Two backpackers in a Bangkok dorm ignore the laminated warnings and lock themselves in a shared shower cubicle after lights out. By Harlan Maddox-Powell.

Warning: this story contains scenes of a sexual nature, including: sex in shared hostel showers, public sex risk, oral sex, anal sex, swallowing, cum on body. This story is written for adults and is not for minors.

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I’d been in Bangkok less than an hour, after a day bus from Chiang Mai on which I’d managed about twenty minutes’ sleep in eleven hours, and the hostel had already told me twice not to have sex in the shower.

The first time was at reception, if you can call a counter under a flickering strip light reception. A woman on the night shift slid me a key card with her eyes on her phone the whole time, then tapped a laminated sheet of house rules taped to the counter. One line had been circled in red marker, twice, hard enough to dent the plastic: No sexual activity in the shared bathrooms. I nodded like a man with no plans for sexual activity anywhere ever again, which after that bus was probably true, and hauled my rucksack up the concrete stairs.

The second time was a sign on the stairwell wall: two stick figures inside a red circle with a slash through it, one standing and one kneeling in front of him. I’m not being funny, but the kneeling one had such good posture it unlocked a whole new insecurity about how I look giving head, one I could have done without. Underneath, the same no-sex rule was spelled out again in English and Thai, in case the picture left any room for doubt. Somebody had drawn a tiny pair of sunglasses on the standing one in biro, which told me just how well respected this rule was by the guests.

I’d love to tell you I’m a rebel, but I’m the opposite. I’m twenty-four. I’ve got a sports science degree I’ve used precisely never, and for two years after uni I worked the front desk at a leisure centre back home, telling people they couldn’t wear trainers by the pool. Three months ago I’d finally cashed in my savings, plus a bit of birthday money, and gone east. Everyone I’d grown up with was either engaged or in Australia, and I wanted, for once, to be the one with stories. Which, with three weeks left on my visa, I was failing at spectacularly. So if I’m honest, there was a small, knackered part of me that wanted to be the idiot who got chucked out of a hostel for the thing on the sign. At least then I’d have something to tell people.

I took the top bunk by the window in a third-floor dorm of eight bunks, with metal frames that squealed every time you looked at them and an air conditioner that rattled threateningly in the window. The curtain on each bunk hung from a little wire and stopped a hand’s width short of meeting in the middle. Under the bunk opposite mine sat a pair of flip-flops with DAAN written on the straps in marker pen, as if anybody would want to steal them. Once my sheet was unrolled, I went looking for the bathroom, mostly to piss and partly to see whether the no-sex signage carried on through the rest of the building.

It did, all the way to the showers. There were three cubicles with frosted glass doors, and the left-hand one had a broken latch hanging off its screw. After washing my hands, I went back to my bunk to scroll through photos of temples I could hardly remember, so I could post them on my Instagram story and give off the impression I was having an exciting, cultured trip.

I’d been there ten minutes when the door swung open and a man came in with his rucksack still on, ducking under the frame of the bunk below with the practised confidence of a man who had hit his head on enough dorm beds (not in the fun way) to navigate the room with ease. He had dark hair pushed back off his face and a short beard he clearly trimmed himself, but not that recently. His football shirt was faded blue-and-white stripes with RAYADOS across the chest and the sleeves hacked off. He dropped the bag on the lower bunk, glanced up and caught me staring.

I went back to my phone, pretending to be a man with very important temples to look at, whilst I watched this handsome stranger unpack his rucksack: a washbag, a phone charger, a paperback with a cracked spine and some T-shirts rolled into tight little sausages. He plugged in at the socket by my ladder and sat back on his heels to take in the room. His eyes landed on me again.

“Have you been to the bathroom yet?” he said.

“Yeah, I was just in.” My voice came out as a croak.

“So you’ve met the stick men.” He said it with a completely straight face, then grinned. The grin went right up into his eyes. “Somebody here has had a very bad week.”

I laughed, sat up too fast and hit my head on the ceiling, which was a great start. My face went hot. He winced on my behalf, then stood and held his hand up to the top bunk.

“I’m Mateo.”

“Rhys.” I shook it. His palm was warm and a bit damp, his grip firmer than expected, though maybe that was just how they did it wherever he was from. I’m Welsh, not dead, and I thought about that grip for a lot longer than any handshake deserved.

He sat on the edge of his bunk and dug a bottle of water out of the side pocket of his bag. “You just got in?”

“Bus from Chiang Mai, eleven hours of it, with a man behind me eating dried squid the entire way.”

“That’s a war crime.” He drank half the bottle in one go. “I flew in this evening from Hanoi. A friend of a friend said this place was cheap and the dorms are quieter than the ones on the main road, which is true, but she didn’t mention the bathroom police.”

“The stick men are very judgemental.”

“The stick men are the least of it.” He leaned back on his elbows, and the shirt rode up off his stomach: a strip of tanned skin and a line of dark hair running down from his navel into the waistband of his shorts. I made myself look at his face, which, I realised as I felt a rush in my chest and took in the contours of his cheekbones, wasn’t much safer. “The girl at reception told me the staff walked in on two different couples in one week. So the manager went to the print shop and bought a whole pack of A4.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I asked.” He shrugged. “I’m nosy. Also I wanted to know if the rule was serious or decorative.”

“And?”

“She said they’ll put you on the street at three in the morning with your bag.” He laughed. “So I’d say dead serious.” He leaned out from under my bunk to look up at me properly. “Are you planning to follow it?”

I could have said yes. I’m a rules man. I’d spent two years enforcing them for a living. Instead I looked at the curtain, then at the long line of his throat, and heard myself say, “We’ll see how the night goes.”

He laughed, properly surprised, and clamped a hand over his mouth so it wouldn’t carry past the curtain. I lay back on my pillow with my face burning, thinking, Well done, Rhys, you’ve been here an hour. My heart was thumping so hard I was sure he could hear it through the mattress. Worse, all I could think about was how to make him laugh like that again.

“So where’s home?” I said.

“Monterrey. Northern Mexico, very hot, very ugly, I love it.” He tapped the stripes on his chest. “Home of the best football team in the world, whatever anyone tells you. I’m twenty-seven, I’m a civil engineer between contracts, and I’m doing Bangkok, then the islands, then Cambodia, then home for my sister’s wedding. She told me, and I quote, ‘Do not bring one of your boys from the internet.’”

He tried to say it casually, as if it were nothing, but his voice tugged on the word boys and my already racing heart picked up pace. He wanted me to know. I tried to say something clever back, but what came out was, “Are there a lot of them? Boys from the internet?”

“Enough that she has a phrase for them.” He grinned up at me. “And you? Where’s home?”

“Swansea. Wales, by the sea. It rains sideways. I worked at a leisure centre telling people to take their trainers off by the pool.”

“So you were the bathroom police.”

“I was the bathroom police,” I agreed, and he laughed so hard he had to put his face in his pillow. I lay there thinking I’d come six thousand miles to escape my dull life only to be found out in under an hour by a man in a sleeveless football shirt, and I was weirdly delighted about it.

“Do the showers have hot water?” he said, when he’d recovered.

“No idea. I only got as far as the sinks. I’d avoid the one on the left, though. The latch is hanging off.”

He gave me a look. “The left? The one with the broken latch?”

“It’s not broken. It’s resting.”

I cringed at my own pathetic attempt at a joke the moment it was out. But his mouth twitched, and he looked at me a second longer than he needed to, as if he were filing the left-hand shower away for later.

He stood up and pulled his shirt over his head in one go, with no shyness about it at all. I had about two seconds of his chest before I remembered my manners: a scatter of black hair between his pecs and a stomach you only get from actually lifting things. Engineering, apparently. He folded the shirt, which I found unreasonably attractive, and dropped it on his bunk.

“I’m going to wash the plane off me,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see if I can wake the latch up from its rest.”

He winked and left the room with a towel over his shoulder, the curtain swinging shut behind him. I lay there listening to the motorbikes three floors down and thought about the sauna.

There’s a sauna at the leisure centre, cedar-panelled, eight people at most, with a little window in the door that steams up solid. Doing the closing check late one Thursday, in my second winter there, I found two of the lifeguards in it with the lights off and their shorts on the bench. I had to write it up. There’s a form for it, an incident report. I filled it in with my best pen and the most boring words I could find: two members of staff, after hours, inappropriate use of facilities. They got a warning and laughed about it for months. One of them sends me a sauna emoji every Christmas. I’d spent two years writing up other people’s stories in neat capitals and I’d been jealous of every single one, which, if anyone had asked, was the real reason I’d come out here. My friends all thought it was the temples.

Anyway. The showers.

Mateo came back twenty minutes later with his hair wet and a towel knotted round his hips, smelling of the hostel’s green soap. He sat on the edge of his bunk again, nearer the ladder this time, so close that when I swung my legs over the side to talk to him my bare foot was level with his shoulder.

“The rules are doing their job,” he said. “Not one other person in there, let alone anyone fucking. Also, you can lock the door if you kick it hard enough with your heel, right at the bottom. The latch sticks, and then nobody can walk in on you.”

His voice made it sound like joinery advice, but the way he looked up at me whilst he said it made it something else entirely.

“Is that a tip,” I said, “or an invitation?”

I heard it come out of my mouth and wanted to pull my sheet over my head.

“It’s joinery, Rhys.” He kept a completely straight face. “Very important joinery. You’d be surprised how many people get it wrong.”

“Good to know,” I said, which was the stupidest possible thing to say. I knew exactly what he was offering. My heart was pounding and my mouth had gone travelling without me. So I climbed down the ladder, telling myself I needed my charger from my bag, which I did, technically. My bag was on the floor by his bunk. I sat on the end of his mattress to rummage and he shifted, his knee coming to rest against mine, cool from the shower where I was still sticky from the bus. I could have moved it. I left it there, and so did he. I found the charger and kept holding it, like an idiot holding a charger. I thought, very clearly, You wanted a story, Rhys. There’s one right here with his knee against yours.

“Rhys,” he said. He’d just opened his mouth to say whatever came next when the curtain flew back. A tall blond man in a vest that said SAWASDEE BITCHES fell through it, very drunk and delighted to see us.

“Guys! Have either of you got any food?”

This, it turned out, was Daan, owner of the flip-flops. He was twenty-two, Dutch and on his fourth night. He’d lost his friends somewhere on Khao San and replaced them with a bucket of something blue. Mateo, who had moved his knee about a foot to the left, gave him a packet of dried mango from his bag, and Daan held it to his chest like a newborn.

“You are beautiful people,” he told us, very seriously. “Both of you. I mean it.”

He climbed into his bunk and was snoring within about ninety seconds, the mango unopened on his stomach.

Mateo looked at me. I looked at him. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, and his shoulders were shaking.

The moment had gone. Mateo went to brush his teeth. The two Canadian girls by the door came in from the bar, giggling, and went through their whole routine of head torches and zips. I lay on my bunk with my phone on two per cent and replayed very important joinery until it stopped sounding like a joke. When Mateo came back he looked up at my bunk on his way past, just once, and drew his curtain most of the way. Most of the way. I spent a good ten minutes deciding what that gap meant.

The lights went out at midnight. The bunk springs went silent one by one until there was only Daan snoring and the Canadians whispering. Then only Daan. I lay on my back listening to my own heart going, and to the small sounds of Mateo moving below me, turning over, then turning over again. I gave it until half past. I told myself that if he was asleep by then, it was the universe siding with the woman at reception. But I knew he was awake. I could hear him being awake, which is a very particular sound, and I wondered if he could hear me doing the same.

At twenty-five past I slid down the ladder as quietly as the creaky metal would allow. Mateo was sitting up with his back against the wall and the towel round his waist, wide awake, the light from the corridor catching one side of his face. He looked at me. I picked my towel off the rail at the end of his bunk and held it up, a question. After a second he got to his feet.

We slipped out between the curtains into the corridor. It was lit by one bulb at the far end and smelled unmistakably of instant noodles. Halfway along, at the top of the stairs, I stopped and turned round to face him, because whatever else I am, I’m a man who checks.

“You’re sure?” I said, under my breath. “Because if you’re not, I’ll go and brush my teeth and we’ll never mention this.”

He stepped in until I could feel his breath on my mouth. “I’ve been sure since you hit your head on the ceiling,” he said. “Are you?”

“I’ve been sure since you told me about the latch.”

“Then go and kick the door.”

The bathroom was empty and bright, the strip light buzzing, the tiles wet from someone’s evening wash. I pushed into the left-hand cubicle and he followed. I put my heel against the bottom of the door and kicked, harder than I meant, so the bang went round the room like a starting pistol. We both froze, listening, my hand flat on his chest and his heart thumping under it. The latch had caught. Perfect. Mateo reached past me to turn on the water, and the frosted glass fogged up almost at once. Above the soap shelf somebody had taped up the stick men again, the paper curling at one corner, their red slash blurring in the steam.

He dropped his towel. His cock swung free against his thigh, uncut, filling as I watched, the foreskin covering most of the head, and the sight of it went through me so hard I forgot how to breathe properly. My own cock was already straining at the front of my shorts. I shoved them down and kicked them into the corner with my towel. He looked me up and down, unhurried about it, like he was enjoying making me wait. Then he reached out, wrapped his hand round my cock and gave it one long stroke from the base to the head that pulled a noise out of me I didn’t even realise I was capable of.

“Shh,” he said, smiling into my mouth.

“You shh.”

I put both hands on his shoulders and turned him round so his back was against the wall. Then, finally, our mouths met, the water running down between us and over our faces. He kissed like he talked, without hurry and then all at once, his hand working me the whole time. When I found his cock it jumped against my palm, hot and thick now, the foreskin sliding back under my thumb. I matched his rhythm, and for a while we just stood there kissing open-mouthed, jerking each other off in the one room in Bangkok we’d been told not to. I kept thinking about the woman at reception and her red marker, getting more and more turned on with every pull of Mateo’s hand over my throbbing cock.

Mateo broke the kiss first. He held my eye and got down on his knees on the wet tiles, slowly, the water hitting the top of his head and running down over his face. Then he took my cock into his mouth. I put one hand flat on the wall and the other on the back of his head, his wet hair in my fingers, my eyes fixed on the head of my cock as it disappeared between his lips. His hand worked the base. He was good at it, and greedy about it. He pulled off to spit on me and grin up at me before he took me back in, deeper, his tongue dragging along the underside of my shaft, my knees threatening to collapse from the intense pleasure. Below me his own cock was hard and straining up towards his stomach, the foreskin fully back now, the head flushed and shining. I watched him stroking himself whilst he sucked me, and the sight of him getting off on it nearly finished me there and then.

Then the bathroom door banged open.

Everything stopped. I thought, That’s it, three in the morning, on the street with my bag, and my stomach dropped. The stupid part of me that had flown six thousand miles for a story was thrilled. Mateo froze, eyes wide, my cock between his lips, looking up at me. I clapped my hand over my own mouth to keep the noise in. Flip-flops slapped past the glass and someone yawned. A long, slow, unbothered piss followed at the urinal. My heart was going so hard I could feel it in my cock, and Mateo could feel it too, because he started, very slowly, to suck again. I nearly died. I stared at the frosted glass, at the blurred shape of some stranger from another floor, whilst Mateo’s tongue moved under the head of my cock with no hurry at all. The man sighed, shook off and wandered out with his hands unwashed. The door banged shut.

I took my hand off my mouth. “You absolute bastard,” I whispered.

He pulled off and laughed against my thigh, silent and shaking. “You liked it.”

I had, was the problem. I pulled him up by the arms and kissed him hard, tasting myself. He turned round on his own, put both hands flat on the tiles and looked back at me over his shoulder, with water running down the dip of his spine.

I stopped, found his eyes and raised my eyebrows. He held my gaze, nodded once, slowly, and pushed his ass back until it brushed my cock. That was as clear a yes as I’ve ever had.

I spat into my hand and worked it over my cock. Then I spat again and slid my thumb against his hole until he pushed back into it. I pressed the head of my cock against him and waited. He breathed out, his body giving as I sank into him, one long slow slide until my hips met his ass. He gasped, and the noise of the shower covered it. Inside he was so tight and hot that I had to stay where I was, forehead between his shoulder blades, thinking very hard about anything else at all.

I wanted to take it slow, but he rocked back onto me, impatient, hungry, so I started to thrust. My hands held his hips, the water running over my knuckles and down his back. Each time I drove into him his chest went a little closer to the wall, until the sign was an inch from his shoulder and I could read No sexual activity over the top of his wet hair. I read it. I thought, absurdly, that I ought to feel guilty, but all I felt was greedy, so I read it again and fucked him harder. He made a sound into his own forearm and pushed back to meet me. I reached round, found his cock and stroked it in time with my hips. He covered my hand with his and showed me how he wanted it, tighter, faster on the way up. For a while the whole world was the slap of skin, louder than the water now, his hole clenching round me every time I pulled almost all the way out before pounding back into him.

It built in me from the soles of my feet up the backs of my thighs, the pull of it and then the weight of it. I could feel it coming and I wanted to see it, wanted to see it on him. I pulled out, and he turned round before I could ask, his back to the wall and his chest heaving. I took my cock in my fist and stroked it, looking at him: his mouth open, the water on his eyelashes, his own cock jutting up hard and wet against his stomach.

Then I was cumming, and it tore up out of me so hard I thought I might pass out. The first rope hit him just under his navel in a thick, hot streak that clung briefly before the water caught it and dragged it downwards. The second rope hit further down, into the hair above his cock. I kept stroking, each pulse wrenched out of my balls with a jolt so intense it bent me forward, and I had to put my free hand on his shoulder to stay up. It kept pumping out of me, thick and white against his tanned skin, running down the length of his cock and dripping onto the tiles. I watched, mouth open and legs shaking, thinking stupidly about every rule I’d ever obeyed and how this was the best thing I’d ever done on the wrong side of one.

Mateo looked down at the mess I’d made of him and took his cock in his hand, smearing my cum over the head. Without thinking I dropped to my knees on the wet floor and closed my mouth over him, salty from my own cum. He made a long, wrecked sound above me and pushed his free hand into my hair. His hand moved faster on the base of his cock. I felt him swell on my tongue, his thighs locking. Then he was cumming in my mouth in thick, heavy pulses, one after another, more than I could keep up with, the taste of him sharp and hot. I swallowed what I could and let the rest run down my chin into the water. I stayed down there until his fingers loosened in my hair. With a small laughing noise, he pulled me up by the hand.

We stood under the water for a while, holding each other up, his forehead on my shoulder, and I realised I was grinning like an idiot at the tiles. My legs felt as if I’d run a marathon. He was laughing again, silently, into my neck.

“What?”

“The man at the urinal,” he whispered. “He was there for one whole minute.”

“Don’t.” I was laughing too. “I thought he was going to stand there pissing till checkout, and we’d have to finish in total silence.”

He rinsed me off, then I rinsed him off, which turned into kissing, which nearly became more. Somewhere below us a door slammed, and we remembered where we were. He turned the water off, then reached up and pressed the curled corner of the sign back against the tile with his thumb, smoothing it flat until it stuck.

“There,” he said. “Like we were never here.”

We dried off with the towels we’d carried in. I pulled my shorts back on and he knotted his towel round his hips again. I kicked the latch free with my heel, with a lot less drama this time. Then we padded back down the corridor to the dorm, where Daan was snoring, the packet of mango rising and falling on his chest with each breath. Mateo climbed into the bottom bunk. I went up the ladder to mine and lay there wide awake, my skin smelling of hostel soap and him. I left my curtain open a hand’s width so I could see the edge of his.

Down below me, with the lights off, his voice came up through the slats.

“Rhys.”

“What?”

“I’m here four more nights,” he whispered. “Plenty of time to get us thrown out.”

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This story was inspired by a post from @shooting_splash. For more stories like this, follow me on Bluesky at @hardmanpod.bsky.social

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© 2026 Harlan Maddox-Powell. All rights reserved. This story is the intellectual property of the author. No part of it may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews or other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This and all stories are works of fantasy. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are consenting adults. Some works may be inspired by other creators, but all work is entirely original and written by Harlan Maddox-Powell. All characters are adults and have fully consented to the depicted roleplay scenario. In real life, always practise safe sex and enthusiastic consent.