The public toilets at the back of the old railway station in Manchester always smelled of damp concrete, cheap lemon disinfectant and the faint metallic tang of the tracks outside. It was a Thursday night just after eleven and the rain was hammering the corrugated roof like it wanted to get in. Jamie stood under the narrow overhang outside the door for nearly twenty minutes, smoking the same cigarette down to the filter until the paper burned his fingers. He told himself he could still walk away. Catch the last tram home. Pretend the whole idea had never crawled into his head.

He was twenty-four. He'd only ever sucked one cock in his life, his ex's, after three careful months of dating and even that had felt like a milestone. This was different. This was anonymous. Filthy. The kind of thing he'd only ever jerked off to on his phone at two in the morning when the flat was quiet and the rain sounded the same as it did right now.

The door creaked when he finally pushed it open. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, one of them flickering. Water dripped somewhere in the far corner. Two of the three stalls were empty. The middle one already had a pair of black trainers visible underneath the partition, toes pointed toward the wall. Jamie's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat and the base of his tongue.

He locked himself into the end stall, dropped his jeans and boxers to his ankles in one nervous shove and sat on the cold plastic seat. The air was chilly against his bare thighs. His cock was already half-hard just from the idea of what he was about to do. He waited, listening to the rain and the occasional distant rumble of a late train.

After a couple of minutes the outer door opened again. Heavy footsteps crossed the tiled floor. Someone went into the middle stall. There was the soft rasp of a zip, the rustle of clothing, then a low, deliberate knock against the partition, three slow taps.

Jamie's mouth went completely dry.

He knocked back once, the sound louder than he meant it to be.

A rough hole about the size of a fist had been cut through the partition years ago and never properly repaired. Someone had taken the time to sand the edges smooth so they wouldn't catch skin. Jamie watched, pulse thudding in his ears, as a thick, uncut cock was pushed through it, already hard, the foreskin rolled halfway back, the head shiny and dark purple, a clear bead of pre-come gathering at the slit and threatening to drip.

He didn't think. He just leaned forward on the seat, braced one hand against the cold wall and took it into his mouth.

The first proper glory-hole cock of his life tasted of clean skin, salt and a faint trace of soap. It was heavier than he'd expected, the weight of it resting on his tongue. Jamie closed his lips around the shaft just past the head and sucked gently, learning the shape of it. The man on the other side let out a quiet, rough breath that turned into a low hum of approval. Jamie swirled his tongue under the head, tasting the slick pre-come, then took more, working his way down until the fat head pressed against the soft palate at the back of his mouth. He couldn't deep-throat it--not yet--but he used his hand to stroke the thick base in time with the slow bob of his head, twisting lightly on the upstroke the way he liked it done to himself.

Spit started to gather and run down the shaft. Jamie didn't care. He sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, making soft wet sounds that seemed obscenely loud in the quiet toilets. The stranger began to rock his hips in short, careful thrusts, fucking Jamie's mouth with restrained urgency. Every time the cock pushed a little deeper Jamie's own cock twitched and leaked onto the floor between his shoes. He reached down with his free hand and stroked himself in the same rhythm, thumb smearing pre-come over the head, hips lifting off the seat.

It didn't take long. The man's thighs tensed against the partition. A low, guttural grunt. The cock swelled and pulsed hard against Jamie's tongue, flooding his mouth with thick, hot come in long spurts. Jamie swallowed most of it on instinct, the rest spilling over his bottom lip and dripping onto his chin. He kept sucking gently through the aftershocks until the cock softened and was slowly pulled back through the hole, shiny with spit and come.

Footsteps left the stall. The outer door opened and closed.

Jamie sat there breathing hard, come drying sticky on his chin and the back of his hand. His cock was still rock-hard and aching. He wiped his mouth with the side of his wrist, then just sat for a minute, listening to the rain, feeling the residual taste of the stranger's load coating his tongue. Part of him was stunned that he'd actually done it. The bigger part of him was already hungry for more.

He waited.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. He stayed seated with his jeans around his ankles, idly stroking his cock every so often just to keep the edge, listening to water drip and the occasional train rattle past outside. His mind kept replaying the weight of that first cock on his tongue, the way it had jumped when he swallowed around it. He was still hard when the outer door opened again.

Lighter footsteps this time. The middle stall. The soft sound of a coat being hung or shrugged off. Another knock, two sharp taps.

Jamie answered.

The cock that came through the hole was longer and thinner than the first, cut, the head flushed almost purple and already shiny with pre-come. Jamie didn't hesitate. He leaned in and licked a slow stripe from the base all the way up to the tip, tasting clean skin and salt, then opened wide and took it deep on the first try. The man on the other side made a soft, needy sound--almost a whimper, when the head of his cock hit the back of Jamie's throat. Jamie gagged once, eyes watering, then relaxed and took it again, deeper this time, until his nose almost brushed the partition.

He sucked hard and steady, using both hands now--one wrapped around the slick shaft, the other cupping and gently rolling the tight balls that pressed against the edge of the hole. Spit ran down his chin in thin strings. Every time he swallowed around the head the stranger's hips jerked. Jamie could hear the quiet, desperate little noises the man was making on the other side of the thin wall and it only made him suck harder, faster, cheeks hollowed, tongue working the sensitive underside on every upstroke.

His own cock was dripping steadily onto the floor. He didn't even bother touching it this time; the pure act of sucking was enough to keep him throbbing. The second load came without much warning, just a sudden hardening against his tongue and a broken, muffled curse. Thick, bitter come flooded Jamie's mouth in heavy pulses. He swallowed every drop, throat working, and kept sucking gently until the cock was soft and spent.

It slid back through the hole. Footsteps. The door.

Jamie sat back, breathing through his mouth, chin wet, lips swollen. Two. He'd sucked two strangers' cocks in the space of twenty minutes and swallowed both loads. His stomach felt warm with it. He wiped his face with the hem of his hoodie, then just stayed sitting there in the quiet, jeans still pooled around his ankles, cock still hard and neglected. The rain seemed louder now. He could taste both men on his tongue, different, distinct, both of them still lingering.

He waited longer this time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. He thought about leaving more than once. He almost pulled his jeans up twice. Instead he stayed, occasionally giving his cock slow, lazy strokes just to feel the ache, listening to the station settle around him. His mind kept drifting to the way the second cock had felt pushing into his throat, the way the man had sounded when he came. Jamie's mouth watered at the memory.

The third man took even longer. Jamie was starting to think the night was over when the outer door finally opened again. The footsteps were familiar in a way he couldn't immediately place, steady, unhurried. The middle stall. The soft rustle of a coat. Then the knock, two quick taps, almost casual.

Jamie answered, heart already picking up speed again.

The cock that pushed through the hole was thick, heavy, uncut, the foreskin already rolled back behind the flared head. It was flushed dark and leaking steadily. Jamie's mouth watered hard. He leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe up the underside, tasting clean skin and the sharp salt of fresh pre-come. Then he opened wide and took it down in one smooth motion.

The man on the other side made a soft, broken sound--half sigh, half curse--that went straight to Jamie's gut. Jamie sucked him slow and deep, working the thick shaft with one hand while the other braced against the wall. He swirled his tongue under the head on every upstroke, then took it deeper, letting the heavy cock push against the back of his throat until his eyes watered. Spit ran freely down the shaft and over his fingers. He could feel the stranger's pulse against his tongue.

And then, without meaning to, Jamie looked down.

Under the partition, between the two stalls, were a pair of battered white Adidas trainers with a distinctive blue stripe along the side and a small black scuff mark on the left toe. Jamie knew those trainers. He'd seen them almost every day for the last eight years. He'd borrowed them once when his own got soaked in a downpour after a night out. He'd watched them propped up on the coffee table in Tom's flat while they played FIFA and drank cheap lager and talked shit until three in the morning.

Tom.

His best friend.

Jamie's whole body went hot and cold at once. His mouth was still full of Tom's cock. He didn't stop. He couldn't. If anything he sucked harder, deeper, almost desperate now, eyes fixed on those trainers while his best friend's thick cock stretched his lips. Tom's hips stuttered. A soft, familiar voice, barely more than a breath--muttered, "Fuck... yeah... just like that..."

Jamie's own cock jerked hard in the open air. He reached down and stroked himself in time with the wet slide of his mouth on Tom's cock, thumb smearing pre-come over the head. He took Tom as deep as he could, throat working, swallowing around the thick head every time it pushed in. Spit and pre-come ran down his chin in a steady string. Tom's breathing had gone ragged on the other side of the wall, quiet, controlled, but unmistakably him.

Jamie came first. Hard. Silently. His cock pulsed in his fist and spilled thick ropes of come onto the dirty floor between his shoes while he kept sucking, kept working Tom's cock with his mouth and hand like he never wanted it to end. Seconds later Tom's thighs tensed against the partition. A low, choked groan. The heavy cock swelled and throbbed hard against Jamie's tongue, flooding his mouth with thick, hot come in long, heavy pulses. Jamie swallowed every drop, throat working greedily and kept sucking gently through the aftershocks until Tom was soft and spent.

The cock slipped slowly back through the hole. There was the soft sound of a zip. Footsteps. The outer door opening and closing.

Jamie sat there for a long time after, jeans still around his ankles, the taste of his best friend still coating his tongue and the back of his throat. Come was drying on his chin and between his fingers. He wiped his mouth carefully with the sleeve of his hoodie. Pulled his clothes up with shaking hands. Washed his face and hands at the sink even though the water was freezing and his reflection in the scratched mirror looked wrecked--lips swollen, eyes dark.

He never told Tom.

They still met up every Thursday for pints at the same pub. Still played five-a-side on Sundays. Still sent each other stupid memes at three in the morning. Tom never mentioned the station toilets. Jamie never asked.

But sometimes, when they were sitting on Tom's sofa and Tom stretched his legs out, those same white Adidas trainers with the blue stripe would rest against the coffee table and Jamie's mouth would go dry all over again.