Bathroom Break 7

He ordered the wrong version of the right drink, ice when none was called for, and made a joke that wasn't clear enough until after it would have been funny. That was when she was out, though technically the date kept on for several hours yet. Politeness, momentum, and a barely conscious enjoyment of her own grouchiness kept it plugging along.

For what it's worth, he didn't seem much more interested than she was after a certain point, the conversation becoming unpleasant for both of them in the most mundane ways possible. Another dating site dud on both fronts. No feelings hurt.

Jesus, how many tattoos do you have?

12.

You want me to ask you about the reasons for each one, don't you?

God yes. Finally a chance to tell my stories.

Heh. Something that comes up a lot I take it?

Strangers, always older men, actually touch me before even saying a word. And then they want to give me compliments about how artful my ink is and what it all means.

Don't worry. I find your tattoos very uninteresting, especially that hairy lobster.

I got that one from an ex-boyfriend. It was a birthday present.

Yawn.

Please let me tell you about this one! It's the key to everything there is to know about me.

The one on your thigh?

I'm literally pointing at my lower back.

And yet here I am, asking about your thigh.

Something about the way he put his coat on. It was late winter, an especially sloppy one, and his coat was of the heavy, worn variety. A little denim and a little corduroy, It looked working class, but possibly just a feint in that direction. Working class was a look one could affect after all. That's why the Carhartt store could be nestled in between the cute boutiques downtown and not look out of place. He probably didn't build his own furniture or throw fish for a living, but when he put that coat on, with a labored air that came easy, he looked comforting.

She woke up at 3am, possibly with a mild hangover but just as likely still a bit tipsy. His sheets were damp, partially because he kept his apartment warmer than it needed to be, and partially because of her. He was clearly not well off, his place a small studio in a part of town caught in the middle of a half-hearted reclamation. She couldn't remember what he did for a living but remembered being disappointed when he told her. Her success, financial and otherwise, did not lead to this man, to this part of town, to this uncomfortable bed. His window rattled against the wind outside. She stared at it through the blinds, almost disappointed about something nonspecific, but not enough to fend off the looming drowsiness. She stirred instantaneously, his hand finding a spot on her hip without grace. He slept selfishly, loud and all over the place. If they hadn't already had sex, where she noticed that these same traits worked in his favor, she'd assume him a sloppy brute. She might even be tempted to slip out of his bed, his apartment, this neighborhood.

But instead she turned away from him, arching her back and gently brushing her bottom against him, not even sure if she meant to. Asleep but aware, he was conscious enough to firmly grab her shoulder as the rest of his body reacted to what seemed like an invitation. Embracing passivity, she allowed it.

It was Monday morning, in her cubicle, her visit to his apartment a few days past. The heady lust and recklessness had passed, and the laundry list of second thoughts that he had inspired during their date was front and center in her mind now. He was clearly a fuck up, not terribly ambitious, sort of rude, and while a nice mix of cute and handsome, not a stunner by any means. She was reasonably certain that he was a mistake and that she could do better in a pinch. Then again, he was what she was thinking about.

She checked her personal email, expecting and hoping to find a response regarding some jobs she actually wanted, unlike the one she was supposed to be doing. Instead, a message from him:

"There's a pubic bathroom on the first floor of your office building. Be in the men's room, in the stall all the way to the back, by 11:30."

She was confused and almost angry about his arrogance, unearned in her mind and that much more infuriating as a result. But the sense memory of that night hit her hard, all at once, and made her keenly aware of herself. Her body was suddenly a concrete thing, each part of it suddenly sensitive.

*****

11:34 a.m., Monday morning, and you find yourself in a public toilet stall, sitting nervously on top of the seat, me standing in front of you, undoing my belt. We haven't spoken a word to each other. I walk forward and you gently take my cock in your mouth.

I swerve my hips at a gentle rhythm, sounds of suction echoing throughout the bathroom, probably not as loud as they seem to you. I place my hand on top of your head and slide it behind you, grabbing a handful of hair as I go. I give you a 'shhh', barely audible, as I forcefully push myself inside of you, feeling the tension of your throat fighting and inviting me in at the same time. I fuck your mouth and you gag appropriately, keeping as quiet as you can, but far from silent. We can hear men entering and leaving the bathroom. My rhythm increases and I pull back a bit, resting the pulsing tip of my cock on your tongue. I cum in your mouth but you do not swallow yet. Instead, you take some toilet paper from the dispenser, keeping the cum in your mouth the whole time, and gently wipe my cock off until it's dry. Then you look up at me. You are looking for approval. I give it with a nod and you swallow.

I grab you by your hair again, pull you up, and turn you around. You put your hands on the cold tile wall behind the toilet and arch your back until your ass is rubbing against my still erect cock. I quickly slide myself into your already wet cunt, one hand still in your hair the other holding you right shoulder. I fuck you straightforward, fast & hard, no build up. I take my hand off your shoulder and around your throat from behind, not too tight, but enough so that you know that I don't want to hear a peep from you.

You keep hitting your head on the bathroom wall, gently enough, as I fuck you, and each time you do, I give your fat ass a severe, loud smack. I slow down a little bit and bend over, whispering your ear, "This is how sluts get fucked...does that make you a slut?" The correct answer is yes, which is what you say in a barely audible moan. I whisper back, "Good girl," and then straight back out and fuck you that much harder. I stop for a second, slip out of you, and replace my cock with two fingers. Then I take my fingers out and without asking you, stick them into your mouth. I bend over again and whisper in your ear, "That's what a slut tastes like."

I take my fingers out of your mouth and and tell you to stand up straight; it's my turn to have a seat and for you to do some work. You sit on my cock, with your back to me, and start slamming your substantial ass up and down, hard and fast. I like watching you move like that, working hard for your orgasms and to please me, but you're getting a little loud for my taste. While I watch you fuck yourself with my cock, I pull out a large wad of toilet paper from the dispenser, ball it up, reach around to your mouth and shove it down your throat. I grab your head, pull it backwards to my mouth and whisper, "Shut the fuck up or your face goes in the toilet and my cock goes in your ass." You continue fucking, but are now aware of the noise our bodies are making. You control your movements accordingly.

The sounds of footsteps and flushing urinals continues to bounce of the walls as we enjoy ourselves.

I tap your back with my finger. You get off of my cock and kneel down in front of me, with your legs sticking out under the stall door, making it clear that there is a slut doing what she's best at in here. I grab myself and jerk off, staring at your cute face as I finish myself off. When I feel myself about to cum, I grab your hair, stand up, and unload all over your pretty face. I roll out some more toilet paper, and wipe your face off for you as you patiently wait for me to finish. Then I ball up the toilet paper and stick it in your mouth. I zip myself up, and walk out of the stall, letting the door swing open as I leave.

****

She showed back up in your cubicle, flushed and exhausted. It's around 12, and the thought of still having to get through an entire workday bummed her right the fuck out. There was another message in her inbox. "As always, a pleasure. I'm making you dinner tonight. Make sure you're free after 7pm." Despite her reservations, past and present, she caught herself smiling. Refocusing, she got back to work, barely aware of that her left hand was slowly moving down towards her pussy, still bare under the skirt.