On fucking in the toilets

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I need to clarify – if only because at some point my Mum might read this and be disappointed in me – that I don’t confine my toilet-based sexual activity just to wanking . I’m a big fan of risky sex with other people too. Here is a trilogy of stories about fucking in the toilets. Fucking in the toilets at a gig There once was a guy who couldn’t stop me. Persuasion turned to pleading turned to mutual obsession, as we’d fuck and touch when we hoped no one was looking. Sometimes they were looking, but I don’t think we really cared. His friends played gigs in crappy dive pubs in my home town, and we went to see them hammer out some songs while we drank lager and Smirnoff Ice and groped each other in the crowd. When the songs were over we made out on a sofa that smelt like roll-up fags and vomit, and we watched the door of the gents to check when they were empty. When the coast was clear he rushed in, with me sauntering casually behind him as if punky girls pissing in the gents is completely normal – which, to be fair, it is. I followed him in and we locked the door – pulling at each others’ clothes and kissing the way that kids do – all tongues and spit and desperation. I pulled his trousers down to his ankles and he sat on the lowered seat of the toilet. He gripped his cock and grinned as I hiked up my skirt, pulled my knickers to one side, and sat down hard onto his cock. He put his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet as I fucked him – quick, hard strokes, squeezing my cunt tight to make him gasp, jerking sharply up and down so he could watch my tits jiggle in a tight, punky corset top. My boots were slipping on the wet floor, so I held onto the walls of the cubicle to get purchase. And I fucked him. And fucked him. And fucked him. He shuddered as he came inside me, and I squeezed tighter to better feel his dick pumping the last few squirts nice and deep. As we left one of my friends came in to use the loo. Noting my filthy grin he gave a cheeky salute. The boy closed the door behind him and followed me out, shouting after him: “I wouldn’t use that one, mate – the seat’s broken.” Fucking in the toilets… at a birthday party A different boy – more recent now. But we’re still at the stage where we can’t stop touching each other. To be honest, I find this stage very difficult to escape from. With the last boy I loved it went on for about seven years – the constant need to touch each other – to press my hands against his stomach or push my face into the back of his neck, to whisper filth into his ear until his dick got hard enough that I could squeeze it through his jeans. On the train, in the pub, on escalators coming up from a midnight tube ride – I cannot stop touching this man. And the other day, at a friend’s birthday party, I made him hard enough that I couldn’t not hold him. I couldn’t resist taking his dick out of his trousers – looking at it and seeing how much he wanted me, how desperately he needed to fuck. We excused ourselves for a few minutes and bundled into a toilet with a broken lock. Quickly and firmly he undid the buttons on his flies and pulled down his boxers – lovely tight boxers that show the perfect outline of his cock. He held the door closed with his hand as I held his dick with mine, and put the tip in my mouth. As I spat on it, and sucked, and rubbed him with my hands, the door rattled so slightly I hoped no one would notice. And he stifled lustful groans as he came into my waiting mouth. In a karaoke bar I wanted her so much I thought I loved her. For the brief time that we were together all I wanted was for her to be there. We were going out drinking – will she be there? We’re off to a party – can we bring her ? We drank and we fucked and I loved her. And when it was all over and we could no longer fuck, I thought I loved her even more. She had a dirty smile, and cat-like eyes, and a softness that was maternal. Everyone I knew wanted to bury their face in her tits, and most of the time she’d let them, and love them. After we’d broken up she joined us at a karaoke bar – just a small crowd of mates, getting messy on cheap booze and caterwauling 90s classics. I’d brought a boy, but my desire to fuck him left when she entered the room. He was fun, but she was special . I put my arms around her when she came in – breathed in the scent of girl-perfume and cigarettes and shampoo. I put my hand on her knee under the table. I put my hand on her thigh while I sang. I put my hand up her skirt and she didn’t stop me. I raked my nails down the inside of her leg, feeling the fabric of her tights pulling through my fingers. I followed her to the toilets. When we got inside she said: “We shouldn’t.” But I wanted to, so – generous and full of love – she kissed me. She gave me soft, feminine kisses – the type I’d abhor from a man just made her even better. And I kissed her back, hard, and reveled in being the one in charge. I lifted her top, pulled down the cups of her bra, and gave hard, sucking kisses to her nipples. I squeezed her hips and stomach through the fabric of her dress, and lifted the hem so I could rub my palms on her damp crotch. I understand why men get frustrated with tights. Everything’s so close and so nearly there, but they’re hard to get down. I pushed her against the wall of the cubicle and tried to get a good enough grip. I panted, and she sighed, as I rubbed her through her tights. She wouldn’t let me take them off. She’d let me kiss her nipples and touch her, but when I tried to remove them she stopped me, and in a hushed whisper said: “Enough. They’ll be missing us.” And she straightened up, and smiled, and kissed me on the lips. We went back to our friends and my boy, and he put his hand beneath the table so he could feel the memory of her soaking through my knickers.