The Bare-Bottom Man

Paul's Sitting

I pushed through the two heavy oak doors into the men’s room in the basement of the city library west of Nashua, New Hampshire. This was a dim, dank space where two toilets without any doors were separated by worn marble partitions veined blue like Roquefort cheese. Although often cruisy, this place was pretty safe because the double doors acted as an “early warning system”; when anyone opened the outer door, you had time to “get decent” before getting caught.

But that day the place was empty. I was 26, skinny and blond, with a round boyish bottom. I chose the first stall, lowered my dungarees and briefs, and sat on the cool, totally public seat. A single light bulb shone on the gray terrazzo floor and the frosted, dusty window high on the wall opposite the toilets. I felt the cellar damp on my balls and bare bottom. I tinkled; there was a faint chance I needed to have a BM. But I certainly needed a man to walk into the men’s room to sit or watch. 

I waited for what seemed forever, the hard black seat probably imprinting itself on my bum. Finally, I heard the outer door rattle open and then the inner door and the sound of footsteps. The unseen new guy bypassed the sinks and urinals and advanced toward the stalls.

“Oh, sorry.” He was darkish, about forty, probably Italian, beginning to bald. Clean-shaven, he had a prominent nose and hooded, slightly sleepy-looking eyes. He paused against the wall directly opposite my stall. Smiling and smirking, he stared directly down at me sitting on the toilet.

My Oxford-cloth shirt covered my boner but of course he could see its telltale shape; it made a six-inch tent in the fabric. “Hot day,” he said.

“It’s cool in here.” I felt exposed, embarrassed, and, yes, really excited. My anus constricted when, in the ultimate dad gesture, he lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. My cock hardened and popped free from the hem of my dress shirt. My Italian dad was lighting his cigarette while his boy sat bare on the can. He nodded and I nodded back. My rock-solid cock bobbed, leaking a drop of precum.

Jamming his cigarette into his mouth, he fumbled with his fly, taking out his enormously thick sausage of a cock, long and cut and semi-erect. I stood and we squeezed our cocks together. He edged closer, tugging on mine and playing with my balls. He gave me a series of smoky kisses and bit at my ear. I was bare and in dad’s hands, literally.\

“Do you want to see my ass?” I said.

“Sure.”

I turned, lifting the long flap of my dress shirt, so that he could look at my entire crack.

“Nice.” He ran gentle hands over my bare bottom, stroking the cheeks and crack, probing into my hole.

“Will you give me a spanking?” I asked.

His voice became dad-stern: “Bend over.”

Yanking up my shirt, a little scared, I obeyed and felt vulnerable, what I called “bummie-bare.” Whack, whack, whack. He was a strict, experienced spanker. His cigarette mocked my crack and anus. He spanked from cheek to cheek, quickly and without letup so that the sound of my boyish humiliation echoed off the marble and tile throughout the men’s room. 

“Better stop.” I’d gotten nervous about janitors or people outside in the adjacent parking lot hearing my loud licking. Plus, dad had embarrassed me sufficiently for me to want some male leverage over him. “Can I see your ass?”

Without replying, he unbuckled his belt, and right there in the stall, just inches to my left, he peeled down his pants and sweaty briefs. I sat on my sore, spanked bottom, inspecting his. His bum was small and skinny, almost concave in the middle of each cheek. It was smooth but his sinewy thighs were very hairy. Was he a runner? He wore odd, worn black sneakers.

Shifting my own naked bum, I opened his crack to “give him a rectal.” I pulled open his anus, happy to focus on his hairy hole, flecked with bright yellow pieces of toilet paper left over from his morning BM. Ha: my turn to smirk. I slapped his bottom, hard. 

“Thanks.” I requested he pull up his pants: two bare men in one stall was more than risky. So he settled back against the wall, with that same amused smirk. 

My hour on the toilet was finally motivating my bowels. I confessed, “I gotta take a shit!”

Looking down, in more ways than one, he laughed. “Go ahead.”

I thought he might leave, might piss or pretend to wash his hands. Instead, he smiled and lit a fresh cigarette--ready to enjoy the view.

Testing his interest, I stared straight at him, and, defiantly, he stared straight back, locking eyes with me as I blushed and pushed.

I strained and he smirked, smoking and staring. Slowly, my grunt--soft, fudgy--came inevitably out, slipping into the bowl without any splash whatsoever. I tried but failed to fart. My rectum eased. Maybe he thought I was faking.

I snagged several squares of the stiff, shiny toilet paper, and, leaning forward, began wiping my bottom. Suddenly, surprisingly, he bent low and grabbed a handful of paper. What was up, was he blowing his nose?

Then he prodded my boner aside and reached under my balls with the wad of paper. He began wiping his boy’s bare bottom! Next, incredibly, he examined the paper--smeary, chocolaty, embarrassing--before tossing it between my legs into the toilet. He grabbed another wad, reached under my sac, and wiped my crack again. Again, he inspected the evidence of my movement.

I had never been wiped by a dad before--let alone a hot, spanking, smoking dad, in public. I felt like the barest boy in the male world. 

I finished wiping, and, wildly horny, began jacking off. He tugged on my cock, tickled my balls. I really needed another spanking, bare and hard and over dad’s knee. My anus, still messy, tightened, and I exploded with long ropes of cum, all down my thighs and into my briefs. He stood there, laughing...

Weak-kneed, I wobbled upright, wiping my crack and cleaning up the floods of cum, from my body, the floor, all around. 

He smoked his cigarette, smirking in total dad-triumph. He was The Bare-Bottom Man, for sure.  

END