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Of Blow Jobs and Pretty Boys

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The best part of being single is slipping into the men's room to have a piece of pretty slide down to his knees and suck your cock. It's a decadent and delicious form of stress relief.

Back against the wall, you split your time between watching him – lips spit shiny and stretched around your dick, eyes fluttering shut as your cock bumps the back of his throat – and the door, hoping it doesn't – or maybe that it does – bang open, the possibility of discovery adding a layer of rushnowfuckyes.

He looks up at you, big brown eyes hazy with liquor and lust.

A tremor starts in your toes. It races through you, raising goosebumps along your thighs and ricocheting in your balls and up your cock. Raking your fingers through his hair, you cant your hips forward, pushing your cock deeper into the warmth of his mouth, and groan, "Fuck, just like that."

You're a sloppy mess of precome and spit. Your cock, your pubes. Even your balls.

You don't care.

"Soon," you murmur, unsure if it's a warning for him or a promise for yourself.

He hums – agreement, encouragement – and it shatters the loose grip of your control.

"Oh… oh, fuck yes."

And, squeezing your eyes shut, you come.

He pushes to a stand, the hard edge of his cock riding your thigh. One hand at the back of his neck the other on his waist, you pull him closer, higher onto your thigh.

A dribble of your come streaks his chin and you lean, licking him, tasting you. You follow it back to his mouth, your tongue diving in and sweeping over his lips and gums, chasing every hint of your essence from his mouth.

It's then, when you're taking your very breath from his lungs, that he goes rigid and stains the inside of his denims with his release.

Later, when you're both cleaned up and on the dance floor again, he says, "Text me?"

You think of the fans, of the absolute upheaval it will cause, and, grinning, say, "Or tweet."