The Sweetest Orgasm

I'd not used those particular toilets before, but I was desperate. I rushed in and went straight to the urinal, unzipping practically as I walked through the door. I could have peed for England; such a blessed relief. I must have let out a huge sigh, as the bloke next to me (whose presence I hadn't really registered) said;

'Feels that good, eh?' I turned my head as I shook myself. He was about my age; startlingly blue eyes with long very dark lashes, longish black curly hair, with the odd tinselly strand of silver threaded through it. He reminded me of David Essex a bit, a kind of Romany vibe. His skin was tanned and lined and he looked me in the eye with a discomfiting intensity;

'I could make you feel a whole lot better.' his voice was gentle, smooth; an accent I couldn't quite place – Australian? South African? As he spoke, his regard didn't waver, and he ran his tongue over his full red lips in the most sleazy, salacious manner, which might have made me laugh if his eyes weren't so deadly serious.

I looked at him, momentarily puzzled, and he smiled sweetly and his gaze shifted to my cock, which I was still holding. My heart leapt in unison with my cock and it took just that moment of adrenalin surging for him to know I was compliant.

It was one of those crazy spontaneous decisions. My wife was unadventurous, but a relatively good sport when it came to our sex life: but she wouldn't suck me off. So I'd never had a proper blow-job. I'd fantasized about it often enough, but it usually involved a scantily clad young woman, not a seedy David Essex look-alike in the Gents.

He put his hand on my shoulder and steered me towards the cubicle. I was still clutching my cock and I could feel it growing restless in my grasp. I felt him prise my fingers off steadily, one by one, and he ran his own finger along my length, looking deep into my eyes all the while, his eyebrows asking for confirmation of my willingness.

Now I don't consider myself overly endowed, but I was still impressed with the ease with which his mouth engulfed my cock. I was transported as I felt the head graze his throat and his lips tighten around the base. It was if he was just trying me out for size, as then, gripping tightly all the time, he slid his mouth off. A moment's panic that wasn't going to continue abated when I felt his tongue run the length of my cock, back and forth, back and forth. Exquisite! His tongue lapped at the head, adding his own moisture to that which was already there. I watched as if mesmerised; as if this was happening to someone else. I saw my cock disappear into his mouth again; his pliant red lips sliding up and down; reaching the base and then sliding back to the head, but always keeping tight hold. It was the most amazing sensation; the wet warmth, his tongue swirling on the underside – now soft and now hard.

I closed my eyes, sliding my feet slightly further apart and stretched out my arms, pushing against the cool, smooth formica of the walls with my palms. I became aware of a flowery scent – cologne? Air freshener? And I could hear the rumble of the hand drier as if it were a long way off and a distant voice over the shop's PA system. I felt we were the centre of everything; waves of ecstasy radiating outwards from me. My orgasm was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. With my wife it was always somehow well defined, as if it had firm edges and a direction; but this time it was diffuse, blurred, waves of warmth and power spreading through my body and out into the world. I shuddered, as if my very core had been touched.

I spent the next three months desperately trying to recapture that moment. I kept returning to those same toilets in Debenhams, but I never saw that man again. I started venturing further afield, visiting the Gents in the shopping centres and on the outskirts of town. I went into pubs I'd never visited before, downing a swift half before using their facilities, hoping for an adventure. But I never found anything or anyone who looked as if they were doing anything other than pissing. But my searching was abruptly curtailed one day when my wife said;

'I know what's going on. I know what you're doing.' My heart leapt. I was just about to break down and confess. However, she continued tearfully;

'I know why you keep taking me shopping and out for a drink, being nice to me. And why you keep dashing off to the loo. It's your kidneys, isn't it? They're failing just like your poor brother's did.' She was crying unrestrainedly. I felt relief wash over me like the sweetest orgasm.