The door bangs open. Between thumping heartbeats, I catch a glimpse in the mirror. Black and white. A slash of red. Monstrous grinning head. I know I shouldn’t be here, should leave right now, but I’m frozen to the spot, dick clamped in shaking hand. So shocked am I, that, despite a bloated bladder, I simply cannot piss. The intruder adjusts his bow tie, cracks his white-gloved fingers and slowly closes in on me.
I hate this place. Fucking hate it. By comparison, the American resorts seem quite pleasantly benevolent, but here? In a country frantically - some might say hopelessly - clinging on to an idealised though outmoded notion of national identity? It is incongruous. Alien. Pointless. An American in Paris. The locals are arrogant and rude; the weather is constantly poor. The food is… well, crap. Expensive and crap. And that parade, that garish fucking mindless, tedious parade, has more than a tinge of desperation, is more than a little sinister, when set in this unlikely locale. Prancing people in cartoon animal suits. Mute. Vacuous. Fixed orgasmic expressions on their vastly over-sized heads. Why doesn’t it scare the kids to death? Why don't they scream and stampede? I'm nearly forty and it fucking freaks me out. If it wasn’t highly financially advantageous for me to develop links with this hellish place then I’d never set foot here, never even cross the English Channel.
The business trip is almost over. I’m taking one last look around. A slight drizzle drifts in on the cold wind and I suddenly realise I need a piss. There are no toilets in sight, but there’s a red-brick building and a sign that probably - though my French is very poor - says ‘Staff only’, or something similar. A keypad on the doorframe stops me in my tracks, but I notice the door is slightly ajar. Obviously, luckily - thankfully - the last employee didn’t close it properly. I’m suddenly full to bursting, so it will have to do. And it will do very nicely.
The closing door muffles the blaring, triumphant-yet-inane music that thrice-daily accompanies the mob of mawkish misfits, and suddenly I’m in a pristine world all of my own. Glaring strip lights. Brilliant white tiles on every surface. No urinal, just a toilet bowl, a sink, and a gleaming hand-drier, plus a large mirror on the facing wall. I look at myself and smile wryly. The deal is done. Soon I’ll be on my way home. The mirror smiles back: an attractive, successful guy of indeterminate age. Lean. Muscular. Stubbly chin, but shaved head. Cool blue eyes. The suit is dark and beautifully tailored; a slender blue tie dissects the white cotton shirt. I unzip my flies, take out the old man and prepare to release my bladder, but at that moment the door bursts open. Too late do I spy the internal lock.
Oh, fuck! Not him. Not fucking him! I can’t piss while he’s watching. Anybody but him. I look back down at my cock and shake it, plead with it to start but it’s inert, either blocked or empty. Suddenly, magically, I don’t need a piss at all. Shuffling my feet, I glance apologetically over my shoulder. He shrugs his shoulders and raises his palms in an exaggerated ‘Who’d have believed it?’ sort of way, then scratches his famous head. He is the epitome of silence, a mere mime, but in my head I hear him whine every word. That voice! That annoying fucking ridiculous voice!
Raising a white finger, he tilts his head, as though an idea has just hit him. With a gloved hand conspiratorially pressed to his mouth, he skips across the tiles, oversize yellow shoes clomping. Again, it's all in that twee, sickening, over-the-top manner that enjoins every well-adjusted individual to summarily dispatch anyone who ever pressed a palm to an imaginary wall. Shockingly, a cotton-covered hand grabs my limp dick. I pull away, but he isn’t letting go. I pull again. No release. I half-heartedly hit him on the head, but it’s rock hard, some sort of plastic, and it’s pointless.
It strikes me that I’ve never before had my cock in the three-fingered hand of a six-foot mouse. Though obviously horrified, I’m also somewhat intrigued, and so surrender to his cartoon shenanigans. I simply stand and wait to see what transpires. Surely, old Walt never dreamed up this scenario?
Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.
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