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Warning: this story includes scat!
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If you're driving along the motorway and feel like a break, I would strongly recommend Mudchute Services. They're fairly easy to find, right next to Brown Wood, and you'll find the toilet facilities make a very worthy detour.
I'd paid little attention to gents' toilets all the years I'd been married, but these days I love finding out what different amenities have to offer. Most of the women I've dated have found it impossible to keep up with my sex-drive so it was almost inevitable that I would discover what pleasures can be had behind the locked cubicle doors of certain public toilets. Since then, I have – without any serious difficulty I have to say – broadened my sexual interests considerably.
The toilets in these particular services had seemed promising as soon as I'd walked in. Several men at the urinals turned to look me up and down and one or two even smiled at how slick I looked in my well-fitting business suit. I'd smiled back at them but hadn't lingered – standing alongside a row of strangers groping each other's members through our flies has never really appealed to me – and instead headed through to the WCs at the rear.
This part of the toilet was much less busy but the gaps underneath the cubicles doors revealed a multitude of boots and shoes shuffling around – something that's always a very good sign. Better still, a rusting fan unit was whirring noisily in the ceiling, obscuring whatever intimate sounds were going on between the occupants.
I took a moment to choose the most encouraging venue from several possible contenders and in the end plumped for a vacant stall next to a cubicle door under which I was sure I could make out two pairs of feet. Once inside, I was pleased to find that the toilet roll dispenser had been obligingly removed, exposing four screw holes and offering an opportunity for a private viewing of the adjoining cubicle.
I sat myself down on the toilet and spent a few enjoyable minutes watching a man in a suit a couple of shades lighter than mine standing having his hugely engorged manhood sucked by some lad in a high-vis jacket. The kid was clearly loving feasting on the hefty-looking cock that was poking, along with a nice fat set of nuts, out of the guy's straining zipper. The boy took as much of it as he could into his eager mouth, soaking the thickened shaft with a copious froth of spit as he swept his lips up and down its veiny girth. At times he would withdraw and spend a few moments lapping at the bloated purple head, teasing the precum from its gaping slit and gratefully gulping down the trickle of salty liquid.
I knew full well that the two of them were aware of my presence and were no doubt enjoying performing for their unseen observer. I can't deny that I grew a hard-on of my own from watching the lad so ardently devour the impressive rod of meat in front of him, but I'd come in here hoping for a lot more than just a peep show.
So it wasn't long before I was quietly tapping on their door, smiling to myself at how my ex-wife would react if she could see what now I got up to in places such as this. To my delight the catch was quickly clicked open so I could push my way inside, my own cock throbbing in my trousers at the prospect of meeting two of its more sociable brothers.
I found that the suited bloke was middle-aged like me and looked as if he was maybe an accountant or solicitor from how formally he was dressed. The lad in front of him was in his early twenties and seemed like he might be a builder or part of a highway maintenance crew.
I didn't pay much attention to the kid, though, to be honest. He was quite happy to be on his knees, tossing off the laughably small prick that was poking out from his dirty tracksuit bottoms while he slavered away in at the older man's much bulkier offering.
No, my interest was on the suited guy, whose thickly veined shaft was being so hungrily serviced, and in particular the lovely round arse which was pressed firmly against the back of his dark grey trousers. He'd hitched his jacket up as if to flaunt how amazing his big, chunky buttocks looked inside the tightly stretched material and how inviting was the deep, alluring valley nestling between them.
I should probably point out that in the last couple of years the huge variety in the sizes and shapes of other men's backsides have become quite my thing. I used to be a tit-man when it came to women – and still am given the chance – but these days I'm very much a butt-man: especially when the said butt has a nice hairy cleft and comes with a heavy pair of knackers swinging around underneath it.
I have to admit that this guy's arse was of the sort that had emerged as my out-and-out favourite of all the many types of male bums I'd encountered. His cheeks were hard and muscular, pressing outwards against his trousers as if struggling to be contained, and their shape was wonderfully masculine: squat and solid with a striking symmetry to their curvature.
Better still, I knew that between a firm pair of buttocks like his – two big manly cheeks that had spent the day cooped up underneath trousers and underwear – there'd likely be a deep dank crack that had grown wonderfully sweaty and pungent.
You see, that's become my thing too, I'm afraid: the smells and tastes lurking between men's butt cheeks. It might sound unlikely but that's the direction my sexual interests have recently taken: getting my nose and tongue into the trench between a guy's haunches has turned out to be the match that lights the gay end of my sparkler. While I still appreciate the sensual aromas of my occasional female lovers, these days I more usually revel in the crude anal stink of the men I seek out for sex.
After I'd locked the cubicle door behind me, the guy in the suit turned in my direction and grinned as the lad's mouth slurped away at his large erection. I marvelled at how big his bollocks were, being pushed outwards from his gaping zipper. They were plump and full, just like mine get if I go a few days without release, and his stretched, hairy scrotum kept tickling the boy's chin as he bobbed his face back and forth to pleasure the swollen shaft.
I smiled back at him, unzipping myself, and manoeuvred my own stiffened organ out through my fly. I'm pretty well-hung and the accountant or solicitor or whatever he was looked down at it with undisguised approval. I grinned more broadly and jerked my foreskin back and forth a few times to show my over-sized phallus off at its most impressive.
"Nice set of junk," he observed in a voice that sounded quite loud from where I was standing but which would fail to carry beyond the confines of our cubicle because of the noise from the fan unit. I had never been so grateful for a piece of malfunctioning equipment: one is so often reduced to barely-audible whispers and even arm-waving mimes in such places to avoid rousing the attentions of one's defecating neighbours.
With the lad nibbling and lapping at his dribbling bell-end, the guy wanked his shaft a few times to keep his precum flowing. As I admired his technique, working a trickle of his hot sticky ooze onto the boy's tongue, I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring. Its design was quite fussy, with small diamonds studded along its golden circumference, and seemed like it would have been chosen to match an even fussier feminine version. I wondered if his wife had any idea of the sort of things her big, brawny husband got up to in the toilet cubicles of motorway services.
The man threw me a thumbs-up and I realised he thought I was waiting my turn: giving him time to discharge his load between the kid's eager lips so I could take up his position and have my own larger manhood similarly serviced by the youngster.
Perhaps that's how it usually works in these toilets. Maybe blokes on the way home from work would regularly tap on cubicle doors in the hope of having their knobs sucked by whoever was willing to do the honours. I wondered whether, once this guy had finished and I was having my own throbbing organ dutifully sucked, I was supposed to let the next fella sneak in so he could stand alongside with his chubby dick poking out from his fly, only to shuffle over to take my place once I'd climaxed.
If that was how it was supposed to work then I'm afraid I had rather different ideas.
I moved around behind the guy in the suit and, before he could object for fear I might want to jerk off onto his bum (a fate that had once befallen the back of my trousers in a different toilet cubicle), I knelt down and pressed my face towards the dark grey material that was stretched tight across his voluminous buttocks. Even at first sniff, I could tell this was a bloke with a wonderfully whiffy arse: well before my nose had closed in on the fabric it was obvious that what was lurking between his cheeks had infused deeply it with its strong, distinctive scent.
At first the man pulled away, unsure of my motives, and glanced around to see my face level with his backside and my nose directed towards his flavoursome furrow. Realising where my interests lay, he grinned and pushed himself back towards me, chuckling when my nose plunged slap-bang between his butt-cheeks.
I moved my face up and down against his arse, following the stitched hem which ran down the middle of the seat of his trousers. The material which had nestled between his buttocks smelt strong and ripe, even high up where his big, brawny posterior pressed outwards at its roundest. I worked my nose lower down, pushing it deeper into his effluvious gorge, sniffing eagerly at his most secretive scents and feeling my cock swelling upwards at how harsh and musky they were.
This guy might look clean-cut and well-turned-out, I mused, but the back of his trousers revealed he was concealing an especially raunchy arse. That's usually how it turns out in my experience: rough-looking grubsters too often have backsides that smell only of soap and shower gel; it's always the posh fellas with well-coiffed hair and crisply-ironed shirts that have butt odours that make you wince even through their trousers and underwear.
I heard him chuckle, "Oh, nice one, mate! Yeah, go on! Sniff my arse!" and he grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face further into his large rump.
I inhaled his darkest and least decorous scent as deeply as I could, my mouth watering at the sheer crudeness that was clinging to the material of his trousers. It was Friday night: he must have been wearing these trousers all week at work, having the murky hemline that my nose was pressing against working up into his odorous ditch as he sat at his desk. I sniffed further between his legs and deeper into his pungent ravine and gasped as I found a small patch of material that must have been rubbed by his fingers against his hot, moist hole when he'd discreetly worked them into his crack to scratch a persistent itch.
I was in veritable heaven: what a find this was! This was the smell I loved to savour: that which I craved and had hardly dared to hope I would find here when I'd pulled off the motorway. It was making the large, ripe helmet of my cock swell and glisten, and the hardened shaft behind it thicken expectantly at what it signified.
