9 comments/ 35742 views/ 10 favorites Men's Room By: HuckPilgrim Author's note: This is my entry for the 2014 Halloween story contest. If you enjoy the story, please consider giving it a vote. Thanks so much! * Joanie Salinger follows Moe Dice down the darkened halls of the school. Moe holds her small, sweaty hand in his much bigger, dryer palm. The deserted hallway looks eerie, the long shadows dangerous. The sound of the crowd cheering in the gymnasium grows more faint with each step the two take. Tonight Joanie's school--Saint Barnaby's--plays Carnal. She came to the gymnasium earlier this afternoon, not even bothering to change her uniform. She took time only to drag a brush through her cobalt blue hair, a recent dye job that her mother hated, but that she loved, a nod to her own growing need to be different. Original. To mask her true mission in the gym, she helped the adults from her school's booster club decorate the visitors' side of the bleachers. Joanie likes how she feels in this school. So different from wandering the stodgy stone halls of Saint Barnaby's School for Girls. Carnal has a reputation as a tough little school on the bad side of town. Joanie imagines herself as a student here and finds a small swagger in her walk that she didn't have before. Moe stops short and Joanie almost collides with him. His body feels lean and hard under his soft flannel shirt. Using her clumsiness to his advantage, Moe puts his arm around her waist, tugging her closer to himself. "Here?" he asks. It's more assertion of fact than actual question, and he nuzzles his head into the small of her neck, just below her ear. She wraps her arms around his waist. Her phone is in her hand, her fingertips on one of the belt loops of his jeans. The spot he has selected is a second floor landing, opening onto a stairwell, wide and deep, that leads to a library between the floors. "Should we go inside one of the classrooms?" she asks. "Locked," he whispers. His hands move to her small breasts as he kisses her softly on the mouth. Joanie can feel her own body respond to his touch. Her nipples stiffen, rise, and her stomach does that thing where it tightens, as if it were a dishtowel being wrung. She feels breathless, excited, a little lightheaded. The same way she felt earlier this afternoon when she stuffed the wad of bubble gum into the doorjamb of the nurses' office, preventing the door from completely locking, allowing her and Moe, this evening, to slip past the metal security gate that separates the gymnasium from the rest of the school. And how her body had responded to even that small, illicit act! All her life Joanie has toed the line: a straight A student, member of the church choir, attending confession on Saturday afternoons for as far back as she can remember. Now, an eighteen-year-old student in her senior year, she has finally sampled the forbidden delights of rebellion, and she finds herself reeling, intoxicated by the allure of letting it all go, of playing the bad girl. "Put your hands here," he says, indicating a thin metal rail at the edge of the landing. Joanie grabs the rail, looks at the landing far below. "Bend over," he whispers. Joanie feels a quick stab of excitement in her chest. She doesn't want him to think she's a flake, or that she's suddenly got cold feet. He'd given her instruction on how to beat the steel security gate. Promised to show up at tonight's game. Lead her into the school. She can feel his groin pressing into her hip, the bulge in his jeans. He places his hand between her legs, rubs the moistening crotch of her panties. Joanie gasps at his touch. She sighs and moans, greedily rocking her hips back into his hand. She wants nothing more than to bend over for him, to let him pull her panties aside and slip himself inside her, but then she catches herself. Spins around and laughs. "Not here," she says. Her hand goes to the bulge in his jeans. She lets her fingers dance over his fly. Her voice is breathy, needy, but she resolves to hold him off. Slipping out of his arms, Joanie wanders back into the hallway proper. "Where?" Moe says. He can't hide his impatience. He rubs the front of his pants, draws in his breath. "Somewhere with more light," Joanie says. Moe's eyes drop to the phone in her hand, an iPhone in a pink case. He bites his lip. Looks around. Joanie clutches her arms. Shivers. Rows of lockers line the walls like an army of silent sentries, all standing witness to her wicked behavior tonight. The tile floors gleam. Joanie hears a distant roar from the crowd, a comfort to her in this eerie hallway light. Looking over his shoulder, Moe chuckles. "Here," he says, pointing to the wall. Joanie looks, laughs. It's not something she would have come up with on her own. A ripple of excitement runs through her body. "Perfect," she whispers. A little sign on the wall reads: MEN. *** Inside the bathroom, Moe flips a switch on the wall. The fluorescent overheads flicker, then flood the space with a harsh, unforgiving light. A row of porcelain sinks and a long mirror line one wall, a row of painted stalls line the other. The room is an L shape, and affixed to the back wall is a row of shiny white urinals, each with a gleaming silver valve on top. The space has a soaring ceiling and tall frosted glass windows over the urinals. One of the windows is open at the top and Joanie can smell the pine and loam from the woods behind the school in the crisp winter air. Moe says: "Bright enough?" Joanie laughs softly. Looks around in silence, her eyes wide. She knows she doesn't belong here, but knows that this is exactly where she must be. She'd insisted on using the school, but had always imagined going into one of the classrooms. She wanted some place that Roger would immediately recognize. Roger. The hurt and anger begins to rise, but Joanie catches herself. Pushes it back down. Refuses to cry. Moving closer to Moe, she feels the warmth of his body next to hers. She lets her shoulder rub his arm, but doesn't look at his face. He silently lowers his head to her neck, his hand moving to her breast. His long hair falls like a curtain as he nibbles her ear. Glancing in the mirror, Joanie is taken by the pitiless look in her own eyes. She can feel Moe's hands moving briefly to her hips, then under her skirt. Her breathing catches and she focuses on the hand between her legs, the lusty feelings growing in her tummy. He stops nuzzling her and raises his head. Licks his dry lips. He looks like he might want to neck some more, but Joanie wants to get things started. "Can I give you head?" She says. Her voice is a throaty whisper. She lowers her eyes to his chest. Fingers one of the buttons on his flannel shirt. Her cheeks warm up. It's hard for her not to grin as she makes this request. As many of these little liaisons as she's performed in the last few weeks, you'd think she'd be used to it by now. That she'd feel less shame, or that she'd be better able to handle whatever feelings do arise, but that's not been the case. Each time is just like the last. There is always this part, the part where she feels embarrassed for putting into words exactly what she must have. Asking the boy for what she needs. Moe hasn't responded. This isn't all that unusual. Joanie has found that when it comes to sex, boys like to be in control. Like to make all the moves. She looks up at him. Cocks her head. Grins and raises her brow. He's an attractive boy, but he's grinning like a fool. "Sure," he stammers. "Sure." He laughs softly, but Joanie can tell he's a little put off. Maybe scared. Probably he has never been with a girl this forward before. He lowers his fly. Joanie takes a small step back so she can watch him pull his erection from his pants. He has a nice cock. Long and hard with a large clipped head. A swollen vein, forked and slightly throbbing, runs down one side of his pink shaft. Joanie looks up at him, grinning. He's starting to stroke it now. Has that serious look on his face that boys get when they show off their cocks. This next part is tricky. She squats in front of him, her knees slanting out to either side. His erection is only inches from her face. Looking down at the phone in her hands, she mashes her fingers against its dull, glass face. Joanie looks up. Grins. She puts his dick in her mouth and hears him sigh. Swallowing as much of his cock as she can, Joanie closes her eyes. His warm erection fills her mouth. She feels the wiry hair of his pubic patch on her nose. Raising her phone, she points the camera right at her face. For a girl who has always been as level headed and chaste as Joanie, the first shot is always the hardest. Not so much because she is committing to video such a personal, private act, although that's certainly a part of it. Moe is the fourth boy she's recorded herself with in as many weeks, and each time she's been aware that she's committing what the nuns would call the sin of fornication, indelibly marking her soul. And while all that makes the first shot difficult in its own right, it's not the thing makes the first shot the hardest. It's the boys' laughter that gets her the most. The boys always seem to laugh. Moe makes an incredulous snort, which quickly turns to a chuckle. Joanie knows he's neither laughing at her, nor amused. He laughs because he's surprised. Nervous. The last thing he expects is for the camera to come out, the recording to begin. But begin it must. She lets his wet cock fall from her mouth, her phone still recording. Joanie has found that it sometimes helps to offer reassurance. Looking up at him, she grins. He's looking at her with an amused, apprehensive expression on his face. If reassurance isn't enough, a physical incentive often is. Joanie takes his cock in her small fist and pumps it. "You're making this to punish Roger?" Moe asks. He keeps his voice low, an unidentifiable mumble in deference to the camera in Joanie's hand. Joanie's whole face breaks into a grin. For answer, she takes him back into her mouth. Her hand is still jacking his tool and she gazes back into the camera. These are the shots Joanie enjoys capturing most. When she edits the video, she will put these next few shots at the very start. She likes using the camera to toy with Roger, imagining him watching as she sucks another boy's cock. Joanie works on Moe for a few minutes. She kisses his big pink helmet, then licks him like so much candy cane. Her tummy is tight with anticipation, her pussy wet. She stands. Leaning against the sink, Joanie hikes up her uniform skirt, pushes her panties to the side, and rubs her moist vulva. Moe slips himself inside her, entering her through the leg hole of her underwear. He sighs loudly, standing stock still for a minute or two. To better accommodate him, Joanie slips her bottom up onto the sink, and then wraps her thighs around his waist. He puts his hands on her waist and begins moving his hips. Joanie points her phone between their bodies and makes a high pitched squeal deep in her throat. Her plaid skirt is riding high on her hips. Moe has one of his thumbs hooked into the crotch of her panties, pulling them off to the side. Despite this, much of her thin, blonde pubic hair remains hidden by her plain cotton undies. He pushes hard into her, driving toward his own reward. They both watch his wet cock spear her again and again. Moe's lips are set in a tight little line. Joanie points her phone at his face. He looks up, sees he's staring into her camera, and it's like a punch to the gut. He makes an exasperated groan and turns his head. Ignoring her camera for the moment, Joanie drapes her arms around his neck and draws herself to him. She knows that last shot was risky, but she's glad to have gotten it. Roger doesn't know any of the boys she's recorded herself with as well as he knows Moe. Moe slows his thrusts. Stops. "Don't stop," she whispers in his ear, grinding herself into him. "Come on." Her voice has a desperate quality that she didn't expect to hear. Moe sighs. "I'm sorry," Joanie says. "NoreallyI'msorry," she says it all in a rush. Moe looks into her face, but Joanie can't meet his gaze. She looks at the tile floor. "You're not sorry," he laughs, a deep throated snort. He takes a step back. "Come on." Joanie whimpers. "No." All the swagger she felt in the hall is gone. She feels sure she will cry, but she doesn't want to. Moe turns from her to fasten his clothes. He mumbles something, but Joanie can't hear what he says. She slips off the sink. Turns and grabs the sink basin with both her hands. For a few minutes, she has no memory of anything at all. And then she raises her head and looks into the mirror. Her eyes are red ringed. Wet. Moe asks if she's ready to go, but Joanie doesn't answer. She sighs. Blows air through her cheeks. "I have to pee," she says. Her voice is small. Moe shifts uncomfortably. "You go on," she tells him. "I can find my own way back." At the door, Moe turns back. He looks as if he is going to say something to her, but then he just smiles. His eyes have a sad expression. He turns, pushes the door open, and he's gone. The heavy door swings shut with a hydraulic sigh. *** Joanie enters a stall, lowers her panties, and sits on the toilet seat. The little latch on the door is broken. She vaguely considers getting up and going to the ladies room across the hall. The dim sound of the cheering crowd comes to her in the quiet, and she decides that moving isn't worth the effort. Folding her arms, she leans forward, hugging herself. She listens to her stream fill the bowl. Then she listens to the quiet after she's through. For the longest time, she sits just like this, her panties at her ankles. She sits until she's not angry anymore. Sits until she's neither bitter with Moe, nor critical of herself. Joanie sits until she feels nothing at all. And then she straightens her back and looks at her phone. Watches the clips. She replays the part where Moe is inside her. She watches the footage of herself at his feet, sucking his dick. The clip with Moe's face contains at least three or four seconds of him enjoying himself, a determined look on his face, before he turns his head away in disgust. Joanie doesn't watch the part where he turns away. With a little careful editing, she thinks she can still create a video that features his face. Joanie smiles. If she does make the video, the only disappointment will be that it won't end with her swallowing his cum. She puts her hand between her legs. Strokes and fingers her labia. Joanie has come to enjoy swallowing. Scooting her bottom to the edge of the toilet seat, she spreads her knees wide, and slips two fingers inside herself. The first time she did it was in a video created to spite Roger. She hadn't even planned it. The boy she was with simply presented his swollen cock at the end, and she took it in her mouth. The camera was rolling. He cupped his hands on her head, bucked his hips, and filled her mouth with his salty treasure. She soon realized that all boys long for a girl that swallows. It's like some universal male trait, hard coded into a man's pleasure center. She began including it in every video. Joanie leans back, putting her hand on the seat behind her. Her body aches for release. Looking around, she gets a perverse little thrill from fingering herself in the men's room. She rocks her hips and mewls. Rides her fingers. Soon squeaky wet noises come from between her legs. She feels an orgasm fast approaching and . . . . . . the bathroom door bursts open. Joanie freezes, a moan caught in her throat. The door falls against its hydraulics, and then slowly works itself shut with a quiet hush. Her mouth is open, her knees spread wide. Two fingers are jammed deep in her pussy. Her heart thuds in her chest, and she doesn't dare move, not even to breathe. The stall door is slightly ajar. Her panties are at her ankles. Carefully pulling her fingers from inside herself, she closes her knees. She cups her hand over her crotch and bites her lip. She hopes the sound of the heavy men's room door was loud enough to mask any sounds she might have been making while masturbating. Whoever it is has gone past her and towards the back of the room. His footsteps echo on the tile floor. With a sinking feeling, she realizes that those boots don't belong to Moe. Reaching for her panties, she silently slips them up her legs, rising from the seat without making any noise. With her panties up, she feels a little less vulnerable, but not much. Holding her phone in both hands, she wonders what she should do next. Stand on the toilet seat? Hold the stall door shut? Make a break for it? She doesn't like any of those choices. She can hear him urinating, a loud forceful stream that sounds like someone using a hose to clean a sidewalk. She closes her eyes and silently blows air out her mouth. A memory comes to her of an early morning years ago, on a visit to her aunt's farm: she'd watched a large black bull piss in a foggy meadow. She'd risen early with her twin sister Tammy to milk the cows. The hot urine mixing with the cool dew created a cloud of smoke rising up around the animal's haunches, like a scene from some dark fairy tale. Squeezing her legs together, Joanie savors the pressure her thighs place on her groin. Her heart is still pounding, her crotch still moist. She presses her hands against her pubis. And then this dark thought comes unbidden into her mind: Maybe I should go out there. Suck his dick. She feels appalled. Shocked. Suck a complete stranger's cock? Where did that notion come from? Joanie smells something burning, like a wood fire in the distance. Her head feels light. To steady herself, she puts her hand on the wall. Maybe not suck his cock, she thinks. Maybe just jack him off. The burning smell grows stronger, more pungent. Joanie feels dizzy. She hears footsteps. A faucet opens. He's washing his hands. She knows this is crazy. She should just remain silent. Wait for him to leave. Or maybe see if he'd just want to touch me. Put his hand between my legs. Joanie squeezes her eyes shut, tries to block the crazy from her mind. The faucet closes. The room is silent. And then this: Three cheerful dings come from Joanie's phone. DING, DING, DING. Her mouth drops. She looks at her phone, a text message from Moe has come in. She turns it to mute. The fire smell is so strong now she wonders if maybe the school is burning down. From the other side of the door, a man's voice rings out: "Who's that? Who's in there?" *** It's a sturdy, adult voice filled with authority. Joanie's mouth is dry. The vague fears about the thoughts in her mind disappear, replaced by the very real prospect of having to go out there and confront a grown up in this place. Taking a deep breath, she opens the door and steps out of the stall. It's Jimmy Manley's Dad--Joanie knows him as Mr. Manley. Don Manley has broad shoulders, intense blue eyes, and a strong, wiry frame. He's standing by the sink, his hands on his hips, a curling loop of brown hair hanging down his forehead. He's a rugged, good looking man, with a no nonsense attitude. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. Joanie closes her mouth, then opens it again, as if she's about to clarify something. She's still grinning, still clutching her hands around the phone that betrayed her. She shakes her head and then her hands dance across her body: one flies to her hair, the other to the buttons on her blouse, and then both hands go back down to smooth her skirt. "This is the men's room," Mr. Manley says. He shrugs his shoulders, spreads his hands. His voice has a disarming quality, as if the appearance of a young girl in this space is some ordinary circumstance, easily explained and corrected. Men's Room Joanie laughs softly. She puts her fingers to her forehead and shakes her head as if she has forgotten what she was about to say. She lowers her hand and she's still grinning. Mr. Manley is looking at her with those blue eyes. "How--," Joanie starts, but then she isn't sure how to phrase her question. "How did you get up here?" she asks. "Me?" Mr. Manley snorts. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Joanie looks at the floor. Her face heats up. She looks towards the door, and Mr. Manley abruptly swallows his laughter. Rubbing his earlobe, he looks at his feet. Hides his grin. Joanie inches sideways toward the door, the damp crotch of her panties riding up between her legs. While the sensation isn't uncomfortable, it reminds her that only a few seconds ago she was feverishly coaxing an orgasm from herself. "There's plenty ways to get past that security gate," Mr. Manley says. "I mean," he looks at her, "you know one--right?" Joanie snorts, unable to hide her own satisfaction. Flashing a grin at him, she feels the pleasure of having an adult concede her own role in tonight's adventure. "I have to get back," she mumbles, pulling the heavy door open. "Are you shooting video tonight, Joanie?" Mr. Manley asks. At the mention of video, the sound of her name, something inside Joanie seizes. No adult has confronted her about the recordings, although she is almost certain they are being passed around by most of the other students. Have adults seen them? Joanie has no idea. She has pushed the consequences of her behavior so far from her mind, this is the first she's even considered an adult seeing what she has done. She didn't even realize Mr. Manley knew her name. And now this recognition, the specificity in being named, gives her some small sense of satisfaction, too. She is used to being anonymous, just another girl in a sea of girls. She doesn't know his first name--or if he means those videos--and this imbalance of knowledge piques her curiosity a little, even if it frightens her some, too. She lets go of the door. She looks over her shoulder to address him, but also to see what expression is on his face. "Videos?" she asks, involuntarily chewing her lip. She watches Mr. Manley's eyes glide down her body, over the soft curve of her bottom, past the hem of her skirt, the backs of her thighs, and then linger on her muscular calves, her knee high socks. It's such an overtly sexual look, such an obvious appraisal, that Joanie feels a little taken aback. Boys look at her this way. That same burning smell is back, filling her mind. Mr. Manley reaches between his legs and adjusts himself. Joanie quickly averts her eyes. The burning smell is much stronger now. Gazing back toward him, she can clearly see the outline of his swollen cock on the inside of his leg. He does mean those videos. Joanie raises her eyes and finds him smiling confidently. Knowing that he has seen her perform in the videos somehow makes everything different, though very little has actually changed. Now she wants him to see her. She's eager to see the hungry look in his eyes as he looks at her body. Turning towards him, she rests her head against the wall. His eyes go to her throat, the vee of her blouse, her small, heaving breasts. His scrutiny scares and satisfies her all at the same time. His eyes are on her hips, her legs. She can feel her own desire welling up in the pit of her stomach, even as her throat dries up. He moves towards her, his boots ringing on the tiles. Mashing her thighs together, she swallows and finds a lump in her throat. A few paces from her, he stops. A silence hangs in the air. The crowd in the gymnasium roars, a distant sound. Mr. Manley puts his hand on her side, just below her arm pit. She feels her stomach lurch and looks away, towards the mirror and sinks. He has a big strong hand that easily cups her torso, and his thumb brushes against the side of her breast. She enjoys the sudden electric of his touch there, exactly where it shouldn't be. Looking up, Joanie notices a small tuft of chest hair billowing out the neck of his T-shirt. He moves his thumb, begins stroking her breast. She lowers her head and sighs. Mr. Manley smells like a wood fire. The smell is so strong she can almost hear the pop and sigh of moist timbers, imagine the flames licking the wood. Consuming, transforming. Sucking in her breath, she fills her lungs. Exhales. Her nipples are hard. Joanie thinks of her own father--an overweight butcher, who comes home each night, eats dinner, and then loses himself in hefty tomes on mathematics. "Joanie," Mr. Manley says. He repeats her name. His voice is gentle but insistent. He says it again. It's like he is calling her from some faraway shore, some distant hill. Grinning weakly, she sniffs. She hesitantly meets Mr. Manley's eyes. Nods. Manages a coy smile. She raises her phone. Bites her lip. Mr. Manley looks at the phone. He smiles. Whispers her name again. It's like he's calling her home. Calling her to exactly the place she ought to be. He moves even closer to her. She can feel his hand on the crisp cotton of her shirt, her bra chafing against her breast. He slides his hand down her body, over her hip and thigh, and then it doubles back, and he is under her skirt, cupping her soft pubic mound, the damp cotton between her legs. Joanie's mouth drops open. She feels obligated to make an objection. To say something. She wills herself to speak, but instead of a protest, only a soft moan escapes her mouth. It feels good to be fondled, to be touched. Her left thigh begins to shake, all of its own accord. She reaches for Mr. Manley to steady herself, feels the fabric of his shirt, his hard body beneath. "I've seen two," Mr. Manley says. "How many have you made?" Joanie isn't sure what he's talking about at first. Then she gets it. He means the videos. "Four," she says. "No, wait--I mean five." She laughs, a girl shouldn't lose count of the number of sex videos she's made to spite her former boyfriend. Mr. Manley looks at her evenly. He doesn't laugh. "You're hurt," he whispers. "Your Roger hurt you." His finger finds the little nub of her clitoris and begins to gently massaging it through her panties. Leaning forward so that his lips are next to Joanie's ear, Mr. Manley whispers: "You can feel better." His fingers dance between her legs. She can hear his breathing, feel the flush of his hot breath on her head. "I can help you," he murmurs. She can feel her sodden panties, wet from her own secretions, rubbing against her labia. The bathroom is eerily quiet, the only sound an occasional muted cheer from the game, or the hiss of steam from the school's ancient radiator. His voice is so seductive, the smell of the fires so strong. Joanie gently rocks her hips, riding Mr. Manley's big hand. "What do I have to do?" she asks. Joanie has no idea what Mr. Manley is talking about, but she likes the idea of relief. Satisfaction. "It's easy," he murmurs. Joanie mewls. Puts the tip of her tongue to her lip. Any reservations she held about sex with this man disappear. The fact that his age is so much greater than her own makes her feel uncomfortable, but she takes refuge in the fact that no ever will ever know. This part of tonight's adventure will always be her little secret. He places his free hand on the back of her neck, the other hand still massaging between her legs. She feels her breath coming heavy through her mouth, her eyelids hanging low. He lowers his head to look in her face. He wants to tell her something. She tries to collect herself. Impatient, ready to get started, she looks at the old man curiously. His brilliant blue eyes, the square chin and rugged jaw. She bites her lip and squeezes her thighs on his hand. Mr. Manley kisses her softly on her crown. He doesn't announce what he was searching for in her face, or even if he found it. Instead he nuzzles his head against hers. "Be careful," he softly whispers in her ear. "Be certain what you're after." A chill passes over Joanie, making her shoulders shudder. *** Mr. Manley suddenly stops fondling her. Taking half a step back, he reaches for the hem of her skirt and lifts it high. He tilts his whole torso and looks up her skirt. Joanie gasps, laughing nervously. She considers protesting, but the expression on his face makes her pause. He has his lips pressed together in a soft appraising smile, his brows arching high on his forehead. A warm thrill runs through her tummy, and she squeezes her thighs together. Instead of protesting, she rocks her hips forward. Not sure what to do with her hands, she puts them behind her back. Grabs her elbow. Waits. Her body flushes with warmth, but she can't tell if it is humiliation or sexual desire. Mr. Manley takes a good long look under her uniform skirt. She mashes her thighs together and squirms. She wore plain white panties this morning. "Beautiful," Mr. Manley smiles. Joanie glows with satisfaction. "Take those off," he says, dropping her skirt. His blunt request catches her off guard and Joanie looks toward the door. This is what she wanted, but she feels off balance. Nervous. "Don't worry," Mr. Manley says. "We're all alone." Mr. Manley uses a firm, reassuring tone to say this last part. This tone, combined with his assurance of secrecy, convinces Joanie to remove her panties. She wants to please him. Or maybe she wants to shock him. She can't rightly say which. She hikes her skirt, flashing the milky white flesh of her thighs for an instant, and then she is bent over, stepping out of her panties. Her patent leather shoes glow in the florescent overheads. She stands with a confident grin, holding her panties in her hand. Mr. Manley laughs softly. Reaching for the light switch on the wall, he flips off the overheads. The moon shines through the tall windows, making large glowing rectangles across the tiles. The space has a much different feel in the dark. Joanie makes a brief protest, reaching toward the light switch, but Mr. Manley takes her by the shoulders and says something comforting. "Easy," he murmurs. "No one will ever know." Still a little skittish, she clutches her phone and her panties. With the lights out, Joanie realizes, it's like being in a dark cave, an isolated fortress. Feeling her own needs welling between her thighs, she lets the idea of turning the lights back on fall away. Rubbing her shoulders, he walks her to the other side of the room. Coos encouragement. The darkness and soft purr of his voice comfort her. Mr. Manley leads her to the wall of urinals. "Hold onto this," he says, indicating the shiny valve above one of the urinals. Even though she is ready to comply, Joanie stands dumbfound for a second. She can't say why. "Bend over," he whispers. He uses that same firm tone she has come to enjoy. Her stomach tumbles. What to do with her panties? Her phone? Without a word, she holds out her underwear to Mr. Manley. She uses both her hands, like an offering. It's as if she were following some ancient ritual. He softly chuckles. Takes the girl's underwear in his hand. Takes her phone. With her surrender, Joanie feels some small relief. A small sigh escapes her lips. She obediently grabs hold of the gleaming plumbing and bends over, presenting her bottom. The metal is cold and dry. Mr. Manley slips his hand under her skirt from behind. He runs his fingers lightly over her bare sex. She exhales noisily when he touches her down there. Moans. Her pubic mound is soaked. Ready. Resting her forehead on the metal for a moment, she lowers her head between her shoulders, her arms looped over the plumbing. Mr. Manley makes a satisfied hum. Turning to the fixture next to Joanie, he drapes her panties over the edge of the trough. But Joanie doesn't want her panties resting in the wet bowl. She raises her head. Mewls softly. She begins to stand, to fetch her panties. But Mr. Manley moves between her and her underwear. He uses his body to gently nudge her back into position. His hand is under her skirt again, caressing her bare sex from behind. He soothes her. "It's fine," he says firmly. "Fine." While his fingers work her labia, he slips his thumb between the warm globes of her ass. She loses herself in the fingers probing her slippery sex, her sweaty bottom. She forgets her panties, focusing on the lusty feelings inside her body instead. She arches her back, hanging onto the plumbing. He tells her what intends to do with her. How he wants to use her pussy. Ride her. His language becomes rougher. He calls her a dirty girl, a hot little number. She finds it strangely satisfying. None of the boys talk to her like this. Mr. Manley moves around behind her. He lifts her skirt and rests it on her back. Joanie looks over her shoulder. Mr. Manley has undone his pants, opened his fly, and raised his shirt. He has a tornado of dark hair on his lower abdomen, a flat stomach. A long, slender cock. He strokes himself. Rubs his cock head on the lips of her pussy. It occurs to Joanie that he is about to enter her, but she still doesn't know his first name. "Mr. Manley," Joanie says. "Wait--wait." There is a note of urgency to her voice. "What is your name?" she asks. "What should I call you?" Instead of waiting, Mr. Manley purrs and guides his stiff dick into her slippery hole. His fat cock fills her slick canal. She exhales noisily and returns her head to the front, her question unanswered. He groans softly, a sigh of obvious content. Holding her hips tightly, he grinds himself insider her, and she feels his groin rubbing against her bottom. "Sweetie," he says. He chuckles tenderly. "I want you to keep calling me Mr. Manley." With a grunt, he begins his strokes. "Don't worry," he says. "You're going to get everything you need tonight." Joanie face warms. She doesn't look behind her anymore. His cock slides into her, filling her up. It feels good to get fucked. She isn't sure if he just disrespected her, or if he just likes to hear people use his proper name. He pulls his cock back, and then slips it into her again, and she decides that what she calls him doesn't matter one way or the other. He is making good on all the dirty things he promised he'd do to her. He whispers that she's a wild thing. A good little fuck. Joanie doesn't mind. She just wants to feel his cock gliding between her legs. Sometimes he leaves himself impaled inside her, grinding his groin against her bottom. When this happens, Joanie pushes her bottom back against him. Moans in her throat. Mr. Manley whispers that Joanie is a slut. His hot little slut. Joanie bites her lip. She grasps the cold steel valve and hangs her head between her shoulder blades. She can feel an orgasm rising in her tummy. His little slut. She closes her eyes and focuses all her energy on letting those waves overtake her, wash her away. His. To use however he likes. Suddenly Joanie hears the door to the bathroom catch on its hydraulics. The overhead lights flicker on, and then off; and then shine brightly with that same unforgiving light. Joanie gasps in horror. Someone has entered the bathroom! *** Joanie immediately tries to stand, to twist away from Mr. Manley. She wants to distance herself from the act she is performing. "Whoa, whoa," Mr. Manley whispers to Joanie. He leans over her, stroking her breasts with one hand, the other hand sliding over her back and shoulders. Joanie finds she can't rise. She squirms, but it's useless. The more she moves her bottom, the more aroused Mr. Manley becomes. He groans softly, throaty rumbles coming from his mouth. His strong hands hold her pinned to his fat cock. She whimpers. He chuckles and keeps his penis pressed inside her. Unable to stand, Joanie turns her face to the back wall of the restroom. Bending as low as she can, she grabs onto the trough of the urinal for balance. She rests her face against the outside of the porcelain bowl. She glances across the row of urinals, her eyes now level with the row of catch basins. Her heart is pounding, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Screwing her eyes shut, Joanie hears a new voice in the bathroom. Someone is chuckling: it's deep, resonant male laughter. Joanie mewls. She can feel the cool porcelain against her warm cheek. She remembers something that happened to her months ago, the first time she met Roger Bones. The memory is so vivid she can see it in her mind's eye. He's approaching her at the Metro Mall. He's such an attractive boy: tight jeans, lean muscular body, dark eyes and curly brown hair. He knows her name--"Hey, Joanie," he says--but she doesn't know how he knows her. She grins and falls into a friendly conversation with him. He's personable, animated. Only later will she realize that he must have read her name from the breast of her school jacket. Joanie can feel Mr. Manley's cock inside her. While her new position allows her to hide her face, it offers her even less privacy, for to sustain it, she must keep her bottom raised high in the air, and this elevation gives Mr. Manley even better access to her sex, which he quickly puts to good use. With both his hands on her hips, he resumes his thrusts. Joanie feels as if she is in a dream. Mr. Manley's efforts take on a slow motion, drawn out quality they didn't seem to have before. She can hear him talking to the person who just came in, but both their voices seem hollow and faraway. They are discussing girls. Various Carnal cheerleaders. Some of the women in the stands. And then the conversation turns to someone specific--a girl, but Joanie doesn't know who. Mr. Manley speaks about her with much enthusiasm. He says she's a good fuck. A hot little piece of ass. Joanie feels a fiery jolt of rejection in her chest: he's not even finished fucking her and somehow she's already been relegated. And then Mr. Manley says that he found her in here, and Joanie understands that she is the girl. These men are talking about her. She feels a quick surge of relief, followed by the sting of humiliation for feeling relieved. And then Mr. Manley glides his cock deep into her, and her body seems to respond all of its own accord: Joanie pushes her hips high and softly moans. The other person laughs and a deliciously dirty feeling washes over Joanie. Her heart soars, even as her stomach knots with nervous energy. Joanie holds onto the bowl even tighter, gripping the slippery trough with both her hands. She keeps her eyes screwed shut. She remembers what happened in the computer lab at Saint Barnaby's, not more than a few weeks ago. It's the middle of the school day, the period before lunch. Her best friend has sent her an email that contains a link and a single sentence: "Watch to the end." Joanie quickly scans the bowed heads of her classmates. Sister Miriam is engrossed in something at her desk. Joanie clicks the link: A grainy amateur video appears of a girl on her knees giving a boy head; the girl looks familiar, but her face is hidden in shadow. Joanie grins. Quickly pausing the video, she scans the room. Organizing her monitor so she can see the video without getting caught, Joanie knows she must pause every so often to make sure her classmates aren't watching her screen. The video is poor quality, but she soon realizes that the girl on her knees is from Saint Barnaby's. Joanie wonders which of her classmates would make such a video. She glances over to the friend who emailed her, but the girl doesn't turn her head. Sister Miriam is up, cleaning the board, her back to the class. Another girl appears in the video. Men's Room The camera angle doesn't reveal this new girl's face, but Joanie can tell it's another Saint Barnaby's girl by the plaid uniform skirt and the white knee socks. This new girl stands behind the girl on her knees, running her fingers lovingly through the kneeling girl's hair. The girl giving head stops tending to the boy's needs and glances back towards her friend. Joanie believes she sees something that suggests doubt. Reluctance. This impression might have come from the stiff angle of the girl's neck as she pulls away from the boy. Or maybe from the hand that she brings first to her lips, without so much as a single caress for the wet penis, newly vacated from her mouth. Or it could be the eagerness with which the girl on her knees seeks out her friend's gaze, even as a boy's erection bobs in her face. Or maybe Joanie just thinks cold feet because of the scene itself: only someone in danger of losing their nerve would need a friend to stand behind them and stroke their hair as they satisfy a boy with their mouth. The boy grabs himself and wags his cock. He's impatient. The friend lowers her head, the light changes, and her identity is revealed: This girl is Marcy Storm. Marcy is looking up toward the boy, grinning slyly even as she whispers in the ear of the girl on her knees. Finding Marcy involved in something like this is not surprising. Marcy spends a lot of time at Joanie's house, hanging out with Tammy, Joanie's twin sister. Last summer Marcy's father ran off, leaving Marcy and her mom on their own. And shortly after that, both Marcy and Tammy were busted for shoplifting. Joanie dons her headphones, but the video has no audio track. Marcy continues stroking the anonymous girl's her head, smoothing her hair. The girl looks up at the boy, and then puts her mouth back on his penis. Mr. Manley grinds his groin into Joanie's bottom, but she refuses to open her eyes. She can hear the men speaking to one another in the bathroom, but their faint voices seem to echo from faraway. Joanie notices something familiar about the girl giving head. Her face is still impossible to identify, but something about the way her hair falls, the way she holds her head. A feeling of dread rises in Joanie's gut. The people in the video change positions. The girl giving head uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. The boy's erection looms into the frame. As the boys turns his torso, the light changes, and Joanie sees the face of the anonymous girl on her knees. Her sister Tammy is the one sucking cock. Mr. Manley reach between Joanie's legs, fondling her clitoris. An exquisite pleasure washes over her, but still she keeps her eyes shut. She watches the final reel playing out in her mind. Tammy takes the boy's penis back into her mouth. Raising her hands, Tammy lets them hover at her chest for a moment, then she rests them both on the boy's thighs. She submits. Tammy lets the boy fuck her mouth. Marcy gathers Tammy's hair, pulling it back as the boy's hands come to rest on the crown of her head. He is rocking his hips. His thick penis slipping into her mouth, then coming back out again, wet and slick. Tammy suddenly turns her face toward the camera, a string of spit connecting her bottom lip with the boy's penis. Her mouth is wide open in a big, silent wail. A long rope of cum--the off-white color of vanilla ice cream--appears on Tammy's forehead and in her hair. Tammy's mouth is wide open and some of the semen undoubtedly ends up on her tongue, because she quickly closes her mouth--her gag reflex forcing her to swallow--and then a grim look appears on her face. When she realizes what she has swallowed, her mouth opens again in another silent, helpless wail. She turns her head to her friend and fresh dots of cum appear in dribbles on her cheek. The boy splashes more of his cum on her jaw and her neck. Marcy wipes the cum from Tammy's face with her fingers. Joanie watches Marcy address both the boy and the girl. First she looks at the boy, a playfully, chastising look on her face. Then, she turns to Tammy, gently tut-tutting words of comfort. Tammy soon calms herself. She takes the boy's penis, slightly diminished now, back into her mouth. As Tammy suckles the boy, the camera pulls back. Rides up the boy's hips, past his chest. Joanie knows what is coming. She has relived this moment so many times in the last few weeks, she can already feel the bile gathering at the back of her throat. Of course, the boy is her boyfriend: It's Roger Bones. When he sees the camera lens pointing at his face, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. He smiles sadly, extends his hand over the lens and the picture goes black. Joanie Salinger. Joanie Salinger. Sister Miriam is repeating Joanie's name, a stern look on her face, only it sounds as if she is far away. Joanie realizes she still has the headphones on, covering her ears. She fumbles to close the video. Hide. Hide what she just watched. Hide her feelings. Hide it all. Stuff it all down deep inside. Her hands feel as if they are moving through thick honey but finally she manages to pull the headset from her ears. Joanie Salink-ker. Joanie Salink-ker. The voice still sounds far away and somehow wrong. Joanie is confused. Is she still wearing the headphones? "Joanie Salink-ker?" she hears. "Is dat you, Joanie?" The voice is no longer Sister Miriam's, but someone else's. It's a familiar voice, a man's voice. Joanie opens her eyes. She can feel the porcelain bowl sticking to her cheek as she raises her head. Her stomach does a lazy roll. The man who said her name laughs good naturedly. "It diz you," he says. "Joanie Salink-ker." With dread, Joanie turns her head. She is eye level with the groin of the man standing next to her. His pants are unzipped. He has his penis in his hand, pointing it into the urinal, but he isn't urinating. He's just standing there, with his dick in his hand. Joanie cranes her neck up. The man is smiling. He's got a wide face and a flat nose. He wears his steel grey hair clipped short, and has a thick, muscular frame. He must be close to fifty. His name is Emil Bogdon, but everyone just calls him Bogdon. He's a security guard at the Metro Mall, and he often comes to Joanie's father's store to buy pickled pig's feet from the big jar of brine that sits on the counter. Joanie is breathing heavily, her mouth open. Mr. Manley still has his hand between her legs, rubbing her clitoris. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but she's bordering on sensory overload as she tries to navigate this meeting with Bogdon. Joanie raises herself. Her hands go to the polished valve atop the urinal. She licks her lips. Tries to think of something to say. Bogdon smiles. Glances at Mr. Manley. "Joanie," Mr. Manley whispers. He has stopped toying with her clitoris. "Joanie," he repeats, his voice as soft as a kiss. He slows his strokes, then stops, his penis filling her. Joanie turns her head. Mr. Manley has her phone pointed at her face. When she realizes he is videotaping her, Joanie shakes her head. She laughs. It occurs to her that her laughter is exactly the reaction that every boy has had when the camera comes out. She is just like every other boy she has ever met. She blushes involuntarily and then quickly looks away. Joanie," Mr. Manley whispers. "Will you suck Bogdon's cock?" Joanie snorts. She grins and shakes her head, more at the baldness of the request and the fact that it's being recorded, than from any desire to preserve her modesty. She looks at the floor, her arms hooked over the valve. "He's my friend," Mr. Manley says. He grinds his cock into her. She can hear soft wet noises coming from between her legs. She purses her lips. Moans a little. "Suck his dick," Mr. Manley says softly. Joanie glances at Bogdon. He is grinning, still holding his cock in his hand. His tight t-shirt hugs his body. He has powerful arms, a big chest. Turning back to Mr. Manley, Joanie sighs. She looks into her camera and offers a wan smile. "Maybe," she whispers. Because her mouth is so dry, her voice cracks. She bites her lip. Mr. Manley quietly exalts. He chuckles. Bogdon laughs pleasantly. He sighs and turns his head to the wall in front of him. He starts to urinate loudly. Mr. Manley resumes his thrusts. He moves gentle and slow, drawing it out. Making it last. Joanie hears more wet sounds coming from between her legs, the slap of his groin on her bottom. She grinds her bottom back into Mr. Manley, trying to increase her pleasure before the old man finishes. Bogdon flushes the urinal, and then turns toward Joanie, his fly still open. His penis is long and soft and uncut. He holds it in one of his large hands and grins. He raises his t-shirt, showing off a flat stomach covered with a soft wash of dark hair, all tight and curly and dusted with snow. Joanie sees a drop of something on the end of his penis. She glances up. Bogdon shakes his dick and the drop disappears. He pulls his foreskin back, revealing the helmeted head. He has a thick cock, soft now and only just becoming hard, but still clearly a tool. As he fondles himself, she watches his cock become a thick length of blood sausage, red and strong, jutting from his groin. Joanie finds herself drawn to Bogdon in an odd, helpless way. At her father's store, Joanie had seen Bogdon many times. He liked to stop and chat on his rounds. He'd once found her sitting on Roger's lap, necking in an out of the way alcove of the Metro Mall. Bogdon had winked, raised his hand and moved his fingers in a childlike wave. He'd seemed sweet. She'd never thought of him as particularly interesting, certainly not sexy. But now she can't seem to pull her eyes from the thick cock in his hand. "You can do it," Mr. Manley whispers. "Suck his dick." Bogdon has another drop of moisture on the tip of his cock. He smears it over the head of his penis this time, making the skin softly glow as if it were dipped in butter. With one last look back at Mr. Manley for encouragement, Joanie leans toward Bogdon, closing her eyes. Tilting her head, she scoops his cock into her mouth. He is warm. Salty. She puts her hands on his thighs and lets him take her weight. His cock fills her mouth and Bogdon sighs. Joanie has to change her position to work on Bogdon's cock. As Mr. Manley shuffles around to accommodate her movements, Joanie realizes that--with a cock in her mouth and another between her legs--her body is the lynchpin holding the three of them together. For the first time in her life, she has two cocks in her at the same time. Joanie is pulling a train. Mr. Manley stops fondling her breasts and even moving his hips. He watches Joanie wash Bogdon's cock with her tongue and work it with her hands. For a few minutes, the only sounds are wet noises coming from Joanie's mouth. Fully erect, Bogdon's cock is long and proud, a sight to behold--a great clipped head, attached to a long shaft that twists a few degrees to the right, like a comet turning as it glides through space. "You boyfriend," Bogdon says. "He here? Roger at basketball game tonight?" Mr. Manley says: "Her boyfriend is the game tonight." Joanie's eyes twinkle. She removes Bogdon's wet cock from her mouth, lowers her head and laughs. Everyone laughs. Joanie uses her fist to wipe the saliva from her lips. "Switch?" Bogdon asks Mr. Manley. Looking toward Joanie's bottom, Bogdon nods his intentions. He is holding his thick cock in his hand. "We take turns," he says, pressing his lips into a thin smile. "You can have a shot," Mr. Manley says. "Hell, I don't mind." Joanie vaguely grasps that the men have left her out of the process of deciding who will take her next and how, but she doesn't mind. It feels good to turn it all over, allow someone else to take the lead. Mr. Manley insists Joanie remain bent over as he switches places with Bogdon. He holds his cock at its base and presses Joanie's head to his abdomen. The head of his cock waves lazily near her face. Bogdon moves behind her. Holding onto his hips for balance, Joanie smiles up at Mr. Manley. Kisses his cock, waits for Bogdon to mount her. When she feels Bogdon slides his cock inside her, Joanie groans. She stands bent over with her mouth agape. The difference between Mr. Manley and Bogdon astonishes her--she feels so full. Bogdon begins to swing his cock in and out of her, using long strokes that fill her completely. He ends each stroke with his groin lightly kissing her bottom. Joanie's pussy is making loud sloppy noises. She wonders if Mr. Manley didn't quietly come inside of her during his turn. Her bottom is soaked. She can't quite focus enough to give Mr. Manley head or do much anything but hold on. Pressing her sweaty head into his abdomen, Joanie screws her eyes shut. Enjoys the ride. Joanie orgasms, girting her teeth and moaning loudly. The muscles in her groin clamp down on Bogdon's cock, and her body rides wave after wave of pleasure. Her pleasure trips Bogdon's own orgasm and he groans. Joanie can feel him filling her pussy with his old man cum. When he finishes, he laughs. Sighs. Joanie wants to rest, but Mr. Manley is petting her head, and she feels obligated to make him come. Joanie takes his cock in her hand and strokes him. Licks him. She can taste her own juice on his dick. When Bogdon slips his cock out of her, Joanie is grateful for the extra mobility. She squats in front of Mr. Manley, slanting her knees out in front of her. She lifts Mr. Manley's cock high and lowers her head to lick his balls. She runs the flat of her tongue along the bottom of his shaft. Rubs the length of his cock. Mr. Manley takes his dick from her. He strokes himself. Resting his hand on her head, he tilts her face up. Joanie knows what will come next--Mr. Manley is going to come on her face! She wants it. Wants to feel his warm cum. Taste her reward. Placing her hands on Mr. Manley's hips to steady herself, she watches as his fist slides along his cock. Joanie hears Bogdon say something, but she doesn't move her head. Mr. Manley glances up for a second, but he keeps stroking his cock. Joanie hears the bathroom door sigh. Her heart is thumping in her ears. Something wet is dripping from between her legs. She wonders what it is, then realizes that Bogdon's cum is draining from her pussy, even as she is waiting for Mr. Manley to splash more on her face. Another deliciously warm wave of forbidden pleasure washes over her. Joanie opens her mouth a tiny bit and moans. She closes her mouth to swallow, and then opens it again. This time she opens it wide. Extends her tongue. She waits. Anticipates the taste of his semen. Mr. Manley groans. Joanie closes her eyes, but she doesn't feel anything on her face or in her mouth. Opening her eyes, she sees he's still stroking himself. He moans again, and then the cum bubbles out from the head of his cock and dribbles down his shaft, covering his fist. Some of his cream drips onto the tiles between her legs and onto her blouse. Joanie giggles. He did come earlier, inside her. Mr. Manley looks disappointed with himself. He shakes his cock and some of his cum dribbles onto her face. With a lusty sigh, he wipes the head of his penis on her chin. As Joanie clambers to her feet, she spies a small puddle of cum on the floor in the place where she just squatted. She looks for Bogdon, but he is already gone. Mr. Manley fishes her panties out of the urinal. Balling her undies into his fist, he gives them a mighty squeeze. Liquid run from between his fingers. He shakes his fist into the bowl--once, twice. The spray hits the back of the bowl. "Here," Mr. Manley says. "Your panties." He says this in that firm, fatherly voice that Joanie has such difficulty refusing. She tries to politely decline, but Mr. Manley insists. He steps to her, puts his hand on the back of her neck, and then uses her damp panties to mop his cum from her cheeks and chin. He swabs her whole face, her blue bangs. Joanie didn't expect this. She thinks what he's doing is disgusting, but it turns her on to submit to him one more time, and she feels a satisfying warmth spread through her body. She stands stock still and mewls through tightly sealed lips. She waits for him to finish. When he's done, he takes her hand. He puts her moist panties into her palm and then closes her small fist around them with both of his hands. Holding her hand in both of his own, he looks into her eyes. "Put them on, Sweetie," he says. Joanie exhales noisily, already knowing she will do whatever he asks. "You can do it." he whispers. She takes the waistband of panties in her hands. Stepping into the wet underwear, she pulls them up, high on her waist, raising her skirt. As she tugs them on, she watches him. He's got that serious look on his face men get just before they come. As she finishes, he exhales. He looks suddenly relieved and grins. Joanie wonders if maybe he just came again, this time in his pants. Joanie can feel the sodden cotton of her panties, clammy against her skin. The idea of pulling on the wet underthings for him was more satisfying than actual having them on. She holds the hem of her uniform skirt out a little, away from her bottom. As she tries to determine how best to save her uniform, he runs his hands over her ass, pressing the material of her skirt against the wet, ruined panties. She shakes her head. Mr. Manley is such an asshole. She knows it now, and it no longer frightens her, if it ever did. It's her own needs, she realizes, that frighten her most. *** The door bursts open with a dull boom. Roger steps into the bathroom, Moe on his heels. Joanie feels a stone drop into her tummy. Once again she is humiliated, but she feels relieved they didn't arrive just ten minutes earlier. Mr. Manley turns to face the boys. If he feels any guilt or embarrassment, he doesn't show it. He seems confident, completely at ease. "Roger," Mr. Manley says. He laughs. Folds his arms across his chest. Tilts his head. "Fuck you," Roger says. He glares at Joanie, then back at Mr. Manley. "Motherfucker," Roger hisses. Mr. Manley smiles and shakes his head. "Oh, Roger," he mutters. "Roger, Roger, Roger . . . " The two stand toe to toe. Mr. Manley has his back to Joanie, but she can see he isn't afraid. He uncrosses his arms, puts his hands on his hips, and engages with both boys. Mr. Manley starts speaking in a low voice, and Joanie can't make out much of what he's saying. Roger glares at the tile floor. He is either ignoring Mr. Manley or doing his best to appear as if he isn't listening. He doesn't do anything. He just stands there looking pissed off. Mr. Manley is using his hands to explain something. He keeps his voice low, a calm expression on his face. Joanie wonders how many times Mr. Manley has explained something like this in the past. A chill makes her shoulders quiver. Moe sidesteps past Mr. Manley and sidles up next to her. "You okay?" Moe asks. Joanie keeps her eyes on the others. Roger's face is red, as if he's about to pop. He glares at her and she smiles, more to let him know she can't be intimidated than any desire to cozy up to him. Moe quickly averts his eyes, though he still refuses to look at Mr. Manley's face. Moe leans down and kisses Joanie softly on her cheek. Joanie grins, aware that he just kissed her on a cheek Mr. Manley recently swabbed with another man's pee. She looks at Moe but says nothing. He's got those warm brown eyes, full lips, a delicious looking boy. He runs his tongue across those lips. "Did you . . ." Moe pauses. He cuts his eyes to Mr. Manley. "Did you two . . ." Men's Room Joanie raises her brow. Smiles. As Moe considers how to phrase the question he wants to ask, she glances back to the others. "I mean"--he shakes his head--"Did he hurt you?" Joanie grins. He wants to know if Mr. Manley fucked her. She feels that same deliciously dirty warm feeling in her tummy again. And now the burning smell is back, only it's fairly faint. Ignoring Moe's question, she sees Roger's expression suddenly change. His brows make a deep V in his face. He purses his lips. Folds his arms across his chest. He knows Mr. Manley fucked me. As soon as she thinks it, Joanie knows it's true. She squeezes her thighs together, reveling in the fruit of her own wickedness. "I'm sorry for leaving you," Moe whispers. "Is that why you brought Roger back with you?" she shoots back. Raising her head, she looks Moe in the eye. He looks at the floor, chastised. But almost immediately his head pops up. "Roger's not mad," Moe grins. "He said he wants to talk to you." Mr. Manley has an arm around Roger's shoulders, but Roger still has his arms folded, his face contorted into a V. Joanie feels the clammy cotton fabric of her underwear on her thighs. "He looks mad," Joanie whispers. The burning smell is growing stronger, more intense. Joanie steps closer to Moe. Reaching for his groin, she lets her fingers play over the fly of his jeans. Moe laughs nervously. He cuts his eyes toward Roger. Moe moves to position himself so his body will hide where Joanie's hands have gone, but Joanie doesn't want this. She presses her body against him, forcing him against the wall in full view of Roger. Moe doesn't resist. She can feel his cock growing in his pants. He's grinning, but he looks uncomfortable. She stands on the tips of her toes and leans against him. Her lips are inches from his, her hand still on his cock. "I don't want to talk tonight," Joanie grins. She steps back and drops to her knees. The tile is cold and hard. She reaches for his belt buckle, unfastens his pants, and lowers his zipper. His cock pops out, hard and strong. Her jaw aches from all the cock she's sucked tonight, but it comforts her to know that Roger is watching. She puts the dick into her mouth and bobs her head. Her mouth makes sloppy sucking noises. Soon she realizes that the sucking noises are the only sounds in the bathroom. The low drone from Mr. Manley has stopped. Joanie looks up at Moe. Kisses the head of his penis. Joanie looks at Roger. He and Mr. Manley have moved closer, each standing by her side. Roger no longer looks angry. He doesn't look hurt either. If anything he looks a little shaken, a bit dazed. He swallows and Joanie can see his Adam's apple bob in his throat. Keeping her eyes on him, she kisses the head of his friend's cock. Grins. "I told you," Moe grins. He is looking past Joanie, addressing Roger, and he sounds a little nervous. He takes his hard penis in his hand and bounces it off her chin. Joanie didn't expect this. Having her face pummeled by a dick feels less powerful than having that same dick in her mouth and her cheeks warm up. She snorts. "See," Moe says. "She loves it." Joanie grabs his dick. Baring her teeth, she gently gnaws on the head of his penis. Mr. Manley nudges Roger with his elbow. Roger takes a deep breath. Mr. Manley nods his head in encouragement. Whispers something Joanie can't make out. Roger opens his pants, unzips his fly. He pulls out his dick. Joanie laughs, a little shocked to see Roger whip out his cock. She'd expected him to berate her. Maybe call her mean names. She strokes Moe's cock, then returns it to her mouth. With his cock in her mouth, she feels more in control. She can smell the fires quite clearly now. Her body thrums with sexual desire. She shifts her weight from one knee to the other. Roger moves closer to her, his fat cock in his hand. Joanie stops sucking Moe. She looks at Roger's dick and realizes that she wants it. With this knowledge, she feels a sudden pang of fear. This is my relief. She turns to Mr. Manley. This is the relief he promised me. He has her phone in his hands and is mashing his fingers against its glass face. He looks up. Stops working with the phone. Smiles. "It's okay, Sweetie," he says. "You need this." Joanie steals a quick glance at Roger. The look on his face isn't what she expected. He seems calm, resigned. Moe punches his shoulder, and Roger sways backwards, but his expression hardly changes. He doesn't laugh. Joanie realizes that he looks resigned . . . confident. He is patiently waiting for her to suck him off. She sits back on her heels. The blood thuds nosily in her ears. Mr. Manley points the phone at her. She bites her lip, looks into the lens. Squeezing her thighs together, Joanie enjoys the pressure between her legs. That lightheaded feeling is back, along with the burning scent. Mr. Manley coos something encouraging. Something about acceptance. He uses that same self-assured, fatherly tone that she's enjoyed hearing so much tonight. Joanie swallows hard. She has never sucked two boys at once, but she knows that's exactly what she is going to do. Kneeling up, she takes her former boyfriend's cock in her hand. Moe thrusts his groin forward, making his cock dance in her face. She rubs the tips of their cocks against one another, but neither of the boys seem to appreciate this much. The boys' posturing makes her smile. She puts Roger's cock in her mouth. She wonders if he is smiling at Moe now, as he watches her suck his dick, but she feels too humiliated to look at his face again. She holds both their hard dicks in her hands. Taking her mouth off Roger, she kisses Moe's cock. The boys call this a circus seal, meaning a girl that kneels down and sucks off more than one boy, alternating her attention between their cocks. With both their warm bodies crowding around her own, she feels hot. She is a little concerned about the volume of cum they will both produce, even though it turns her on to think of receiving cream from both of them. The soreness in her jaw passes, even as her knees grow numb on the hard tile floor. As she begins the action required with her head and hands to satisfy these boys, she focuses on the clammy material of her panties against her bottom. She wonders if she should maybe take a break and remove them. Would that make her feel better? Would Mr. Manley use them to clean the cum from my face again, she wonders. A nasty little thrill of submission runs through her body. Or maybe he'll just have me lie down and ask the boys to pee on my face. The thought makes her shudder. Maybe leave them on, she thinks. She can already feel her body heat warming the wet cotton. The longer she lives with the discomfort, the less it seems to bother her. Likewise the crazy thoughts. What if someone else comes in to use the restroom? Wants to take a turn in my mouth. If she accepts the crazy thoughts for what they are--if she can manage not to judge--she has to admit that they really do turn her on. For the first time in a long time, Joanie feels satisfied. Feels somehow lighter. She feels something warming, somewhere deep inside her chest. *** Author's note: Thanks for reading. I wrote this to stand on its own, but there is a companion piece (already posted to my profile) for it called Goodbye Roger. The events in Goodbye Roger take place just before this story starts. If I take the story further, I'm considering modeling it after the movie Drag Me to Hell. I'm going to call it Gangbang Me to Hell. Brief synopsis: A Catholic school girl who humiliates her boyfriend finds herself the recipient of a supernatural curse. Desperate, she turns to a priest to try and save her soul, while evil forces work to push her to a breaking point. The tag line: Joanie Salinger has a full scholarship to Notre Dame, a perfect GPA, and a bright future. But at the end of the school year, she's going to Hell. Men's Room A pair of swinging, wood doors with dingy, translucent glass opened into the men's room of the recently-restored, historic building. Roger was careful to push he door on the right open, lest he smash into someone coming out the other door. He found himself in a large vestibule with another pair of wood and glass doors opening into the privacy of the huge men's room itself. Once inside, he beheld gray and white marble floors and walls, marble stalls with wooden doors, big, generous mirrors, high ceilings. They don't make men's rooms like this anymore, he thought. He loved this place. The room was empty, and his body seemed to relax in the quiet and spaciousness of this room apart. It allowed him to daydream a little, to escape from the wealthy, busy misery of his life. Now this is a men's room for men, he thought. Big and generous, built for the comfort and the pleasure of men, not like today's ugly, utilitarian "facilities," built for their "cost-effectiveness." And the urinals! These were man-sized urinals, lined up against a marble wall in the middle of the room, one right next to the other, extending from waist to chest, no space or barriers between them. Roger half expected to see shoeshine boys and immaculately-dressed washroom attendants with towels. He could imagine dozens of men coming and going, pissing and laughing, talking and smoking cigars. None of them in a hurry. A rest room for men to rest in, not an indoor latrine. He stepped up to one of the urinals, dropped his briefcase to the floor and pulled down the zipper of his suit. He pulled his dick out and held it in his right hand. He leaned his left forearm against the marble wall, bent his head forward a little, his eyes closed, and spit in the urinal. It felt good just to be here. Then he remembered home and work and office. He slammed a fist against the wall. It hurt just enough that he pulled his head back and opened his eyes. He became aware of another man standing a few urinals away. He didn't remember hearing anyone else enter, but he knew he had been deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. He glanced sideways quickly and then he realized he hadn't pissed a drop. Embarrassed, he concentrated his efforts. A few drops had just barely begun to splash against the porcelain when for some reason he looked sideways again to see his fellow-urinator. He was a workman of some type, in a khaki uniform streaked with dirt and grease here and there. Far from young, he was getting a bit of a belly, though he was not fat yet. He was unshaven and hair stuck out from under his cap. Roger could just barely tell that there was the name of some company stitched into the fabric over the left pocket of his shirt. The man was just standing there facing a urinal with his dick out. It was short, thick, and uncircumcised. He wasn't pissing, but he was gently running his fingers up and down the shaft. The turned and, still handling his dick, said, "'Bout the only time I get to myself any more Nobody gonna interrupt a man takin' a leak." He smiled, his voice deep but not harsh. Roger was not given to masturbation, at least since he had been married, but something about the other man made it seem okay, even desirable. Roger bent his head slightly and took his dick in his fist. He hadn't done this in so long, except in preparation for fucking his wife, that he couldn't remember the last time he got himself hard all by himself. It felt good, and his dick responded quickly. He glanced sideways again and saw the man had stroked his dick almost to full erection. Roger did likewise and felt a rush of freedom. He was startled when the door to the men's room was slammed open with a bang. Roger turned toward the door and saw a man wearing an impeccable suit striding quickly toward a urinal near him He huddled closer to his urinal so that his nearly erect dick wouldn't be easily visible. "Roger, isn't it?" the man said as he briskly unzipped his fly with one hand, the other holding a brief case. "Yeah, uh, uh, Mark! How are you?" He recognized him from somewhere, but he had no idea where. "Great!" Mark said. One hand pulled his dick out with the same brisk efficiency he used to unzip. Piss immediately streamed out of his dick and splashed loudly against the porcelain, Roger, embarrassed, shoved his dick back in his pants as if he had finished and walked toward a sink. Mark flushed the urinal smartly, zipped up his pants, and strode out as mightily as he had entered. Roger turned a spigot on and threw cold water in his face, feeling confused and now deeply humiliated for trying to masturbate in a men's room urinal. When he looked up into the mirror, he saw the workman in his company uniform behind and to his side. Their eyes met. "You ain't done yet, man. I ain't either," he said in a husky, almost desperate voice. Roger turned around. The man was standing there with his thick cock hanging out of his khaki workpants, some black hairs around the edges. The man turned to go back to the urinals. Roger, confused and mesmerized, followed. They stood next to each other. They pulled their dicks out and worked on them. The man groaned a little as his dick achieved its full size. "It's been two days since I cum," the man said. Each watched the other jacking his own dick. The two men continued jacking their dicks and watching each other. Roger didn't think he could cum. There. In a men's room. Like some pansy. The man started panting and sweating, and his face turned red, as he beat his meat harder and harder. Roger followed suit. Their hands made slapping noises as they started really going at it. Even Roger moaned a little as he and the other man held each other's eyes. The man turned toward the urinal, and his breath made sharp sounds of taking air in rapidly. He stood up slightly on his toes and steadied himself with one hand on the wall, when his body shuddered as he shot off into the porcelain urinal. Roger had not watched a man ejaculate since high school. He was wide-eyed with wonder, fascinated by the machine gun-like firing of the dick and the retort of the man's body. Now, he turned to face his urinal and imagined his body as a giant machine gun. And he shot off. His body quivered with the rapid firing of his dick into the urinal. He squealed with delight at the sensation it created in his body. Bloodheat suffused him now, and his mind seemed to have been launched on some incredible journey through space. He was no longer aware that he was in a public place, and he no longer felt any control over his body. He was in the middle of nowhere for a brief span, suspended above the earth, looking down on high, snowcapped mountains, where no one could be seen for miles. As he began to return to earth, he looked again, but the other man was gone. Roger had not realized he had left. He was alone now in the cavernous, marble men's room, and it was perfectly quiet, except for the beating of his heart.