Men's Room


Joanie laughs softly.

She puts her fingers to her forehead and shakes her head as if she has forgotten what she was about to say. She lowers her hand and she's still grinning. Mr. Manley is looking at her with those blue eyes.

"How--," Joanie starts, but then she isn't sure how to phrase her question. "How did you get up here?" she asks.

"Me?" Mr. Manley snorts.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, Joanie looks at the floor. Her face heats up. She looks towards the door, and Mr. Manley abruptly swallows his laughter. Rubbing his earlobe, he looks at his feet. Hides his grin.

Joanie inches sideways toward the door, the damp crotch of her panties riding up between her legs. While the sensation isn't uncomfortable, it reminds her that only a few seconds ago she was feverishly coaxing an orgasm from herself.

"There's plenty ways to get past that security gate," Mr. Manley says. "I mean," he looks at her, "you know one--right?"

Joanie snorts, unable to hide her own satisfaction. Flashing a grin at him, she feels the pleasure of having an adult concede her own role in tonight's adventure.

"I have to get back," she mumbles, pulling the heavy door open.

"Are you shooting video tonight, Joanie?" Mr. Manley asks.

At the mention of video, the sound of her name, something inside Joanie seizes. No adult has confronted her about the recordings, although she is almost certain they are being passed around by most of the other students. Have adults seen them? Joanie has no idea. She has pushed the consequences of her behavior so far from her mind, this is the first she's even considered an adult seeing what she has done. She didn't even realize Mr. Manley knew her name. And now this recognition, the specificity in being named, gives her some small sense of satisfaction, too. She is used to being anonymous, just another girl in a sea of girls. She doesn't know his first name--or if he means those videos--and this imbalance of knowledge piques her curiosity a little, even if it frightens her some, too.

She lets go of the door. She looks over her shoulder to address him, but also to see what expression is on his face.

"Videos?" she asks, involuntarily chewing her lip.

She watches Mr. Manley's eyes glide down her body, over the soft curve of her bottom, past the hem of her skirt, the backs of her thighs, and then linger on her muscular calves, her knee high socks. It's such an overtly sexual look, such an obvious appraisal, that Joanie feels a little taken aback. Boys look at her this way. That same burning smell is back, filling her mind.

Mr. Manley reaches between his legs and adjusts himself. Joanie quickly averts her eyes. The burning smell is much stronger now. Gazing back toward him, she can clearly see the outline of his swollen cock on the inside of his leg.

He does mean those videos.

Joanie raises her eyes and finds him smiling confidently. Knowing that he has seen her perform in the videos somehow makes everything different, though very little has actually changed. Now she wants him to see her. She's eager to see the hungry look in his eyes as he looks at her body. Turning towards him, she rests her head against the wall. His eyes go to her throat, the vee of her blouse, her small, heaving breasts. His scrutiny scares and satisfies her all at the same time. His eyes are on her hips, her legs. She can feel her own desire welling up in the pit of her stomach, even as her throat dries up.

He moves towards her, his boots ringing on the tiles. Mashing her thighs together, she swallows and finds a lump in her throat. A few paces from her, he stops.

A silence hangs in the air. The crowd in the gymnasium roars, a distant sound.

Mr. Manley puts his hand on her side, just below her arm pit. She feels her stomach lurch and looks away, towards the mirror and sinks. He has a big strong hand that easily cups her torso, and his thumb brushes against the side of her breast. She enjoys the sudden electric of his touch there, exactly where it shouldn't be. Looking up, Joanie notices a small tuft of chest hair billowing out the neck of his T-shirt.

He moves his thumb, begins stroking her breast.

She lowers her head and sighs. Mr. Manley smells like a wood fire. The smell is so strong she can almost hear the pop and sigh of moist timbers, imagine the flames licking the wood. Consuming, transforming. Sucking in her breath, she fills her lungs. Exhales. Her nipples are hard. Joanie thinks of her own father--an overweight butcher, who comes home each night, eats dinner, and then loses himself in hefty tomes on mathematics.

"Joanie," Mr. Manley says. He repeats her name. His voice is gentle but insistent. He says it again. It's like he is calling her from some faraway shore, some distant hill.

Grinning weakly, she sniffs. She hesitantly meets Mr. Manley's eyes. Nods. Manages a coy smile. She raises her phone. Bites her lip.

Mr. Manley looks at the phone. He smiles. Whispers her name again. It's like he's calling her home. Calling her to exactly the place she ought to be.

He moves even closer to her.

She can feel his hand on the crisp cotton of her shirt, her bra chafing against her breast. He slides his hand down her body, over her hip and thigh, and then it doubles back, and he is under her skirt, cupping her soft pubic mound, the damp cotton between her legs.

Joanie's mouth drops open.

She feels obligated to make an objection. To say something. She wills herself to speak, but instead of a protest, only a soft moan escapes her mouth. It feels good to be fondled, to be touched. Her left thigh begins to shake, all of its own accord. She reaches for Mr. Manley to steady herself, feels the fabric of his shirt, his hard body beneath.

"I've seen two," Mr. Manley says. "How many have you made?"

Joanie isn't sure what he's talking about at first. Then she gets it. He means the videos.

"Four," she says. "No, wait--I mean five."

She laughs, a girl shouldn't lose count of the number of sex videos she's made to spite her former boyfriend.

Mr. Manley looks at her evenly. He doesn't laugh.

"You're hurt," he whispers. "Your Roger hurt you."

His finger finds the little nub of her clitoris and begins to gently massaging it through her panties. Leaning forward so that his lips are next to Joanie's ear, Mr. Manley whispers: "You can feel better."

His fingers dance between her legs. She can hear his breathing, feel the flush of his hot breath on her head.

"I can help you," he murmurs.

She can feel her sodden panties, wet from her own secretions, rubbing against her labia. The bathroom is eerily quiet, the only sound an occasional muted cheer from the game, or the hiss of steam from the school's ancient radiator. His voice is so seductive, the smell of the fires so strong. Joanie gently rocks her hips, riding Mr. Manley's big hand.

"What do I have to do?" she asks. Joanie has no idea what Mr. Manley is talking about, but she likes the idea of relief. Satisfaction.

"It's easy," he murmurs.

Joanie mewls. Puts the tip of her tongue to her lip. Any reservations she held about sex with this man disappear. The fact that his age is so much greater than her own makes her feel uncomfortable, but she takes refuge in the fact that no ever will ever know. This part of tonight's adventure will always be her little secret.

He places his free hand on the back of her neck, the other hand still massaging between her legs. She feels her breath coming heavy through her mouth, her eyelids hanging low.

He lowers his head to look in her face. He wants to tell her something.

She tries to collect herself. Impatient, ready to get started, she looks at the old man curiously. His brilliant blue eyes, the square chin and rugged jaw. She bites her lip and squeezes her thighs on his hand.

Mr. Manley kisses her softly on her crown. He doesn't announce what he was searching for in her face, or even if he found it. Instead he nuzzles his head against hers. "Be careful," he softly whispers in her ear. "Be certain what you're after."

A chill passes over Joanie, making her shoulders shudder.


Mr. Manley suddenly stops fondling her. Taking half a step back, he reaches for the hem of her skirt and lifts it high. He tilts his whole torso and looks up her skirt. Joanie gasps, laughing nervously. She considers protesting, but the expression on his face makes her pause. He has his lips pressed together in a soft appraising smile, his brows arching high on his forehead. A warm thrill runs through her tummy, and she squeezes her thighs together. Instead of protesting, she rocks her hips forward. Not sure what to do with her hands, she puts them behind her back. Grabs her elbow. Waits.

Her body flushes with warmth, but she can't tell if it is humiliation or sexual desire. Mr. Manley takes a good long look under her uniform skirt. She mashes her thighs together and squirms. She wore plain white panties this morning.

"Beautiful," Mr. Manley smiles. Joanie glows with satisfaction.

"Take those off," he says, dropping her skirt.

His blunt request catches her off guard and Joanie looks toward the door. This is what she wanted, but she feels off balance. Nervous.

"Don't worry," Mr. Manley says. "We're all alone."

Mr. Manley uses a firm, reassuring tone to say this last part. This tone, combined with his assurance of secrecy, convinces Joanie to remove her panties. She wants to please him. Or maybe she wants to shock him. She can't rightly say which.

She hikes her skirt, flashing the milky white flesh of her thighs for an instant, and then she is bent over, stepping out of her panties. Her patent leather shoes glow in the florescent overheads.

She stands with a confident grin, holding her panties in her hand.

Mr. Manley laughs softly.

Reaching for the light switch on the wall, he flips off the overheads. The moon shines through the tall windows, making large glowing rectangles across the tiles.

The space has a much different feel in the dark. Joanie makes a brief protest, reaching toward the light switch, but Mr. Manley takes her by the shoulders and says something comforting. "Easy," he murmurs. "No one will ever know."

Still a little skittish, she clutches her phone and her panties. With the lights out, Joanie realizes, it's like being in a dark cave, an isolated fortress. Feeling her own needs welling between her thighs, she lets the idea of turning the lights back on fall away. Rubbing her shoulders, he walks her to the other side of the room. Coos encouragement. The darkness and soft purr of his voice comfort her.

Mr. Manley leads her to the wall of urinals. "Hold onto this," he says, indicating the shiny valve above one of the urinals. Even though she is ready to comply, Joanie stands dumbfound for a second. She can't say why.

"Bend over," he whispers. He uses that same firm tone she has come to enjoy.

Her stomach tumbles. What to do with her panties? Her phone? Without a word, she holds out her underwear to Mr. Manley. She uses both her hands, like an offering. It's as if she were following some ancient ritual.

He softly chuckles. Takes the girl's underwear in his hand. Takes her phone.

With her surrender, Joanie feels some small relief. A small sigh escapes her lips. She obediently grabs hold of the gleaming plumbing and bends over, presenting her bottom. The metal is cold and dry.

Mr. Manley slips his hand under her skirt from behind. He runs his fingers lightly over her bare sex. She exhales noisily when he touches her down there. Moans. Her pubic mound is soaked. Ready. Resting her forehead on the metal for a moment, she lowers her head between her shoulders, her arms looped over the plumbing.

Mr. Manley makes a satisfied hum.

Turning to the fixture next to Joanie, he drapes her panties over the edge of the trough. But Joanie doesn't want her panties resting in the wet bowl. She raises her head. Mewls softly. She begins to stand, to fetch her panties. But Mr. Manley moves between her and her underwear. He uses his body to gently nudge her back into position. His hand is under her skirt again, caressing her bare sex from behind.

He soothes her. "It's fine," he says firmly. "Fine."

While his fingers work her labia, he slips his thumb between the warm globes of her ass. She loses herself in the fingers probing her slippery sex, her sweaty bottom. She forgets her panties, focusing on the lusty feelings inside her body instead. She arches her back, hanging onto the plumbing. He tells her what intends to do with her. How he wants to use her pussy. Ride her. His language becomes rougher. He calls her a dirty girl, a hot little number. She finds it strangely satisfying. None of the boys talk to her like this.

Mr. Manley moves around behind her.

He lifts her skirt and rests it on her back. Joanie looks over her shoulder. Mr. Manley has undone his pants, opened his fly, and raised his shirt. He has a tornado of dark hair on his lower abdomen, a flat stomach. A long, slender cock.

He strokes himself. Rubs his cock head on the lips of her pussy. It occurs to Joanie that he is about to enter her, but she still doesn't know his first name.

"Mr. Manley," Joanie says. "Wait--wait." There is a note of urgency to her voice.

"What is your name?" she asks. "What should I call you?"

Instead of waiting, Mr. Manley purrs and guides his stiff dick into her slippery hole. His fat cock fills her slick canal. She exhales noisily and returns her head to the front, her question unanswered. He groans softly, a sigh of obvious content. Holding her hips tightly, he grinds himself insider her, and she feels his groin rubbing against her bottom.

"Sweetie," he says. He chuckles tenderly. "I want you to keep calling me Mr. Manley." With a grunt, he begins his strokes.

"Don't worry," he says. "You're going to get everything you need tonight."

Joanie face warms. She doesn't look behind her anymore. His cock slides into her, filling her up. It feels good to get fucked. She isn't sure if he just disrespected her, or if he just likes to hear people use his proper name. He pulls his cock back, and then slips it into her again, and she decides that what she calls him doesn't matter one way or the other. He is making good on all the dirty things he promised he'd do to her.

He whispers that she's a wild thing. A good little fuck.

Joanie doesn't mind. She just wants to feel his cock gliding between her legs. Sometimes he leaves himself impaled inside her, grinding his groin against her bottom. When this happens, Joanie pushes her bottom back against him. Moans in her throat.

Mr. Manley whispers that Joanie is a slut. His hot little slut.

Joanie bites her lip.

She grasps the cold steel valve and hangs her head between her shoulder blades. She can feel an orgasm rising in her tummy. His little slut. She closes her eyes and focuses all her energy on letting those waves overtake her, wash her away.

His. To use however he likes.

Suddenly Joanie hears the door to the bathroom catch on its hydraulics. The overhead lights flicker on, and then off; and then shine brightly with that same unforgiving light. Joanie gasps in horror.

Someone has entered the bathroom!


Joanie immediately tries to stand, to twist away from Mr. Manley. She wants to distance herself from the act she is performing.

"Whoa, whoa," Mr. Manley whispers to Joanie.

He leans over her, stroking her breasts with one hand, the other hand sliding over her back and shoulders. Joanie finds she can't rise. She squirms, but it's useless. The more she moves her bottom, the more aroused Mr. Manley becomes. He groans softly, throaty rumbles coming from his mouth. His strong hands hold her pinned to his fat cock.

She whimpers. He chuckles and keeps his penis pressed inside her.

Unable to stand, Joanie turns her face to the back wall of the restroom. Bending as low as she can, she grabs onto the trough of the urinal for balance. She rests her face against the outside of the porcelain bowl. She glances across the row of urinals, her eyes now level with the row of catch basins. Her heart is pounding, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Screwing her eyes shut, Joanie hears a new voice in the bathroom. Someone is chuckling: it's deep, resonant male laughter.

Joanie mewls.

She can feel the cool porcelain against her warm cheek. She remembers something that happened to her months ago, the first time she met Roger Bones. The memory is so vivid she can see it in her mind's eye. He's approaching her at the Metro Mall. He's such an attractive boy: tight jeans, lean muscular body, dark eyes and curly brown hair. He knows her name--"Hey, Joanie," he says--but she doesn't know how he knows her. She grins and falls into a friendly conversation with him. He's personable, animated. Only later will she realize that he must have read her name from the breast of her school jacket.

Joanie can feel Mr. Manley's cock inside her.

While her new position allows her to hide her face, it offers her even less privacy, for to sustain it, she must keep her bottom raised high in the air, and this elevation gives Mr. Manley even better access to her sex, which he quickly puts to good use. With both his hands on her hips, he resumes his thrusts.

Joanie feels as if she is in a dream. Mr. Manley's efforts take on a slow motion, drawn out quality they didn't seem to have before. She can hear him talking to the person who just came in, but both their voices seem hollow and faraway. They are discussing girls. Various Carnal cheerleaders. Some of the women in the stands. And then the conversation turns to someone specific--a girl, but Joanie doesn't know who. Mr. Manley speaks about her with much enthusiasm. He says she's a good fuck. A hot little piece of ass. Joanie feels a fiery jolt of rejection in her chest: he's not even finished fucking her and somehow she's already been relegated. And then Mr. Manley says that he found her in here, and Joanie understands that she is the girl. These men are talking about her.

She feels a quick surge of relief, followed by the sting of humiliation for feeling relieved. And then Mr. Manley glides his cock deep into her, and her body seems to respond all of its own accord: Joanie pushes her hips high and softly moans. The other person laughs and a deliciously dirty feeling washes over Joanie. Her heart soars, even as her stomach knots with nervous energy.

Joanie holds onto the bowl even tighter, gripping the slippery trough with both her hands. She keeps her eyes screwed shut. She remembers what happened in the computer lab at Saint Barnaby's, not more than a few weeks ago.

It's the middle of the school day, the period before lunch. Her best friend has sent her an email that contains a link and a single sentence: "Watch to the end."

Joanie quickly scans the bowed heads of her classmates. Sister Miriam is engrossed in something at her desk. Joanie clicks the link: A grainy amateur video appears of a girl on her knees giving a boy head; the girl looks familiar, but her face is hidden in shadow.

Joanie grins. Quickly pausing the video, she scans the room.

Organizing her monitor so she can see the video without getting caught, Joanie knows she must pause every so often to make sure her classmates aren't watching her screen. The video is poor quality, but she soon realizes that the girl on her knees is from Saint Barnaby's.

Joanie wonders which of her classmates would make such a video. She glances over to the friend who emailed her, but the girl doesn't turn her head. Sister Miriam is up, cleaning the board, her back to the class.

Another girl appears in the video.

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byHuckPilgrim© 0 comments/ 45274 views/ 15 favorites

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