy is that just walked in. 

In a toss-up between that and wetting myself later, though, I don't really have much of a choice. 

Tucking my erection back into my sweats, and trying to pin it upright with the elastic waistband, I take the few paces down the room and into the other stall. Not so quietly that it sounds suspicious, but not so loud that the other guy is gonna start wondering what the hell is going on. 

I don't know why I'm overthinking all this. Or, really, I do know, but I don't know why I'm letting it get to me. Sure, I was basically jacking off when he walked in, but it wasn't like I was planning to cum all over the urinal or something. And I can't be blamed for what my dick does; if I got angry at it for getting hard unexpectedly, I'd be furious like six dozen times a day or more. 

Actually, that's probably a conservative estimate. 

Sitting, I lean forward so that I can push my stubborn cock down with my fingers. Angling it enough that, as I do that whole focusing-on-not-focusing thing to get my bladder to cooperate, I don't just hose down the whole door in the process. 

It's taking longer than normal, because I can't help but imagine what the guy sitting like, a foot and a half from my left shoulder is thinking. Whether he's listening to me, and wondering why he can't hear me pissing. If that's making him even more suspicious about the fact that I left the urinal in the first place. 

I know I'm overthinking it, but once my brain has started down that path I can't help it. Almost gasp in relief as I feel my body give up and relax.

I'm just questioning quite how much liquid there could possibly be inside me when I hear it. The squeak of a rubber sole on the tiles. 

Like, that shouldn't be odd. Peoples' shoes squeak all the time. But I haven't heard anything else from the cubicle next to me; not the sound of someone standing up, or zipping their pants, or unlocking the door. Just that one squeak, loud enough that I can hear it over the final few dribbles from the end of my still half-hard dick. 

When I hear it a second time, I look down. Just in time to see the edge of a sneaker twist the inch or so needed to bring it into view under the bottom of the stall. 

My heart stops beating. 

Or, well, it doesn't but it sure fuckin' feels that way. And I definitely hold my breath, as though any sound from my body could be enough to shatter whatever is happening right now. What situation I seem to have walked into, or maybe created, I'm not entirely certain. 

He could be just moving around. Hell, maybe his legs went to sleep because he's been driving all morning, and now the poor guy is just trying to get some blood flow going again. Maybe he has killer pins-and-needles right now, and I'm reading far, far too much into just being able to see one scuffed Converse. 

Knowing all of that doesn't stop me from wondering what would happen if I slipped my own foot a few inches across too, though. 

My brain may not be sure what's going on, but my body seems determined to get me into trouble. At least, that's all I can assume as I stare down at where my foot is easing across to the left. Almost like it's doing it of its own accord. 

There's still plausible deniability. I could just be a guy with a wide stance while he's sitting; totally innocent, nothing sleazy going on here, officer. Wonder, even, if I'm truly imagining everything when there's no apparent reaction from my anonymous neighbor. 

And then his foot taps. Once. And then another time. 

I hold my breath. Telling myself that this is the point where I can plead ignorance and innocence; shake my dick, wash my hands, and head back to the counter to finish the rest of my shift. 

All the while wondering, I have zero doubt, about what I'd potentially walked out on. 

Regretting it even as I do it, I tap twice. Watch as his foot slides a little closer to the dividing shadow between our two stalls, then am forced to recalculate just how fast he's moving when I realize my own leg is moving, too. Both of us closing the gap, until I feel the unmistakable press of the side of his sneaker against my own. 

There, for a moment. Long enough that I have to blink, suddenly, my eyes dry and itchy from staring down at that point of contact. 

And then he pulls his foot away. 

It's all a mistake, a misunderstanding, my brain fills in. Is conjuring up every possible excuse - and wondering if I can get out of the bathroom before he does, before we need to make awkward eye-contact at the chipped sinks - and interrupted when I see the shadows shift. 

A hand, under the edge of the divider. 

Not gesturing, not moving even. But the intent - palm upturned, fingers outstretched - is unmistakable. 

I'm biting my lip, so hard I only realize the pain just before I break the skin. Time dragging out as my brain battles with my body and the dueling instincts: stay, explore, and also run, run as fast as you can. Terrified, too, that this indecision is taking too long, that the outcome will be calculated for me because the guy on the other side of this dinted metal partition will give up. Withdraw both hand and offer. 

For a second I wonder if this was how Luka felt. The situation different, sure, but the roil of need and terror in the pit of his stomach the same as is churning in me now. Disbelief and hunger, and the symptoms of each almost indistinguishable.

He beat my three fingers, I suddenly think. Grinning, like an idiot, at the memory. 

Still grinning when I shove my sweatpants down, bare knees cold on the tiles. 

I don't know how much he can see, how the angles work, and so I push down at the base of my shaft. Easing my cock into his palm, his fingers closing around me with an eagerness that almost makes me jerk back in surprise. 

"Nice." 

It's a murmur, little more; I'm barely able to hear it, over my rasping breath. Almost like he's talking to himself, my own ears irrelevant now. Only my erection and the way he's groping at me important, squeezing me as though he wants to test how firm, how turned on I am. 

I can't remember my cock ever feeling this hard. Throbbing in this stranger's grip.

It's a hand-job, and it's at a weird, awkward angle, my thighs spread almost uncomfortably as I lean in toward the partition. Cheek resting on my arm, hips tilting to try to make his hold on me easier, less cumbersome. And yet it makes every time I've jerked myself off feel two-dimensional, bland. The predictability of my own fist gone, and in its place I'm at the mercy of where his fingers choose to roam. 

He pulls on me, not just a stroke but a request, and I shuffle forward. Pressing my chest to the wall, my thighs under it now, as his hands run across my dick and tug at my balls. No way of knowing where he'll pull, rub, brush next, each movement as unknowable as his face, his name, his story. Why he's in a gas station restroom jerking another man's cock. 

I try to picture what it must look like from his side. My erection jutting up eagerly, legs splayed. I can feel the way my precum has smoothed his strokes on me, and my brain is spinning at the idea of a total stranger seeing something so intimate. Being the cause of it.

I'm dangerously close, I realize, the combination of the thoughts and the friction driving me toward an orgasm at breakneck speed. Unclear on what the protocol is, what's polite here. Warn him I'm about to blow, or is the surprise part of the appeal?

There's no need to tell him, though; either it's clear in the way my legs are shuddering, or he can hear the gasps and whimpers I'm trying to muffle in my arm. His fingers focusing on my hyper-sensitive tip, a ring of them tugging at the flare of my head, and then it's all too much, too overwhelming. Balls clenching in the grip of his other hand as the first splash of cum erupts from me. A fist milking out the second, the third, keeping stroking until I'm twisting and squeaking as pleasure inverts into over-sensitivity and I yank myself back into my cubicle. 

Gaze suddenly blooming from the tunnel vision I hadn't even noticed was narrowing. Whole body twitching with an intensity, an energy, I've never felt before. 

And the post-cum flood of uncertainty, doubt, horror rushing in over me like a tidal wave. 

I push myself up to my feet, legs stiff after holding the wide crouch. Tug up my underwear and my sweatpants in one, panicked drag. Unable to take my eyes away from that gap at the bottom of the partition, suddenly terrified that I'll see his cock appear there. Demanding that I pay up on my side of the bargain, even if it's an agreement neither of us discussed the terms of beforehand. 

What if he opens the door as I'm leaving too? What if I have to see his face, make eye-contact with him? 

My stomach is clenching with dread as I slam the latch across and half-stride, half-stumble across the room to the door. Barely a chance to catch a glimpse of my face in the cracked, scratched mirror; I hardly recognize the pale, mortified-looking Dan that glances back at me. 

And then I'm blinking in the sunlight outside; not stopping though, no, rushing all the way around to the employee entrance and punching in my code. Only feeling like I'm able to suck in the gasp my lungs have been howling for when I'm behind that battered plexiglass again. Another cubicle, but one that suddenly feels designed to protect me.

With a shaking hand, I take down the "Back in 5" sign and set it on its shelf under the counter. Part of me wants to look at the bank of screens on the wall, the feeds from the cameras scattered all around the forecourt. That's part of the job, even, making sure people aren't doing dumb shit like trying to pump gas into soda bottles or install card skimmers. 

I can't, though. Because even though there's not a camera in the bathroom - thank fuck - there's definitely one which covers the doors to the restrooms. And I really, really don't want to see the guy who just jacked me off in there. 

I don't have a name for the feeling that floods through me when I think that. When I acknowledge - even if it's just in my head - what I just did. What I allowed someone to do to me. 

No, not allowed. Encouraged. This wasn't some random guy grabbing at me in public: I put myself in the position where it could happen. Negotiated it with our unspoken footwork. Left little uncertainty as to what I was hoping he'd do, when I presented myself in that little gap. 

It should be making me feel sick, more sick than I already do, and yet now there's something else there, too. Some undercurrent, a thrill of sorts. Almost like that feeling when you bang your elbow in just the right spot, and it's painful, sure, but it's that twisting, you-almost-want-to-laugh sensation of your funny bone. 

I'm hard again, I realize, with a jerk. Cock rigid and caught up in the twists of my underwear, where I'd hurriedly pulled up my boxers in the rush to escape the restroom. Not looking down, I slowly readjust myself through my sweats.

He could walk in right now, that guy, and I wouldn't recognize him. Wouldn't know it was the same dude that just jacked me off until I blew all over the bathroom floor. And he wouldn't know it was me, most likely. He'd got a glimpse of me, from the back, when he first walked in, but would that be enough to give it away? Had he been paying enough attention, in those moments before we each made it clear that our interests had escalated? 

I still don't dare look at the cameras, even though by now he'll likely be long gone, but I do glance through the dirty window. Out to where sullen, bored-looking people are pumping gas or making a lackluster effort at cleaning their windshields. Shouting - the words inaudible from here, but the frustration obvious - at the kids in minivans, or trying to wipe the gasoline stink off their fingers with an ineffectual clump of paper towel. 

They don't have a clue. What I just did, what just happened to me. What I let myself get sucked into, lust and curiosity overcoming better judgement. None of them know, out there. Even if the guy I did it with is still waiting to leave, to him I'm just a cock in a bathroom. 

There's something weirdly liberating about that realization. 

My hand drops down to my crotch again. Not adjusting this time, but just gently squeezing. Fingers wrapping around the heft of my dick beneath the fabric; remembering how it felt when that stranger's fingers did the same. At the time I could hardly focus on the sensations, not specifically. The roughness of his fingertips and the twist of his palm. His goal and mine in line, but the method different to when I play with myself. 

Part of me wants to tell someone, to share my new secret. And yet there's nobody I can tell, not really. Luka the closest, but even then I'm not sure my best friend could handle it. That he wouldn't get caught up on the "how could you" and "it's so dangerous"; the mundane parts my brain has already fast-forwarded through. 

He wouldn't understand, I know that. How I could've done it; how I could be so fascinated by it. And Luka wouldn't understand that, now I've had a taste of it, there's no way for me to not want more.