Naw, that thought's just too morbid.By the time I'm paying attention again, someone's pushing me to the ground. Large, firm hands. A man's hands. Familiar hands. Not to me, obviously, but to her. I know this routine. Usually its the umpteenth asshole boyfriend, but no - these aren't some dumbass teenager's hands, not even those of some shithead college jock. This guy's way older, so that means the truth is far more sour still - he's a relative, I bet. Some fucker she's trusted, once. That's painful. The cacophony of emotions begins to make a little more sense to me. There's that quivering strand of confusion running through it all - betrayal. The absolute, fundamental, world-inverting betrayal you only get when you are deceived by that which you relied upon most. Its a gut-wrenching, sickening feeling that makes me nauseous. Not nauseous enough to counteract my own sick feeling of arousal though, dammit.Shit, I can feel bile in the back of my throat and its not just the absinthe.. The place used to have a very strong urine smell no matter when you went in there. The man used to be standing facing into one of the stalls in the corner. When my pal and I or anyone went in he used to start humming a tune to himself. We used to go to the stall on each side of him and pretend to be having a pee. He would stop humming and say to us what the weather was like today. Remarking that we looked fit youngsters he would ask us to feel his arm muscles. Being aware of what would come next we would feel his arms. After working round his body he would end up asking us to feel his thigh then work down to his cock which at this stage was still inside his trousers. Through his trousers it felt very large. After the two of us had felt him he would ask if we wanted to see it. This of course was the ultimate idea and the whole reason for the routine. One of us would unbutton his trouser flies and this large semi hard cock would fall out in front of us. Now to us at that time it looked.
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