Home Gloryhole

Do you like gloryholes? he asks me on a sex site.

No, I shoot back. I fucking LOVE gloryholes.

Then you should try my home gloryhole sometime, he writes back. Conveniently located near Times Square.

I look at the clock in my living room. I was just about to leave to catch the train into the city, in fact. Fifty minutes for the ride, a half-hour for a quick lunch, ten minutes for walking. . . . I’m going to be in that area in ninety minutes.

He sends me an address. I copy and paste it into in my contacts. I use Gloryhole for his surname. Home for his first.

So here’s the setup. He’s in a seven-story building on a busy street in the east forties. It’s one of those doorways I wouldn’t even notice if I weren’t looking for it, wedged as it is in between commercial storefronts and restaurants. I ring the bell, he buzzes me in, I walk up to his floor. Each floor has only one apartment; the only door there is ajar.

I step through. Shut it behind me. Let the latch click. There’s a solid wall on my left. An opening to the right that has black fabric tightly stretched across it to keep out intruders. Then, directly across from the doorway, a six-foot stretch of drywall. Right at dick level is the hole. It’s oval, about four inches high. Smooth around the edges.

It’s a professional setup. He’s bolted a long pipe—a plumbing fitting—into the wall right at the level of my forehead. I see a single ring hanging at the far end. I instantly deduct how this stark room with the hole looks when he’s not stripped down, mouth open, behind it. Curtains, probably, to hide the hole and break up the monotony of the wall. Maybe a little table to discourage people from lifting it up and discovering the gaping vacancy right at waist level. Art hanging from the hangers I can discern on the left-hand wall. A proper little foyer for an expensive midtown apartment.

Not an anonymous dick delivery system for a cocksucker.

I’ve already shoved my sunglasses and wallet into my bag. I let it fall to the ground with a thud. I step up to the hole. See him beyond. Squatting. Ready. Even through the narrow hole I can see that his body is beyond muscular. It’s a Men’s Health magazine body. He’s shirtless. His hand is inserted into the fly a pair of madras shorts. I see a shadow approach the hole. He’s looking through. Mouth open.

He’s ready.

I step up. Unbutton. Unzip. Pull down the waistbands of my jeans and shorts simultaneously. I’m wearing the thickest and heaviest of my cock rings. It weighs down my nuts, makes my dick flop out and swing. Then I step up to the hole and insert my junk right through.

There’s a pause. I imagine he’s looking at me, planning his attack. I feel my dick lift. There’s a slight breeze on the top of my balls. Then I feel wetness around my soft cock, and warmth around the base. I’m in.

His mouth is so soft and wet, and his tongue action so gentle that I can’t pinpoint the moment I go from soft to hard. All I know is that suckling sensation all around my meat, insistently nursing it to fullness. When that happens, he starts up and down the shaft. I feel his lips travel, slowly, insistently, deliberately, along every one of my inches. He’s in no hurry; he’s making each trip from base to glans last. He’s savoring the taste of my flesh—flicking in and out of the slit when he reaches the top, nuzzling against my pubes at the bottom.

I can tell I’m in good hands. Or a good mouth, anyway. I grab the bar from beneath, push my body against the wall, and relax.

I don’t know how many minutes I’m there. It seems like an eternity. He does this thing where he clamps his mouth down on my dick, gets me going so hard that my whole body’s shaking. If it weren’t for my grip on the pipe above, I’d probably fall to the floor. I’m trembling, I’m bucking so hard into the wall that my knees make it resound with deep, percussive thuds. “Please,” I croak out.

Then he’ll stop, leaving me gasping for more.

He’s got it down to a science. He knows how to give me enough to make my body shake and quiver. When he stops, my dick is wet and red and angry that the cocksucker’s not finishing me off. He could finish me off so easily. He knows it. That’s why he’s torturing me like this. Fucker.

Two can play at that game. Still hanging onto the bar, I lean back, let my body fall into a long S-shape. My engorged cock is on my side of the hole now. I can see he’s got his pants open. His fat, short dick is out; his forearm is busy beating it. His jaw approaches the hole, rubs against it like a cat marking his territory. It’s a strong chin with a two-day growth of stubble. I’m kind of wondering at this point if it belongs to a face I’ve seen on the screen before, large or small. A personal gloryhole would be a good outlet for someone known to indulge in his favorite sport.

I don’t really care to whom that mouth belongs, though. I just like the look of it, lips protruding and begging for my dick. I give him the tip. He responds hungrily. I pull out. My turn to tease. A little tip more before I swing back again. Then I’m feeding him the head, backing out, and pushing it back in. I’m using his mouth as a fuckhole, and it’s as wet and hungry as most of the boys I drill.

Finally he’s getting it all. He handles my inches like a pro as I drive into the back of his throat. He doesn’t need his hands; he’s got his mouth to get me off. By the time I’m thrust all the way through hole, he’s using his throat like a pussy and getting my body shaking again. I’ve got sweat soaking the back of my head; my armpits are dark spots on the fabric of my shirt. “Please,” I whisper. “Please. Please!”

I don’t know whether or not he hears my begging. Doesn’t matter. I get what I want. My cock erupts almost painfully, tossing ropes of seed down his open throat. I hear him grunt on the other side of the wall, feel his lips widen to take more of me in. Feel his throat swallow around my shaft. For what seems an eternity I blast away into that unseen mouth. When I come to, I’m hanging from the pipe with weak hands and feeling him nurse the very last drops onto his broad, flat tongue.

I withdraw. Take a breath. Try to stuff my still-stiff cock and balls into my pants. Zip it down tightly, and pick up my bag. “Thanks, buddy,” I say to the figure still crouched on the other side of the hole.

No reply.

No worries. I wasn’t there to listen to the guy talk. He’s got better things to do with that mouth. Damn, that mouth. Twenty-four hours later and I’m still thinking about that mouth.