There are two stalls in the men’s room and a rank of four urinals. The place is deserted. No Casper to be found, which is a relief. Lando walks over to the cubicle at the end and locks us in.
His lips brush my earlobe, and he whispers, “You’re going to be very, very quiet. And I’m going to try everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Then he drops to his knees and works my belt, button, and zipper open.
I’m already hard, obviously. I know him too well to get stage fright any more.
“Damn, he looks so good down there.”
He shushes me, and I realise I’ve said that out loud.
Oh no, I’m in so much trouble.
“I will always take the knee for my king,” he whispers.
Okay, I was wrong. Earlier, when we were at the bar, I thought things couldn’t be any more perfect . . . I was wrong. This is the most perfect that anything could ever, ever be.
He shoves my boxers down, takes my cock in his hand, and wastes no time licking a line from the base right to the tip.
I already have my fist jammed into my mouth to stem any involuntary moans.
“Mmm, avocado,” he jokes.
I snort laugh, but at that moment the whining, creaking sound of the bathroom door swinging inwards fills the space, and gentle footsteps—trainer-clad feet, I expect—walk into the room and slap across the tiles.
Lando presses his finger over his lips, holds my gaze for two, three, four seconds, and then takes the head of my cock into his mouth.
My eyes roll upwards, slam themselves shut, and my hands shoot outwards to brace myself against the cubicle walls as he starts a torturously slow rhythm down and up, down and up. I’ll need to get a breakdown of his actions later so I can repeat it. It feels like I’m hitting the soft palate at the back of his throat, but what is that thing he’s doing with his tongue? Oh my god.
I don’t have a clue if the bathroom’s other visitor is still in here, or if they’ve finished, washed and dried their hands, and left. I haven’t heard anyone, but I can’t focus on anything else right now besides Orlando on his knees for me.
My trousers give up their pointless endeavour to stay aloft and drop to the ground. My belt buckle crashes on the tiles, echoes, but Lando doesn’t relent.
He’s very good at this. When he looks up and catches my eye, I cry out, and slap a palm over my mouth.
Lando’s eyes crinkle where he smiles.
“Oh my god,” I say in the quietest voice possible. “You have to slow down. It feels too good.”
He does slow down, which provides a little relief, but he also starts stroking the base of my cock and cups my balls with his other hand.
I have no control over the noises that escape my throat. I scrunch up the bottom of my T-shirt and stuff it into my mouth like a gag. This helps. It’s more difficult to see Lando now, with my shirt pulled up and in the way, but that can only be a good thing. Looking at him in all his perfection is sending me hurtling towards the edge too quickly.
He’s just so fucking beautiful with those full lips stretched over me. Fat and wet and . . .
Oh no.
I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him, but it’s no use. I still see him. I see the photo of his asshole in lace panties that he took on Halloween. I see his ethereal face covered in my cum around the back of Owen’s pub.
And it’s too late.
I spit my shirt out. “I’m gonna come,” I whisper. Or at least I hope it’s a whisper.
Lando doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away from me, and I guess he’s okay with getting cum in his mouth.
I cup his face and brush my thumbs over his cheeks as my orgasm whites out my vision. I try to be as silent as possible, but fuck, it feels so fucking good.
Eventually, Lando separates from me and swallows. He stays on his knees for at least ten seconds, just gazing up at me. My dick hangs fat, shining, and wet between us.
“That was unreal,” I whisper.
