“I’ll wank you off for your can of Pringles…” (28f) [MF]

There’s a time in our lives – if we’re lucky – when opportunities for sex are so abundant and plentiful as to render the need to actively seek them out redundant. For me and, I suspect, most others, this time was University. The first year specifically, where everyone is finding their feet away from home for the first time, and is eager to both stretch and part their legs to explore all the new found freedoms that independence can offer. A unique period during which casual sex is no trickier to find than sand on a beach. Especially during ‘Freshers week’ – a seven day period wherein the only agenda in any budding student’s diary is to visit as many drinking establishments in your new town as is possible, and begin making acquaintances for the next three years of your life.

And fucking. A whole lot of fucking.

While it would be exaggerating to say that *everyone* was purely being driven by their newly ignited and explosive libido that week – there were certainly a fair share of High School sweethearts intent on holding out for their first romance back home, and plenty still too shy, nervous or just plain socially awkward to consider wading into the free-for-all – those of us who had experienced a modicum of sexual activity and were hungry – or in my case, utterly ravenous – for more, and eager to make the most of the opportunity as it presented itself.

It was, for all like minded individuals, an exceptionally exciting and frequently busy week.

But familiarity breeds contempt. While it’s true – and remains so to this day – that I was having one of the most exciting weeks of my life, it’s also fair to say that I was becoming somewhat blasé toward the situation as the week neared its conclusion.

Which ultimately led to me uttering the line my friends swear they’ll have carved into my gravestone if they outlive me. A line which is quoted back to me by certain acquaintances almost every time I see them. And a line that earned me a nickname for the mercifully few days that remained of Freshers Week. (What happens in Freshers week, stays in Freshers week, etc)

To set the scene; it was the Friday night of Freshers week. Or, to be more accurate, the very early hours of Saturday morning and myself and newly found friends were drinking in what can only be described as foetid cesspit which, allegedly, sold itself as a student bar. Thankfully, we’d all reached stage of drunkeness wherein we weren’t much interested in for state of the decor, instead more intent on finding someone sufficiently cheap that we could continue having a merry old time.

However inebriated you’re picturing us at this moment – double it. We weren’t all so drunk as to be devoid of all our faculties – all of us were capable of holding ourselves upright and flailing to excess on the area defined only by gaffa tape designated as the ‘dance floor’ – The four days and nights of hardened drinking prior having done much toughen our constitution. But it’s fair to say we were very much at the stage wherein everything was funny, and everyone looked at least three factors more attractive than they may have otherwise been in the cold light of day.

None of us were especially looking to get lucky. Which isn’t to say any of us would necessarily have turned down an offer had someone of suitable humour and handsomeness wandered our way, simply that, by this point of the evening, three of the four of us had already enjoyed a close encounter of the preferred kind earlier in the evening, so were more content to simply enjoy each other’s nonsensical ramblings in social company instead.

During a brief break in the dancing/flailing, I remarked to a friend that I was feeling hungry. It had been a great many hours since dinner and, to put not too fine a point on it, there’d been an excess of energy spent in the time between, dancing/flailing not withstanding. There was always the option of leaving the venue and purchasing the traditional chips/kebab to ease the hunger, but if my five days of experience had taught me anything it was that such an endeavour almost certainly signified the end of the night, and I wasn’t yet ready to throw in the towel.

Saying out loud that I was feeling the pangs of hunger was a mistake. Because now the issue had been voiced it immediately became all consuming. No longer was it a little niggling thought in the back of my head, it was all I could think about. For the first time that week my mind became entirely one track about something other than the obvious.

It was during the time I was bemoaning my overwhelming lack of sustenance to my increasingly less patient friends that we were approached by a small group of guys, enquiring if any of us wanted to flail around in the designated square some more. (Not a euphemism). Hayley was all set to politely decline, when I spotted that one of them was holding a tube of crisps.

“Can I have one?” I asked, thrusting myself forward with all the subtlety of a brick, gesturing towards the tube. “I’m really fucking hungry.”

He grinned the grin of a bastard. “You can have one if you dance with me.”

Being the pedant that I am, exponentially enhanced by the influence of alcohol, my immediate response was;

“Only one?!”

He grinned some more, clearly having already found a way to wind me up and thus make an impression.

“Yeah. Seems a fair exchange rate?”

Now. I wish I could say what came out of my mouth next was meant as a joke. But I looked directly into his eyes and said with absolute sincerity, seriousness and conviction:

“Oh. Okay. Then I’ll wank you off for your tube of Pringles.”

My friends immediately exploded into fits of laughter, as did his. He chuckled, but being on the receiving end of my laser-beam like gaze, I think he already understood that I may not be exaggerating. Plus he’d already started winding me up, so he couldn’t be seen to back down and be bested so soon.

“Now *that* seems like a fair deal,” he grinned, though not quite as confidently as before.

I simply nodded at him and told me friends I’d be back in a few minutes.

And dragged his grinning face toward the toilets.

What followed was the most calculated and clinical handjob I’ve ever dispensed.

The toilets were as squalid as you’d expect from a dive of a student bar but that hadn’t stopped them becoming a veritable hub of promiscuity. As we entered is was abundantly obvious that at least two – very probably three unless someone was having a surprisingly satisfying movement – of the cubicles were in use for salacious purpose. We headed straight for the nearest vacant option and closed the door behind us.

The guy – who for ease from this point on I’ll refer to as WC; not only for the obvious but because of the only things I can recall about him was that he was wearing a waistcoat – had by this point finally realised that perhaps I wasn’t joking after all, and moved in to kiss me.

I politely declined as I was already distracted trying to undo his buttoned fly – a tricky enough task to do when sober, let alone drunk and hungry. Thankfully he soon offered assistance, and I reached inside and pulled out his already hardening cock.

Reader, what follows isn’t dignified, but it is mercifully brief.

His cock was perhaps the very definition of average in that there was nothing particularly notable about it either for the positive or the negative. The act of simply grabbing it and pulling it out of his jeans was seemingly enough to have transformed the semi into a fully, and without pomp or ceremony, I started to stroke it.

As my hand got busy, he started to indulge in a little small talk and asked my name. I, very rudely in hindsight, didn’t ask his back – hence WC, but I did find out he was studying Civil Engineering.

After no longer than two minutes of gentle stroking and idle conversation, I began to pick up the pace; firming up the grip and adding a little corkscrew motion. As I reached inside his jeans again with my other hand to gain access to his balls, I noted he was starting to look a little awkward simply stood having this happen to him so, with a friendly grin not dissimilar to his own upon entering this encounter, suggested he could feel me up if he wanted to.

To this day I’ve never seen hands move so quickly from a state of idleness to squeezing my tits.

As he squeezed, I rapidly increased the speed and intensity of the stroke. This burst of acceleration combined with a light squeeze of his balls – and him giving a significant squeeze to my tits – was all that was needed for him to shout ‘Fuck!’ louder than even the pair having sex a few cubicles away had yet managed, and shoot a jet of cum onto the back of the closed door. A further two spurts followed as I stroked a further few firm strokes and gently squeezed out the final few drops.

I congratulated him on his sizeable load which was now dripping its way down the cubicle door, and wiped my own cummy hand on some toilet paper. He asked if perhaps he could return the favour. I told him maybe later. Because what i needed, right now, was some Pringles.

He obliged. And reader; they were worth it.

As we headed back to our friends they cheered on our approach. All of his friends had bought tubes of their own and jokingly asked if I was still hungry,

However, on this occasion, it turned out that once you pop, you *can* stop.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/mi2xxx/ill_wank_you_off_for_your_can_of_pringles_28f_mf