Basement Gloryhole

On a street of crowded bungalows, his stands out. Every other address on this street is enumerated with the same cheap brass numbers from the local hardware store. The numbers by his front door are of hammered black metal in an arts and crafts style, special-ordered to match a sleek black door lamp of the same material. His deep front porch is covered with Adirondack chairs and period lanterns, his front windows illuminated by stained glass, instead of the blue-white glow of a flat-screen TV.

I park in the front, remove my coat before I lock up the car, and jog up the driveway. The entrance to his back yard lies behind a trellis in a vaguely Chinese style. I pull open the latch, slip in, and take the stairs up to his deck, and then the door that leads into his kitchen. I wipe my feet on the mat of cut pebbles within the door.

The basement stairs are to my right. I follow them down, into the depths of the cellar where the only light is coming from a window in the laundry room. My destination is across from the bottom of the stairs, however. Two ovals are cut into the door of an old fruit cellar there, both slightly below waist-high. I see a hand beckoning me forward. I step up to the larger of the two holes, unzip, pull down my shorts and push down my jeans to my knees before I ease my semi-hard meat into the darkness beyond.

He takes over from there.

I’d told him in our messaging that I find it difficult to come from a blow job. It’s sad, but it’s true. In a public sex situation like a bookstore or restroom I generally have no problem. One on one, even in a private gloryhole situation like this guy’s got, I find myself over-thinking the experience. I like it. I like the sensation of his wet mouth on my meat, of his lips pursing forward as far as they can to take it to the root. I love the light sensation of his teeth sliding across the shaft as he slurps, making me grow rigid in the dark recesses of his throat. I can’t get enough of that.

But this is where I run into problems: most cocksuckers expect me to deliver, and to deliver quickly. They want the load as fast as they can get it, and I’m not exactly wired like that. My dick responds to ass, yes. It swells and pulses inside the tightness of a wet hole in a way it never can inside a mouth, no matter how delicious the feelings. With an ass, I usually have the option of varying the angle or the position if it’s not working for me. I get to speed up if I need, and to repeat the sensations that make me tingle.

With a mouth, I’m at the cocksucker’s mercy. If he’s good, I’ll enjoy myself. If he’s not, I’ll start to feel self-conscious. I’ll worry about the guy’s jaw, and wonder how he’s holding out. I’ll fret about him thinking me a jerk for holding out on him. If he gets really impatient and starts whacking at my dick as if it’s a pound of insensate meat, that’s usually my cue to say something polite and leave.

I’ve told all this to the guy, this unseen face on the other side of the gloryhole. The reason he convinced me to come over? Because he wrote, in all sincerity, If you cum, that’s cool. If you don’t, that’s cool too. I just want to suck that hot dick.

And suck it he does, all the way down. He plays with my balls roughly, grabbing them in his hands and tugging at them as he slurps his way up and down my shaft. My hands reach down and encircle my balls as he sucks. With my fingers I can feel a fine stubble on his jaw; he has a goatee of some sort, and a narrow, pronounced chin. I can feel his fist around my inches, but he’s not bruising it, or yanking the skin off. He’s just squeezing it to nurse out the squirts of pre-cum I produce so liberally. I can hear him hungrily enjoying every drop.

At the top of the wooden wall he’s screwed in two antique door handles. I grab onto them and thrust my hips hard against the wood. I’m not going to shoot, I realize. He’s going to be disappointed, no matter how polite he was about it. But still, his mouth feels good, so I’ll let him suck for a few more minutes.

Then he reaches out through the hole. His fingers tickle the area behind my balls, then snake their way to my hole. I can feel the underside of his forearm providing a shelf of support for my balls, my taint. His finger only tickles lightly outside my asshole, but it’s a new sensation that makes me groan aloud.

I grab onto the handles at the top of the wall for dear life. I’m not going to shoot, my mind repeats, over and over. My body’s responding differently, however. It’s shaking hard, up and down, fast as a jackhammer, while the stranger’s hand still toys with my hole. Even as my brain denies it, my orgasm arrives. It’s relentless, and hard, and feels less like a flush of pleasure than a cauldron of molten lead coursing from my veins.

My body can’t stop shaking. Even after I’ve released all the sperm I’m going to produce, and he’s withdrawn to leave my dick full and hanging just outside the hole, I’m still shuddering and twitching and trying to collect myself. I fasten my jeans, and twist my baseball cap back around so the brim’s in the front.

It’s not until I’m outside, and refreshed by the cold blast of winter air that my hands stop shaking enough to allow me to zip up my sweatshirt.