I walked into the cottage (the reader must understand that in England the toilet of the pub is not correctly the cottage, but always in the mind of the enterer, the toilet is the cottage). His back was to me, and as I went towards the porcelain altar, he turned away from it and me. I unzipped, took out my cock, and stood there, never able to piss.
I looked towards him, I could not, and saw his black jeans, his leather boots, his leather jacket, his black hair, his dark grey t-shirt, and in much less time than it takes to tell, his bright yellow boxer shorts which he struggled to keep under control by the elaborate contraption of his ties which kept the entire construction together.
"A baroque pair of boxer shorts for such a gothic outfit" I said, unusual for me to speak - normally I prefer the fondle and the eyes and the attention without the words - "May I see the whole of them?" He looked at me, startled, for such is not the usually conversation of the pub toilet, and stopped his tying.
I would not say he immediately dropped his jeans - that would be an exaggeration, but he definitely stopped tying them, and I think, somewhat opened the gap which showed them off.
There comes a moment in every adventure where not to do something is to do everything, for you stop the forward progress of the story. So I moved towards him, away from the urinal, my cock still in my hand, but not yet stiffening - you must remember that all this takes pages to tell but happens in smaller units of time than seconds.
"Is your cock gothic or baroque?" I said. "Waddya mean?" he replied. (Let us avoid the digression into the why do you answer every question with another question and remark for a moment on his accent.) Let us also not pause to contemplate that he might have responded "Queer bastard" and knocked another tooth out, or that someone might have opened the door.
"Well the hair will be as black as that on your head, but it might be straight or tightly curled, the latter baroque. You might have a large foreskin completely covering the glowing purple end of your dick, distinctly baroque - may I look?" and not pausing for permission I raised the elastic belt of his yellow boxer shorts away from his skin, outwards, so both he and I could look down into the foreshortened moment ahead. He might hit me. He had enough enticement.
But he didn't - he just stood there, in the middle of a toilet in a pub, holding up his jeans with both hands, his shorts stretched out, his head down, peering towards his cock, and my head down too, our heads almost touching, and my hand reaching forward, through the gap in his shorts, into the gap from which his cock should come taken by his hand into order to piss, reaching forward to feel it - that warm moment which makes my heart stop, my breathing stop, my legs buckle, but in my hand it was, and he drew back not.
or There, it was over. The rest becomes mechanics. I squeeze myself, but while telling this I have become hard. And we are still standing in the middle of the floor of the public house toilet.
"Would you like a quick blow job?" I manage to say. He does not pull away, he does not push out my hand, he does not let go of his jeans and he does not begin to zip up. His cock is stiffening up under my hand, and his head is touching mine - our foreheads are resting together.
Leading him by his stiffening dick, I guide us towards the door into the closet. He doesn't resist, he walks, not in a trance but following. It takes another couple of seconds, then he is in and the door is shut. Now all is clear. Still dangerous, someone might come in, this is a public place, he might be under twenty one. But he is there and the door is shut and his cock is in my hand and now he has an erection, and so do I and his jeans are unbelted and unzipped, and it takes nothing to free them from his hands and allow them to drop, and to drop to my knees and put the end of his dick in my mouth.
His foreskin has slid back with his hardon, my saliva wets it, slicks it, licks it, my hand feels under his balls, tickles and strokes. I can't see what he is doing above me. I move my hand and slide down his shorts, my face so hid in his hair that I don't even look up to gaze at the elevation of the host. My hands move to feel his buttocks, fondle the hair at the top of his legs, not tightly curled, but soft and fine. His shorts and his jeans are now around his ankles, but across his navel, the line of his shirt, upwhich my hand climbs, across his stomach, up to one nipple, tweak. He doesn't flinch. Squeeze. he doesn't flinch. Pinch. he doesn't flinch. So move my hand down again across this belly then back up and pinch and pinch and pinch. But he doesn't flinch. And my mouth moving back and fore along the end of his cock and my other hand playing with his balls.
Enough fun for him. I stand up. Now will come the test - the ball is in his court. I put my hands behind his head and move my face towards his - will he flinch? But no, and we kiss - all the depth of tongues and his hands have gone behind my head, and then all doubt is resolved.
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