The Hole

The first time he wrote me on Manhunt a couple of years back, I wanted to toss away his note. You know you want to come over, get down on your knees, and suck my big dick through my home gloryhole, it read. So when can you get here?

No please, no hey how’re you doin’, no hiya or hey or ‘sup. Just that arrogant, cocky assumption that I wanted the dick in his photo. It was curved and a good seven and a half inches, on the slender side. The guy’s profile name was Urlipsmypole, which was right to the point. His profile stated that he was looking only to receive oral from good-looking guys in their thirties and forties through the private gloryhole in his house. His dick was the only thing showing, but I could tell from the stance and trim waist in the photo that the guy was tall and built well.

Still. What makes you think I’m so hungry for that dick? I wrote back, a little bit affronted.

Dude, if you weren’t interested, you would’ve ignored my note. I know tops. Every top likes to bitch out his mouth for a dick like mine once in a while. If you want it, now’s your chance. He named an address that was only a quarter-mile from me. You want it?

I thought about it for a minute, then closed my laptop and grabbed my car keys. He was right. I do like to bitch out my mouth for a good cock, and his was pretty damned good. Plus I love a private gloryhole, and it had been a long, long time since I’d sucked through a new one.

The guy’s house is a well-kept bungalow in my neighborhood. In summer it’s a flower-filled paradise for butterflies and hummingbirds. The first time I visited was in a December, when the shrubberies were wrapped with canvas to protect them from the snow and wind; I unlatched the back gate as I’d been instructed, and walked up the steps to the door of an enclosed porch. I was surprised to find inside a small electric heater blowing warm air into the tiny enclosure. On the porch’s floor lay an ocean of towels and a couple of old pillows, on which I was careful not to step with my snow-covered shoes. Then, right where the door to the guy’s kitchen should have been, was the gloryhole. It was set in a sheet of sturdy wood affixed somehow to the door frame. I pushed on it tentatively, and was satisfied to find it held. Beyond the well-sanded hole I could see a shadow shift beyond.

As I always do when I visit, I unzipped my pants and pulled out my dick, which was already rock hard. I arranged the pillows so that they would be beneath my knees as I knelt down to the floor, and brought my lips to the hole.

When it began to push through, impeded by nothing but moving slowly, as if it thrust through some invisible obstacle, the man’s dick looked like it had in the photo. I wrapped my hand around it and was gratified when it leapt and twitched in my firm grasp. It was smooth to the touch, and pinker than mine. When I brought my face to it, he smelled of soap—the mildest brand, meant for babies and soft skin.

The first time we met, I didn’t know what turned him on. Through practice, I do now. He likes to be ramped up slowly and brought off with a quick finish. So I start on him with nothing more than my lips and mouth wetting his dick. At this stage it’s not all about his penetration, either. I’ll run my lips and jaw up and down his wet dick, or pause to tickle with my tongue below his head, or blow cool air over his slick skin. He’s not verbal. I’ve never heard Urlips speak a word. I’ve never seen his face, or seen his body, or know anything more about him than what his dick looks like. I know his responses, though, and when he groans and leans into the wood of the board separating the two of us, I know he’s a happy man.

There reaches a point when his nuts draw up and he begins to grind through the hole. He wants my mouth, then. I oblige by giving it all to him to use as he wants. He controls the thrusting, the speed, the angle. If he wants to pound the back of my throat, it’s there for him to bruise. If he wants to tease me with the head, or withdraw and make me tongue precum beading from his dick’s slit, it’s his choice. Usually, though, he prefers at this stage to withdraw slowly and plunge back in with a mighty thrust, over and over again. It’s excruciating, almost, how leisurely he can be on the outstroke, taking his inches from my mouth and leaving emptiness behind. Then, after a pause, he’ll ram it home, bringing a red glow to my lips when his hips meet my face. I’m full again, choking on his dick and loving its strength and power.

I play with myself while he face-fucks me, but I know how to keep myself under the threshold of maximum pleasure so that I don’t shoot too quickly. I’m not there for my pleasure, for a change, and he knows it. I’m there to give him pleasure, which I do by grabbing his wet, spit-slick dick. My fingers wrap around it as I take over and pick up the pace. First my index and thumb follow my lips in a tight circle. The pressure and extra stimulation make his dick swell; I can always feel his nut sack shifting and tightening as I work. Then I add my middle finger, then the ring finger.

After a few minutes, I’ve got my entire fist curved around his dick. It’s a wet, slippery tunnel for his meat to travel through. As he approaches his climax, I pick up the pace. He’s thrusting too, now, but I’m impaling myself onto his pole more vigorously than he’s working. His groans are louder, now, and the wooden board is shuddering from the weight and intensity of his thrusts.

That’s when I bring him off. It’s easy to do, when he reaches this stage. I simply add one little bit of extra stimulation that pushes him over the edge. Sometimes I’ll use my other hand to stroke the sides of his balls, lightly, lightly, with my fingertips. Or I’ll reach through and tickle his hole with my fingertip. This last Sunday, I grabbed his nuts roughly and pulled. It was at that point when he roared and began to empty his sperm into my mouth.

This is my chance for pleasure. As he shoots, I jerk my dick. I love the taste of his cum, which is always mild and never bitter. I keep both it and his dick in my mouth as I stroke myself to a climax. He knows what I’m doing; he can tell by my breathing and the grunts of pig-like concentration as I hold every inch of him in my throat. When I shoot, I do it right onto the towels, onto the floor, onto the pillows. He’ll wait until I’m done, and then he’ll withdraw. I’ll see him walk away from the door and into the darkness of his house.

Then I swallow, pull up my pants, and go.

When I was at the man’s house over the weekend, it was the same as always. Routine it might be, but it’s never dull for me. When I got home a few minutes later, I found Urlips had dropped me a note thanking me, as he usually does. Maybe it’s time you joined me on my side of the hole, he said. I know a cocksucker who wants two dicks. Think you’re interested?

I haven’t replied yet. I think I’m going to turn him down, though. Part of me worries I’ll find something about the guy I won’t like, when I’m exposed to the whole of him. It’s a silly fear, maybe, but the relationship’s worked well so far—why fuck with it?

Part of me, too, is just there for the dick. Because yeah, top I might be, but sometimes I just want to bitch out my mouth a little.