Urinal Duty at The Brewery

Warning: Watersports and the F bomb

It was one of those summer afternoons that felt personal — the kind of heat that doesn't just sit on you but gets into you, presses up under your clothes, finds every crease of your body and settles in like it owns the place. The line at the brewery snaked out the door and doubled back on itself, and every soul in it was miserable in that slow, lazy, beer-thirsty way. Sweat gathered at my hairline, rolled behind my ears, traced a slow thread down the small of my back and pooled, inevitably, in the cleft of my ass, making the cotton of my shorts cling and go damp and dark.

I was next in line when I heard it, low and amused, right behind my shoulder.

"So you don't just recycle it, huh?"

I turned, already forming some half-assed reply, and then the voice caught up to my brain and my mouth died mid-shape. Because I knew that voice. I'd known it with my eyes closed, with a mouth full, with my whole body turned into furniture for it. And there he was — Sir — standing in the doorway of a goddamn brewery on a Saturday, looking at me like he'd just caught me stealing.

"I — uh — oh, um. Yes, Sir," I stammered, and felt the heat rise up my neck that had nothing to do with the sun.

He grinned. Slow. "Hehe. Atta boy." And before I could scrape together one actual sentence, the bartender barked "NEXT" and I spun back around like I'd been yanked on a leash.

Sir didn't just stand behind me. He came up beside me, shoulder to shoulder, close enough that I could smell him — clean skin and salt and something underneath that my body recognized before my mind did. He took control the way men like him do, without asking, without checking.

"Three Pilsners, please," he told the bartender, and gave his name like it was the password to everything.

While the man went for the lagers, Sir leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at my ear, and answered the question I hadn't managed to ask.

"I know you're not alone. Noticed you earlier with the handsome fella." A pause. "Got him a beer too. You'll take these back to him, and then you'll excuse yourself to the restroom. The end stall." His voice dropped another notch. "You know the rules."

Then the beers were up, and Sir took his and was gone, swallowed back into the crowd like nothing had happened.

I carried three beers across the room with hands that were suddenly not entirely steady, and set them down in front of my husband like a man delivering evidence.

And my mind raced.

Sir. The man whose cock I'd spent more hours under than some of my furniture. The man whose piss I could have picked out of a blind taste test — could have told you the beer, the coffee, the asparagus, the time of day. I'd served him a hundred times as nothing more than a warm, kneeling urinal in the third-floor men's room at the office, my mouth open, my throat a willing drain, my knees gone numb on that cold tile while men in suits came and went and washed their hands and never once looked down. And he'd never given me a single order outside those walls.

Now he had. Off the clock. In the wild. And a faggot doesn't get a vote when a Man says move — his nature won't let him. My body had already answered yes Sir before my brain finished reading the memo.

But the risk. Christ, the risk.

My husband didn't know. Years of it, and he didn't know. I'd taken my list and crossed every name off it with my mouth, and the cheating was half the thrill — the secret sat in my gut like a swallowed coin, warm and heavy and mine. But this was different. This wasn't the office, not some safe little weekday pocket where the two halves of my life couldn't see each other. This was Saturday. This was mine. And Sir had reached across the line and put his hand on my collar.

Still — there's only one answer. There's only ever been one answer.

So I sat the beers down, said "gotta run the restroom," and was already walking before my husband could lift his head.

Down the hall, my sandals slapping the floor, and Sir's words looping in my skull. You know the rules. Oh, I knew them. I'd only ever been in a stall with him once, and that once had burned itself into me: I'd been completely naked. Bareass. Sir didn't come unless I was bareass, and he didn't like the guesswork of half-measures. At work that was easy — the third-floor bathroom was a tomb, and even if a man walked in, he'd see two sets of feet and think nothing of it.

Here? A popular brewery, packed, on a Saturday afternoon, in a hallway where the restroom door swung open and shut like a swinging saloon every thirty seconds. Here, being caught wasn't a possibility. It was a probability.

I pushed through the door anyway.

Two men stood at the urinals, backs to me, and I held my breath and counted the stalls as I moved. Not the last one. Not the last one. Please. My chest eased when I saw the door of the end stall sitting closed but unlatched — empty.

I slipped in, shut the door behind me, and locked it with a click that sounded louder than it should have. Then I stood there a second and took the little room in — because I'd never been in it before, only ever pissed at the trough and left. Gray walls, scuffed tile, one sad toilet with no hooks on the door and nowhere to hang a thing.

Then my hands took over before my head could argue. I was already undressing.

Shirt up and over my head, folded once and draped over the tank. Sandals toed off into the corner. Shorts and jock down together in one clumsy, breathless motion, and then they joined the shirt, and then there was nothing left.

I was naked. Bareass. And already so hard it ached — that hot, thick, blood-heavy kind of hard you get when your body has decided it's about to be used and stopped consulting you about anything else. I hadn't been this hard in months. Maybe longer.

I waited. Breath held. Palms damp. Assuming Sir had watched the door, timed it, done his arithmetic on the sinks and the crowd and the men at the urinals like a man doing long division with my knees.

The two men finished, crossed to the sinks, and the water ran and ran, masking everything. Which is exactly why the tap at the stall door made me flinch like a struck bell.

I bent and looked under the door. Sandals. Those sandals. I'd licked them clean more than once — I knew the scuffs, the worn-in shape of them, the exact way his feet sat inside. My stomach dropped and rose at once.

I slid the latch. Opened the door.

Sir stepped in with all the hurry of a man who had nowhere to be, reached back and took his sweet time pulling the door shut behind him. Over his shoulder, the good-looking one at the sinks turned his head and looked straight at us — at Sir's back, at the sliver of stall, at whatever he could see — and I felt my face go red and hoped to God he didn't catch on.

Then the door clicked shut and the world shrank to four gray walls and two men.

I dropped to my knees. Didn't even think about it — my body did it the way water finds a low spot. Caution gone, straight out the window, my only need a simple animal thing: his piss, in me, now.

Sir undid his shorts with that unhurried, all-business competence that makes my throat tighten just remembering it, slid the zipper down tooth by tooth, and worked his cock out through the fly. Just the head at first, fat and ruddy and familiar, and I leaned in and took it into my mouth and tilted my face up to look at him and waited like a good thing waits.

He must have been holding it. Because the second my lips sealed he let go.

An intense, hot, fast stream flooded my mouth — beer piss, unmistakable, sharp and yeasty and alive, and it was intoxicating. I swallowed and it kept coming, and I moaned around it, too loud, and Sir's palm cracked lightly across my cheek in a slap that meant quiet, boy. The sting bloomed and I loved it, loved that he'd bothered, loved that he was keeping me honest.

I brought myself back to focus and just swallowed. And swallowed. And swallowed. My throat working, my hands flat on my thighs, my cock bobbing untouched and dripping against my belly. On my knees, naked, in a public restroom, drinking another man's piss out of his cock while my husband sat maybe forty feet away with a beer going flat in front of him.

If I'd ever had any doubt left about what I was — that was the afternoon it died.

The stream went on and on. Longer than any man should be able to hold. My jaw ached, my throat burned pleasantly, and the taste was perfect — rich and bitter-edged and unmistakably his, beer on the front and something darker underneath, the exact flavor my mouth had learned to want. I swallowed every drop and chased nothing, because Sir hates a mess.

Then the flow thinned, sputtered, stopped.

He smirked down at me and hooked a finger under my chin, lifting my whole face like a man tipping up a cup to check it's empty, and brought me to my feet. He pressed his lips to mine — soft, brief, deliberate, my mouth still tasting of him — and whispered, "such a good boy," and then zipped up and walked out, leaving me standing there naked and hard and abandoned in a locked stall.

I dressed fast. Shirt, jock, shorts, sandals. Flushed, flushed, flushed. And left the stall.

There was a man at the urinals now. Not one of the earlier two. This one, though — he turned his head as I came out, gave me a long slow look up and down, and I saw it land. He knew. Knew I hadn't been alone in there. Knew what I'd just been doing. He winked at me, and tilted his head toward the empty urinal beside him — a small, unhurried invitation with a whole menu behind it.

I'd already been gone long enough. Any longer and my husband would be asking questions. But a faggot can't walk past anonymous cock with a wink in it, and we were suddenly alone in the room, so he didn't bother holding his voice down.

"Couldn't hear you swallowing. Want more, pig?"

Pig. God. It hit me right in the spine and I answered before I'd decided anything. "Yes please, Sir."

"Good pig. On your knees. Gotta be quick if you don't wanna get caught."

And then I understood — he meant right there. At the urinal. Not in a stall. On the open floor. My stomach flipped and I dropped anyway, knees to the tile in front of the porcelain, and his cock was already out, already in his hand, thick and dark and genuinely beautiful, and he started before I even had my mouth around him — a hot first spurt splashing across my lips and chin and two drops landing on my shirt collar.

He hadn't held much. But standing out in the open like that, no door, no lock, no privacy, just the sound of the hallway and the front door of the brewery and any second now — it stretched like hours. My knees stung. My cock leaked. My shirt was wet at the neck. When he finished he shook off, tucked himself away, zipped up, and walked out without a single word.

No goodbye. No good boy. Nothing.

I was truly just the urinal. A fixture. A hole in the wall with a heartbeat.

I got up on wobbling legs and stood a second, listening, and sighed out a lungful of pure relief that nobody had walked in on it. Then I hurried out, down the hall, back into the noise and the light and the crowd, and slid into my seat across from my husband like I'd been gone ninety seconds.

"What took so long?" he said, eyebrows up.

"Breakfast and coffee caught up with me. You do not want to go in there," I joked, fanning my nose, and he laughed, and for a second I was home free — though I'm fairly sure his eyes flicked down to the drips on my collar and paused there a beat longer than they needed to, and he said nothing, which is its own kind of knowing.

I picked up my beer and took a sip, and let my eyes drift the room.

Across the way, at a table by the window, Sir sat with the man from the urinal. The two of them, together — of course they were together, of course they'd come here together, of course the whole afternoon had been a little operation run by two men who knew exactly what I was for. Sir caught my eye over his glass and gave me that slow grin again. The other one raised two fingers off his beer in a lazy little salute.

I grinned down into my glass and snickered, quiet, into the foam.

What a mess of a faggot. Naked in a public stall, piss in my belly, spit on my shirt, and a husband who doesn't know the half of it sitting right there loving me anyway.

And God help me — I loved every filthy inch of it.