Bathroom Sex

Story of a young woman window shopping and gets more than she bargained for.

So I’m super bored—like “reading shampoo bottles for fun” bored—and willing to do almost anything to escape it. I finally head to the mall just to window shop since I’m out of money for the month. Bills first, you know. Grown-up stuff.

While I’m wandering around pretending I’m rich, my eyes catch him.
Early twenties. Hot. Dangerous hot. His tattoos snake from his shoulders down his forearms like they have stories I’d like whispered in my ear while I’m naked. His body? Built. Like he lives at the gym and only comes out to ruin girls like me.

So obviously, I stalk him.

I’m too shy to get his number—don’t judge me—so I follow him instead, fantasizing about him pressing me up against the wall and taking me. Hard. Fast. Anywhere.

But where, though? I still live with my mom. Not exactly the ideal setup.
Still… a girl can dream. And I’m dreaming in HD.

It’s clear at some point he notices I’m following him. Oh shit. I try to play it cool and act like I’m deeply invested in some cute little dress. I look back… and just like that, he’s gone. Long gone. My sexy illusion just Thanos-snapped out of reality.

Frustrated and dripping with horniness, I head into the girls’ bathroom to… let’s just say check the damage. But it’s one of those family bathrooms—the kind with just one private room—and that works in my favor. I want space. I want privacy. I want to make a mess.

I slide my hand into my panties, and damn—I’m soaked. Like, full monsoon season. I pull off my pants, lean back, and start circling my clit with one finger, teasing slow. My other hand goes to my tits, massaging through my shirt. Eyes closed, body buzzing, I picture him doing it all to me. His voice, his mouth, his hands. All over me. In me.

And then—click.

The door opens.

Fuck.
I forgot to lock it.
I freeze, hand still between my legs, legs still spread like a pornographic yoga pose. My heart jumps into my throat. I look up, fully expecting a mom with a stroller or a janitor with PTSD incoming.

But no.
It’s him.
Tattoo fantasy guy.

And his eyes? They say everything. He looks at me like I’m his favorite dessert, and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. His cock is so hard it’s fighting his pants like it’s trying to bust through with its own social security number.

He walks in. Closes the door. Locks it.
(Which I should have done. But thank God I didn’t.)

He steps over like it’s already been decided. Like I summoned him with my pussy. He pulls my hand out of my panties and tugs them down. Then, with this almost reverent touch, he starts rubbing my clit—soft, slow, maddeningly good. He slides one finger into my soaked hole, and I moan like I’m part of a dirty church choir.

His other hand frees my breast, pulling it out of my blouse, and starts teasing my nipple like he knows exactly how sensitive I am. Then he sucks it.
I tilt my head back in bliss. This is real. This is happening. I’m about to get fucked by a man I literally just stalked.

I reach over, and oh my god, his cock. At least 8 inches and thick like a goddamn forearm. I stroke it in disbelief, watching it throb in my hand. It’s like holding a weapon. I honestly don’t even know if I can take it. But I’m going to try.

He drops to his knees and replaces his finger with his tongue. And fuck, he knows what he’s doing. He eats me out like he’s trying to make me forget my name. Tongue on my clit, finger inside me, working together like they’ve been training for this moment. I grab his head, grinding against his face, moaning louder with every stroke.

I cum. Hard. All over his mouth, his fingers, his fucking soul.

He stands up, strips his pants, strips me of my blouse, and lifts my 110 lb body like I weigh nothing. Nothing. Then he lowers me onto his cock slowly—so fucking slowly—like he knows he’s big and wants to make sure I can take it.

Finally, he’s all the way in. And I ride him like I’ve lost my damn mind. Like I’m trying to get pregnant with his spirit. My hands are on his chest, his hands on my ass, and we are fucking like mall bathrooms are five-star suites.

I lose count of my orgasms. At this point, I’m just a wet, panting, satisfied mess.
He leans down and growls in my ear, “Where do you want me to cum?”

I don’t hesitate.
“On my tits. I want to see it.”

He pulls out and sets me down onto my knees. I go full porn star. My tongue is everywhere—licking his shaft, sucking his balls, teasing while he strokes. His body glistens with sweat, every muscle tight, his face flushed.

Then he pushes me back slightly and arches.

First shot—hot and powerful—hits my tits so hard it bounces and lands on my face, my legs, everywhere.
Second shot hits my open mouth. I almost choke, but then lick my lips, swallow, and grab his shaft to finish him off, sucking him until the final drops spill straight into my throat.

He groans. “Thanks.”

Zips up. Leaves.

And I’m left there. Sticky. Soaked. Dazed. And very, very satisfied.

Now?
Whenever I go to the mall, I always keep an eye out.
And I always leave the family bathroom door… unlocked.

You never know when lightning—and a thick dick—might strike again.