Week Seven
It happened again. Just as Marston was about to feed his cum to the fag on the other side of the wall, he imagined that he was the one sucking. It almost spoiled his orgasm, but not quite. He felt the familiar ripple in his cock and the undulations in his ass as he spurted in the man's mouth. He was momentarily breathless and sat down on the toilet.
He was in a nearly-forgotten multi-stall men's room in the basement of the city's oldest mall. When family-friendly, wheelchair-accessible rest rooms were incorporated into the main floor design of the mall in the eighties, it was as if this washroom was forgotten by the mall planners and security. That couldn't be quite true, but it did seem as if a blind eye was turned toward the activities that took place down here.
The stalls had long since succumbed to the boring of holes in their walls to allow men to commit anonymous sex acts between the cubicles like the one Marston had just experienced. He had been coming here for weeks and his empathy for the man on the other side of the wall had only grown in that time.
Where was it all leading?
*****
Week One
Marston heard of a meeting place for men to have anonymous sex from the rumour mill in his workplace. The janitor of his office, Clive, occasionally remarked he would rather clean the washrooms in his building than the old one in the mall. Bill Derek, a senior staffer, talked about going there in the late nineties to get his first blowjob. There was the odd, occasional reference from someone else. Nobody seemed to know if the washroom was still in use or not.
Marston was curious. The idea of such a place tantalized him. Free blowjobs, no strings. Marston wasn't gay, he told himself, but he could see the appeal. That senior staffer, who was gay, often said nobody gave a better blowjob than another man. It stayed with him until one Thursday night, a couple of hours before the mall closed, he decided to investigate.
He went to the mall and looked for the way downstairs. First, he went to the elevator and tried pressing B for basement, but however many times he tried, the indicator wouldn't light up. That floor was locked out.
Exploring the mall itself, Marston found a single door that wasn't on the directory map. It was marked "Employees Only". It didn't lead to the mall offices, which the mall directory said were on the second floor. Confident that he had located the fabled basement entrance, he tried the door and was surprised when it opened easily. He expected it to be locked. Sure enough, there was a stairwell down. The lights over the stairway flickered but the corridor beyond was faintly lit. He looked around the ceiling and walls. There were no cameras down there.
Better and better. The corridor was not long. There were a series of locked doors on one side, possibly the utility, generator and boiler rooms. Marston was no architect, but he assumed the rooms served some such purpose. On the opposite side of the corridor were the two rest rooms, marked "Ladies" and "Men".
The Ladies' room was padlocked. The men's room had been padlocked too at some point, because the broken lock lay on the floor before the door and the latch was open.
Marston was amazed when the door pushed open easily, as if in constant use.
The bathroom was dim. There were fluorescent lights lining the ceiling but they were out. Only two lights, small fluorescent bulbs stationed over the sinks and mirrors, were still operational.
The room itself was from another age. There were no change stations for babies, no electric hand dryers, only long empty paper towel dispensers. There was a stand-up ashtray inside the bathroom door. Marston wasn't old enough to remember when smoking was allowed in public spaces like a mall.
There was no wheelchair-friendly-sized stall, but four regular-sized cubicles and four urinals, their white porcelain stained by rusty water stains. The outside walls of the stalls and the walls of the room itself were covered in writing. There was some graffiti, a few genuine works of lewd art, and a lot of names and phone numbers of the "call for a good time" variety. Marston wondered how many of those phone numbers were still in service, how many of those names were counted among the living. He briefly wondered if Bill Derek, the senior staffer, had ever called any of those numbers.
There was a scuff. It sounded like a shoe scraping on the quarry tile floor.
Marston nearly panicked and ran out, but then he realized there was only one reason someone would be here. The same reason as him. To get some. Nobody would come here to use the toilet. There probably hadn't been paper in decades. He had been stealthy in his search for the room. Now that he found it, perhaps he'd found the rest of what he was looking for. He must stay.
The door on the first stall was off its hinges and the second hung open. The sound must have come from one of the last two stalls. Where are you, Cocksucker? Marston thought. He trembled as he approached the third door and gave it a gentle push. It was not latched. He entered the stall and locked the door behind him.
The stall was lit only by reflected light from the ceiling from those bulbs over the mirrors. Marston didn't want to take his cellphone out and switch to flashlight mode just yet. He wasn't sure what kind of attention he was attracting. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw what he expected: a toilet, complete with dusty seat. It was white and easy to see. The walls of the cubicle were a darker colour and he strained his eyes to make out the hole he expected to find.
It was there. And two white fingers were tracing its edge.
Marston hadn't grown up with adult bookstores where gloryholes had been commonplace. He was introduced to the idea by that gay senior staffer who occasionally regaled him with his adventures when they went out for a drink after work. From there, Marston had taken to the internet and researched gloryholes in case he found one.
He knew what the gesture of the two fingers meant, and right now, he welcomed the tension relief that went with the idea; it was an invitation to put his cock through the hole and be serviced. Marston, who hadn't had a date in five months and hadn't had sex for even longer, didn't need an engraved invitation.
He fumbled at his belt in the dark, then clawed at his button and zipper. He had a frightening thought as he thrust his erection into the wall. What if this was some kind of madman on the other side of the wall? What might he do to the exposed penis of his victim? Nobody knew Marston was there. Nobody saw him come in and nobody had to see him leave. He shuddered in fear, but hope and expectation kept his pecker at full staff.
He started when he felt a breeze on the head of his cock. Fuck, he was jumpy! Someone was blowing on it. It felt good, but then fingers closed around his dick and began to massage it and that was something else altogether. He felt shivers through his entire body.
The light touch of those fingers carried on in gentle rubbing for a minute or two, then the hand closed tightly around Marston's cock. It began jacking him off ever so slowly. The other hand joined the first, grasping the glans of his cock and tracing circles over the tip with the thumb.
Marston had to admit that Bill Derek might be right. A woman had never taken this much effort to stimulate his cock before a blowjob. He was horny and wanted this cocksucker to get his mouth into the game, but Marston forced himself to be patient. Based on how this was starting out, it might well end in a fantastic pay-off.
His cock spasmed slightly and Marston knew he'd just slicked the thumb rubbing his glans with pre-cum. The man on the other side of the wall took that hand away for a moment and Marston heard lips smacking loudly in the next stall. He had licked the pre-cum off his thumb. Then his hand was back massaging his cock-head as if he'd never stopped.
A moan of ecstasy escaped Marston. He'd never experienced a situation that was more of a turn-on than an anonymous handjob in a derelict restroom under the mall. But that too was about to change.
The man took his hand off the helmet of Marston's cock and replaced it with his warm mouth. He completely enveloped the bulbous glans and ran his tongue in swirls over its sensitive skin. Marston groaned. He heard a small laugh from the man in the other stall. It was stifled by the cock-flesh in his mouth.
The man concentrated on Marston's cock-head for some time, but maybe to show off a little, he occasionally sucked Marston's entire dick in his mouth, every inch that was on his side of the wall. This felt good, but the man had a technique of jerking Marston off in tandem with his oral efforts on the helmet of his cock that made Marston shiver with delight.
After about five minutes, Marston knew he was close. He had read on the internet that it was proper etiquette to knock on the wall when one was ready to come, but he wasn't quite there yet.
Marston imagined the man on the other side of the wall. What was he like? Tall or short? Old or young? Out or closeted? Employed or homeless? None of it mattered to the free blowjob of great quality he was receiving, but it helped with his fantasy. He knew he would come back here again.
"Ahhh," Marston groaned. He knocked on the wall. It was time. He half-expected the mouth to desert his cock to avoid tasting sperm, but the cocksleeve around him stayed hot and tight, the tongue continued to rove over his glans. The spasms overtook Marston as he blew his load in the wet, hungry mouth. He shuddered with release.
When his throes passed, the cocksucker licked Marston's organ clean and let it go. Marston pulled himself back through the wall and fastened up.
He was wiped out. His legs wobbled under his weight. He was exhausted. He sat on the ancient plastic toilet seat and was grateful it supported him.
A raspy whisper came from the other side of the stall wall. "Do you want it?"
