tagErotic HorrorMen's Room

Men's Room


Author's note: This is my entry for the 2014 Halloween story contest. If you enjoy the story, please consider giving it a vote. Thanks so much!


Joanie Salinger follows Moe Dice down the darkened halls of the school. Moe holds her small, sweaty hand in his much bigger, dryer palm. The deserted hallway looks eerie, the long shadows dangerous. The sound of the crowd cheering in the gymnasium grows more faint with each step the two take.

Tonight Joanie's school--Saint Barnaby's--plays Carnal. She came to the gymnasium earlier this afternoon, not even bothering to change her uniform. She took time only to drag a brush through her cobalt blue hair, a recent dye job that her mother hated, but that she loved, a nod to her own growing need to be different. Original. To mask her true mission in the gym, she helped the adults from her school's booster club decorate the visitors' side of the bleachers.

Joanie likes how she feels in this school. So different from wandering the stodgy stone halls of Saint Barnaby's School for Girls. Carnal has a reputation as a tough little school on the bad side of town. Joanie imagines herself as a student here and finds a small swagger in her walk that she didn't have before.

Moe stops short and Joanie almost collides with him. His body feels lean and hard under his soft flannel shirt. Using her clumsiness to his advantage, Moe puts his arm around her waist, tugging her closer to himself.

"Here?" he asks. It's more assertion of fact than actual question, and he nuzzles his head into the small of her neck, just below her ear.

She wraps her arms around his waist. Her phone is in her hand, her fingertips on one of the belt loops of his jeans. The spot he has selected is a second floor landing, opening onto a stairwell, wide and deep, that leads to a library between the floors.

"Should we go inside one of the classrooms?" she asks.

"Locked," he whispers.

His hands move to her small breasts as he kisses her softly on the mouth. Joanie can feel her own body respond to his touch. Her nipples stiffen, rise, and her stomach does that thing where it tightens, as if it were a dishtowel being wrung. She feels breathless, excited, a little lightheaded. The same way she felt earlier this afternoon when she stuffed the wad of bubble gum into the doorjamb of the nurses' office, preventing the door from completely locking, allowing her and Moe, this evening, to slip past the metal security gate that separates the gymnasium from the rest of the school.

And how her body had responded to even that small, illicit act!

All her life Joanie has toed the line: a straight A student, member of the church choir, attending confession on Saturday afternoons for as far back as she can remember. Now, an eighteen-year-old student in her senior year, she has finally sampled the forbidden delights of rebellion, and she finds herself reeling, intoxicated by the allure of letting it all go, of playing the bad girl.

"Put your hands here," he says, indicating a thin metal rail at the edge of the landing. Joanie grabs the rail, looks at the landing far below.

"Bend over," he whispers.

Joanie feels a quick stab of excitement in her chest. She doesn't want him to think she's a flake, or that she's suddenly got cold feet. He'd given her instruction on how to beat the steel security gate. Promised to show up at tonight's game. Lead her into the school.

She can feel his groin pressing into her hip, the bulge in his jeans. He places his hand between her legs, rubs the moistening crotch of her panties. Joanie gasps at his touch. She sighs and moans, greedily rocking her hips back into his hand. She wants nothing more than to bend over for him, to let him pull her panties aside and slip himself inside her, but then she catches herself. Spins around and laughs.

"Not here," she says.

Her hand goes to the bulge in his jeans. She lets her fingers dance over his fly. Her voice is breathy, needy, but she resolves to hold him off. Slipping out of his arms, Joanie wanders back into the hallway proper.

"Where?" Moe says. He can't hide his impatience. He rubs the front of his pants, draws in his breath.

"Somewhere with more light," Joanie says.

Moe's eyes drop to the phone in her hand, an iPhone in a pink case. He bites his lip. Looks around.

Joanie clutches her arms. Shivers. Rows of lockers line the walls like an army of silent sentries, all standing witness to her wicked behavior tonight. The tile floors gleam. Joanie hears a distant roar from the crowd, a comfort to her in this eerie hallway light.

Looking over his shoulder, Moe chuckles.

"Here," he says, pointing to the wall.

Joanie looks, laughs. It's not something she would have come up with on her own. A ripple of excitement runs through her body.

"Perfect," she whispers.

A little sign on the wall reads: MEN.


Inside the bathroom, Moe flips a switch on the wall.

The fluorescent overheads flicker, then flood the space with a harsh, unforgiving light. A row of porcelain sinks and a long mirror line one wall, a row of painted stalls line the other. The room is an L shape, and affixed to the back wall is a row of shiny white urinals, each with a gleaming silver valve on top. The space has a soaring ceiling and tall frosted glass windows over the urinals. One of the windows is open at the top and Joanie can smell the pine and loam from the woods behind the school in the crisp winter air.

Moe says: "Bright enough?"

Joanie laughs softly. Looks around in silence, her eyes wide. She knows she doesn't belong here, but knows that this is exactly where she must be. She'd insisted on using the school, but had always imagined going into one of the classrooms. She wanted some place that Roger would immediately recognize.

Roger. The hurt and anger begins to rise, but Joanie catches herself. Pushes it back down. Refuses to cry.

Moving closer to Moe, she feels the warmth of his body next to hers. She lets her shoulder rub his arm, but doesn't look at his face. He silently lowers his head to her neck, his hand moving to her breast. His long hair falls like a curtain as he nibbles her ear. Glancing in the mirror, Joanie is taken by the pitiless look in her own eyes.

She can feel Moe's hands moving briefly to her hips, then under her skirt. Her breathing catches and she focuses on the hand between her legs, the lusty feelings growing in her tummy. He stops nuzzling her and raises his head. Licks his dry lips. He looks like he might want to neck some more, but Joanie wants to get things started.

"Can I give you head?" She says. Her voice is a throaty whisper.

She lowers her eyes to his chest. Fingers one of the buttons on his flannel shirt. Her cheeks warm up. It's hard for her not to grin as she makes this request. As many of these little liaisons as she's performed in the last few weeks, you'd think she'd be used to it by now. That she'd feel less shame, or that she'd be better able to handle whatever feelings do arise, but that's not been the case. Each time is just like the last. There is always this part, the part where she feels embarrassed for putting into words exactly what she must have. Asking the boy for what she needs.

Moe hasn't responded.

This isn't all that unusual. Joanie has found that when it comes to sex, boys like to be in control. Like to make all the moves. She looks up at him. Cocks her head. Grins and raises her brow. He's an attractive boy, but he's grinning like a fool.

"Sure," he stammers. "Sure."

He laughs softly, but Joanie can tell he's a little put off. Maybe scared. Probably he has never been with a girl this forward before.

He lowers his fly.

Joanie takes a small step back so she can watch him pull his erection from his pants. He has a nice cock. Long and hard with a large clipped head. A swollen vein, forked and slightly throbbing, runs down one side of his pink shaft.

Joanie looks up at him, grinning. He's starting to stroke it now. Has that serious look on his face that boys get when they show off their cocks.

This next part is tricky.

She squats in front of him, her knees slanting out to either side. His erection is only inches from her face. Looking down at the phone in her hands, she mashes her fingers against its dull, glass face. Joanie looks up. Grins.

She puts his dick in her mouth and hears him sigh. Swallowing as much of his cock as she can, Joanie closes her eyes. His warm erection fills her mouth. She feels the wiry hair of his pubic patch on her nose.

Raising her phone, she points the camera right at her face.

For a girl who has always been as level headed and chaste as Joanie, the first shot is always the hardest. Not so much because she is committing to video such a personal, private act, although that's certainly a part of it. Moe is the fourth boy she's recorded herself with in as many weeks, and each time she's been aware that she's committing what the nuns would call the sin of fornication, indelibly marking her soul. And while all that makes the first shot difficult in its own right, it's not the thing makes the first shot the hardest. It's the boys' laughter that gets her the most. The boys always seem to laugh.

Moe makes an incredulous snort, which quickly turns to a chuckle. Joanie knows he's neither laughing at her, nor amused. He laughs because he's surprised. Nervous. The last thing he expects is for the camera to come out, the recording to begin. But begin it must.

She lets his wet cock fall from her mouth, her phone still recording.

Joanie has found that it sometimes helps to offer reassurance. Looking up at him, she grins. He's looking at her with an amused, apprehensive expression on his face. If reassurance isn't enough, a physical incentive often is. Joanie takes his cock in her small fist and pumps it.

"You're making this to punish Roger?" Moe asks. He keeps his voice low, an unidentifiable mumble in deference to the camera in Joanie's hand.

Joanie's whole face breaks into a grin.

For answer, she takes him back into her mouth. Her hand is still jacking his tool and she gazes back into the camera. These are the shots Joanie enjoys capturing most. When she edits the video, she will put these next few shots at the very start. She likes using the camera to toy with Roger, imagining him watching as she sucks another boy's cock.

Joanie works on Moe for a few minutes. She kisses his big pink helmet, then licks him like so much candy cane. Her tummy is tight with anticipation, her pussy wet.

She stands. Leaning against the sink, Joanie hikes up her uniform skirt, pushes her panties to the side, and rubs her moist vulva. Moe slips himself inside her, entering her through the leg hole of her underwear. He sighs loudly, standing stock still for a minute or two. To better accommodate him, Joanie slips her bottom up onto the sink, and then wraps her thighs around his waist.

He puts his hands on her waist and begins moving his hips.

Joanie points her phone between their bodies and makes a high pitched squeal deep in her throat. Her plaid skirt is riding high on her hips. Moe has one of his thumbs hooked into the crotch of her panties, pulling them off to the side. Despite this, much of her thin, blonde pubic hair remains hidden by her plain cotton undies. He pushes hard into her, driving toward his own reward. They both watch his wet cock spear her again and again.

Moe's lips are set in a tight little line. Joanie points her phone at his face. He looks up, sees he's staring into her camera, and it's like a punch to the gut. He makes an exasperated groan and turns his head.

Ignoring her camera for the moment, Joanie drapes her arms around his neck and draws herself to him. She knows that last shot was risky, but she's glad to have gotten it. Roger doesn't know any of the boys she's recorded herself with as well as he knows Moe.

Moe slows his thrusts. Stops.

"Don't stop," she whispers in his ear, grinding herself into him. "Come on." Her voice has a desperate quality that she didn't expect to hear.

Moe sighs.

"I'm sorry," Joanie says. "NoreallyI'msorry," she says it all in a rush.

Moe looks into her face, but Joanie can't meet his gaze. She looks at the tile floor.

"You're not sorry," he laughs, a deep throated snort.

He takes a step back.

"Come on." Joanie whimpers. "No." All the swagger she felt in the hall is gone. She feels sure she will cry, but she doesn't want to.

Moe turns from her to fasten his clothes. He mumbles something, but Joanie can't hear what he says. She slips off the sink. Turns and grabs the sink basin with both her hands. For a few minutes, she has no memory of anything at all. And then she raises her head and looks into the mirror. Her eyes are red ringed. Wet.

Moe asks if she's ready to go, but Joanie doesn't answer. She sighs. Blows air through her cheeks.

"I have to pee," she says. Her voice is small.

Moe shifts uncomfortably.

"You go on," she tells him. "I can find my own way back."

At the door, Moe turns back. He looks as if he is going to say something to her, but then he just smiles. His eyes have a sad expression. He turns, pushes the door open, and he's gone.

The heavy door swings shut with a hydraulic sigh.


Joanie enters a stall, lowers her panties, and sits on the toilet seat. The little latch on the door is broken. She vaguely considers getting up and going to the ladies room across the hall. The dim sound of the cheering crowd comes to her in the quiet, and she decides that moving isn't worth the effort.

Folding her arms, she leans forward, hugging herself. She listens to her stream fill the bowl. Then she listens to the quiet after she's through. For the longest time, she sits just like this, her panties at her ankles. She sits until she's not angry anymore. Sits until she's neither bitter with Moe, nor critical of herself. Joanie sits until she feels nothing at all.

And then she straightens her back and looks at her phone. Watches the clips.

She replays the part where Moe is inside her. She watches the footage of herself at his feet, sucking his dick. The clip with Moe's face contains at least three or four seconds of him enjoying himself, a determined look on his face, before he turns his head away in disgust. Joanie doesn't watch the part where he turns away. With a little careful editing, she thinks she can still create a video that features his face.

Joanie smiles. If she does make the video, the only disappointment will be that it won't end with her swallowing his cum. She puts her hand between her legs. Strokes and fingers her labia.

Joanie has come to enjoy swallowing. Scooting her bottom to the edge of the toilet seat, she spreads her knees wide, and slips two fingers inside herself. The first time she did it was in a video created to spite Roger. She hadn't even planned it. The boy she was with simply presented his swollen cock at the end, and she took it in her mouth. The camera was rolling. He cupped his hands on her head, bucked his hips, and filled her mouth with his salty treasure.

She soon realized that all boys long for a girl that swallows. It's like some universal male trait, hard coded into a man's pleasure center. She began including it in every video.

Joanie leans back, putting her hand on the seat behind her. Her body aches for release. Looking around, she gets a perverse little thrill from fingering herself in the men's room. She rocks her hips and mewls. Rides her fingers. Soon squeaky wet noises come from between her legs. She feels an orgasm fast approaching and . . .

. . . the bathroom door bursts open.

Joanie freezes, a moan caught in her throat. The door falls against its hydraulics, and then slowly works itself shut with a quiet hush. Her mouth is open, her knees spread wide. Two fingers are jammed deep in her pussy. Her heart thuds in her chest, and she doesn't dare move, not even to breathe. The stall door is slightly ajar. Her panties are at her ankles. Carefully pulling her fingers from inside herself, she closes her knees. She cups her hand over her crotch and bites her lip. She hopes the sound of the heavy men's room door was loud enough to mask any sounds she might have been making while masturbating.

Whoever it is has gone past her and towards the back of the room. His footsteps echo on the tile floor. With a sinking feeling, she realizes that those boots don't belong to Moe.

Reaching for her panties, she silently slips them up her legs, rising from the seat without making any noise. With her panties up, she feels a little less vulnerable, but not much. Holding her phone in both hands, she wonders what she should do next. Stand on the toilet seat? Hold the stall door shut? Make a break for it? She doesn't like any of those choices.

She can hear him urinating, a loud forceful stream that sounds like someone using a hose to clean a sidewalk. She closes her eyes and silently blows air out her mouth. A memory comes to her of an early morning years ago, on a visit to her aunt's farm: she'd watched a large black bull piss in a foggy meadow. She'd risen early with her twin sister Tammy to milk the cows. The hot urine mixing with the cool dew created a cloud of smoke rising up around the animal's haunches, like a scene from some dark fairy tale. Squeezing her legs together, Joanie savors the pressure her thighs place on her groin. Her heart is still pounding, her crotch still moist. She presses her hands against her pubis. And then this dark thought comes unbidden into her mind: Maybe I should go out there. Suck his dick.

She feels appalled. Shocked.

Suck a complete stranger's cock? Where did that notion come from? Joanie smells something burning, like a wood fire in the distance. Her head feels light. To steady herself, she puts her hand on the wall.

Maybe not suck his cock, she thinks. Maybe just jack him off. The burning smell grows stronger, more pungent. Joanie feels dizzy.

She hears footsteps. A faucet opens. He's washing his hands.

She knows this is crazy. She should just remain silent. Wait for him to leave. Or maybe see if he'd just want to touch me. Put his hand between my legs. Joanie squeezes her eyes shut, tries to block the crazy from her mind.

The faucet closes. The room is silent.

And then this: Three cheerful dings come from Joanie's phone.


Her mouth drops. She looks at her phone, a text message from Moe has come in. She turns it to mute. The fire smell is so strong now she wonders if maybe the school is burning down.

From the other side of the door, a man's voice rings out:

"Who's that? Who's in there?"


It's a sturdy, adult voice filled with authority.

Joanie's mouth is dry. The vague fears about the thoughts in her mind disappear, replaced by the very real prospect of having to go out there and confront a grown up in this place. Taking a deep breath, she opens the door and steps out of the stall.

It's Jimmy Manley's Dad--Joanie knows him as Mr. Manley.

Don Manley has broad shoulders, intense blue eyes, and a strong, wiry frame. He's standing by the sink, his hands on his hips, a curling loop of brown hair hanging down his forehead. He's a rugged, good looking man, with a no nonsense attitude.

He raises an eyebrow and smiles.

Joanie closes her mouth, then opens it again, as if she's about to clarify something. She's still grinning, still clutching her hands around the phone that betrayed her. She shakes her head and then her hands dance across her body: one flies to her hair, the other to the buttons on her blouse, and then both hands go back down to smooth her skirt.

"This is the men's room," Mr. Manley says. He shrugs his shoulders, spreads his hands. His voice has a disarming quality, as if the appearance of a young girl in this space is some ordinary circumstance, easily explained and corrected.

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byHuckPilgrim© 0 comments/ 45292 views/ 15 favorites

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