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Strokin' in the Boys' Room

Posted by: Author: Age: 47 Posted on: 1 comments
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Masturbation has always been an important part of my life. This story took place when I was a student at a large university in the Midwest.


The location was a restroom on the third floor of the humanities building. I like to think that the architect who designed the building had people like me in mind when he worked up the floor plan. The door to the men's room was located off a major hallway and was adjacent to a stairwell, which made it easy to come and go quickly and unobtrusively. The door to the restroom always gave a loud squeal of warning when opened. As you entered through the door, you had to walk down a hall that was probably ten feet or so in length. At the end of this hallway was another one that branched off to the right with five stalls in a row. Doors had been removed from every other stall, apparently to discourage masturbation and sex play. There were seven urinals in the bathroom, also. These were located on the other side of the entrance hall (around to the left). The washbasins were to the left as well.

I used to duck into this bathroom often. It was the perfect place for a quick wank, and there were lots of cum stains on the stall walls (as well as sexually inspiring graffiti).

It was a sunny afternoon, just before midterms. I ran up the three flights of stairs, eager to shoot a quick load and then go off to study. As soon as I opened the door, I knew something was up. I could hear quick movements, as if to get inside a stall before being discovered. I walked down the hall and leaned over so I could take inventory of how many stalls were occupied. Five pairs of shoes, meaning there was no room at the inn. I walked on down, and one guy who was sitting in a stall with no door returned my glance. He was trying to finger his erection discretely, but it was fairly obvious that he wanted to get back to business. I flashed him my sexiest smile and lightly rubbed my own erection through my jeans. That's all it took; he leaned back and put on a show for me, stroking his stiff penis with his right hand and cupping his testicles with his left. I loved it!

Then, he stood up and moved toward me. He knew that I was 'one of the club' and he wanted to welcome me to the meeting. It was as if he had pounded a gavel instead of his pud. Immediately, the other guys stood up. The three who were in stalls with doors opened them. In all, there were six of us. I unzipped and pulled my cock out to join in the circle jerk.

One of the guys suggested that we move to the urinals. That way, we wouldn't have to play musical chairs if the door were to open. It sounded like a good idea to me, since I was the one without a stall. We moved en masse to the urinals and formed ourselves into a tight circle. The cock stroking had just begun again, when the door announced a new arrival.

We each bellied up to the closest urinal. The new arrival combed his hair in the mirror as if this were an episode of 'Happy Days.' He looked at the six of us, and noted that not a one of us was peeing. He flashed a sly grin in lieu of a password. He came over and claimed the last empty urinal and unzipped to join in the fun.

We were now seven collegiate men, each pursuing an advanced degree of pleasure. By this time, we were all in need of release. We pulled back a bit from the urinals so we could watch each other stroke. The line of men moving in rhythm reminded me of the June Taylor Dancers on the old Jackie Gleason show.

The man to my left was the first to shoot. He was stroking his penis with his right hand, quickly making a spiral movement from base to glans and back again. His cock head got darker and bigger and then a fountain of cum erupted from the tip. He left quite an impressive puddle near my left foot, then he went to wash up and leave.

The next guy down moved over to take the vacant spot. He fucked his fist hard and moaned quietly as he added his own semen to the puddle. That was enough to send me over the top, too, and I aimed my load at that ever-expanding puddle. In turn, the other guys did the same. The puddle became a pond. Seven loads in all. The room smelled of man sex and bleach, and I loved it.

One by one, the other guys left, but I stayed behind. I took a paper towel and mopped up the jizz. I brought the towel to my face and inhaled deeply. The smell was intoxicating, and my not-quite-spent cock gave its familiar call once again. I stroked off a second load as I sniffed the seven-wad cocktail.

Just as I shot my cumwad onto the already saturated paper towel, the bathroom door let out another squeal. I quickly squeezed the last few pearly drops from my dick and stuffed it back into my jeans. As the new arrival came around the corner, I disposed of the towel in the trash can and beat an embarrassed retreat.

How could he not know what just happened? The air reeked of testosterone, after all. And there was an unmistakable wet spot on the floor where I had mopped up most-but not quite all-of the evidence.

I like to think the new guy whipped out his dick and jacked off too, fantasizing about what he would have seen if he arrived a few minutes sooner...



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