Library Basement Blowjob

My name is Errol. I was eighteen and a freshman in college, and that afternoon the library had swallowed me whole. Third floor, a carrel jammed against the window, a stack of unread pages and a highlighter going dry in my fist. The building hummed the way old campus buildings do, vents and distant carts and nobody talking above a murmur. I had been at it since noon. My eyes burned. My bladder had been nagging for twenty minutes, and I kept telling myself one more paragraph, one more page, until the pressure turned sharp and I couldn’t sit still.

The main bathrooms on the upper floors always had a line and the sound of people washing their hands and talking about seminars. I didn’t want any of that. I wanted quiet. I took the stairs down past the reference floor, past the locked media cages, down to the basement where the lights were farther apart and the air smelled like paper dust and old concrete. My sneakers made a soft sound on the tile. The hallway was empty. A cart of discarded journals sat against one wall. Somewhere a pipe knocked once and went still.

The men’s room door was heavy and swung shut behind me with a dull click. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, one of them flickering at the far end. Three regular stalls, a row of sinks, a cracked mirror, and at the end the wider handicapped stall with its metal grab bar and extra floor space. The place felt rarely used. No footsteps upstairs leaking down. No voices. Just the buzz and the faint drip of a faucet that hadn’t been tightened.

I chose the handicapped stall because it was the last one and the door latched clean. I didn’t really need the extra room to piss, but the isolation of it pulled at me. I locked the door, dropped my pants and briefs to my ankles, and sat. The seat was cool. The partition walls were scuffed plastic, gray-green, stopping a hand’s width above the floor and ending well below the ceiling. I could see the tile under the gap and the dark line where the wall met the grout. My own shoes looked too new down there, white laces, the cuffs of my jeans bunched at my calves.

I sat and let the quiet press in. Upstairs I had been a freshman with a reading list. Down here I was just a body in a locked stall, heart beating a little harder than the walk downstairs explained. I finished what I came for and stayed seated anyway, elbows on my knees, listening. The basement made every small sound larger. My breath. The shift of my weight. The low electric hum. Tension climbed through the stillness, not panic exactly, more like the feeling of being somewhere I wasn’t supposed to linger, somewhere the rest of campus had forgotten. My cock rested soft against my thigh. I was aware of it in a way I hadn’t been at the carrel, aware of my bare skin and the locked door and the empty room beyond it. I told myself I was just catching my breath. I didn’t move to pull my pants up.

A few minutes passed like that. Then the outer door opened.

Footsteps crossed the tile, unhurried, heavier than mine. Not the quick in-and-out of someone who knew exactly which urinal he wanted. They came down the row and stopped at the stall beside mine. The door swung. The latch clicked. Weight settled onto the seat next to the partition, close enough that I heard the faint creak of the hinge and the soft exhale of a man getting comfortable. He didn’t speak. Neither did I.

I looked down through the gap. His shoes were dark canvas, worn at the toe, planted flat. The cuffs of his pants were gray, a little frayed. He sat still. I sat still. The faucet drip counted time. My pulse had climbed into my throat and I didn’t know why, except that the basement had been mine for a few minutes and now it wasn’t, and the wall between us felt thinner than plastic.

We stayed quiet. Long enough for me to notice the warmth of my own palms on my knees. Long enough for me to realize I was holding my breath and let it out slow through my nose.

His right foot moved.

He tapped the tile twice. Not a fidget. Two clean, deliberate taps, the sole of the shoe meeting the floor with a soft double knock I felt more than heard.

I stared at the shoe. My face went hot. I knew what that could mean. I had heard things, half-jokes in dorm lounges, stories that always happened to someone else in some other bathroom. I didn’t move.

He tapped twice again. Same rhythm. Same foot. Waiting.

Intrigued doesn’t cover it. My cock stirred against my thigh, a slow thicken I couldn’t blame on anything but the sound and the nearness and the fact that I was already half-undressed in a locked stall with a stranger on the other side of a gap. I wanted to know. I wanted to answer. My foot felt heavy when I lifted it. I tapped the tile twice, matching him, and the sound of my own shoe made my stomach drop in the best way.

Silence again, thicker now.

Then his voice, low, barely above the hum of the lights, close to the partition so it wouldn’t carry. “Do you want to suck my cock?”

The words landed exactly where the taps had been aiming. Clear. No joke in them. A question, not a shove. I could have stayed quiet. I could have pulled my pants up and left. What I felt instead was a yes so immediate it almost embarrassed me, heat flooding my face and my groin at the same time, my cock lifting off my thigh as if it had heard him too.

“Yes,” I said. My voice came out rough and quiet. I didn’t dress it up. I didn’t ask his name. I wanted what he had offered, and I wanted him to know I was choosing it.

On the other side of the wall he shifted. Fabric moved. A belt buckle gave a small metallic click, then the softer sound of pants and underwear being worked down. He was doing it. He had heard me and he was doing it. My mouth had gone wet. I slid off the toilet seat and onto my knees on the cool tile, the handicapped stall giving me room to turn and face the partition without cracking an elbow on the wall. My jeans bunched at my ankles. My cock stood up hard, flushed, a string of precum already shining at the tip, and I left it alone for the moment because both my hands wanted the gap under the wall.

His shoes stayed planted. Then, under the partition, he slid it through.

His cock came into my stall thick and already hard, the shaft a deep flushed color, the head broader than the rest and glossy at the slit. It was longer than I had pictured in the few seconds I’d had to picture anything, heavy-looking, with a slight upward curve and a vein standing along the underside. The base stayed on his side of the wall. What I got was the length of him, offered through the gap, warm and real and inches from my mouth. I smelled clean skin and a faint salt, the bathroom soap from the sinks and under that the darker smell of a man who had been hard before he even asked.

I wrapped my hand around him first. He was hot. The skin moved a little over the hardness underneath when I stroked once, testing, and he made a short sound through his teeth that traveled under the partition and straight into my spine. My own cock jumped. I leaned in, kneeling in the wide stall, and took the head into my mouth.

The taste hit first, clean and a little bitter at the slit, skin-salt and heat. I closed my lips around the crown and sucked, slow, letting my tongue learn the shape of him. The ridge under the head was pronounced. I traced it. I pressed the flat of my tongue to the underside and drew him deeper, an inch, then another, until the head nudged the roof of my mouth and my lips met the place where my fist still held him. Wet. Hungry. I hadn’t known I would be this hungry. Spit gathered fast and slicked the shaft when I pulled back and went down again, a soft obscene sound in the quiet basement, loud to me and probably loud to him.

He didn’t rush me. His hips held still while I set a rhythm, bobbing in the gap, taking him to the back of my tongue and easing off to swirl around the head. My free hand braced on the tile. The other worked what my mouth left, twisting lightly, spreading the wetness down toward the wall. Every time I sucked harder on the crown he breathed out, a controlled huff, and the cock in my mouth flexed. I liked that. I chased it. I sealed my lips and pulled, cheeks hollowing, tongue stroking the slit, then sank down again until my nose nearly touched the plastic partition and the thick length filled my mouth completely.

Saliva ran down the shaft and over my fingers. I didn’t wipe it. I used it. The strokes got wetter, messier, the sound of my mouth on him filling the stall, a rhythmic slick pull that made my own hips twitch. Kneeling there with my pants at my ankles and a stranger’s cock sliding between my lips, I felt more turned on than I had any right to be in a library basement. My cock ached, untouched, drooling onto the tile between my knees. I let it. All my attention stayed on him.

He started to move. Not hard. A gentle thrust through the gap, hips rolling on his side of the wall, feeding me an inch and drawing back, then giving it again. The head bumped my throat and I relaxed my jaw and took it, eyes watering, spit spilling from the corner of my mouth onto my fist. I moaned around him, a low sound I couldn’t keep in, and the vibration must have carried because he groaned, quiet and rough, and pushed a little deeper on the next stroke.

I pulled off just long enough to breathe and look at him in my hand. Shiny with my spit. The head darker, the slit opening when I squeezed the shaft. I licked the underside from the wall-gap up to the crown, slow, flat tongue, tasting myself on him and him under that, then took him back in and sucked with purpose. My tongue swirled around the head on every upstroke, circled the ridge, pressed into the slit to catch the precum he was leaking now, thicker and sweeter than the first taste. Then I drove down, lips tight, and let him thrust.

The pace built between us without either of us speaking. He fucked the gap in short, careful strokes. I met him, swallowing around the head when it reached deep, tongue working the shaft on the way out. My jaw ached in a way I wanted to keep. My knees hurt on the tile and I didn’t care. I cupped what I could of him, stroked the slick length in time with my mouth, and listened to his breathing go uneven. The grab bar was cold against my shoulder when I leaned. The fluorescent buzz disappeared under the wet sounds and the soft slap of his hips meeting the rhythm.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost not a word. His cock swelled against my tongue. I felt it, the throb, the way the head grew firmer, the pulse under the skin. I sucked harder. I wanted it. I wanted him to finish in my mouth the way I had already decided I would let him, the way I had said yes to before I ever saw him. My free hand finally dropped to my own cock, not to finish, just to hold the ache, and the contact made me moan again around his shaft.

He thrust a little faster, still gentle, still controlled by the wall and the angle, but needier. The head pushed at my throat. I breathed through my nose and took him, lips stretched, spit running down my chin. My tongue never stopped. I swirled it under the crown every time he drew back, then flattened it and swallowed him down again, hungry strokes, wet and steady, chasing the groan I could hear building in his chest.

It broke out of him low and helpless. His cock kicked hard against my tongue. The first pulse hit the back of my throat, hot and thick, and I swallowed on instinct, throat working, lips sealed so nothing escaped. He groaned again, longer, and pumped another heavy spurt, then another, hips jerking through the gap in short helpless thrusts while I stayed on him and took it. The taste flooded my mouth, bitter and salt and warm, coating my tongue even as I swallowed. I sucked through it, milking the shaft with my hand and my mouth, drawing each pulse down my throat, not pulling off, not wasting it. He kept coming in thick waves that made my eyes sting and my own cock throb in my fist. I swallowed every one. I held him there until the throbs softened and the last weaker spill spread across my tongue, and I swallowed that too, savoring the heat and the weight of it, the proof of what we had just done in the quiet.

He shuddered once more and went still. His breathing was loud on the other side of the partition. My lips were swollen. My chin was wet. I gave the head one last slow suck, tongue cleaning the slit, tasting the final drop, and let him slip from my mouth.

He withdrew carefully, the spent cock sliding back under the wall, shining, softening. Fabric rustled. The belt buckle clicked again. He pulled his pants up fast, the sounds hurried but not panicked, a man putting himself back together. The latch on his stall turned. The door opened. His shoes crossed the tile, canvas soles, the same unhurried weight as when he had come in, and then the outer door swung and thudded shut.

No other word. Nothing. Just gone.

I stayed on my knees in the handicapped stall, mouth open, the taste of his cum still thick on my tongue, my cock rigid and leaking in my hand. Flushed all the way down my chest. Aroused past the point of thinking straight, and alone again with the buzzing light and the dripping faucet. I swallowed once more, chasing what was left, and the act of it sent a fresh pulse through me. I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist. My lips felt used. I liked that they did.

I tucked myself back into my briefs with a wince, hard enough that the zipper was a problem, and pulled my jeans up. My knees were red from the tile. I unlocked the stall and stood at the sink, ran cold water, rinsed my mouth just enough to take the edge off and not enough to erase him. In the cracked mirror I looked like what I was: an eighteen-year-old freshman with wet lips and a face that wouldn’t cool down. I dried my hands. I walked the basement hallway, climbed the stairs, and found my carrel still empty, highlighter still on the page where I had left it.

I sat. The window light was the same. The reading list was the same. My cock pressed against my zipper and the taste lingered at the back of my throat no matter how quietly I breathed, and I knew I was going to replay every second of it until I couldn’t study at all.

I leaned toward the page and whispered, “When do I get to do that again?”