The Hole, Part 1

There used to be a guy I knew a dozen years ago. I didn’t like him. He was one of those men who made the mistaken assumption that our situations were identical because we both were in long-term relationships, tops, and enjoyed sex with others. And not only identical, but that our parallels somehow entitled him to have sex with me whenever he wanted, regardless of how I felt about such a thing. Frankly, one encounter with the guy shortly after I met him was enough. He smelled. He grossly overestimated his own attractiveness. And worst of all, he gave off a creepy vibe that many people commented about when he wasn’t around. He seemed like one of those men whose photo, some years down the road, would interrupt a regularly-scheduled television show with the legend BARRICADED GUNMAN SITUATION UPDATE beneath it and a worried live reporter to the side.

He would phone me at seven in the morning, or during dinner, or at ten o’clock on a Saturday evening, whichever was most inconvenient, to see if I wanted to have sex in his van—the only place he could entertain, with his wife and kids at home—on the streets of the city where we both lived. And he wouldn’t only call once, and then drop it when I didn’t pick up. When I wouldn’t answer, he’d call back again, immediately, two or three times in a row, as if prolonging the amount of time my phone made an insane racket would predispose me to think of his sexual guarantee with more enthusiasm. Eventually I cut off all contact with him by telling him he couldn’t call me any more. “This week?” he asked.

“Ever,” I said. And that was that.

For a half-dozen years too many after that icky time we had sex, though, I kept on tolerant terms with the guy simply because he was a good source of information. The fact that he was a top landed him in a lot of mens’ beds. (Though it rarely resulted in a return invitation.) And bottoms, you may or may not know this, but top men do tend to talk about their fucks with each other. It’s a bit like the the boys’ high school locker room. Get a bunch of cocky idiots together and they’ll compare notes on who has the best ass, sexiest body. There are whoops and hollers and cries of, “Oh yeah, I tapped that.”

Now, some top guys are worse offenders than others. I personally am wary about talking about my fucks with other local tops unless the bottoms have specifically indicated that it’s okay. (Yes, I’m quite aware that I write about every single one of them on my blog, thank you, but I don’t give out screen names and phone numbers.) Others, like this guy, are extremely chatty about their conquests. And about eleven years ago this particular married top man told me of a couple he’d met out in the remote suburbs who enjoyed servicing strange guys through a gloryhole in their apartment. “They’ve got hot mouths,” he told me. “We should go do them together.”

“There’s an idea,” I said, evasively. Later that week I talked online to my buddy Daddy Tim, with whom I was on good terms at the time. “Listen,” I told him. “There’s a couple I heard about that we should try.” I gave him the particulars. He was on it immediately. Within a few days we had a date.

We drove out to the remote apartment complex and met in the parking lot. Then, as instructed, we walked into the apartment. The gloryhole was set in the wall immediately opposite the front door, which happened to be in the coat closet. The guys had removed the closet’s doors, left it empty, and themselves had carved the four-inch round hole in the drywall. Later on I discovered that it opened out into the kitchen, where the guys had put pillows beneath it. I unzipped, dropped my pants, and shoved my hard cock through to the other side. Immediately a mouth latched onto it. While Daddy Tim and I made out and I held onto the coat bar as if I were doing pull-ups, I let the guy suck me. When I felt myself getting close, I’d pull out and let Tim take his turn. Back and forth we swapped our dicks for the better part of an hour, until we’d both fed our loads to the mouth on the other side.

Now, the guy manning the gloryhole that night was only half the couple—Jake, the older of the two. Jake was a total bottom in his mid-thirties of modest looks who somehow had managed to land a hot nineteen-year-old boyfriend. He considered the first visit a vetting process to see if we were worthy of returning to share both their mouths.

I was the one who got to keep coming back. On my first solo trip I walked into the dark apartment, with its makeshift curtain hanging over the entrance to the living room, and let my jeans fall to my ankles. Though the closet was almost totally dark, I could see a warm light on the hole’s other side, in the kitchen, and the shadows that crossed its lip. I was hard when I stuck my cock through. At first I felt the mouth from before, licking and sucking at my dick. At some point shortly thereafter, though, the sensations changed. The mouth on my meat was different. The lips were softer. The mouth itself was wetter and warmer, It seemed to savor the taste of me, the length and the girth, rather than hurry to get me off. I always associated that mouth with David, the younger of the two. It was that mouth that was more likely to get me off. The moment it clamped down on my inches and began to suck, I recognized it immediately and would always become more excited.

I could distinguished between their asses, too. With me the guys didn’t use the gloryhole simply for sucking. There was usually point at which I’d feel a cold glob of lube suddenly surround me, followed by the grip of a hand spreading it around. Then I’d feel pressure against my cock head and the unmistakable sensations of an ass spreading itself around me. Jake had a bony ass that opened readily and didn’t provide much in the way of friction. It was, as one of my friends has a tendency to say, like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.

David, the nineteen-year-old, on the other hand, was tight and had a full ass. It took a lot of effort to get into him the first time, but once he loosened up, he’d shiver and shake on the wall’s other side. I couldn’t see either of them, but the eight inches of me that projected through to the kitchen could feel perfectly what was going on. Jake would back his ass up to the hole and slam against it like I was some kind of suction-cup dildo. Then his boy toy would take both his turn and his time, just as he would with his mouth. The result was that David would more often be the one to get my load—or loads, more usually. I could also hear his groans and grunts and judged that he came pretty often while I was fucking him, too. I liked that.

The guys were a little far out for me to visit every week, but I hit their hole for at least once a month for the better part of three years, until the elder half had some issues with keeping his job and the pair had to move out of the apartment to another that was even further out. (I always wondered how they explained that hole in the wall to the apartment managers.) They made another move even further away shortly after that—and then about four years ago they landed way the hell out in the middle of nowhere with one of their parents, over an hour away from the city. I figured I’d never hear from them again.

Then suddenly I did, Thursday.