Here's a bit of it - for the rest just click here.
"You want some?" came a voice from the next-door stall: deep and mature, but not old; faintly lyrical but not threateningly exotic; alluring and tempting, but not shallow or jaded.
"S-sure," he stammered as he leaned forward to undo the latch, gently push the door open.
The similar sound of a cheap bolt being drawn back made his heartbeat race, a stroboscopic cascade of imagination making his eyes blur.
When he did appear, Vince saw that his voice was ... and could not be anything but, his: a face with lines of experience, but not aged; unique features, but without the fear of being too foreign; a sensually wry smile on delicate lips, but not mockingly lecherous.
Not old, but he immediately put his nearly-elegant and almost-refined face between thirty and forty; not local, but he dreamed of Cinzano umbrellas and waiters with thick mustaches ... a land within sight of an-always-turquoise Mediterranean; and a truly happy grin and an honestly playful dance of gray eyes. He wore simple but too-clean clothes, to be working simply: dark jeans, a pair of new-ish tennis shoes, and a black, well-washed, turtle-neck.
Standing, framed by the battered metal of the narrow bathroom stall, he looked down at Vince for a moment, as if doing the same cascade of imagination – and, as he did, Vince felt himself faintly blush: wondering how this handsome-but-not pretty man, who maybe (maybe-not) came from a warm land on a side of that southern sea, and who had asked to come over and suck his cock, saw him.
The floor of the bathroom was tiled, smudged and streaked here and there with whatever the owner of the Crooked Crow couldn't, or wouldn't be bothered, to clean, but it didn't stop him from kneeling down in front of Vince. The blush, at which Vince's face further warmed, didn't go away as the stranger put one hand, and then the other, on either side of Vince's thighs and gently – almost lovingly – parted them.
"You're new at this, aren't you?" the man said, with humor – but not laughter – in his voice. It matched the calmness in his touch; his playful, but not catty, tone. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
"O-Okay," Vince said, his own voice coming out too many stepped-up octaves high.
From his right thigh, the man's hand deftly slipped further up, between Vince's legs to wrap firmly, but still kindly, around his hard cock. Vince's blush remained – but then faded quickly: he'd half-expected (and half-not) that his cock would fail him, that his naïveté would leave him at half-mast, and less-than-full-steam.
This time the other man did laugh – but with and not at – and squeezed Vince's cock ever-so tighter. "I think we'll have a good time," he said.
All Vince could do was nod – and that came as a basic, deep-down reflex.
Then the other man, the stranger, dipped his head down and – with a neat, smooth, and Vince suspected well-practiced gesture, put his lips around the head of his cock. The contact was almost an electric shock: a bolt of sensuality that made – another basic, deep-down reflex – Vince hiss, and then softly moan.