I have never been fucked in a bathroom. I’m not sure this is exactly for lack of trying. Today, while I’m craving sex like I usually crave hot chocolate on a cold autumn morning, my fantasies creep towards the bathrooms that I know are upstairs as I cup my frozen hands around a warm mug in Starbucks. I think about fucking in toilets, and wonder why it’s so much more appealing than the linear matrixes on the textbook page that I should be studying.
I have multiple fantasies which involve bathrooms. There’s filthy one where I’m made to kneel in a train toilet and suck off a guy while the lurches and jerks of the train mean his cock is sometimes pushed further into my mouth than I can really take, and I choke on it. There’s a playful one, where I finger-fuck an imaginary girlfriend in the against the door of a bathroom stall in a fancy restaurant on her birthday, both of us giggly on prosecco and at how easily anyone could hear us.
But there’s another one too, which fits the slightly darker side of my fantasies.
I don’t know how it starts, but I do know where it starts. It’s been a while since I was there, so my memory might offer an incorrect image, but the fantasy takes place in the bathroom at Victoria Bus Station in London. I don’t know why the gorgeous dominant girl would ever cast her spell on me and use it to lure me away from the bustle of the station, but somehow, I end up entirely at her mercy in a toilet stall.
The fantasy comes in flashes. I’m trying to muffle my moans while she fingers me, but she laughs and bites kisses into my neck and whispers filth in my ear; her aim is to make me moan louder. Then I’m being forced to my knees in that same stall, and following the instructions she gives me on how to pleasure her.
Part of me is embarrassed, knowing anyone could hear me. Part of me is ashamed that I’m so eagerly following her commands, knickers soaking, doing whatever she says in the hope she’ll fuck me. She knows this, so she does not hold back. I love the orders with which she takes control of me. I love the little moans and whimpers she makes that show I am pleasing her. Part of me wriggles in delight at the shame I feel, at the fact we could be heard. I want to be used, to be fucked.
That would be far too kind an ending though. If she was nice, she would fuck me in the bathroom stall and let me walk away with some of my dignity, but she’s not nice. She’s cruel and dominant and beautiful and sharp and in this minute I will do anything she tells me to.
She pushes me away from her and tells me to get up. She unlocks the cubicle door and beckons me to follow her with a look. In the main part of the bathroom, she bends me over one of the sinks. She yanks my jeans and knickers down. “I’m going to fuck you here,” she whispers to me, and I want it so much, but at the same time I have never felt so exposed.
I shiver in arousal. My wetness is already dripping down my legs. I beg her to lock the main door to the bathroom so no one else could come in and witness my shame, but she ignores my pleas. She tells me that she’s going to fuck me like the slut I am where anyone can see. I want her so desperately. She tells me to grip the edges of the sink, and I do as I’m told. But instead of her fingers pushing into my tight wetness, she turns away for a second and pulls something out of the bad she was carrying earlier. I catch a glimpse of it in the mirror as she positions herself behind me and pushes me down further, the edge of the cold porcelain basic digging into my stomach. She smiles.
She fucks with the handle of a toothbrush.
It doesn’t end there, though. That, too, would be too easy. Someone walks in. For a minute they stand there, watching us – watching her fuck me. I can see them in the mirror, because the girl behind me is making me watch her fuck me, but there is no horror on their face. Instead she looks amazed, then amused, then aroused. I blush even more than I already was: certainly an achievement.
Being watched, I find myself trying harder. I submit to the fucking, let the girl behind me push me lower, spread my legs further. I try to roll my hips to meet the thrusts of the inorganic object I was being fucked with. With an audience, I find my moans flowing more freely. With an audience I am more aroused, and in turn she fucks me harder.
With a wink at my beautiful dominant in the mirror, our observer slips into one of the cubicles. A second later I can hear her moans of pleasure. “They’re touching themselves to the sight of you getting fucked like the whore you are.” She tells me.
The fantasy never needs to last longer than that.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a freelance journalist, sex writer, and professional transsexual. His work focuses on dismantling shame and queering sex.
