My Secret Date in the Mall Bathrooms
On the internet he called himself Bizcocho, and the name fit him perfectly. He wasn’t a gym body: his shoulders were narrow, he had a soft belly that showed under his T-shirt, and his arms lacked the hardness so many people chase. That was exactly what I liked about him. I was drawn to his curves, to the folds his skin made when he sat down, to the way he gave himself over to pleasure without fighting the mirror. We’d spent weeks in front of the webcam, the two of us alone in our rooms, showing each other our cocks at odd hours, and cumming in front of a screen was no longer enough.
I’m a mature man, married, past fifty, and that forced me into a kind of logistics he didn’t fully understand. I had to make the date fit with an available car slot and with my wife not asking too many questions. Bizcocho had it easier. He was around thirty, shared a flat or still lived with his parents, he never made that clear, and for him sneaking out one morning was no problem at all.
After several failed attempts, we finally managed to line up a day. He suggested the place and the strategy: the bathrooms in a large shopping center, on the outskirts, first thing in the morning, when the stores were only just rolling up their shutters.
—There are several restrooms scattered all over the place —he wrote to me—. I’ll tell you which one as soon as you get here. You just take a walk and act normal.
Act normal. As if I knew how to do anything else at this stage of my life.
I arrived with my stomach knotted and my cock already half-hard inside my briefs, knowing what was coming. I took a walk through the half-awake shopping arcades, with employees pulling up the metal grilles and the smell of fresh coffee drifting out from the café at the entrance. I passed a couple of older women and a delivery guy pushing a cart. Every person who went by felt like a threat, even though no one was looking at me at all. When the message came with the exact bathroom, I took a deep breath and walked toward it, trying to make my steps look like everyone else’s.
***
I pushed the door open and my heart lurched. There was almost no one there, which was logical at that hour. Just one guy, almost at the back, washing his hands with a calm I could hardly believe. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye while pretending to search for something in my pocket. Could it be him?
He looked at me through the mirror. And in that look, in the way he stayed still for an extra second, I knew it. He was wondering exactly the same thing I was.
He was shorter than I’d imagined from the photos, and a little less built too, as if the camera had gifted him a body that was more modest in person. But it was him. It had to be. I walked up to the stall right behind him and went inside, leaving the door ajar, a silent invitation. He was still with his hands under the tap, watching me in the mirror, weighing the decision.
For a moment I hesitated. What if I’d made a mistake? The webcam guy could have been anyone, could have changed his mind at the last minute and sent someone else, or not shown up at all. My head started inventing disasters. But the guy in front of me fit the profile and, above all, he wasn’t leaving. He was still there, with the water running, waiting for a clearer sign.
I gave him one. I slowly unbuckled my belt, never taking my eyes off him, pulled down my zipper, and fished my cock out over the elastic of my briefs. It was half-erect, thick, the glans already peeking out beneath the foreskin. I showed it to him shamelessly, holding it by the base so it would make his mouth water from the other side of the bathroom.
He opened his eyes wide and licked his lips. Then he turned his head toward the bathroom entrance, nervous, like an animal that scents danger before feeding. I heard it too: footsteps, a zipper, at least two more men coming in to the urinals on the other side. Bizcocho didn’t hesitate. He crossed the few meters between us, slipped into the stall with me, and locked the latch behind him.
***
I never know what the other person expects in these furtive encounters. There’s no time to ask, and asking would ruin everything. So I let myself go and put my hands on his chest. It was soft, warm, exactly as I’d imagined on all those nights in front of the screen. I lifted his T-shirt up to his nipples and pinched one, and he let out a gasp, clenched between his teeth. I ran my palms over his loose belly, over those little rolls that on webcam had made me cum earlier than I wanted, and I squeezed the flesh between my fingers. I knew right away I was going to carry that touch with me: one of those sensations you keep for masturbating alone much later on.
He, on the other hand, didn’t want to be touched too much. Or he was in too much of a hurry, or too tense to give in to caresses. He took a step back, gently moved my hands away, and grabbed my cock with his own, still wet from the tap. The cold feel of his fingers around my glans made me clench my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound. He jerked me a couple of times, squeezing from top to bottom, sliding the skin of my foreskin back until my head was swollen and shining. And then, without losing a second, he unfastened his own pants, pulled them down to his ankles along with his briefs, and knelt in front of me on the tiled floor.
I saw his cock between his legs, shorter than mine but thick, already rock-hard, with a clear drop hanging from the tip. He grabbed his balls first and squeezed them, and then started pounding himself with his right hand while guiding mine toward his mouth with his left.
He opened wide and swallowed me all at once, without ceremony, until I felt the back of his throat close around the glans. I had to bite my lip not to groan. He knew what he was doing. He used the wetness of his mouth and saliva with a skill that undid me. I’d imagined that moment a thousand times, and reality went beyond it: the heat, the perfect pressure of his lips pressed around the shaft, his tongue tracing the vein underneath, the rough scrape of his stubble against my balls every time he took me all the way in. That last thing lit me up in a way I hadn’t expected.
He sucked me with real hunger. He pulled my cock out to the tip, licked my frenulum with the tip of his tongue, let a strand of saliva fall onto the glans, and swallowed me whole again, helping himself with one hand at the base. Every time he came up for air, he jerked me fast, squeezing me, not letting me cool off. One hand stayed on my belly, holding me; the other was stuck to his own cock, hammering it with the same urgency with which he was blowing me.
He was moving fast. Too fast, almost. He wasn’t trying to stretch it out or enjoy the game: he wanted a specific prize and was headed straight for it. Then I understood what he wanted, what he’d been hinting at me for weeks without quite saying it. He wanted me to cum in his mouth, swallow the last drop, and that meant there would be nothing more, that I wouldn’t taste his ass that morning. That suited me fine. I prefer a mouth or a hand in places like this, where any noise on the other side of the door reminds you where you are.
On the other side, in fact, someone flushed. Bizcocho didn’t even flinch. He kept sucking with the same rhythm, taking me down to the bottom, breathing through his nose like someone who’d spent years training not to choke on a cock in his throat. I closed my eyes and focused on him, on the hand holding me and the mouth that never eased up. I imagined scenes we weren’t going to live through: him with his back against the stall wall, gripping the cistern tank, his ass pressed against my groin and my cock buried to the balls in his hole; I imagined kneading his belly and flanks with both hands, fucking him standing up, covering his mouth with my palm so he wouldn’t moan when someone came in. The fantasy pushed me to the edge faster than I wanted.
I stroked his cheek to warn him. I could even feel my glans swelling inside him. He nodded without letting go, ready, and let me take control while he kept working himself with his hand. I held his head with both hands, grabbing his short hair, and moved my hips slowly at first and then without restraint, fucking his mouth hard, overcoming the warm resistance of his tongue and slamming the back of his throat with every thrust. He answered by tightening his lips, closing the ring, sucking harder with each withdrawal, taking me exactly where the two of us wanted to go.
When I let go, it was long, intense. The first burst went straight onto his palate and I felt a muffled groan escape around the shaft. I kept pumping my load into his mouth in spurts, never stopping my movement, cumming inside him with that mix of relief and vertigo that comes from knowing you’re emptying yourself into the throat of a stranger three meters from a shopping arcade full of ordinary people. He swallowed without stopping, squeezing my balls with his free hand, milking me until the last spasm.
***
I didn’t want to overdo it. I made a motion to pull away, but he held me with a hand on my ass, finishing me off his own way, sucking the glans with his lips pressed tight so not a single drop would be wasted. When he finally let me go, he ran his tongue underneath, cleaning my frenulum, and gave me one last kiss on the tip. I let him do it until there was nothing left to give.
Then he stood up, and I saw it: he was at the limit too. He’d been touching himself the whole time and now his cock was purple, tense, shining from being pounded so much with his saliva-slick hand. It was my turn to return the favor. I wanted to. I really did. I lowered his hand and grabbed his dick, ready to reciprocate, to kneel too and take it in my mouth until I made him cum against my tongue. I found it so wet, so sticky between my fingers, that I understood right away this wasn’t the beginning of anything: it was the end of his own run, his second climb in a matter of minutes. He’d already come once while he was blowing me, without my noticing, and now he was about to do it again from friction alone. Knowing that turned me on even more, though I no longer had a single drop of cum left in my balls.
But he pulled away. He shook his head, almost apologetic in his eyes, and pulled his pants up quickly, stuffing his still-hard cock back inside his briefs. Bizcocho had come for one specific thing, and for some reason he didn’t explain, the rest wasn’t in his plans. I didn’t push it. In these encounters, the other person’s limits are respected without argument.
We opened the latch. The bathrooms were empty again. I stepped up to the sink and straightened my clothes with hands that were still shaking a little. If someone had come in at that moment, they would have seen me tucking my wet cock back into my pants, but I took that risk with a calm that surprised even me. He, on the other hand, didn’t wash anything. Not his mouth, not the hands stained with his own cum. He left before I did, quickly, without looking at me.
***
I understood everything a few seconds later, out in the arcade.
A girl was waiting for him, leaning against a column, looking at her phone. She had to be a little over twenty, softer than him, in tight clothes and with way too much makeup for that time in the morning. Bizcocho walked up, said something to her, and they left holding hands toward the exit. He looked younger than he was, but not nearly enough for that to seem like anything other than what it was. I imagined the girl kissing him in the car, not knowing those lips had just swallowed another man’s load.
As they walked away, she turned a couple of times to look at me properly, with a curiosity I couldn’t decipher. I had frozen in place, watching them, with my cock still sticky inside my pants and that strange feeling of having shared a huge secret with a stranger who, two minutes later, was walking hand in hand with someone else.
Bizcocho avoided talking to me for a couple of weeks. Not a message, not a connection. I thought that was it, one morning and nothing more. Until one day, without warning, he wrote me again. He wanted another meeting, he said, and he underlined the word: more space.
I played hard to get. I left him on read, answered with monosyllables, made him believe I wasn’t interested anymore. And when I had him properly desperate, with his cock hard and begging for dick over chat at three in the morning, I gave him one condition. Just one, but clear: next time he would open his ass to me or there would be nothing at all. I knew perfectly well he was going to accept, because we both knew who was in charge now.
