Dan Needs A Public Education

Part of me wonders if they're going to ask for permission. Find out what I'm into, whether I'm willing and eager for more. Only I know that they've seen all they need to - my back arched, ass pushed out - in order to have come to a decision about my compliance here. Have watched the strangers' cum dripping down my balls and onto the grimy tiles, and read in that answers to any question they could have.

They jostle into the cubicle with me, almost shoving the previous guy out of the way. I hear him chuckle, the sound dimming as he retreats down the hallway. 

There are other things to listen to, though, other sounds the intent of which are equally unmistakable. Like the rough purr of a zipper being tugged down, and the rustle of fabric. Advance notice of the hands which grab my hips and yank me back. 

"Fuck, he's sloppy." 

There's amusement in there, and lust, and eagerness. Not that I'm in much of a state to go hunting for hidden meanings, my focus locked on the hard brush of what can only be another cock between my cheeks. Swiping up through that glaze of foaming cum, and precum, and spit as it drools out of me, and this new guy clearly decides that's all the lube he requires.

I grunt, in shock and some pain with it, as he pushes into me. Not so much a matter of size, of girth, but a disinterest in delicacy. His hunger to be buried inside my ass overruling any concerns about whether I can take it.

He pulls me back by my waist as he pushes forward, and I feel myself reshaping around his length. Dizzy with the strange blend of hyper-sensitivity and numbness from the friction, as the flared head of his cock grinds against my inner walls. 

"Still tight, though." A compliment shared through gritted teeth. His friend laughs. 

"How many fucks today?" The question aimed at me, even if he seems equally focused on unbuckling his jeans and shoving them and his boxers down. Crowded in alongside me, pushing my arm against the cubicle wall as I rock on my heels and try to stay upright. 

"T-two," I manage to stutter out. I still don't know if that makes me a slut or a novice. 

"Well, we can double that for you now," the guy says, wagging his erection between his fingers. Long and mostly thin, but widening in the middle, in a way that's already making me wonder how it will feel pushing in and out of my hole. 

His friend is busy there, though, and so he slaps it against my face. Flecks of precum flying, the sound of it lewd and wet. I can smell him, too, musk and sweat. Not dirty but manly, a masculinity which leaves my mouth watering, and then feeling a fresh stab of guilt at my reaction. 

He's already got me pegged as a cocksucker, though. Or, at least, he's confident I won't complain, as the arrowhead tip of his dick nudges against my lips. Smearing himself over me, until I open wide and let him push across my tongue. 

"Yeah, that's a good boy," he grunts, fingers spreading at the back of my head. A moment later and I'm being pulled into him, a pressure I could fight if I really wanted to, but I don't. Simply allow him to drive himself into my gullet. 

There's something otherworldly about it, like an out-of-body experience. As though I'm poised above the cubicle, looking down: watching myself get plugged at both ends, and trying to map the Dan I know over the top of this sweaty, well-plied youth. No protest as the guy fucking my ass gets rougher, more aggressive, the small space echoing with the harsh slap of his hips against my cheeks. 

"Squeeze, you little slut." 

It's a demand, not a request. Feedback for how the meat he's screwing should perform better, should maximize the pleasure of this stranger. And in a way I'm glad of it, glad of the focus: try my best to clamp down on him, like I did to the last guy. To marshal overwhelmed muscles and make the gooey mess of my ass press in around him. Both of us knowing that what I'm really doing is trying to milk the cum from him. 

It's hard, though, hard to make a tired body comply, and hard to give it my undivided attention. Brain split, part of me equally concerned with the way my lips are spread around the other cock that's brutalizing me. Trying to remember to breathe when he pulls back just enough to unstopper my throat, to stave off the tunnel vision when he buries himself in me, my lips tight around the thick-furred base. 

He slaps my cheek, hard, and my body flinches instinctively. Prompting a huff of surprise from behind me. 

"Yeah, fuck, do that again. The fucker clamps down."

I should've known, some little voice drifting in my brain points out. Should've guessed that, if I wasn't giving them what they wanted willingly, then they'd merely extract it from me instead. The nature of our roles already clear from the moment they'd found me in the restroom. 

Another slap, and I flinch again. Feel fingers squeeze my waist tighter in response, and I almost fall forward from his staccato stab, only saved by the guy feeding my his inches. 

"Hurry the fuck up, else I'm gonna cream his throat." 

Impatience and the tighter grip of his fingers in my hair. Clearly there's a pecking order, here, a ranked list of priorities. Breeding my hole scoring more points than making me swallow his load. 

There's no reply, just the slam-slam-slam into my cramping body. And then, just when I'm starting to think it'll never happen, a hiss through clenched teeth, and I know a third batch of anonymous cum has just been pushed into me.

He's not gentle, as he pulls out, though my cough of discomfort is muffled by the cock plugging me. 

"All yours." 

I can already hear him fastening his jeans; the guy who's just been reaming my throat is wasting no time, either. Repositioning behind me, a hand flat on my bare back to push me down. Tilting my ass up to better welcome him inside, as if the slick of cream that feels as if it's glossing me from the waist down wasn't invitation enough.  

"Damn, you sure it was only three loads?" He laughs, fingers pulling at me as if he could open me up fully, spread me, get some measure of just how much cum has been squirted into my colon. No less rough with my tender hole than his friend was; I muffle my whimper into the meat of my arm, my lips feeling raw as he mauls my entrance.

"Stop playing and nail him already." 

He's still tugging me open as I feel his head push inside. Barely any resistance, not that either of us thinks I'd put up a fight, now. My compliance abundantly clear in how I gurgle as he fills me, until it's that fat midsection of his meaty shaft that's gaping me, rather than his fingers. My eyes rolling back in my head at the unfamiliar stretch, and the knowledge that in a moment he's going to pull back and I'll feel it all over again in reverse. 

"Listen to that fucking mess," he taunts, not that it needs highlighting. The wet, squishy soundtrack of his fuck more than loud enough, as his dick churns the goo in me with each stroke. An unmistakable reminder of what I've done to myself, here, what I've brought upon myself. 

He's pounding me harder, now. Encouraged by the debauchery of my public excesses, the way it slops around him, the knowledge that I made myself a plaything. A set of holes, and if I'm getting off on this too - and I am, I realize with a jolt, my cock rigid as it waves beneath me - then that's just a side-effect, a coincidence hardly worth noting. 

For a minute I think he's going to hug me, as he leans forward. Long body draping over mine, and I can imagine the tightness of his arms around me. The way they'll feel binding my chest, the heat of him against my naked back. 

That's not his goal, though, something that becomes clear as his fingers push into my mouth. Thick, and insistent, and smeared liberally with the overspill from my ass that I have no choice now but to sample. My lips stretched taut as he uses that grip to pull me back, meet his eager pounding, while the taste of strangers' loads floods my tongue. 

"You want it?" 

My brain can barely form a sentence, a word. Even if it could, the way he's yanking on my mouth means actually saying something intelligible would be beyond me anyway. Reduced instead to grunting as he hammers at my hole. 

It doesn't matter, though, just like my compliance was taken for granted. His asking less, even, than a formality: a mockery, really, for what I know is coming next. 

And it's not like I'd say no, anyway.

His hips curl, and he pushes in as deep as he can get. Holding us both in place, locked, as I feel the throb of him and know I'm getting that second, promised contribution. Two more notches added to the tally, even if I'm sure plenty of the cum is already down my thighs and smearing the tiles. 

He releases me, shoving me forward, and it's all I can do to stop myself from colliding with the toilet. Hear him laugh as my foal legs crumple beneath me, my knees in the sticky mess. 

It makes no sense for me to expect him to say something before he leaves. Even though what we've done has no basis in civility, only release. Still, it's a moment before I realize that the silence isn't just him thinking up some suitably demeaning comment, but because the two of them have simply walked away. 

My whole body feels raw, as if I've been flayed inside and out. 

I need to get up, I know I do. Can't just crouch here, naked bar my socks and sneakers, on the floor in some grubby public restroom. The shame and self-disgust that horniness had kept at bay now flooding through me, delayed by the attentions of strangers but given free rein now that I'm on my own. 

The sweat is cooling on me, and the tickling drips down my inside thighs are an unpleasant reminder of just what a state those men left me in. Not that I really need it: the taste of them in my mouth, and the way my ass feels tender, are enough. 

I know I did it willingly, I know I agreed to it, but it's as though there was a different Dan who made those decisions. One whose motivations are a mystery to me now, on my own with cum oozing from my ruined hole. 

Well, almost a mystery, anyway. My cock still rigid, even as every muscle in me feels exhausted. 

Legs complaining, thighs cramping, I push myself up. Screw up a wad of toilet paper and try to scrub between my cheeks; instantly realize my mistake, the roughness harsh against my mistreated ass. 

Gritting my teeth, I try to wipe as much of the cum from my legs as I can. Knowing that, however embarrassing and borderline shameful it feels to do it, it'll only feel worse if I try to pull my clothes back on over my sticky, sloppy body. 

It's that gruesome acknowledgement which makes me realize I can't actually see my clothes anyway. 

Panic blooming in my chest, curdling my belly, I drop the tissue and stick my head out of the open cubicle. Knowing - certain, convinced, because there's no possibility otherwise, no way it could not be the case - that my t-shirt, my jeans, my underwear will be there. 

Except they're not. Nothing I wore to come to the park is.

There's a tidy pile on the window ledge: my phone, my wallet, my house keys. As I open the wallet to discover my drivers license, ATM card, even the cash is still there, I'm already berating myself for being so naive as to bring all this stuff and just leave it where anybody could've taken it. I got lucky, I know I did.

They left behind the valuables. They also left me naked. 

Clutching the little stack to my chest, I back into the cubicle again. It takes a couple of attempts to latch the door shut, my fingers numb and uncooperative. 

I'm fucked. Really, truly fucked. 

Even if I didn't have drying cum half-coating me, even if my face wasn't a mess, and my hair probably a haystack after the way those men had gripped me, there's no way I could make it through the park butt naked. Even if I waited for it to close, and managed to scale the fence without skewering myself, I'd still have to get from there back home. It was a jog that seemed quick, and easy, when I was working out. In nothing but socks and sneakers, it felt a lot more daunting. 

Part of me wanted to cry. Felt like it would be justified, really: a reasonable reaction to getting reamed for the first time and then having your clothes taken as a memento of the experience. 

More than that, though, I feel numb. An emotional numbness, different from the overwhelmed deadness in my body. The sort that comes when you have to reckon with the reality of what your bad decisions had left you with. 

I can't walk out of here as I am, and so I have to get help. And there's only one person I can ask for it, in a situation like this.

Luka's name is on the screen; all I need to do is hit the button to call him. But I know that it's not as simple as telling him "look, you need to bring some clothes to me in the restroom at the park," and expect him just to do it, no questions, no reaction. Oh, he'll bring me the clothes, that I don't doubt. But he's also gonna expect me to explain what the fuck is going on. 

And I'm not sure I'm ready to look at my best friend in the face and admit that I just got turned out by four strangers. That I let them hit it raw, in some public restroom, and then have to detail - because there's no way he's going to assume this was the very first thing I've tried, my buddy can be naive but he's not stupid - just what led up to this. 

Luka's gonna be fucking furious at me. 

There's nobody else, though. Like, literally nobody. Obviously my parents are out of the question, and people I know from school probably aren't going to be willing to come out here on what seems like such a sketchy story. No, Luka's the only option, it's just taking me a minute to build my confidence up to the point where I can hit the button on my phone.

The silky, slimy tickle of more cum easing down my leg is what tells me I can't put it off any longer. 

I'm still rehearsing what I'm going to say when he answers. I'd almost hoped it would go to voicemail, even if that meant more of a delay. Then, at least, I could get through the call without facing any confused questions. 

"What's up?"

"Oh, not much," I say, wincing in the cubicle. "Are you busy?" 

I should just come out and ask him, but embarrassment makes me dance around it. 

"I, uh..." 

There's a pause. I know that can only mean one thing, really: that he's with that guy. 

Part of me wants to just hang up. To tell him it was nothing, that we'll talk later. Let Luka keep having whatever moments with that dude that he's happening, and trust that eventually he'll decide to tell me whatever it is he needs to tell me. Problem is, that's the sort of approach you only get to take if you're not naked in a random restroom stall somewhere. 

"Look, I kinda need your help," I admit. 

"What did you do?" 

His frown is audible, somehow. Or maybe I've just seen the expression so many times, that bemused and worried look that comes when he expects me to explain whatever dumb decision I made as we were growing up. 

"It's fine, it's fine," I insist. "I just... I need you to bring me some clothes." 

Silence. Nothing but the background hiss of the line, and the churn of my own frustration at my stupid mistakes. 

"Clothes. What happened to your... No, wait... where are you?"

I close my eyes, knowing I've got no choice now, but still trying to think of an alternative. Only there isn't one. Just as little of the truth as Luka will let me get away with sharing. 

"Y'know the restroom in the park? The one up from the lake?" I wait for his grunt of acknowledgment. "Well, I'm in one of the stalls."

A beat. "And you need clothes. Because yours are... wet?"

I'd fallen in the pond, once. As a kid. My mom had been furious, and Luka had found it hilarious. 

"Uh, no. I kinda... Look, I kinda lost them."

It's not really a sigh, more of a frustrated hiss. One I've heard before, when my best friend's at pretty much the end of his patience, and just wants answers. 

"You lost your clothes. How? Do you mean, like, your shirt?"

Oh, if only it was just my shirt. I could brazen out walking back topless. That'd be a walk in the park in comparison. 

I can't help the chuckle, at the inadvertent pun. My walk in the park would be a lot more attention-grabbing. And might even get me arrested, for public indecency. 

Luka heard the laugh. "Is this a joke? Are you messing with me?" 

He's gonna get frustrated, in a minute, and I don't need that on top of everything else. "I'm not joking. I've got, like, shoes and socks on. But that's it." I grit my teeth, hoping - despite everything - that I can keep details to a minimum as bare as I am. "It's a long story."

Now it's a sigh. "You're basically naked, in a restroom in the park, and you need me to bring you clothes. And all I get to explain that is 'it's a long story'?"

He can't see my shrug, but I do it anyway. Because some things, some of my choices, even I'm still confused by them. 

"Dude, please. I promise I'll... I'll explain. I just..." Suddenly I'm feeling ridiculous, and angry at myself, and frustrated at the bad decisions I'm clearly going to keep on making. "I just need your help, okay?"

Silence. Just for a beat, but I'm holding my breath anyway. 

"I'll be there as soon as I can be. Okay?"

I nod, pressing the phone against my ear, hard. "You're the best, dude."

Another sigh. "But then you owe me an explanation, yes?" 

I'm sitting in a restroom cubicle, after four guys I don't know ran a train on me, and what's left of the cum they dumped that isn't in my aching ass has formed a big, scummy puddle at my feet. And I didn't say no to that, in fact I did pretty much the opposite of saying no, because somehow I've got myself addicted to the idea of hooking up with random men out in public. I really don't know if it's an explanation Luka is ready to hear. 

"Yeah, dude," I say, instead, because it's the only thing I can tell him that'll keep him happy and get me out of here. "Of course I can explain."

---

Thanks for reading - This is a spin off from "Xander Shows Me My Prostate": it, and more stories, are over on my site. My latest, "College Wrestler Secrets", is on Amazon, too. Appreciate you checking them out!

-Alex