Page 8 of Glitter

Glitter, with its predominantly male clientele, had the smart idea of having a few different men’s rooms, accessed by going down parallel-running hallways at the two back corners of the club. Last night, my angel had taken me to one of the bathrooms located along the hallway on the lefthand-side corner; tonight he led me to a different one that was in the other hallway.

“Not that I think our chances of not being overheard are any less tonight,” he said, pushing open the door labelled Bathroom 4, “but maybe we won’t wind up with a chatty commentator in this one.”

This bathroom was almost an exact replica of the one we’d visited previously. The same black and white checkerboard-patterned flooring, black partitions enclosing the toilet stalls, walls covered in some sort of white wallpaper with subtle, silver pinstripes, and with the name of the club stamped across the top of the mirrors over the sinks in bold letters, also in silver. The only difference was that this bathroom had the row of urinals on the right side of the room and the stalls on the left, a mirror of the layout of the other bathroom. Other than that, they were the same.

Including, once again, the presence of a pair of men already utilizing one of the bathroom stalls for the same purpose my angel and I were going to.

The grunting and groaning of fucking were even louder tonight as this bathroom had not one, but two stalls already occupied. One stall had two sets of feet visible, one behind the other, facing the same direction. But the other stall…there were three sets of feet in that stall. They were all tangled and jumbled together and it was kind of hard to determine what exactly was going on in that stall—who was facing which way and who might be doing what to whom—based solely on foot placement. However, judging from the sounds coming from both stalls, a good time was being had by all the involved parties.

“Oh goody,” my angel happily stated, “there’s a stall we can use and there’ll still be the handicap stall available should somebody come in who actually needs to use a toilet for toilet-y reasons.”

Without a single pause, he strode straight to the open stall, which was stuck smack in between the already occupied ones. Me… Well, I didn’t want to eavesdrop in on the couple in the stall we had to pass by. And I didn’t want to sneak a peek at what was going on through the very small, narrow gap between where the stall door didn’t quite meet up with the walls. But all of that effort not to hear anything, not to see anything…it had me stumbling and tripping over my own feet as I followed him.

“Son of a— Flipping— Shit. Ow!” I swore, as I clutched at and cradled the elbow I cracked against the edge of the door as I tried to close it behind me.

It stung, but it was the kind of hurt that was more surprise than actual pain. That didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate and enjoy the comfort of my angel’s touch as he cupped his own hand around mine over my stinging elbow, however.

“Aw, did my boo get a boo-boo?”

Having him touch me and having him call me his, even if it was with that silly, throwaway endearment attached to it and not my actual name, gave me a giant lump of want and joy and hope in my throat, that I then had to try to swallow around. The lump was so big that it kept me from being able to say anything, so all I could do was dopily nod in affirmation.

The simulated saccharine tone was still in his voice as he cooed, “Poor boo. Should I kiss it and make it better?” But then, before I was able to say much more than a garbled “Gah…”, he went back to the sort of snarky sultriness I’d encountered with him before. “I think I’d much rather do something else with you than kiss your elbow,” he said. “And I’m fairly certain that having another go at my ass would prove much more beneficial for curing any ouchies than some little kiss on a pointy, knobby elbow.”

Nothing could’ve kept the rush of lust I felt at hearing that he wanted me to fuck him again from manifesting itself via my rapidly flushed face. My angel took in the sight and it must have pleased him, if the satisfied curl of his lips was any indication.

His bare arm brushed against the side of my t-shirt as he reached around me and held the stall door closed, sliding the bolt of the lock into place. Chest to chest, our faces so close together it would take only the smallest of motions by either of us to bring our lips into contact, I helplessly fell into the mesmerizing beauty of his eyes.

Blink. Silver glittered eyeshadow twinkled. Then impossible pools of ephemeral blue, with miniscule shards of palest green that, tonight, seemed even more plentiful. Perhaps brought out by the thick line of green drawn along the base of his long, thick eyelashes.

Blink, and silvery glitter again. Blink, blink, blink. With each sweeping descent of his eyelids, a glimpse of sparkling magic dusted on his skin. Before the enchantment—therealmagic—of my angel’s eyes are revealed again.

So lost was I in the fantastical realm of his gaze that it took me a moment to realize that he was speaking.

“While it feels delightful to have your arms around me, boo, and I’m notcompletelyopposed to cuddling—even the kind of cuddling that’s done while standing—we’re going to need to do a bit of rearranging here,” he said.

Until he’d mentioned it, I hadn’t even realized I had wrapped my arms around him and I was holding him in place against me. That,that, is just how powerful the pull of his eyes had been.

“Because, while I have no issue with getting down and dirty near a toilet,” he continued, “I do object to being the one actually next to the toilet. Er, sorry not sorry.”

The cheeky and rather matter-of-fact way he said it indicated that he, indeed, was not at all sorry, and that he didn’t feel a single ounce of guilt over making his partner—in this instance, me—be the person relegated to being closest to the toilet while we were jammed inside a relatively small and cramped space.

Since I’d readily do anything, be anywhere, if it meant he would be happy, I promptly replied, “Sure. Yes. Of course. Whatever you want.”

We began the slightly awkward task of shuffling our positions, until we rotated right around and he was standing just inside the stall, his back almost pressed up against the stall door. I ended up somewhere roughly in the middle of the stall, maybe a foot or so in front of the toilet and with my back facing toward it.

My arms were still wrapped loosely around his torso, and the silky, synthetic material of his mesh shirt was clinging to the cotton of my shirt and caressing the sensitive skin on the inside of my forearms. Our lower halves were also snugged closely together—I could feel the firm line of his erection nudging against the solid, aching length of my hard dick through the dual layers of our pants.

So, I could feel it—feel it like a sensual electronic shock—as he did a whole-body shimmy while slyly commenting, “You might regret that, you know. Saying that, that is. That you’ll give me whatever I want.”

“No. I won’t,” I replied, my arms unable to do anything except tighten around him. Draw him even more firmly against me. “I won’t regret it, because I mean it. Anything. Everything. Whatever. You. Want.”

With my words, he seemed to glow, shinier, brighter, and more shimmery than the glitter sparkling his face, and his lips tilted into a sort of lopsided smile that was softer, more real, than the usual smirk. But I was only gifted with a brief glimpse at this true smile before my angel wiggled in my hold and turned around, his back now lined up against my front.

“‘Whatever’ hmm?” If I hadn’t been listening so closely, trying to stay so in tune with him, I probably wouldn’t have heard the slight catch in his voice, underneath the light sassiness he was exuding. “I seem to recall that I’d expressed a desire to revisit the natural talent I discovered that you had last night.” He paused for a second, as if to tease me with the possibility that he might’ve changed his mind sometime between when we were out in the club and now.

And it might have worked, might have pricked at my anxiety and disbelief that someone like him—my beautiful, sexy, glittery angel—would want somebody like me, if it weren’t for the way he was rubbing and grinding his tight, perfect butt against the swell of my erection, trapped and suffering within the confines of my jeans.

“Yes,” he said. “In this instance, I think that’s still the whatever that I want, boo. I want your thick fucking cock back in my ass and I want you to fuck me so good that anyone else in this bathroom, anyone else that gets to hear us fucking, will be jealous of ass-wrecking I’m getting.”

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