Dan Needs A Public Education

I give myself twenty seconds. A count to ten, in my head, twice over. 

Feeling the way my breathing grudgingly settles back to something close to normal. The way my skin cools with a sweat I hadn't realized was building. My cock softening, until it's dangling heavily between my thighs. A droplet of cum still precarious on the swollen tip.

That's nothing, of course, compared to the mess they made of my face. 

Cum, from the guy who stumbled across us, laced in heavy, sagging cords across my nose and cheek. Cum, from the guy I was blowing, where it drooled across my lips and down my chin. The smell of it heady and thick, filling my nostrils until two of my senses are overwhelmed by those loads.

I need to stand up and straighten myself out, I know, but it's so fucking hard to focus. Only the thought of how I'd even begin to explain myself, should someone else walk in right now, is sufficient to nudge me out of my reverie. 

My thighs protest as I push myself upright, muscles cramping. Carefully, trying not to soak my shirt in the process, I stumble over to the sink. 

For a second, I don't recognize the person in the cracked, scuffed mirror. Watch him looking back at me, trying to map his cum-smeared features on top of the topography of my own. What I remember of myself, the person I was before I stumbled into whatever this new reality really is. 

It feels somehow cowardly to bend down, to splash water across my cheeks. The cold like a shock, as my fingers scrub and I allow my brain to get lost in the chill and the friction. A fistful of paper towels to dry myself, before I dare to stand up once more and reexamine the guy in the glass. 

There's a sense of never being able to go back. I expected that, really. What I hadn't predicted was how little I'd want to go back, either. 

I force myself to walk out on legs that still feel unsteady. Trying not to second-guess my own gait, to jinx myself with questions of whether I look normal, or forced, or just plain suspicious. One of those autonomic functions that, as soon as you think consciously about it, you fear you've somehow made intentional and deliberate. As though your lungs will forget to inhale and exhale if you don't explicitly remind them to. 

Gradually, I let my pace ease. Until I'm strolling, almost, with a forced sense of casualness; making my way all the way down to the edge of the pond.

There's a bench there, and I sit and watch the ducks as they invert themselves. Wonder what it must be like, to be so driven as to push yourself into another world. To stay there, stick it out, until you can't remain another minute longer; to see the familiar reel back through blurry eyes. 

Then again, maybe that's not so foreign a feeling any more. 

Pulling out my phone, I look at the numbers on the screen. If I'm going to call someone, there's only one person that could be. 

I know he's probably with that guy, the dude that suddenly has him skittering between preoccupied and loved-up and just plain sketchy. Feel bad, too, for disturbing whatever that is, whatever they're calling that arrangement. Even if I know that I could call Luka anytime, tell him it was a best friend emergency, and that he'd drop everything to help fix it. 

I'm just not sure I can put into words what I think needs fixing right now. Can't even rehearse it as I listen to the phone ring. 

"Hey." 

His voice sounds tight; I guess that guy really is with him. Not like he's uncomfortable, just that he has an audience. Luka gets self-conscious when people listen to him talking on the phone. 

"Hey. Sorry for calling." 

A grunt, something close to a sigh. "Don't be dumb. What's up?" 

I just blew a guy in a park restroom while another stranger jerked off on my face. I just got down on my knees after picking up a dude at the piss trough; I don't know his name and I can hardly even remember what he looks like, but I can still taste his load. I just did something out of character, even for me, and I don't know if I should freak out or jerk off at the thought of it.

I don't say any of that. Just clench my jaw, as though that's sufficient to stop the confessions from spilling out of me. 

"Dude, are you okay?" 

The concern is clear in his voice, and that only makes me feel worse. Because he's resilient, my best buddy, and more capable than he gives himself credit for, and yet I know he worries too. Worries about himself, and about his family, and about me, no matter how many times I tell him that he really doesn't need to. 

"I'm fine," I say, forcing the words out, "it's just..."

Silence, for a moment. Eventually, Luka realizes I'm not going to finish that sentence. 

"Just what, dude? You're freaking me out."

I take a breath, a deep one, as quiet as I can. Focus on trying to make my voice bland, blasé. Even if I can hear the brittle edge to it nonetheless. 

"When you were hitting send on those photos, the first time, you were shit-scared, right?" I ask him, finally. 

Silence again. I wonder if he's trading glances with that "X" guy; if he's thinking through how he'll fill in the other half of this overheard conversation later. What words my best friend will put in my mouth.

"Yeah, totally," he admits. "You saw me."

I nod, even though we can't see each other now. 

"But it was worth it, overall. Like, in the end, right? That feeling of being scared and uncertain."

"Sure." Luka stretches the word out, like he's simultaneously trying to think the answer through and also come up with a reason why I might be asking.

"Okay," I tell him.

It's like I can hear his frown, in his voice. "Have you done something?"

There's a splash of guilt, but I brazen it out. Watching the ducks flip over and then right themselves; no real order to it, to when each inverts, and yet they always come back. Maybe there's my answer, really. 

"Nah, nothing to worry about," I tell him, my voice breezy. 

Luka doesn't sound convinced. "Just don't..." 

I wonder what, exactly, he's going to caution me against. 

"...just, like, don't do anything dumb," he finishes. 

I could still tell him. Could just blurt it out, as much of a shock as that guy unloading on my face was. But I know I'm not going to.

"It's all good, dude. Go flirt with your guy."

A snort that's also a splutter of self-conscious outrage. It makes me grin to hear it.

"I'm not... it's not..."

I shake my head, and it feels like we're back on familiar ground. Sure, I could tease him more, but I decide to take pity.

"Have fun, dude. Let's talk later, okay?"

A pause. "Okay, catch you later," Luka says, sounding as though he's worried still. 

I figure he'll get distracted soon enough.

Thumbing the phone off, I slip it into my pocket. Sit back on the bench, feeling the warmth of the morning sun through my sweatpants. 

I should probably go home. Not like my mom doesn't have a list of chores an arm long for me to do. "Idle hands do the devil's work," she likes to joke, and now - having seen some of the stuff my hands have been getting up to - I have to think she could be right. 

Problem is, I don't really want to leave. 

Not because I'm lazy, and the idea of chores sounds dire. Or, at least, not just that. More because my brain feels like it's in a certain space right now, one where I'm not overthinking or second-guessing, just letting me go with the flow overall. And I really don't want to lose that sensation. 

Luka didn't realize he was giving me permission, or reassuring me, but that's what happened all the same. A reminder that, just because something's scary or out of character, that doesn't automatically mean you shouldn't do it. Or, even, that maybe it means you should actively push yourself to try that frightening thing. Who wants to stay in their comfort zone all the time, right?

I'm grinning to myself, aware of how readily I can justify this shit when I want to, when I realize someone is smiling back at me. Another guy, older than me but hardly by much, walking past along the path. Maybe he thought my grin was aimed at him, or maybe he's just friendly; either way, he's glanced across and has this happy, kinda knowing expression on his face. 

I jerk my head, a little "s'up" acknowledgement, and see his eyebrows raise in wordless reply. 

It's easy to assume he really is just being friendly, right up until the point he turns again. A half-dozen paces further down the path, now, and it's not like it's some quick glance. His neck twisting, as he looks back over his shoulder, right at me. 

I watch him, my eyes hooked on his grin. Brain struggling to decide whether I'm reading too much into all this - into some guy just being sociable in the park - or if the unspoken messages I'm seeing could actually be there. And, if they are, trying to decide too if I should do something in response to that. 

I'm pushing myself upright before I even realize I've made a decision. A moment of self-doubt, of whether I'm making a fool of myself or if he's going to think I'm some sort of weirdo. Defused a split-second later when his grin spreads into a smirk that I can't miss, even as he turns away. 

It feels like an invitation to follow, so I do that. Not trying to close the gap between us, but no doubt in my mind that I'm going where he's leading me. Even as he breaks off the asphalt of the pathway around the lake, heading up into the copse of trees that crowd this part of the park. 

Robbed of the full sunlight, it's cooler under the dense canopy of leaves. Still bright enough to see, though, not that I really need much light to track his dark blue jacket from all of twelve feet away. I'm not sure if he knows where he's going, has somewhere specific in mind, or if the goal is just discretion: far enough away from the well-trafficked parts of the park that you could tell yourself you're in a bubble of privacy. 

Privacy with voices, I suddenly realize, as we piece our way through the downed branches and mulch. Not quite so deserted as I assumed. 

Maybe he can read my mind, or maybe he just heard it for the first time too. Either way, he turns again; flashes me that knowing smirk once more. Something conspiratorial about it, now, enough so that I wonder whether my own expression is more aware than I actually feel inside. 

There are two guys, as we round the edge of a bank of trees and into a small clearing. Responsible for the voices we'd heard, and - louder now, no mistaking it - the grunting, too. No question as to what that was from, either, given the way one is braced against a splintered, half-fallen trunk while the other pounds away behind him. 

I blink at the scene in front of me, shocked even though my brain can't exactly say it didn't expect something like this might be possible. The guy getting fucked has his shirt pushed up, exposing the smooth expanse of his back. Pants shoved down to his ankles, underwear a messy tangle across his calves as he leans back into each angry stab.

The dude fucking him looks angry, too. Face flushed; little undressed beyond the gape of his jeans, but it's enough to let him pump his cock into the willing hole. Knuckles white as he holds the other's hips.

When I finally glance across, at the guy who led me here, it's to find he's already watching me. Gaze fixed on my own wide-eyed stare, as though the sight of my surprise is somehow more fascinating than two men fucking in some anonymous clearing in the forest. 

I wonder how convincing my smile is, how obvious my naivety here might be. 

For a moment, I think he's going to close the gap between us. Put me on the spot another time this morning; force me to decide just how far I'm willing to take this new fascination, how much I'll let this fresh obsession jerk me out of normality. Instead, though, he simply watches me as he heads closer to the screwing couple. Barely breaking eye contact even as he tugs the front of his shorts down and takes up position by the bent-over dude's face. 

I can hear the sharp intake of breath, as the guy starts blowing him. 

It's like my brain can't decide where to look, what to focus on. Gaze skittering across the three men, unable to take them all in at once, and so flitting in uncontrolled lurches. Catching on the darker skin of the guy getting nailed, and the way his torso tapers; how his waist looks even thinner, compared to the big hands of the man fucking him. The guy I followed has echoed that grip, now, palms flat either side of his head and fingers digging through the unruly hair. Somewhere, in the time it has taken me to scan my eyes across them, he's gone from getting sucked to face-fucking that stranger, the clearing filled with the wet, sticky slap of someone getting pounded at both ends. 

I'm painfully hard again, I realize with a jolt. Cock tenting my sweatpants obscenely. I could claim not to be affected by the scene in front of me, not tempted by it, and yet all it would take would be a single look to see through my lie. 

The guy who led me down here winks at me again, and it feels like permission. Or encouragement, perhaps; either way, I shove down the front of my sweats and haul out my already-dripping dick. 

There's something about watching them, the three of them, as they grunt and slam out in the open. Something about jerking myself - long, almost tentative strokes, because even though it's really not been all that long since my last orgasm, I can already feel the excitement bubbling in me now - with the familiarity of walls around me. Knowing anyone could walk through the trees and catch us, discover me watching this stranger being spit-roasted, as though I ordered up a real-life porn movie.

The precum slicks across my palm, between my fingers. My fist making a soft, wet, squishing noise as I ease it down my shaft. A circular motion around the flare of the tip, my knees twitching at the flood of sensations, before I ease my hand back down again and start the whole thing over. 

He's watching me, I realize. They both are. Each of the men at either end of the guy they're using as so much fuckable meat; he's taking their dicks but I'm holding their attention. The weight of their collective stares leaving me feeling bolder, more dangerous. My legs spreading as I lean back against a felled tree trunk, ass against the roughness of the bark as I echo their performance with one of my own. 

There's something about being watched. Something which takes me back to my photo shoot with Luka; to the way he stared as I tugged out my erection from the leg of my shorts, and toyed with myself on his couch. At the time he looked unbothered, indifferent, but I could tell he was watching me intently all the same. As though memorizing the way I rubbed myself, the ways my body reacted most intensely to. 

He's close. The guy fucking this half-stripped stranger: I can tell from the way he's gripping harder, by the snarl of over-stimulated fury twisting his face. Hips slapping with an eagerness that borders on pure aggression, now, and each stroke setting the whole trio rocking like a Newton's cradle of friction. 

I'm watching his face as he blows in the anonymous hole. 

Jaw clenched, cheeks and forehead flushed. Short, staccato jabs off his hips, and the undercurrent of his growl. 

He stumbles back, cock sliding out wetly - thick and heavy still - as he pants and shakes his head. It's like he shed all expression along with his load, face a mask now. Looking at the slick cleft he'd just been nailing with something close to indifference, as he pulls his jeans closed. 

I'm still stroking as he walks past me; fist still in motion as he swings wide at the last moment, shoulder colliding with my own. His hand behind my neck, pulling my forehead into his as he leans down into me, and I can smell the sweat and cum on him, ripe and dizzying. 

"Go take your turn, then," he tells me. Voice a hiss, words for our ears alone. 

And then he's gone, through the trees even before the heat from his palm has cooled on the back of my neck. When I look up, my unexpected guide is watching me, knowingly. 

I'm on autopilot: fist, arm, legs. Still jerking as I duck-walk over, the rustle of the leaves underfoot competing with the wet, thick sound of someone's throat being pounded. Until I'm looking down at the well-creamed gape of a dude I suspect would have no problem at all with me just shoving my dick inside him. 

I don't, though. Just watch, fascinated, as I slide the head of my dick up and down between those spread cheeks. The sweat and jizz joining my precum, easing each stroke, until the friction is a teasing whisper: the promise of something tighter and more fulfilling if only I give in to what's been offered.

The image of Luka springs into my brain. My best friend slamming the muscled ass of the dude he's suddenly so into; his body tensed and urgent, rooting that fat cock of his deep like the little stud I know he is. 

I glance up, on instinct, and find I'm being observed. His eyebrow arching, even as his unstinting pace on the guy's throat continues. A look that's somehow both conspiratorial and challenging, all in one.

I'm hooked on that stare as I push my dick into the gooey mess the last man left for me. 

---

This a spin-off from "Xander Shows Me My Prostate" from the POV of Luka's best friend Dan. He's experimenting with a newfound fascination with getting off in public - this story explores the trouble a "straight" boy can get into chasing his first gay experiences.

Thank you for reading - Comments, feedback, and ratings always appreciated! I recently released "Gaped On My Eighteenth Birthday II: You Promised Me Your Throat" after the first part got such a positive reception - hope you enjoy it! 

-A