FSE

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A solitary public toilet nestled in the corner of the city park. The sun had just gone down, the sky smoldering orange at the horizon as evening shifted into a late-autumn night. A teenage cougar sat alone in the public toilet, in the stall at the very back. The one with a jagged hole cut into the wall of the adjacent stall, metal edges covered by duct tape. His name was Sycamore, and the teenage feline was dressed for a party—a stylishly-frayed tank-top over a teasingly short black skirt and uncomfortable shoes. He had intended to tease and provoke at the party tonight, and hopefully have some fun. Instead, he was sitting in a bathroom stall, alone, half-smoked cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other, absent-mindedly scrolling through his social media timeline, some twee indie band playing tinny off the speakers, quiet enough to still hear the swing of the bathroom doors or subtle tapping of a boot.

His knee bounced up and down as he debated calling the night a wash and just going back home. He had left the party because nothing, and no-one for that matter, had grabbed his attention, and now he was waiting in his neighborhood's foremost hook-up spot hoping to scrounge at least a quickie to justify his night. He had received a few messages from a couple guys—soft boys close to his age, maybe a little older, the smell of desperation on them even through the phone screen. Although Sycamore typically didn't mind a breezy hookup with one of the local university gayboys, he didn't even bother to respond to their messages. Just like at the party, he wasn't in the mood for them—but what was he in the mood for? He didn't really know.

The cougar was pulled from his thoughts by two quick buzzes from his phone. “2 New Message!" the notification read. Sycamore slid them open, and was greeted by the familiar orange text bubbles.

“hey fag," read the first message. “Ur cute," read the second.

Sycamore frowned. “Charming," he muttered to himself as he tapped on the profile.

“call_me_pops, 42. <1 mile away." His bio just read “bi top". His profile picture was a cropped image of a fit torso reflected in a mirror in a dimly lit room. The figure was clad in denim jeans bulging in just the right way to get the imagination working. Fur color was hard to decipher in the lowlight, but his white underbelly allowed the details of his muscles to show through. Not body-builder strong, but Sycamore couldn't help but imagine those pectorals flexing beneath his hand. He swiped to try and see more pictures, but none showed up—apparently this boomer only had one pic.

The cougar sat up and looked at the ceiling, a fly buzzing around the overhead lamp. As far as opening lines went, this guy's was pretty bad, but his profile image had ignited the first sparks Sycamore had felt that whole evening. Besides, it was all anonymous anyway—if it was bad, it would only last for one blowjob, and then this creep would be on his way. Sycamore sighed, and typed his response.

“Thanks<3" He took a drag of his cigarette as he typed his message one-handed. “Any other pics?"

A moment passed, and then there was another buzz. Another poorly lit picture, this one of an erect cock, pink and veiny with its foreskin pulled back to show the tip, taken from a claustrophobic angle. Sycamore had to swallow his instinctive reaction and remind himself that you couldn't trust a dick pic. Still, if the hand that was pulling back the foreskin could be used as a reliable reference for scale—well, he probably wouldn't be a disappointment. “Like wat U see ;)?" the follow-up message asked.

Sycamore bit his lip. He felt his mind spin in a circle, uncertain of how to proceed. He couldn't deny the thrill he felt at the thought of sucking this guy off. Hell, his size and shape, he could even pretend the guy was his dad and fire up that perverted roleplay part of his brain. That thought made him squirm a bit, a stirring beneath his skirt. Still, this guy was giving off a weird vibe, an unpleasant coarseness that Sycamore knew should push him away, but it didn't.

His uncertainty was interrupted by a new message. “U got a cute body. Reminds me of a cute kid I know."

Sycamore stared at the message, unsure of how to interpret or respond to it.

“Squeezable hips," read the follow-up, failing to clarify.

Fuck it, Sycamore thought. What was the worst that could happen?

“Wanna get a blowjob? I'm at the gloryhole in the park."

“I know it. B there in 5."

Nervous jitters of regret immediately shot through the young cougar, just as his last cigarette smoldered against his fingers. He winced, tossing the burned out butt into the toilet behind him and flushing it down the drain. He stood up, pacing in the small, cramped stall. Five minutes, it turns out, is a lot of time to sit with a decision. It is also a short enough time that the simple promise of fulfilling lustful desires can cause the logical part of one's brain to ignore it. As he waited, Sycamore tugged at the hem of his short skirt, fixed his hair, checked his nails—as though the stranger on the other side would be able to see him and judge him.

Well, I wanna look good for dad, Sycamore thought, unable to stop himself from sniggering at the silly thought. Still, he couldn't deny the sparks that stirred in him. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, daddy-play kinda did it for him. But he had seen the way that straight girls on tumblr fawned over beanpole 20-something business majors in slacks and a belt, and the way that they had been relentlessly mocked. He wasn't cringe like that. He just had a thing for paternal guys, men with dadbods and big arms for holding their sons close. He liked dads the way all gay boys liked dads—the normal amount. All gay boys got a thrill at the thought of calling their older boyfriends “dad", right?

His wandering mind was once again interrupted by the opening of the bathroom door. The metal door slammed against the concrete wall—whoever opened it was not gentle. Sycamore peaked beneath the stall, trying to catch a glimpse of who it was. Heavy leather boots thudded against the cold tile floor with each footstep. They were wearing dark-blue denim jeans with rolled-up cuffs, and the sound of jangling metal, like keys or ringlets, echoed off the walls with each stride.

Sycamore took his position on the toilet, fighting the urge not to peek into the adjacent stall as the door swung open and they stepped inside. He saw a dark shape (perhaps a black t-shirt?) move as he closed and locked the stall door.

Knock knock knock, knuckle against the metallic bathroom stall wall. A sharp whistle, followed by a zzzziiiiiiiiiiip.

Sycamore should not have been surprised—he had gotten what he had asked for, after all. Still, he jumped a bit when the semi-erect cock filled the space of the gloryhole. His first instinct was to inhale, to breathe in the scent of the stranger. Even with his relatively limited experience, the cougar boy had found that a good test for predicting the kind of fun he's going to have was the smell of his partner. There was definitely a masculine undercurrent to the aroma, a pungent sourness that came from a man's body after a long day at work. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to the stranger—a different brand than Sycamore was used to and could still taste in his throat. Still, the whole aroma was punctuated with a strange warmth.

Very Dad-like, the teenager thought, that stirring beneath his skirt now a raging current.

Sycamore shuffled down onto the floor, getting onto his knees in front of the cock that now stood an inch from his snout. His nostrils flared, and he had to stop himself from engulfing the whole thing right then and there. Instead, he pressed his nose against the underside of the shaft, drawing his tongue against the heavy nutsack that hung beneath as he let the smell wash over him. He heard the body on the other side of the wall shift, a rumble of pleasure in his chest, as the sour taste of manhood overpowered the aftertaste of cigarettes on Sycamore's tongue. He felt the shaft throb against his nose, he felt the heartbeat of this stranger in the veins along its length, and he felt it grow harder and harder with each pulse.

Sycamore kissed the tip, before reaching up and gripping the shaft with his hand, the heft of it sending a shiver down his spine. He pulled back the foreskin, exposing the pink tip and leaning in to give it a kiss, the salty taste of precum washing over him.

The stranger huffed behind the bathroom stall. Sycamore could feel a hand reach up and grab the top of the wall, the thin stall vibrating as the stranger squeezed it.

Instinctively, Sycamore spread his knees, his femmy underwear straining against his own erection as he positioned himself to slip the shaft into his mouth. Wrapping his lips around the tip, he pushed it into his mouth as he heard the stranger rumble.

Sycamore could feel the stranger's grip tighten on the metal wall. A part of him wished that it was tightening on the back of his skull, pushing him further and holding him there. The kind of thing an irresponsible sex dad might do.

Ah, fuck, he thought, unable to stop his hips from squirming as he began his rhythm, bobbing his head up and down along that length as he felt it throb and pulse against his tongue.

Something cold and hard brushed under his skirt. Pulling back but continuing to stroke that paternal cock, he looked down to see those big black boots brushing against his bulge. He saw the stranger shift and pause—a reaction to Sycamore no longer sucking his cock—but only for a moment before the toe of that boot brushed against his throbbing cock once more. The cougar's hips squirmed, eager for something to rub against. He thrust his bulge against the steel-toed boot, unable to stop himself from thinking about this figure being his father.

He dived back onto that length, wrapping his tongue around the shaft as he pushed as much of it as he could inside of him. The taste flooded his nostrils, the stranger's pubic fur tickling his nose as he pushed himself lower and lower. He wasn't sure how far it was going—he let the pleasure guide him as he picked up the pace. The stranger moaned, flexing his toe to move that boot just enough to make the teenager squirm, a dark stain growing on the front of his panties and skirt. Sycamore couldn't help but think about the power in those boots—how, if the stranger wanted to, he could do a LOT of damage with it. The thought scared the young feline, but also made him squirm even more.

The tension started to build. Sycamore could feel it tighten like a spring, even through the wall. The way the stranger's breathing hitched in his throat, the way his grip on the wall tightened and the way his hips bucked, vibrating the thin metal stall. The rising tension made his own insides tighten. Fuck, he thought, surprised it came to him so quickly. He reached down, pulling down his panties and letting his own cock free, the hot flesh rubbing against the cool leather of the stranger's boot, sending another shuddering thrill up his spine.

Feeling the end approaching, he pushed himself as far as he could go. Imagining this paternal stranger—his father, he told himself—guiding his head down as far as it could go, he pushed the tip into his throat. He ignored his gag reflex, swallowing it back down as his tongue wrapped around the base of that hard cock. The stranger growled, and squirmed, and suddenly something hot was filling Sycamore's insides. Sycamore suppressed a whimper, failing miserably as he bucked his hips, his own load squirting out across the stranger's thick, black boot.

“Fuck," the stranger cursed in a low voice. He stepped back from the wall, a dollop of cum shooting out across Sycamore's nose as the stranger stepped away. Sycamore gasped, shocked by the sudden isolation and emptiness he felt. Still riding the afterglow of his own orgasm, he shot a few sputtering ropes of cum out onto the floor. The stranger's boots thumped away, the sound of him zipping up his pants and the rustle of paper towels following as he quickly cleaned himself up and bolted out the door.

Sycamore came down from the orgasm like a brick on concrete. Where once there was the warmth of another body now sat a strange, queasy emptiness. He felt stupid—for how aroused he had been just moments ago, but also by the fact that he should have expected this. What had he wanted, afterglow cuddles in a big, strong, dadly bear hug? It was probably for the best the guy bolted—he was kind of a creep, anyway.

Sycamore wiped saliva and cum off his face, cleaning himself up as best he could with the one-ply toilet paper. Just as he pulled his panties back up and adjusted his skirt, his phone buzzed.

A text from his uncle Cesar. “Hey, u still at ur lil party? When did u want me to pick u up?"

Sycamore had forgotten he had asked his uncle to give him a ride home from the party—the one that he had ditched for this weird hook-up.

“No," Sycamore messaged back, swallowing the burning feeling in his throat.. “A friend and I went for a walk in the park, but they ditched me. Can you pick me up there?"

The teenager waited for those three little dots to appear, the one that meant his uncle was typing a response. But they didn't. Sycamore frowned, reaching for his jacket and throwing it on. Just as he was about to put his phone in his pocket, it buzzed with a new message.

“No. get a bus."

Sycamore blinked at the message, groaned, and zipped up his jacket. Whatever—if Uncle Cesar wanted to be an asshole, let him.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Sycamore stepped out into the chilly air of the early autumn night, as disappointed and uncertain as he had been when he had entered less than an hour before.

Across the park, the older cougar had his foot propped up on a park bench, trying to scrub the last of the cum off his steel-toed boot. He locked his phone and put it in his jean pocket. “That'll teach that little pervert for cunning on my boot," he muttered, tossing the paper- towel onto the grass. He adjusted himself, still semi-hard from the sloppy blowjob. As he headed out of the park and down the dark street, he couldn't help but wonder if his nephew would ever figure out who he was. Cesar shrugged, putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it. Not my problem.