I imagine sitting on a stool at a bar somewhere; when a miserable-looking guy sits near me. He’s wearing a suit, he’s white, bearded and handsome, he’s a bundle of all the clichés I don’t normally go for. He wears a watch and it accentuates the strength of his arms. I look at his wrists and imagine him wanking. Jerking himself off into the toilet: neat, functional, aggressively grunting throughout. I imagine the ‘unngh’ as he comes into the toilet bowl, thinking of me staring at him and wondering if I would. I would. I’d watch him drinking but we wouldn’t talk. Occasionally I’d catch his eye and do the flirting that I’ve read about in advice books. Well, a more exaggerated version, anyway – leaning over the bar to show him a bit more of my tits, crossing and uncrossing my legs until my skirt rides up so far he can’t help but think of my cunt. Shooting him the raised-eyebrows-how-about-it look, and mouthing ‘fuck me’ just before I head to the bathroom. In the cubicle, I pull up my skirt and lean against the cold tile with one hand down my knickers. I’m thinking about this total stranger – this no-named guy – and how desperately I want him to follow me. How rough I want his hands on my cunt, how I don’t want him to look at me as he fucks me: head over my shoulder, staring straight at the wall and grimacing with determination to come. He comes in. He rushes at me with a kind of blank need – no recognition or ‘I see you’ve been staring’, just straight in with a rough kiss. No tongues, no movement, just a hard, three-second stamp on my lips, as if to check I’m not going to object. I don’t, of course. I whisper ‘fuck me’ and he nods. I lock the door while he fumbles with my shirt – unbuttoning and pulling apart and ripping down my bra so my tits spill out and he can press his chest against them. “Yeah,” he whispers quietly to himself as he squeezes me against him. I go to unbuckle his trousers and he slaps my hand away, taking a step back to stare at me – exposed in my hitched-up skirt and open shirt. His eyes are blank, as I wanted. He never looks at my face. One quick movement and his trousers are down just far enough to pull out his cock. I don’t care what his dick is like – make that bit up yourself. It’s just a cock, that’s all I care about. It’s hard and he wants it touched, and he needs to empty it into me. He grits his teeth and grabs my legs, wrapping them round his waist as he fucks tight pain into me. “Ungh.” Grunting, rasping, punctuating each fuckstroke with a kind of ‘that’s it’ approval. “Ungh”: sounds like “yes”. Sounds like “that’s it.” Sounds like the kind of self-comforting sounds he’d make to himself when he’s masturbating. As if I’m not there. I make no sounds at all, just feeling him shoving himself inside me is all I wanted – that and not knowing his name, of course. He’s pushed the crotch of my knickers to one side and I can feel the fabric getting damp as I drip lust down the shaft of his dick and onto the inside of my thighs. I grip him tighter and he shudders. “Ye… eaaah,” a harder thrust – pushing deeper into me than he has before, and a long pause as his cock twitches. He rests his head on my shoulder, briefly, enjoying the feeling of being spent. He pulls himself out of me, adjusts his clothes, and with a final glance at my tits, he unlocks the door. “Thanks, stranger.” And he’s gone.