This is part two of my kind-of public sex series. If you haven’t read part one yet, you should do that first. If you have, I hope you enjoy this next instalment – complete with a filthy illustration from Non-Binary Babs! This part features a more public kind of semi public sex, where everyone knows you’re sneaking off to the toilets to fuck.
Content note for elements of consensual non-consent, humiliation, and semi-public sex.
She gets him back, of course.
A week or so later they’re heading out to drinks together – his friends this time. Friends who know him well and will take piss out of him with playful affection. Friends whose teasing comments and raised eyebrows will be directed at him, not her. With them, she knows he feels safe enough that she can push his buttons and give him a taste of that humiliation and arousal that he took such delight in dishing out.
She times it perfectly, taking advantage of an unexpected work trip. She sent him nudes from her hotel room last night; he called her when he received them, along with a text describing how she’s just fucked herself with the dildo she packed. The one that reminds her of his dick. She suggested (sweetly, innocently) that he maybe he shouldn’t come, that he should wait until she’s home and he can fuck her. She listens to him jerk off and he calls her a fucking tease when she tells him to stop, that he’s had enough and had better be a good slut for her and stop touching his dick.
Earlier today texted to tell her that he’s going to fuck her hard when she gets home – to show her what happens to flithy sluts who tease people – even if it makes them late. He won’t though. They’re his friends, so it will be him who will get teased if they turn up late looking like they’ve just fucked. She could do that, turning the tables on him and making him squirm, but she has something else in mind.
So she gets home with just enough time to kiss him, to shower, to get dressed again to go out. She ignores how much she wants to fuck him and tries to hide her glee when she feels his eyes on her arse as she leans towards the mirror to sweep the mascara wand over her eyelashes. Every movement is a drawn out tease, and she pretends not to notice how worked up he is.
At least, she pretends not to notice right up until they’re about to leave, when she steps closer to him and starts to undo the buttons of his jeans.
“What are y-” he starts, but she reaches up and kisses him instead. She slips her hand inside his boxers and curls it around his half-hard dick.
“Don’t worry, I won’t make us late.”
She doesn’t suck him; she spits on her hand and strokes his dick. Years of fucking each other means she knows exactly how to touch him and soon his cock is achingly hard. Her cunt is aching too. She wants him to flip her over and fuck her – to fill her cunt and pull her hair and call her a dirty little bitch – but she wants to get him back more. She wants him to experience that low burn of humiliation that feels almost wrong in its hotness.
So she waits until he’s really, really hard and she stops. He’s unable to hold back a moan at the loss of her hand as his dick pulses against nothingness. She steps away and smoothes down her dress, smiling wickedly at him.
“Come on, you don’t want to make us late, do you?”
The sound he makes is almost a growl, and she takes obscene pleasure in watching him try to pull himself together and regain some composure. When his jeans are buttoned back over his thick, hard cock, he kisses her roughly and tells her that he’s going to make her pay for this later.
He doesn’t realise that she’s nowhere near finished with him yet.
He’s back in control by the time they reach the pub and they join his friends at a table in the back. They’ve been together long enough that she knows all of them, and she asks Rahul about his new job while he goes to the bar to grab them drinks. The look she gives him when he returns is one of pure mischief, and he wonders what she’s thinking as he slides into a seat next to her.
If she hadn’t given him a teasing hand job less than an hour before, maybe he wouldn’t notice her hand on his leg. Or maybe he’d be notice it, but not be so fucking aware of it. It would be a gentle, intimate touch, not a deliberate reminder of how much power she has over his body right now. At first it’s just there, a presence that feels like it burns through the denim. He tries to tune it out and join in with dissecting Alice’s latest date.
He talks and laughs and acts as though her hand isn’t right there – which gets harder when she moves it higher, her thumb stroking his inner thigh. She keeps talking as she touches him but she has to know what she’s doing. Her movements are way precise to be casual, and when her hand moves even higher, bushing quickly against his bulging dick? Yes, she knows exactly what she’s doing. She lightly strokes his dick through his, her hand and his erection hidden under the table. Enough pressure that he can’t ignore it, but also it’s not enough and he has to stop himself from trying to grind against his hand.
He’s sure he must be bright red and she’s smirking slightly, deliberately ignoring his pleading glances. She’s enjoying this; he needs her to stop and he needs more and fuck, he needs to act like he’s not coming apart just from her touching him through his jeans. It’s a delicious kind of torture and he loves it and hates it at the same time.
When he feels like he just can’t take it any more he excuses himself to the bathroom, muttering something about his stoma bag. He walks away quickly, his whole body flushed and arousal pricking the back of his neck. He hears a laugh behind him and wonders if someone noticed his arousal. When he’s safely in a stall in the men’s toilets, he can’t help but laugh at himself. This is ridiculous. He just needs to stop imagining that they’re all talking about him and will his dick to behave. He can control his own body, for fuck’s sake.
And then the door to the bathroom opens.
“Open up, slut,” she says softly, tapping at the cubicle door. Fuck. He obeys and she slips inside, locking it again as he sinks back on to the toilet lid.
“You ok there?” she asks, grinning down at him and knowing full well that he’s not, that all he can think about is his hard dick and how much he needs her to fuck him.
Some of that probably comes out in the soft moan that escapes him when she bends down to kiss him. The kiss is urgent, all teeth and tongue and need. His hands grip her hips, pulling her closer. Her legs are either side of his and she leans forward, her voice no louder than a whisper as she tells him to get his dick out so she can play with it. He swallows hard. She doesn’t help, doesn’t touch him until his dick has sprung free of his boxers. Then she lifts up her dress – she’s not wearing knickers.
It’s then that he realises that she must have been planning this, that everything she’s done this evening has been calculated to reduce him to a desperate wreck who would do just about anything if she’d just sit on his dick already.
She doesn’t. Instead, her fingers circle the base so she can hold it steady to grind her clit against the head. There’s a squelching sound as she rubs her cunt against him: she’s so wet. He closes his eyes: the sight of her getting herself off with his dick is just too much. She smears his pre-come over her clit and the shiny head of his dick and he moans again.
“Careful slut – someone’s going to hear you.”
He can’t help it, he thrusts upwards. He needs to be inside her right now, but she straightens up, smirking as she moves just out of reach.
“Or maybe you want that. Maybe you want someone to hear you getting fucked. Luckily for you, I need to feel you inside me just as badly as you need to be fucked.”
And just like that, she lowers herself on to his dick. It’s painfully slow, an excruciating kind of pleasure. One of her hands is on his shoulder, steadying herself. The fingers of the other pinching his nipple, just to remind him that she’s in control right now. As though there’s any doubt when he’s trying not to moan because they really shouldn’t be doing this here.
“Are you getting off on this?” she asks, as though she can read his mind. “Do you like me fucking you in a public toilet when all your friends know exactly what we’re doing right now?”
She rolls her hips and he almost comes right then. She rides him mercilessly. It’s furtive and frantic but she doesn’t stop whispering filth in his ear. Usually she’s the one who is loud – if he was able to think about anything but how good she feels squeezing around his cock she’d be impressed at how she’s holding it together. How she’s holding it together and so, so effectively taking him apart.
“Do your friends know what a huge slut you are for public sex? Do they know how much you like the idea of getting fucked somewhere filthy, somewhere exposed, where other people might be able to see? They probably do now. They all know you’re a filthy. Fucking. Slut.”
She grinds against him, and it’s so hard to come when she’s fucking him like this. She’s around him and above him and licking his neck.
“You’re going to walk back to the table and you won’t be hard any more but you’re still going to look like you’ve just been fucked. That’s if I let you come. Do you want to come, slut?”
He nodes, franticly. She puts her head on one side, pretending to consider it.
“Hmm, not good enough. You’re going to need to work for it. Beg me. You’d better hope no one comes in, because if they do they’re going to hear you begging me to let you come.”
The shame shoots through him but his cock is so hard. She fucks herself on his dick and he gives her what she wants. He begs her to let him come. He makes every filthy sound that he’s been trying to hold back, and he doesn’t care who can hear. There’s no one in the toilets, he’s pretty sure, but he still shouldn’t be this loud. It makes her forcing him to be even hotter. He never stood a chance.
She bites his neck and gives him permission to come.
His dick twitches inside her, almost against his will. She clenches around him, milking the come out of his dick. She kisses him again, more gently this time, and when she stands up she sticks out her hand to help him up. They shouldn’t leave toilets together – that’s one of the first rules of having public sex like – but she doesn’t let go of his hand. She leads him back to the table like that, and he’s only dimly aware of the tables they’re walking around. He’s only aware of her – and the low heat of humiliation that has settled in his gut.
She’s still holding his hand when they slide back into their seats. He’s grateful for the soft, reassuring touch when one of his friends makes a teasing comment about why he’s so flushed. That is, until he realises that she’s guiding his hand under her dress, up between her legs. He has to bite back a moan when he realises that the wetness on his fingers isn’t only her arousal: he can feel his come dripping out of her cunt.
He has to bite back a moan. She asks him if he’s ok and everyone laughs, because they know. They know she just fucked him in the toilets. That knowledge twists inside him with searing hotness, and for a second it almost feels like he can’t breathe. It shouldn’t be this hot but it is, and her filthy grin tells him that she knows that.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.