Long ago, in a port city in the Pacific Northwest, I was searching for a men’s room for an super-urgent pee when I wandered into an office building about ten stories high. On the sixth floor, I found a men’s room and pushed through the door and walked down a long corridor until I found another door, which I opened, stepping into a large and oddly-shaped space, white and echo-y.
Sinks and then urinals ran along the right side of the room, and a row of ten or so toilet stalls, without doors, ran along the left. I could see, from the pair of feet down the row of stalls, that one toilet was occupied. I wanted to take a look at the guy and see him, bare on the john. He’d have his pants down to his ankles, as if he was being spanked.
So I walked along, and, when I came to the stall with the feet, glanced in. There sat a muscular man, about forty, in a bright white military uniform, with his pants and briefs lowered to his ankles, almost covering his black, patent-leather shoes. His shirt hid his cock, but I could see his big, almost hairless thighs on the toilet. I turned around and walked back, and glanced a second time at the officer, who blushed but nodded. I mumbled a hello. He was hot—six feet tall, estimated—with a red-blond crewcut and a square, handsome face.
I decided to take the stall to his left. I pulled down my pants and sat my bare bottom on the toilet. I slid my left foot close to his right and settled on the seat. We could practically “hear” each other listening. To validate my sitting, I began tinkling, a loud, steady stream of urine, into the water, so that he could hear it and be satisfied. I’m peeing, Dad, I thought.
We both sat, stock still, then, slowly, I noticed that his belt buckle, dangling from his open pants, next to my foot, was moving, vibrating gently. His leg trembled and he groaned and sighed as he rubbed something, vigorously now. Yes, he was jacking off.
I knew I had to “reply,” so I began doing the same thing, and answering his sighs with mine and his groans with mine, and edging my shoe closer to his as we both played with our hard-ons.
I wanted to see him again, but I wanted to catch him off-guard, with his hard cock exposed, so, in a shy voice, I asked him, “Do you have any extra toilet paper?” A ridiculous question; there was plenty in my stall and all around. “Sure,” he said, and began pulling at the roll in his stall.
Quietly, as he was doing this, I stood and shifted and peered around the stall partition. I saw him, ripping off the long loop of toilet paper—his huge, pink boner standing all but upright from his thighs. When he saw me, he looked panicky and embarrassed. I felt like laughing. Caught you, Dad, I thought.
To re-assure him, I nodded, and then walked in front of his stall, holding my own erection for him to see. He stood and shuffled toward me. He hugged me and then squeezed my boner between his big, strong thighs and kissed my mouth with very experienced lips and a powerful tongue that pushed against my teeth and gullet. His mouth taste of breath mints and cigarettes.
“Can I see you bum?” I asked.
He turned around, showing me a very wide, muscular, hairless bare bottom. I showed him mine. He felt it. “Nice and smooth,” he said. He kissed me.
Then we heard the men’s room door open and we both rushed back to sit down and look intent and indifferent to each other. I saw a dark-skinned man about fifty, pushing a broom along the floor. He stared at me, pointedly looking between my legs, before he nodded and kept sweeping, working down the floor toward the far wall.
To my surprise, the officer stood and peered around the partition. “He’s OK,” he whispered. “He’s gay. I work in the building. At the Coast Guard recruiting office on the next floor.”
The janitor kept sweeping, the bristles kept scratching the terrazzo floor. The officer hitched his pants up and walked straight into my stall. Then he knelt in front of me as I was sitting on the toilet. He ran his fingers through my hair. “I think you’re sexy,” he whispered, and reached down to pull on my hard cock and then reached under my bare bottom and ran his finger along my crack. He began teasing my anus, tickling and probing.
I’m sure I blushed. “Thanks.” The janitor was now sweeping toward us, then he paused, staring. He was staring at me, sitting, bare, and, of course, at my Dad’s big bare bottom as he knelt in the entrance to my stall.
“What do you like?” my Officer Dad asked. He was inserting his finger into my rectum, deeper and deeper, as he brought his face toward mine. Back then, guys were shy about admitting they liked spanking and usually introduced the subject by saying, “I’m into leather.”
But I’d seen Dad’s bum and seen him sitting, bare, which was almost like seeing him getting a spanking, because he was startled and helpless and the situation emphasized his bum. So I said, “I like to get hit.”
He thrust his finger deep into my butt and I tightened my rectum around it. “Where?” he said. “On the bottom?”
All I could do was nod.
He grinned. “I’ll spank your bottom,” he said. He’d used the word first: “spanked.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Right here.” Now he became stern. “Stand up.”
“There’s two doors. He’ll keep watch.”
The janitor nodded, leaning on his broom.
Dad pulled his finer out of my behind. I stood up and turned around.
“Lift up your shirt. Bend over.”
I was too embarrassed to even answer, I just did as Dad said.
WHAM! He slapped me so hard, I jumped forward and banged my head against the concrete wall. “The sound!” It echoed loud.
“Bend over, I said.”
“I…” I bent over and Dad spanked, hard, over and over, the sound bouncing off the tile and porcelain and terrazzo floor as the janitor stood, smirking and watching me get my licking. I was acutely aware that he could see two bare bottoms: my skinny red, boy’s bare bottom and Dad’s big, muscular officer’s behind. Dad spanked hard; I knew I was getting punished for looking at him on the pot and spying on his boner and being disrespectful. “Ow, ow, acch!”
The janitor lit a cigarette, smiling.
“That’s enough,” I said, really spooked we’d all get caught. I sat heavily back on the toilet, the seat sticking to my red, sore bottom. “You’d better pull your pants up,” I said. “In case someone comes in…”
Dad fixed himself but knelt again. He clamped his big hands onto my thighs and pinned me to the pot. “What…?”
He fastened his lips around my hot, hard cock and began sucking. He was an expert. Then he reached one hand between my thighs and felt for my crack. He re-inserted his finger into my rectum and probed it as deep as he could.
The janitor was watching everything. I made half an attempt to stand, but Dad was stronger and kept me pinned down as kept thrusting his finger in and out.
“I’m gonna cum!” I whimpered. He squeezed my thigh and his big shoulders heaved as he kept gulping. Then long ropes of cum came spurting from my cock, into Dad’s mouth as he swallowed and almost gagged and flexed his finger, in charge of my bare bottom all over again. I kept gasping and whimpering.
When I’d finished cumming, I almost cried, as if the tears I’d held for the hard, bare-bottom spanking were now, at last, coming out.
Dad kissed my damp forehead. “Good boy,” he said, standing. Then he turned on the water in the sink to rinse his finger. “Good boy.”
It was the first of many meetings.