You owe me a drink
You owe me a drink, I text him. And you’d better pick somewhere where you’d be comfortable with me fucking your arse in the toilets.
The drink is a reasonable request. He’d stood me up when we’d all but arranged to meet up so I could do filthy things to him. The drink makes sense as a way for him to apologise for holding my evening hostage and fucking up my plans. It’s a playful order, delivered with a grin.
Fucking his arse in the toilets, though? That’s not a reasonable request. That’s a little bit sadistic, in a way that makes my stomach twist with hotness but feels so goddamn powerful as I type the words. He doesn’t owe me that, doesn’t have to give me that – but it’s fun to play with the idea that he does. That, as penance for not texting me back, I’m going to use his body like that. Showing him that I’m in charge and I can fuck him wherever and however I choose.
I can’t, of course. Or not without his consent, at least, but it feels presumptuous to assume that he’d let me. I worry that, despite the conversations we’ve had abound boundaries and limits, this is too far. He likes me in control, telling him how we’ll fuck and whether he’ll get to come… But fucking his face in my flat is very different to bending him over and making him brace himself against the lid of a pub toilet so I can fuck his arse and make him feel used and dirty.
I want to make him feel used and dirty, and that want scares me. It feels like I’m being too cruel when I say these things, even though he wants me to. He craves the sadistic promises and twisted ideas and my fingers on his dick as I tell him that he needs to beg more prettily for me to hurt it more. He likes the dominance I dish out. And he can take it: he like it when I make him take it.
So I press send and pretend that I won’t check my phone every ten seconds because I’m worrying that it’s too much, that my desires are too dark. When he does reply, a few minutes later, my grin splits my face. Fucking slut, I type back.
I’m still getting used to playing the dom like this. Not that it’s a game, exactly. It just feels vulnerable in a way I didn’t expect it to – it takes bravery to order a guy you’re still getting to know to go into the toilets and bend over and wait for you to come in to fuck your arse. I try to hide my nerves by kissing him roughly, and feel more confident as he melts into me. He wants this: I can only take it because he’s offering it to me.
He buys me a drink. I call him a good boy and he blushes. We sit tucked away in a booth and try to pretend we’re not going to fuck. I ask him about his week, and listen to him talk about word while moving my hand further up his thigh. He’s hard, even before I lean in to ask him if he’s ready to apologise to me properly. No one’s looking at us, so I let my hand rub his erection through the stiff denim as I whisper filth in his ear. I tell him that he has to make it up to me for standing me up, so he’s going to do exactly what he’s told, right?
I kiss his neck and he moans obscenely.
“Everyone’s going to see what a dirty slut you are,” I tease him. “Now be a good boy and let me watch your arse as you walk away from me. I don’t care if everyone can see how hard you are: you’re going to walk to the toilets and wait for me there. I’m going to finish my drink, and then come and take my frustration out on your poor little holes.”
His sharp intake of breath at my words gives me confidence. I love the flush spreading across his cheeks and the back of his neck. I pat his arse as he stands up, and he blushes more furiously. It’s delightful. I do watch him walk away, but I’m also reaching into my bag to check that I have lube and condoms. While I said I’d make him wait, I only pause for a few seconds. It will feel like long enough for him, waiting in the men’s bathroom with a rock hard dick.
The toilets are on a different floor to the main bar and – thank god – they’re empty. He’s in a stall, already bent over the and bracing himself. When I see him like that, part of me wants to pull him up so I can kiss him and reassure him that I’m not actually frustrated him anymore, that I really, really like him. But another part of me wants to tug his trousers down and spread is cheeks and spit in his arse, to use his holes in a way that both of us will find so fucking hot.
So that’s what I do.
He’s undone his jeans, so it’s easy enough to ease them and his boxers down off his hips. His cock springs free, and I deliberately ignore it. Instead I kick his feet further apart. I fish the lube out of my pocket, I cover two of my fingers. Holding one of his checks in one hand, the lubed-up fingers of the other start to slowly push into his arse. He’s so tight around my fingers.
“Did you do what you were told, boy? Did you work your arse open for me earlier, so I could fuck you hard without having to stretch you out first? If you forgot, I’m really going to make sure you feel this. Little sluts who stand people up don’t get a warm up before their holes get used.”
I angle my fingers in just the right way and he moans. The sounds echos around the toilets and I brush my fingers against the same spot again.
“Fuck, yes. Yes, I did. Please do that again.”
He’s so gorgeous like this, when he’s panting and desperate for me to fuck him, his arms shaking slightly from holding himself up. I squirt lube more lube onto my fingers, touching myself while one of my hands holds him in place. I’m not sure there’s anything as hot as jerking off with the tip of my cock pressed against his arse – at least, until the sound of pure need he makes when I pull away for a second so I can roll a condom on.
“Fucking slut,” I tell him. I press my cock against his arse again and start to push in. I’m not sure if I’m trying to go slow for his benefit, or because I can feel my own orgasm already building up. It’s so hot, him bent over and taking me inch by inch. Letting me fill him up here, where anyone could come in and hear the little moans of pleasure he’s making as I work my cock into him.
Despite everything I’ve said about fucking him with no regard for his comfort, I give him a moment to adjust to having all of me inside him. And then I begin to fuck him. Hard. I want to fuck him so hard that his legs shakes. I slam into him again and again, and he is so tight around my cock. It feels so good, and from the noises he’s making I’ve found the right angle and am nailing his prostate with every stroke.
“Are you regretting standing me up yet?” I ask, my breath harsh. I snap my hips forward again.
“Not. Even. Close.” He grunts out the words between thrusts, and I know what he really means. Fuck me harder, please. I do, not caring that the to the toilets opens, not caring that someone laughs and shouts ‘have a good one!’ when they hear us fucking. Or rather, me fucking him. Me fucking him hard and fast: him pushing back to meet me, me gripping his hips so tightly that I swear they’ll be bruises there tomorrow.
I wrap my hand around his cock. I can almost taste my own orgasm, and I want to get him off first. Jerking him off quickly, I lean down to bite the back of his neck.
“Come for me,” I order. “Come for me, you filthy little slut.”
He does. Jizz spurts out over my hand. A few seconds later my own orgasm tears through me and my dick twitches – once, twice; painting the inside of the condom with spunk. I hold him for a moment, both of us breathing heavily. Then I slide out of him, as smoothly as I can. I kiss the side of his face. Standing up, I reach for toilet roll, and hand him a wad to clean himself up while I peel off the condom.
“I feel like I owe you a drink after using you like that,” I tell him. “And because I’m nice, I might even go up to the bar and buy it for you, rather than sending you so I can watch you trying to walk while your legs are still shaking.”