Public Stall Gangbang

I sat in the second stall of the men's room at the highway rest stop, twenty-eight and halfway through a long drive between software contracts, when the voice came through the partition, low and direct. "Handicapped stall. Door's off. Come over and suck my cock."

My dick hardened instantly. I stood, pants barely up, and crossed the tile. The wide stall stood open, hinges empty, everything inside visible from the urinals and sinks. Marco waited there, thirty-four, thick through the shoulders in a faded trucker shirt, cock already heavy in his fist. I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth. Salt and skin filled my senses. I sucked deep, lips stretched around the thick shaft, tongue working the underside while spit ran down my chin and onto the floor. He grew fully hard, the head nudging my throat. I hollowed my cheeks and bobbed, moaning around him, my own cock rigid and leaking between my knees. He rested a hand on my head and let me work, breath rough, until pre-cum bloomed bitter on my tongue.

"Turn around," he said. "Bend over."

I spun, shoved everything to my ankles, and braced on the toilet tank, ass up and completely exposed. Marco spit, slicked himself, and pushed. The stretch burned perfect and immediate. He sank in slow, inch after thick inch, until his hips met my ass and I was stuffed full. He drew back and thrust, setting a deep steady rhythm that dragged over my prostate with every stroke. The wet sound of his cock moving in me echoed in the open stall. I gripped the porcelain and pushed back, hole clenching, taking all of him while my dick swung hard and dripped.

The outer door opened. Henrik walked in, forty-one, dress shirt wrinkled from a sales route, and stopped dead. His eyes locked on Marco's cock driving into me, on my arched back and spread legs, nothing hidden because there was no door. Marco kept fucking, maybe slower, letting the new man watch the way my rim gripped and released. Henrik freed his own cock, longer and curving, and stroked it once.

"Can I be next?"

"OK," I gasped, the word breaking as Marco slammed deep.

Marco fucked through a dozen harder strokes, then pulled out shiny and stepped aside. Henrik lined up and slid into the heat already there. He reached deeper, the head nudging places that blurred my vision, and started pounding fast, hands tight on my waist. Skin slapped. I met every thrust, moaning, hole fluttering around the new length. He lasted only minutes, rhythm breaking, then buried himself and came with a choked sound, heat pulsing thick inside me. He withdrew and the first trickle leaked down my thigh.

Andre was already standing in the frame, thirty-six, line cook still smelling of grill smoke, cock out and hard. "You good for more?"

"OK. Fuck me."

He drove in with one long thrust, his curve hitting dead-on. I cried out, legs shaking. He fucked me with short punishing strokes, one hand planted between my shoulders, keeping me bent while Henrik's cum squelched around his shaft. The filth of it made me push back harder, wanting every inch. My cock dripped steadily. Andre grunted, pace brutal, until he slammed deep and unloaded a heavy rush I felt bloom inside. When he pulled out more ran down my balls onto the tile.

Paulo stepped up at once, twenty-nine, bartender, ink covering both forearms. "Next?"

"OK."

He entered slow, different thickness, then found a rolling grind that rubbed exactly right. A tattooed hand wrapped my cock and stroked in time. Pleasure coiled tight. My hole clenched around him while two loads slicked the way, wet sounds growing louder. He fucked me through the building edge, sweat dripping onto my back, until his control snapped and he pounded, cursing as he added his own thick pulses. He pulled out with a light slap to my ass and moved off.

I was trembling, hole loose and dripping, when Victor took his place. Thirty-eight, mechanic, the faint scent of oil still on him, cock thick and heavy. "Still want it?"

"Yes. OK. Fuck my ass."

He gripped my hips and pushed in. The girth stretched me all over again. He fucked hard from the start, long strokes that pulled almost out before slamming back, cum splattering with every impact, running down my thighs. The open stall meant anyone walking in would see me bent over, ass red and used, taking another stranger while previous loads leaked around the shaft. The risk burned hotter than the friction. Victor leaned close and talked dirty the whole time, voice rough against my ear: "Look at this greedy hole, fucked open in a public stall, dripping cum and still hungry for more cock. Anybody could watch you get used. You love it." I moaned yes and pushed back, meeting him. My orgasm hit without warning. I came hard, cock jerking, stripes hitting the toilet and floor, ass clamping so tight he had to fight to keep moving. He fucked me through the spasms, oversensitivity sharp and perfect, until he buried deep and flooded me with another heavy load, grinding until he was spent. When he withdrew, cum poured out in a warm rush, pattering between my feet.

I could barely hold myself up, breath ragged, hole gaping and fluttering, when Simon appeared. Forty-two, accountant in neat khakis, quieter than the rest, cock rigid and already leaking. He looked at the mess of sweat and cum streaking my thighs and asked, low, "Room for one more?"

"OK," I whispered, hoarse, already arching back. "Please. Give it to me."

He slicked himself in the overflow and slid in slow. Every inch felt enormous against the raw sensitivity. He didn't rush. Deep measured strokes let me feel the drag, the way my flooded hole still tried to grip. He reached around and stroked my spent cock, thumb rubbing the head, keeping pleasure simmering while his shaft worked my prostate in steady rhythm. I whimpered, body jerking, weak pulses of cum leaking from me onto his fingers. The stall reeked of sex, sweat and musk thick under the fluorescent hum. No door, harsh light on our skin, the constant chance the next traveler would walk in and see an office-clothed man fucking a stranger bent over a toilet, ass overflowing with load after load. Simon's breath roughened. He leaned over my back, chest to spine, and started pounding harder, the wet squelch obscene, balls slapping my slick skin. I took all of it, milking him, chasing the last stretch of friction. He fucked me like that for long minutes, building and holding, grinding deep whenever I clenched, until his control finally snapped. He slammed to the root and came with a broken groan, the sixth load jetting hot and heavy, pressure immediate, overflow spilling around his shaft in thick drips down my legs. He kept thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, emptying everything while I shook and took the flood, hole fluttering around him until he was spent and trembling. Only then did he pull out slow. The full rush escaped, running freely, my rim winking and dripping onto the tile.

He zipped up, murmured thanks, and left. The others were already gone. I stayed bent a moment longer, chest heaving, ass ruined and satisfied, cold tile under my shoes, air cooling the sweat. My cock twitched once more. Already the plan locked in, clear and hungry: tomorrow I would drive the extra miles to this same rest stop at the same hour, walk straight into the open handicapped stall, drop my pants, and wait with my ass out and lube ready in my pocket. I would stay until another group found me, until I was fucked open and full all over again, and I would keep returning every day the highway let me until the need finally eased. The thought made me smile, shaky and certain, as I straightened, wiped the worst with rough paper towels, pulled my pants up over the lingering slick, and walked out into the bright afternoon already counting the hours.