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Warning: this story includes scat!
If you’re driving along the motorway and feel like a break, I would strongly recommend Mudchute Services. They’re fairly easy to find, right next to Brown Wood, and you’ll find the toilet facilities make a very worthy detour.
I’d paid little attention to gents’ toilets all the years I’d been married, but these days I love finding out what different amenities have to offer. Most of the women I’ve dated have found it impossible to keep up with my sex-drive so it was almost inevitable that I would discover what pleasures can be had behind the locked cubicle doors of certain public toilets. Since then, I have – without any serious difficulty I have to say – broadened my sexual interests considerably.
The toilets in these particular services had seemed promising as soon as I’d walked in. Several men at the urinals turned to look me up and down and one or two even smiled at how slick I looked in my well-fitting business suit. I’d smiled back at them but hadn’t lingered – standing alongside a row of strangers groping each other’s members through our flies has never really appealed to me – and instead headed through to the WCs at the rear.
This part of the toilet was much less busy but the gaps underneath the cubicles doors revealed a multitude of boots and shoes shuffling around – something that’s always a very good sign. Better still, a rusting fan unit was whirring noisily in the ceiling, obscuring whatever intimate sounds were going on between the occupants.
I took a moment to choose the most encouraging venue from several possible contenders and in the end plumped for a vacant stall next to a cubicle door under which I was sure I could make out two pairs of feet. Once inside, I was pleased to find that the toilet roll dispenser had been obligingly removed, exposing four screw holes and offering an opportunity for a private viewing of the adjoining cubicle.
I sat myself down on the toilet and spent a few enjoyable minutes watching a man in a suit a couple of shades lighter than mine standing having his hugely engorged manhood sucked by some lad in a high-vis jacket. The kid was clearly loving feasting on the hefty-looking cock that was poking, along with a nice fat set of nuts, out of the guy’s straining zipper. The boy took as much of it as he could into his eager mouth, soaking the thickened shaft with a copious froth of spit as he swept his lips up and down its veiny girth. At times he would withdraw and spend a few moments lapping at the bloated purple head, teasing the precum from its gaping slit and gratefully gulping down the trickle of salty liquid.
I knew full well that the two of them were aware of my presence and were no doubt enjoying performing for their unseen observer. I can’t deny that I grew a hard-on of my own from watching the lad so ardently devour the impressive rod of meat in front of him, but I’d come in here hoping for a lot more than just a peep show.
So it wasn’t long before I was quietly tapping on their door, smiling to myself at how my ex-wife would react if she could see what now I got up to in places such as this. To my delight the catch was quickly clicked open so I could push my way inside, my own cock throbbing in my trousers at the prospect of meeting two of its more sociable brothers.
I found that the suited bloke was middle-aged like me and looked as if he was maybe an accountant or solicitor from how formally he was dressed. The lad in front of him was in his early twenties and seemed like he might be a builder or part of a highway maintenance crew.
I didn’t pay much attention to the kid, though, to be honest. He was quite happy to be on his knees, tossing off the laughably small prick that was poking out from his dirty tracksuit bottoms while he slavered away in at the older man’s much bulkier offering.
No, my interest was on the suited guy, whose thickly veined shaft was being so hungrily serviced, and in particular the lovely round arse which was pressed firmly against the back of his dark grey trousers. He’d hitched his jacket up as if to flaunt how amazing his big, chunky buttocks looked inside the tightly stretched material and how inviting was the deep, alluring valley nestling between them.
I should probably point out that in the last couple of years the huge variety in the sizes and shapes of other men’s backsides have become quite my thing. I used to be a tit-man when it came to women – and still am given the chance – but these days I’m very much a butt-man: especially when the said butt has a nice hairy cleft and comes with a heavy pair of knackers swinging around underneath it.
I have to admit that this guy’s arse was of the sort that had emerged as my out-and-out favourite of all the many types of male bums I’d encountered. His cheeks were hard and muscular, pressing outwards against his trousers as if struggling to be contained, and their shape was wonderfully masculine: squat and solid with a striking symmetry to their curvature.
Better still, I knew that between a firm pair of buttocks like his – two antalya escort big manly cheeks that had spent the day cooped up underneath trousers and underwear – there’d likely be a deep dank crack that had grown wonderfully sweaty and pungent.
You see, that’s become my thing too, I’m afraid: the smells and tastes lurking between men’s butt cheeks. It might sound unlikely but that’s the direction my sexual interests have recently taken: getting my nose and tongue into the trench between a guy’s haunches has turned out to be the match that lights the gay end of my sparkler. While I still appreciate the sensual aromas of my occasional female lovers, these days I more usually revel in the crude anal stink of the men I seek out for sex.
After I’d locked the cubicle door behind me, the guy in the suit turned in my direction and grinned as the lad’s mouth slurped away at his large erection. I marvelled at how big his bollocks were, being pushed outwards from his gaping zipper. They were plump and full, just like mine get if I go a few days without release, and his stretched, hairy scrotum kept tickling the boy’s chin as he bobbed his face back and forth to pleasure the swollen shaft.
I smiled back at him, unzipping myself, and manoeuvred my own stiffened organ out through my fly. I’m pretty well-hung and the accountant or solicitor or whatever he was looked down at it with undisguised approval. I grinned more broadly and jerked my foreskin back and forth a few times to show my over-sized phallus off at its most impressive.
“Nice set of junk,” he observed in a voice that sounded quite loud from where I was standing but which would fail to carry beyond the confines of our cubicle because of the noise from the fan unit. I had never been so grateful for a piece of malfunctioning equipment: one is so often reduced to barely-audible whispers and even arm-waving mimes in such places to avoid rousing the attentions of one’s defecating neighbours.
With the lad nibbling and lapping at his dribbling bell-end, the guy wanked his shaft a few times to keep his precum flowing. As I admired his technique, working a trickle of his hot sticky ooze onto the boy’s tongue, I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring. Its design was quite fussy, with small diamonds studded along its golden circumference, and seemed like it would have been chosen to match an even fussier feminine version. I wondered if his wife had any idea of the sort of things her big, brawny husband got up to in the toilet cubicles of motorway services.
The man threw me a thumbs-up and I realised he thought I was waiting my turn: giving him time to discharge his load between the kid’s eager lips so I could take up his position and have my own larger manhood similarly serviced by the youngster.
Perhaps that’s how it usually works in these toilets. Maybe blokes on the way home from work would regularly tap on cubicle doors in the hope of having their knobs sucked by whoever was willing to do the honours. I wondered whether, once this guy had finished and I was having my own throbbing organ dutifully sucked, I was supposed to let the next fella sneak in so he could stand alongside with his chubby dick poking out from his fly, only to shuffle over to take my place once I’d climaxed.
If that was how it was supposed to work then I’m afraid I had rather different ideas.
I moved around behind the guy in the suit and, before he could object for fear I might want to jerk off onto his bum (a fate that had once befallen the back of my trousers in a different toilet cubicle), I knelt down and pressed my face towards the dark grey material that was stretched tight across his voluminous buttocks. Even at first sniff, I could tell this was a bloke with a wonderfully whiffy arse: well before my nose had closed in on the fabric it was obvious that what was lurking between his cheeks had infused deeply it with its strong, distinctive scent.
At first the man pulled away, unsure of my motives, and glanced around to see my face level with his backside and my nose directed towards his flavoursome furrow. Realising where my interests lay, he grinned and pushed himself back towards me, chuckling when my nose plunged slap-bang between his butt-cheeks.
I moved my face up and down against his arse, following the stitched hem which ran down the middle of the seat of his trousers. The material which had nestled between his buttocks smelt strong and ripe, even high up where his big, brawny posterior pressed outwards at its roundest. I worked my nose lower down, pushing it deeper into his effluvious gorge, sniffing eagerly at his most secretive scents and feeling my cock swelling upwards at how harsh and musky they were.
This guy might look clean-cut and well-turned-out, I mused, but the back of his trousers revealed he was concealing an especially raunchy arse. That’s usually how it turns out in my experience: rough-looking grubsters too often have backsides that smell only of soap and shower gel; it’s always the posh fellas with well-coiffed hair and crisply-ironed shirts that have butt odours that make fethiye escort you wince even through their trousers and underwear.
I heard him chuckle, “Oh, nice one, mate! Yeah, go on! Sniff my arse!” and he grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face further into his large rump.
I inhaled his darkest and least decorous scent as deeply as I could, my mouth watering at the sheer crudeness that was clinging to the material of his trousers. It was Friday night: he must have been wearing these trousers all week at work, having the murky hemline that my nose was pressing against working up into his odorous ditch as he sat at his desk. I sniffed further between his legs and deeper into his pungent ravine and gasped as I found a small patch of material that must have been rubbed by his fingers against his hot, moist hole when he’d discreetly worked them into his crack to scratch a persistent itch.
I was in veritable heaven: what a find this was! This was the smell I loved to savour: that which I craved and had hardly dared to hope I would find here when I’d pulled off the motorway. It was making the large, ripe helmet of my cock swell and glisten, and the hardened shaft behind it thicken expectantly at what it signified.
I heard the guy hastily unclip his belt, and then he yanked his trousers down to the tops of his thighs. Underneath he was wearing tight white briefs and, before he could hook a thumb into each side of these and pull them down too, I pressed my face into the damp bitter gusset that had worked up between his flexing cheeks.
The smell of the back of his underpants was much riper and more powerful, and to some noses, no doubt, would have been deemed vulgar and offensive. It was the brash and earthy pungence of a man’s muscular arse after a day of being constrained in the back of his trousers, made all the better by being untainted by deodorant and soapy perfumes.
“Ah, yeah!” he called down to me, grabbing my head again and directing my face towards his butthole. “Sniff my stink!”
The boy must have tried to pull away from him, eager to see what I was doing round the back of his companion, because the guy took his hand away from my head and returned his lad’s mouth back to his cock.
“Come on, keep sucking!” he commanded the younger man. “Use your tongue!”
The rhythm of the lad’s mouth quickly resumed and I seized my own swollen manhood to match his pace with the tight masturbatory grip of my fist.
Satisfied that his cock was being properly attended, the guy reached round again and pushed my face further into his strong-smelling arse crack. He leant forwards to splay his cleft more widely and give me better access to the fascinating flavours that were lurking inside.
His scent was exquisite – except that it was far too powerful to be accurately called a scent. Low down in his deep fissure, right where his dirty rosebud would be lurking just beneath the white material, was the fierce reek of this big bloke’s most unseemly stink. I inhaled at it hungrily, well aware of what I was sniffing and suspecting that the inner side of his underwear was probably heavily stained with a row of lewd-looking skid-marks.
I wanked myself faster, thankful that what had at first seemed like such a formally-attired backside had yielded so sumptuous a sensory feast. This was full-on male butt odour at its absolute finest. Since I’d discovered I had this unlikely fascination, I’d had my face buried into a rich and varied assortment of other men’s rears in places such as these. However, this well-dressed guy’s hot, dank valley stands out as one of the best and the way he was holding my head to grind my face against the rank-smelling gusset of his dirty briefs only served to compound my pleasure.
I sniffed deeper, pushing my nose right up against the carnal stink of this man’s unsavoury arsehole. Years earlier I would have been appalled by the mere thought of wedging my face into somewhere so vulgar, be it on a woman’s body but especially on a man’s. But now I was well aware that the smell I was so keen to experience had a sexual component: it was that which was making my head spin and my hand beat faster.
You see, this wasn’t just the stink of some stranger’s dirty arse: for me the smell held far more pleasurable and intimate associations as the delicious aroma of same-sex intercourse. It was a mere foreshadowing of the strong, biting odour the two of us men would revel in if we were panting and gasping together with my manhood pummelling his behind.
I had grown to love this smell in spite of, or perhaps because of, its more obvious associations with filth and squalor. I had come to find it deeply erotic as a reminder of how intensely erotic it was to have sex with my own kind: the stronger the smell of butt, the harder my cock would throb at the memory of how it had felt thrust and buck against another man’s rear; how hard and fast I’d had to slam against his buttocks to produce such a wonderfully powerful odour.
“Lick it,” the guy commanded me and I pulled out from his bracingly kaş escort odorous crack. I looked up at him and found him grinning mischievously: he’d probably never had anyone who’d been so eager to get their face into his butt-crack; probably not at home and definitely not in a public toilet.
He hitched his briefs down around his thighs, which slightly disappointed me as I’d been enjoying sniffing the back of them. But when I saw his bare arse in all its big, muscular glory, my cock throbbed excitedly at how incredible it looked. His crack had coarse wiry hair spilling out from it and low down, where his flavoursome hole would be nestled, whole clumps of it were matted together, making my mouth water at what I knew was awaiting me.
“Eat me out,” he whispered, encouraged by the sight of me licking my lips. “Shove your tongue right in there, really deep.”
I grinned back up at him: he had my sexual peculiarities pretty well figured out.
The boy pulled off his cock and peered around at me quizzically. In spite of the clothes he was wearing, he had a lovely sweet face – light blue eyes and pink, full lips – and seemed oddly boyish to be a builder or labourer or whatever physical job he held.
“Yer not gonna lick his arse out, are ya?” he inquired in a surprisingly deep voice which was laden with a combination of amazement and disgust. I figured it mustn’t be something he’d ever done himself.
I smirked and nodded.
“But won’t it be, like… you know… proper shitty?” he asked, glancing at the skid-marks which were indeed coursing along the inside gusset of the pulled down briefs.
I shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as lube!”
The guy chuckled from above us and I hoped his amusement meant he might be up for a butt-fuck. My cock was aching in anticipation from the smell of his arse and had got me into just the right mood to bend him over the toilet bowl and roughly rut with his big, hairy rump.
That was the main reason I came to places like this, you see: to find men who would let me unload my seed up their bowels. Sometimes I’d allow my fleeting companions to discharge themselves into me, but more often, in the absence of a woman in my life, I would seek men willing for me to use their hot, hairy rears as a very enjoyable alternative outlet.
And even if they didn’t, I was more than happy just to take in the scenery – sniffing and licking the part of the male body I had so recently discovered to be a powerful aphrodisiac. In some ways it was more erotic to probe a man’s orifice with one’s tongue: it was vastly more intense and incredibly sensual. I greatly enjoyed masturbating in that position: tasting and smelling a fellow male’s most intimate of flavours and imagining what it would be like for our bodies to be connected in copulation.
The lad watched me intently as I leaned forwards and pushed my face between the two hefty buttocks that were gaping open in front of me. After pausing to savour his intoxicating stink straight from his companion’s bare arse-crack, I extended my tongue and, with a few exploratory sweeps through the dense, pungent thicket spilling out from his trench, quickly found his hot, moist opening.
I heard him and the boy gasp in unison. I was sure the guy had never been rimmed and that the boy had also never seen it done.
I tickled the suited man’s hole with the outstretched tip of my tongue, first working around the puffy circumference and then pushing more firmly into the swollen ring to enjoy the thick, acrid bite of his most sordid taste.
I pulled back from his big, hairy arse and peered up at the guy’s face. He was grinning down at me over his shoulder, his smile broad and full of surprised delight.
“Go on, mate, lick me out properly,” he urged. “Stick your tongue right up my fucking hole!”
I smiled back up at him, hoping it would indeed turn out to be a ‘fucking hole’: a hole for fucking.
Again I wondered if he really would be up for that. In spite of how keen he was to be rimmed and how he’d chuckled at my quip about lube, my instincts told me not. He no doubt regularly stopped off here on his drive home from work and enjoyed having his cock sucked by whichever random bloke was willing to get on his knees in front of him. He would probably even be partial to working his knob up some stranger’s arse if he was in the right mood, but bitter experience had taught me that guys like this – married and no doubt classing themselves as totally straight – were almost invariably unwilling to have anything more than a tongue slid up their backsides.
“Come on,” he demanded, pulling his cheeks apart with one hand to tempt me with the furry hole inside. “Get your tongue up my arse! Right in deep!”
The lad kept gaping at me poised with my face in front of this guy’s large, solid buttocks. I grinned at him naughtily: I loved being seen like this, poised in front of a bloke’s big brawny backside, salivating at the prospect of working my tongue up the hot, slimy chute. This wasn’t what strangers normally do during furtive encounters in public toilets: I was fully aware of that. They normally wank each other off, maybe suck each other’s cocks – and occasionally one might offer his puckered hole for the other to quickly and quietly fuck – but rimming was seen as far too personal and intimate to be traded in a toilet cubicle.
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