I smirk at him. “Trust me, dirty boy, there’ll be a next time.”
Then I jump down from the toilet seat and head out of the bathroom.
13
The secondI hear the bathroom door close behind Jazz, I put my head back in my hands and let out a soft groan. I thought I’d been discreet when I made my exit from the bar earlier, and with Jazz occupied with his set I figured I’d have some time to myself to get rid of this predicament without risking another awkward encounter like earlier.
Well, clearly I was wrong on both fronts.
I have no idea how Jazz figured out the cause of my arousal, but it’s obvious the creepy little bastard couldn’t be happier about the situation. I, meanwhile, couldn’t be more agitated.
Or more turned on.
And I don’t fucking understand why.
I rub my palm over the front of my jeans, where my painfully hard cock is on the verge of tearing open my fly. For the millionth time, I desperately beg my erection to go down, but it’s not working. My cock must be fucking drunk or something, because it just keeps throbbing more insistently with every word I replay from that conversation with Jazz.
Conversation. More like torture session. Who the fuck comes into a bathroom and spies on a guy over the stall wall? Fucking creep was probably hoping to catch me jerking off.
I groan as the memory of Jazz’s parting words makes my cock throb painfully. I can’t do it. I just can’t. Not here. Not when it’s exactly what he wants me to do.
But I can’t think of any other way out of this situation either. I can’t just stay locked in this stall forever. And my dick doesn’t seem to be on board with returning to its normal, un-fucked up way of behaving.
Feeling like absolute shit, and yet somehow more turned on that ever, I finally unzip my fly and pull out my hard, angry cock.
I should stand and do this in the toilet, but it seems that now I’m finally giving my cock the attention it wants, none of my other limbs are functioning properly. All I can do is slump back against the toilet and let waves of relief, lust, and shame wash over me as my fist flies over my dick.
Jesus, what if Jazz decided to return to the bathroom and found me like this?
I’d probably come, I realize with a groan. I don’t know if it’s dread, or desire, or both. I just know if that little shit walked in right now flashing that knowing smirk, I’d spray my load right in his pretty face.
And I doubt he’d hesitate for even a second to return the favor.
My orgasm surges up in a blind rush, hitting me completely off guard. Before I can make an effort to catch it with some toilet paper or something, cum is spurting all over my hand and onto my jeans and the bottom of my t-shirt.
I rest my head back on the wall behind the toilet, breathing heavily as I come down from the high of the orgasm. My body is singing with relief and satisfaction, but my mind is a storm of confusion and my gut is a pit of shame.
What the hell was that at the end? I didn’t… I jerk my head sharply, because no. There’s no way I orgasmed from the thought of Jazz coming on me. It was pure coincidence. That would be so gross. And dirty. And…
“Unless of course you want me to empty my load on you? Then I’d be happy to oblige.”
No. Fuck no. I give a hard shake of my head to banish the memory of his creepy words. I don’t want his cum, or his dick—or anything of his for that matter—anywhere near me.
His final words are still ringing in my ears, however. I didn’t want to think about there being a next time. I wanted this to be a one-off freak thing. But as I look down at what I’ve done to myself, I know that’s unlikely to be the case.
Even the shame of coming all over myself like a fucking teenager is mingled with threads of lust. I can only imagine the fun Jazz would have if he witnessed this right now. If there’s a nineties song about cum, he’d find it and sing it on repeat.
I shake my head to banish the thought. Who the fuck cares? Jazz is never finding out about this. Neither is anyone else.
I finally spur myself into action and clean my hand off with some toilet paper before doing the best I can for the mess on my clothes. I’ll need to finish the job with some water so it’ll probably look like I’ve pissed myself or something. Great.
I tuck my traitorous cock away and emerge from the stall, relieved to find the bathroom free of cocky twenty-one-year-old assholes.
After I’ve cleaned up and dried off as best as I can, I finally leave the bathroom and head back out to the bar.
“You okay?” Gia asks me, concern written all over her features.
“I’m fine.”
