I Closed Out the Year Getting Fucked by a Stranger in a Booth

It was seven-thirty in the evening on December thirty-first, and I was still wandering around downtown, with no desire to go back to my hotel room. I knew perfectly well how the night would end if I went up there: warm beer, the television on with the sound off, and unbearable loneliness the moment the first firecracker of the new year went off. I wasn't in the mood for that.

I was walking along a busy avenue when I remembered a place I'd visited months earlier. A discreet basement with no sign facing the street, containing individual booths connected by an internal chat where you could look for encounters in the gay scene without having to exchange a word with anyone in the hallway. Silent, anonymous cruising—exactly right for that night.

It took me a few minutes to find the entrance. It was half-hidden between a closed bookstore and a tattoo parlor that wasn't opening that night either. I went down the narrow staircase and reached a tiny reception desk, where a bored-looking guy with glasses handed me a key without looking at me twice. I paid for the private booth, walked down the dimly lit hallway, found the door with its number stamped into the metal, and went in.

I locked it from the inside. I settled onto the narrow bench, turned on the computer, and opened the club's chat. The screen showed a general room with messages updating every few seconds. Most of them were bottoms asking for cock, with the occasional voyeur who simply wanted to watch through a peephole. I was looking for the other thing: a determined top who could make me forget the date.

While I was going through the messages, someone tried to open my door by pulling the handle. I'd put the latch on; that night, I intended to do the choosing.

Then I saw him write in the general chat. “I'm a top, forty-one, chubby, booth twenty-seven. Discreet bottoms, message me.”

There were several candidates available, but something about the dryness of his message appealed to me. I replied privately.

“Hi. You caught my attention. Thirty-five, big ass, bottom, discreet. Are you looking for something specific?”

Two or three long minutes passed before his reply appeared.

“Come to twenty-seven. The door's unlocked. We'll see in person.”

I closed the session, went out into the hallway, and walked to the very end. The little sign said twenty-seven, with some of the paint chipped off. I pushed the handle lightly, and the door gave way without resistance. Inside, sitting on the little bench, was him. Short black hair, thin-rimmed glasses, a little taller than me when he stood up, his rounded belly beneath a dark-blue pair of boxer briefs—the only thing he was wearing.

Before I had finished closing the door behind me, he was already yanking me inside. He slid the latch into place, shoved me against the wood, and fixed me with a look as if he were deciding whether I was worth it.

“Stay still,” he said softly, with a smile that wasn't kind.

He braced one forearm against the door at the level of my head, and with his other hand he lifted my chin. He kissed me. It wasn't a timid kiss. It was an open, hungry mouth that stole my breath in two seconds. I answered by winding my arms around his waist and letting him set the pace. I felt his erection pressing through the fabric against my thigh.

Without stopping the kiss, he lowered his hand to my belt. He undid it in one movement, unbuttoned my trousers, and, once he had me undone, pulled back just enough to look at me.

“Let's see what you've got,” he murmured.

He took hold of the sides of my trousers and yanked them down to my ankles. My boxer briefs went down with them. I was left naked from the waist down, my back against the door and my heart pounding in my throat.

He grabbed my right arm and, with a firm twist, turned me around. I ended up facing the wall, my hands spread against the Formica paneling. He placed his open hand on the back of my neck and pushed me slightly so that I bent forward. Then he leaned toward my ear.

“This ass is going to be mine. You're going to finish the year good and fucked,” he said, his voice hoarse.

***

He gave me two sharp slaps, one on each cheek, hard enough to make them burn but not enough to send me stumbling forward. Then he left his palm there, squeezing the flesh. He began to massage me, slowly opening and closing my cheeks with a deliberate patience that made my whole body prickle.

He bent over my back. I felt his breath on my nape first, then his tongue on my earlobe. He licked the side of my neck and my collarbones while he kept kneading me. I let out my first moan before I could stop myself. He chuckled softly, as if he'd been waiting for it.

He lowered his mouth down my spine. He kissed each vertebra slowly until he reached the small of my back. When he got to my buttocks, he gave each one an almost tender kiss, then pulled them apart with both hands. The cold air in the club struck my exposed ass, and I felt it contract on its own, without permission.

“Look at that pert little thing,” he said, amused. “This little ass is already hungry.”

Still bent over, I felt something familiar slide between my cheeks. He had pulled down his boxer briefs and was running his cock along my cleft without penetrating me yet, merely rubbing it there. It was thick and hot; I could tell even without seeing it. He gripped my waist with both hands to keep the rhythm. He stayed like that for a while, playing, making me wait.

Then he pulled away. He took my arm, turned me around again, and pushed me onto the little bench until I was sitting down. His cock was level with my mouth, just inches away. It was big, thick, shaved, with a clean head and a drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

He took it in his hand and began rubbing it across my face. Over my cheeks, my lips, my chin. Marking his territory. When it reached the corner of my mouth, I opened up.

I started slowly, taking only the head, licking his glans with the tip of my tongue and playing with his frenulum. He let out a deep moan and placed one hand on the back of my neck, not pressing yet, merely resting there. I took more of him in, millimeter by millimeter, until my gag reflex stopped me. Then I began to move, finding my own rhythm. I heard him breathing harder. His fingers closed in my hair.

“That's it. Come on.”

He increased the intensity. He pushed my head a little farther, but not too far. His hips began to move with me. When he was close to something, he caught my face in both hands and pulled his cock from my mouth with a ragged breath.

“Not yet,” he said.

He took my arm, pulled me to my feet, turned me around, and put me on my knees on the bench, my chest pressed against the backrest and my ass in the air. He placed his palm between my shoulder blades to keep me in position.

***

I heard the crackle of a little packet. Then I felt cold liquid spill between my cheeks and run down my perineum. His hand followed the path, rubbing, opening me, coating my hole with a slowness that made me bite my lip to keep from complaining out loud.

He pushed in one finger. It didn't go in on the first try. He persisted patiently, added more lube, and pushed again. This time he worked his way in. I felt the brief sting, the stretching, his finger turning in small circles inside me. He pulled it out, squeezed on more liquid, and put it back in, this time without resistance. In and out, circles again. Working me open.

“Ready or not, get ready,” he said, straightening up.

He spread my cheeks with both hands. I felt the tip of his cock pressing against the center, applying pressure. My sphincter resisted, then gave way. There was a moment when pain and pleasure became the same sensation, and I let out a moan that bounced off the walls of the booth. He pushed halfway in with one thrust and held still.

“You're so tight,” he said, his voice trembling. “What a sweet little ass I'm eating to close out the year.”

He waited. He let me breathe. When he noticed that I'd adjusted, he pulled his cock all the way out, added more lube, pressed the tip against me again, and pushed once more, this time all the way to the bottom. I felt his balls press against mine, his hips flush with my ass, his hand firm between my shoulders.

He started slowly. He pulled out halfway, then went back in to the hilt. Slowly, measuring, feeling me. Each thrust tore a moan from me that I couldn't control. Then he sped up. The booth filled with the wet sound of his pelvis against my buttocks, his heavy breathing, and my moans growing louder and louder.

At one point he pulled out completely. He spread my cheeks with both hands again and simply looked.

“Look how pretty it is, left open like that,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I'm enjoying this more than you can imagine.”

And he shoved it back in, all the way to the bottom. This time there was no pause. He gripped my waist firmly with both hands and began thrusting with a new rhythm—faster, deeper, almost violent. I clung to the backrest of the bench as best I could and let him take me.

His breathing turned into one continuous pant. His moans mingled with stray words, fragments.

“I'm going to finish inside you,” he told me close to my ear without stopping his movements. “Take it.”

Three, four more thrusts—deep, brutal ones. Then I felt it. A hot pulse inside me, once, again, again. He stayed buried to the hilt, his nails marking my waist, a long moan breaking off into a sigh.

He stayed still for a few seconds. Then he pulled out slowly. He spread my cheeks to look at what he'd done. He gave me two more slaps, soft this time, almost affectionate.

He tugged my arm to pull me upright. When he had me facing him, he kissed me. A long, unhurried kiss, completely different from the first one.

“Happy New Year,” he said, his face still pressed against mine. “What a fine ass to close out the year with.”

He kissed me again. He massaged my buttocks for a while longer, now without any urgency. Then he helped me get dressed with almost tender care while I tried to regain my balance. When I was presentable, he opened the door and nodded for me to leave.

I went back to my booth, closed the session without looking at the chat, climbed the stairs, and stepped out into the air of the year's final day. The avenue was already full of people carrying bags of ice and bottles of sparkling cider. I walked back to the hotel without hurrying, my ass still hot and my head strangely light. That night I slept better than I had in a long time.

I never went back into that place. Nothing like it ever happened to me again. But every time I hear fireworks on the night of the thirty-first, I remember the guy from booth twenty-seven and how, in his own way, he kept his promise.