The Office Gloryhole

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If you like this story, why not check out my short story, The Couples' Massage - a short story ?

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Summary:

Mark, 37, a husband and father working for an accountancy firm, finds his quiet life shaken when he discovers a gloryhole in the office bathroom.

(Picture created by AI)

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Chapter One: The Hole in The Wall

Mark Hammond was a man of straight lines, his life a grid of predictable angles: a beige cubicle at Grayson & Sons Accounting, a grey Toyota in his appointed parking space, an unremarkable house with a wife who dutifully kissed him every morning and two kids who rarely looked up from their screens. At 37, he’d settled into the kind of dullness that didn’t even register as dull anymore, but rather just existence: a flatline of routine punctuated by the hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet clack of his keyboard.

The office bathroom was no different. Tiled in faded white, it smelled faintly of chlorinated bleach and a cheap pine air freshener spraying ineffectually above the sink. Mark used it daily, a ritual as mundane as his coffee break at 10:15. He preferred the last cubicle, the one tucked against the far wall, because it felt slightly less exposed, slightly less like someone might hear the rustle of his belt or the involuntary sigh of weariness he let out when he sat down. It was a small rebellion against the monotony, his private sanctum of solitude in a life that offered little else.

That Monday, though, something was different. As always, he’d slid the lock across the door, settled onto the cold seat, and let his mind slip into autopilot as his eyes drifted aimlessly across the graffiti etched into the paint: initials, crude drawings, the promise of a good time above a phone number that probably diverted to the Head of HR’s office. Typical bathroom nonsense, until he saw it: a hole. Not a scratch or a dent, not a divot or a chip, but a deliberate, circular cut in the wall between his cubicle and the adjacent room beyond the bathroom, about waist-height when standing. It was smooth-edged, sanded down, and maybe three inches across; big enough to notice, and small enough to pretend you hadn’t. That day, Mark Hammond discovered the gloryhole.

Mark froze; his breath caught in his throat, a sharp little hitch that echoed in the tiled silence. He stared at it, this anomaly in his ordered world, and felt a strange heat creep up his neck. He’d heard of such things, of course, from whispered stories in college and late-night documentaries he’d surfed past, but they belonged to different universe: one of seedy bars and desperate men, not the fifth floor of a mid-tier accountancy firm. Yet, staring back at him, like an unblinking eye: a gloryhole.

He stood abruptly, briefs still around his thighs, and yanked them up with more force than necessary. His rational mind kicked in, loud and indignant: ‘this is disgusting; someone should report this. Maintenance needs to fix it!’ But, as he tightened his belt, his eyes flicked back to the hole. It wasn’t just the existence of it that needled at him, it was the implication. Someone had made this. Someone had stood here, knelt here, done ‘something’ here, and someone else had been on the other side.

Back at his desk, Mark tried to focus. Spreadsheets blurred into rows of meaningless numbers. He tapped his pen against the edge of his keyboard, a nervous tic he hadn’t had since the stress of his twenties. His tie felt too tight; his collar too stiff. He shifted in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs, unable to shake the image of that hole from his mind. It gnawed at him, a splinter beneath his skin. Who’d made it? One of the junior accountants, surely, those cocky kids with their gelled hair and loud laughs? Or someone higher up, one of the suits with a secret? His mind conjured the women in his circle: Karen from HR with her red lipstick and sharp heels, or Lisa from marketing, all curves and confidence. He pictured them slipping into the dark room adjacent, dropping to their knees, lips parted, eager and waiting. The thought made his stomach twist, not entirely unpleasantly.

By Tuesday morning, it had become his obsession. He’d caught himself mid-meeting, doodling circles on his notepad, then scribbling them out in a paranoid panic. At home, he’d sit through dinner with his wife’s chatter about PTA meetings washing over him, nodding absently while his brain replayed the hole’s dimensions, its smooth edge, its perverse promise. He didn’t go back to the hole, but he was a slave to its call, a low hum rumbling beneath the surface of his thoughts. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he’d chided himself. He was straight, married, a father. He didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, do things like that. But his dick didn’t care about reason. It stirred, wanting and traitorous, at the worst moments: during a budget review, his daily commute, mid-call with clients; throbbing with a curiosity he couldn’t put a name to.

Wednesday afternoon, he cracked. The office was quiet, most people gone for an early weekend. Mark convinced himself that he was just checking, just confirming the hole was still there, before he would raise the Maintenance ticket. He locked the cubicle door behind him, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. The hole was unchanged, a dark portal teeming with unknown promise. He stood there. Stared. His breath shallow. His trembling hand hovering over his belt. ‘This is insane,’ his mind screamed. ‘Just walk away.’ But his body had other ideas: his dick was already half-hard, straining against his boxers, a quisling to his better judgement.

He unbuckled his best, the sound loud and accusatory in the stillness, and slid his pants down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and rising, the foreskin pulling back slightly as it swelled in anticipation. He hesitated, glancing at the hole, then at the locked door, then back. What if someone walked in? What if someone was already there, waiting? The thought sent a jolt through him, raw and electric and exciting! He stepped closer, the tiles echoing under his shoes, and angled himself toward the hole. His rational mind shrieked one last protest, ‘you’re not this guy!’, but it was drowned out by the pulse in his groin, the primal itch that demanded relief.

He pressed the tip of his cock against the edge of the hole, testing, teasing himself. The wood was cool and smooth, a contrast to the heat of his skin. He pushed forward, just an inch, then pulled back, a shudder of rebellious spirit running along his spine. He did it again, deeper this time, until half his length was through the hole, exposed to whatever, or whoever, might be on the other side. His breath hitched; he waited, tense, every nerve alight. And then he felt it.

A warm, wet flick against the head of his dick, a tongue. His knees buckled, a groan escaping before he could stop it. The sensation was immediate, overwhelming: soft lips closing around him; a slow, deliberate suction that made his vision blur. That tongue was a live wire, lapping at the sensitive head of his cock, sending jolts of raw pleasure surging through his body. Mark’s breath caught in his throat, rough and ragged, and he instinctively rocked his hips forward, chasing the promise of more. Those soft lips enveloped him then, wrapping around his throbbing shaft with a tenderness and hunger that felt almost reverent. The attention was all-consuming, a slick caress that coated every inch of his cock as the stranger’s mouth took him in, forming a tight, perfect seal that brought his foreskin forward and back over the tip with such relish that it made his toes curl inside his polished shoes.

The suction increased, slowly and deliberate, a masterful rhythm which traced his skin with exquisite precision. The tongue swirled along his length, teasing the tender underside of his shaft, tracing the pulsing vein there with a lewd, intentional flick that sent shivers racing up his spine. Each movement was a revelation: the lips sliding along his cock, the suction drawing him deeper into the wet, welcoming warmth. Mark’s fingers clawed at the partition, nails scraping the chipped paint, his knuckles whitening as he fought to stay upright. His mind dissolved into a haze of primal need and white noise, every shred of his orderly, rational self obliterated by the intensity of the pleasure washing over him. This wasn’t just a blowjob; it was a fucking epiphany.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. His wife’s hurried, half-hearted handjobs: dry, mechanical tugs, doled out reluctantly at birthdays and Christmas, were a faint shadow next to this. Even his own desperate, late-night strokes, hidden under the covers while the house slept, could not compare to the skill and enthusiasm of this anonymous mouth. The sheer filth of it, the taboo thrill of not knowing who was on the other side, ignited something feral in him. It was intoxicating, liberating, and awakening; Mark felt alive, his pulse hammering in his ears, his cock throbbing with a need he hadn’t known he could feel. The stranger’s mouth worked him with a reverence and greed that made his head spin, a sudden burst of technicolour in the beige monotony of his existence.

He couldn’t control himself, thrusting forward, hips jerking instinctively, and the mouth took him deeper, eager and unrelenting. His cock slid further into that wet heat, the tight ring of the stranger’s throat constricting around him, squeezing his shaft in a way that made his vision spark white. An audible swallow pulsed around his dick, the sound of it wet and sloppy and utterly shameless, pushing him closer to the edge. The tongue kept moving, relentless, lashing against him, while the lips maintained their grip, sucking him down with a hunger that felt almost predatory. Mark’s balls tightened, the pressure building at the base of his spine, a coiling heat that spread through his groin like wildfire. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, staccato and reverberating around him as his hips bucked harder, chasing the crescendo he could feel roaring toward him.

When he came, it was explosive: ropes of thick cum pulsing out of him, more than he’d ever managed before, a mind-blowing release that left him gasping, slumped against the wall. The dam within him broke with a violence that stole his breath, his cock erupting in thick, hot spurts that felt like they’d been ripped from the depths of his soul. Each pulse was a wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on sweet agony, his entire body trembling as he poured himself into that eager mouth. The stranger didn’t falter; those lips kept working, sucking and licking with a fervour that drew out every last drop, milking him through the orgasm with a dedication he’d never known. His cock twitched, hypersensitive, every touch a jolt that prolonged the ecstasy until he was a shuddering mess, utterly drained and spent.

He pulled back, dazed, and stumbled out of the cubicle without looking back, tie askew and face flushed. He didn’t know who’d been on the other side, and, frankly, he didn’t care. All he knew was he’d be back.

 

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Chapter Two: The Memory of Water

Mark stood under the showerhead that night, the water scalding hot, steam curling around him like a shroud. The day clung to him: spreadsheets, stale coffee, the hum of the office printer; but, beneath it all, something else pulsed, raw and insistent. The cubicle. The hole. The mouth. He’d made it through the drive home, dinner with Sarah and the kids, even the perfunctory “How was your day?” exchange, all with a mask of normalcy plastered over his face. But now, alone, the mask slipped.

He closed his eyes, letting the water drum against his shoulders, and it came back unbidden: the memory of that afternoon. His cock twitched, stirring against his thigh, already half-hard before he’d even touched in. ‘This is wrong,’ he thought, the words sharp in his mind, a reprimand from the man he used to be. He was a husband, a father, loyal, damn it! But the thought dissolved as his hand drifted lower, fingers brushing the coarse hair at this groin, then wrapping around the base of his dick. He was thick, uncut, the foreskin still snug over the tip even as he swelled. He gave it a slow tug, peeling it back, and a low groan escaped his lips, swallowed by the hiss of the water.

The memory sharpened. He could still feel it: the cool edge of the hole against his skin, the way his cock had throbbed as he pushed it through, exposed and vulnerable. Then that first flick of tongue, warm and wet, tracing the slit where a bead of precum had welled up. His hand moved now, mirroring the rhythm he imagined, slow and deliberate, his thumb circling the head now slick with shower water and his own leaking need. He pictured those lips: soft, plush, closing around him as the suction pulls at him like a tide. He’d felt every ridge of that tongue as t swirled under his foreskin, teasing the sensitive skin there, lapping at it with a hunger that threatened to weaken his knees even now.

His breath hitched, chest tight with the clash of shame and want? ‘Who was it?’ his mind raced; Karen’s sharp red lipstick flashing again behind his eyes, then Lisa’s glossy pout. Women he’d nodded to in the hallway, women he’d never dared look at too long. He squeezed his cock harder, stroking now from base to tip, and felt the veins pulse under his caress. The shower steam thickened, coating his lungs, and he’d leaned against the times, the cold a shock against his overheated back.

He replayed it frame by frame: the way that mouth had taken him deeper, lips stretching around his girth, the wet heat enveloping him inch by inch. He could still hear the faint slurping sound, muffled by the wall, could feel the vibration of a moan against his shaft. His hand sped up, slick and relentless, edging him closer. His balls tightened, heavy and full, swaying with each stroke, as he remembered the moment he’d lost control, thrusting into that anonymous warmth; the tip of his dick hitting the back of a throat that didn’t gag, just swallowed him down without complaint or struggle. His foreskin slid back fully now, the exposed head hypersensitive, every nerve screaming as he rubbed it with his palm, slow and torturous, dragging out the build.

‘You’re disgusting,’ his rational mind hissed, a voice from the life he’d built of mortgage payments, school report cards, family barbeques. But his dick simply didn’t care. It throbbed in his fist, thick and insistent, precum oozing over his knuckles, washed away by the spray. He was close, so close, teetering on the very edge, his whole body taut with the need to let go. He pictured the end, those final greedy sucks, and the way his cock had pulsed as it unloaded rope after rope of cum thick and hot, more than he’d ever shot before. The mouth had taken it all, tongue flicking over him as he’d shuddered through it, hypersensitive and helpless.

“Daddy?” A sharp knock on the bathroom door jolted him upright, his hand freezing mid-stroke. His eldest daughter’s voice, high and impatient, cut through the fog. “What’s taking so long? I need to brush my teeth!”

Mark’s hand slammed against his ribs, panic flooding him. His cock bobbed, painfully hard, inches from release. “I, uh, just a minute, sweetheart!” he called back, voice strangled and cracking on the last syllable. He turned the water colder, willing his erection down, but it wouldn’t obey, wouldn’t be denied. The memory clung, sticky and vivid, and his hand twitched, desperate to finish. “Go use the downstairs bathroom, okay?”

“But, my toothbrush is—”

“Please, Ellie, just go!” He winced at the edge in his tone, guilt piling onto the shame. He heard her huff, then the patter of her feet retreating, and he sagged against the wall, breath ragged. The cold water stung, but his dick stayed defiant, pulsing with unmet need. He gripped it again, slower this time, punishing himself with the pace. He couldn’t stop. Not now.

He closed his eyes and let it happen, the climax denied to him building again now, slower, deeper, a freight train rumbling through him. His toes curled against the wet floor, calves flexing as he stroked himself to the brink. With a strangled gasp, the orgasm hit like a punch to the gut; his cock jerked, spurting thick, white ropes against the shower wall, one after another, each pulse wrenching a grunt from this raw throat. He kept going, milking it like the mouth had, the hypersensitivity making him hiss as his hand slid over the slick, spent head. It was too much, too good, and he hated how much he loved it.

When it was over, he stood there like a prisoner on Death Row, panting as the water washed away the evidence of his shame. His legs trembled, weak from the release, and his mind spun, caught between disgust and a dark, gnawing hunger. He’d go back; he knew it. The hole had him now, a hook sunk deep into him, and no amount of soap or cold water could scrub it out.

 

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Chapter Three: The Presentation

Mark sat at the boardroom table, his tie a noose around his neck, palms damp against the edges of his presentation notes. The projector hummed, casting a pale glow over the room, but the numbers on the screen swam before his eyes, a blur of revenue projects and quarterly losses, a maze of data he was supposed to untangle for the suits staring him down. His boss, Greg Tanner, loomed at the head of the table: a former college linebacker turned corporate alpha, all broad shoulders and a jawline that could cut glass. Greg’s voice boomed earlier, demanding “clarity, Hammond, not excuses,” and now Mark felt the weight of it, his tongue thick, his thoughts scrambled.

He'd barely slept; the shower last night had left him raw, not cleansed. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the hole, felt that mouth, and his dick stirred like a beast waking up. Now, mid-sentence about tax write-offs, he faltered, his gaze flickering to the window looking out into the office, then back to the room. Greg’s executive assistant, Tim, hovered near the coffee cart, all slim hips and a fussed-up quiff, adjusting his cufflinks with a theatrical little flourish. Mark noticed the way Tim’s eyes lingered on the room’s occupants, having registered his presentation as mere background noise. Through the window, he clocked the burly security guard, Jamal, his uniform straining over thick arms, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow from his rounds. Beyond him, Mark’s gaze lingered on the figures congregated around the clichéd water cooler: Karen from HR, Lisa from Marketing, a young new intern in a too-tight silk blouse. His eyes scoped out their faces, pinning them to his fantasies, spurring another twitch from the depths of his underwear.

“Hammond, you with us?” Greg’s voice cut through, sharp and impatient. Mark blinked, nodding too fast, his mouth dry. “Yeah, sorry, uh, just—" he flustered, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. “Let’s take five; refreshments?” The room murmured agreement, chairs scraping as people stood. Mark bolted, muttering about needing the restroom, his notes crumpled in his fist.

The bathroom was empty when Mark locked the door to the last cubicle behind him. His breath came shallow, chest tight with nerves and something darker, something that throbbed low in his gut. The hole stared back at him, unchanged, a silent invitation. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. But his hands were already at his belt, fumbling; the metal clink loud in the tiled hush. His pants hit the floor, boxers following, and his cock sprang free: thick, throbbing, already leaking a glistening bead at the sheathed tip. He stepped closer, the air cool against his overheated skin, and pressed himself to the hole, sliding in slowly, deliberately, savouring the edge of it.

Nothing.

He waited, heart hammering, every nerve taut. The seconds stretched into minutes, the silence of the room interrupted only by the thumping of Mark’s heart and the impotent spraying of the automated air freshener, long overdue for a refill. Mark felt his stomach start to knot, his frustration at his own poor performance in the boardroom coiling within him and turning sour as he dropped his forehead against the bathroom wall, a whine of desperation falling from his lips. ‘Fuck,’ he chided himself, ‘what am I doing here?’ He sucked in an intake of air through his nose, tilting his face skyward as he silently berated himself for his easy distraction and sincere disappointment. He took a half-step back, resolving to return to his presentation and try to save the remnants of his career prospects when a sound from the adjacent room reached his ears.

The jangle of keys, hurried and clumsy, followed by the creak of a door hinge, the kind of loud, slow squeak that doors only make when someone is trying to make a quiet entrance. Mark stilled, his fear of being caught paralysing him though his mind railed, pleading for his body to cooperate and pull away. Goosebumps prickled his bare legs, trembling, fearing that to move would draw attention to his dick, still through the hole. He waited, willing his dick not to give him away. Then it happened.

A first tentative lick, as warm and as wet as his memory retained from the first time, flicking over the head of his dick, teasing the slit. He groaned, low and guttural, his hands flattening against the wall. The tongue circled him, slow and languid, in no rush as it traced the ridge where his foreskin pulled back and lapping at the overly sensitive skin beneath with a patience that made his thighs tremble anew. He pushed forward, hips twitching, and the mouth opened wider, lips stretching to take him, soft and plush, a perfect seal around his girth. The suction started, gentle at first, then firmer, pulling at him like it was trying to draw his soul out through his cock.

Mark’s head tipped back again, eyes squeezed shut, the presentation forgotten. He could feel every detail: the way the tongue flattened against the underside of his shaft, sliding back and forth; the faintest scrape of teeth that sent a jolt up his spine; the hot, wet pulse of a throat constricting around him as he thrust shallowly. His balls hung heavy, brushing the wall with each movement, tightening as the pleasure built. The mouth worked him expertly, pausing to suckle at the top, tongue dipping into the leaking slit, then sliding down to take him whole again: a slow, tortuous rhythm that edged him closer and closer to total ruin without letting him fall.

He was lost in it, the world shrinking to the heat, the wet, the unadulterated need. His rational brain screamed at him, ‘you’re at work, you idiot!’, but it was drowned by the animal in him, the part that craved this, needed it. His cock pulsed, thick and straining, his foreskin slick as it slid back fully, exposing the head to every flick and suck. He gripped the wall harder, nails digging in, his breath ragged gasps.

The climax loomed, a tidal wave, and when it hit, it was shattering. His dick jerked, spurting thick, hot gushes of his load, one after another, flooding the mouth on the other side. The suction didn’t falter, milking him again through it, tongue swirling over his hypersensitive tip as he shuddered weakly, a hoarse moan tearing free. His knees buckled, but he caught himself against the wall, panting, spent, as clarity washed over him like the aftershocks of pleasure. He pulled back, still dazed, cum dripping from his softening cock, and yanked his trousers up fast. The mirror showed his flushed face, pupils blown, but he doused it with water as he heard the squeak of the door hinges in the distance. With a heavy breath, he straightened his crooked tie and strode back to the boardroom, a new man.

The room was fuller now; Greg was back and settling into his chair, his cheeks faintly pink, a bead of sweat at this temple despite the air conditioning. “Good break?” he asked, voice gruff, and Mark nodded, not meeting his eyes. As he grabbed a beaker of water and returned to the presentation screen, Tim slipped in late and slunk over to his spot at the coffee cart, his quiff slightly mussed as he smoothed it back with a quick, nervous gesture. Mark’s colleague, Dave, a perpetually red-faced man with a dirty laugh and a perpetually messy desk, bustled in last, muttering, “sorry, huge queue in the bathroom,” though Mark was sure the stalls had been empty. He didn’t dwell on it. Couldn’t, even. His mind was too sharp now, honed by release.

He nailed the rest of the presentation; the numbers clicked, his voice steady and gestures crisp as each point he made hit home to the meeting attendees. Greg clapped him on the shoulder after, a rare grin cracking his face. “Knew you had it in you, Hammond, just needed to let it out, eh?” Mark beamed, the unintentional accuracy causing a rise of heat in his cheeks. “Keep this energy up,” Greg’s smile dropped, his voice a pointed warning. “I don’t want you slipping just because it’s your birthday next week.”

Mark forced a laugh, the word ‘birthday’ lodging in his brain like a seed. He nodded, already half-dreaming of tomorrow, of the hole, of his next fix.

 

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Chapter Four: Degrees of Separation

Friday stretched out like a taut wire, every hour coiling tighter around Mark’s fraying nerves. His birthday loomed: Monday, a day that once meant a limp slice of supermarket cake and an obligatory conjugal fumble under the duvet, Sarah’s hands quick and perfunctory, her sighs more weary than wanting. Now, though, it pulsed in his mind with a darker promise. He pictured her kneeling before him, her prim mouth worshipping his aching dick, neat hair shaken wild as she swallowed him deep. It was a fantasy so absurd, it almost made him laugh, yet it stoked the fire in his gut all the same. The weekend yawned ahead, two interminable days trapped at home with Sarah’s clipped efficiency and the kids’ endless racket: social media apps blaring, squabbles over the remote, no chance to slip away, no release. His fingers twitched against his desk, tapping an erratic rhythm; his knee bounced beneath it, a restless tic he couldn’t quell. The hole had become his lifeline, he ruminated; a dirty little secret that steadied his unravelling edges, and he needed it now, a fix to tide him over before the drought. Lunch break was his window.

He slipped out of his cubicle at noon, palms slick with sweat, a lie about grabbing a sandwich tossed over his shoulder to Dave as he bolted for the door. His tie felt like a garrotte, too tight against his throat, and he tugged at it as he hurried down the corridor, footsteps echoing too loud in his ears. As he passed Janice from Accounts and the new lad from IT with his nosy grin, every glance from his colleagues felt like a spotlight, as if they could see the itch under his skin, the hunger driving him. The bathroom door loomed ahead, and he shoved through it, the hum of the vent greeting him like a conspirator. His heart sank as the last toilet cubicle’s lock glowed red. Occupied. He froze, breath catching, then ducked into the adjacent stall, the one sharing the wall with what he now thought of as ‘his’ spot, and slid the lock across with an unsteady hand. He’d wait, he bargained, just a minute or two, long enough for whoever it was to clear out. He leaned against the partition, breath shallow, straining to hear the shuffle of departure, the flush that would signal his turn.

Instead, he heard something else: a low, wet slurp, unmistakeable, followed by a muffled groan that hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach flipped; someone was using the hole. ‘His’ hole. Right now. His dick twitched, traitorously alert, and he pressed his ear closer, the cool metal of the partition grounding him even as his pulse raced. The sounds sharpened: another slurp, wetter, deeper, then a soft, choked gag that sent a shiver down his spine. His mouth went dry, his fingers flexing against the wall, and then came the voice: a hoarse whisper, rough-edged and dripping with filth, seeping through the partition like smoke curling under a door.

“Fuck, yeah, take it, you greedy little slut,” the guy hissed, his words sharp and jagged, the kind Mark had never dared let cross his lips, even in his darkest thoughts. “Suck that fat cock like you’re starving for it.” Another slurp, louder, wetting, punctuated by a soft sucking that painted a vivid picture in Mark’s mind. His breath hitched, his hand resting on his belt, trembling with indecision. He shouldn’t; he knew it, felt the weight of the office just beyond the door, the risk of it all. But his cock was already swelling, straining against his slacks, his thick, uncut beast waking up to the sound of depravity. The voice pressed on, relentless. “That’s it; choke on it, you dirty little bitch. Bet you’ve been dreaming about this all day, haven’t you? Lips stretched wide, drooling all over my dick.”

A grunt, then a slick, rhythmic sound: flesh against flesh, the unmistakeable slide of a mouth working hard, spit-slick and eager. Mark’s resolve crumbled as his belt clinked open; he shoved his trousers down just enough, briefs snagging momentarily before his hand closed around his shaft: hot and heavy, the foreskin already slick with precum. He stroked once, slow, biting his lip to stifle a groan as the heat surged through him. The guy’s narration turned nastier, a torrent of filth that clouded Mark’s mind, drowning out the faint voice that screamed ‘stop’ in his head. “Look at you, gagging like a cheap whore. You love it, don’t you? Bet you’re wet just thinking about this load I’m going to paint your throat with.” Another wet smack, a low and guttural growl, then, “Fuck! Swallow it deeper, you cocksucking bitch!” Mark’s hand sped up, matching the rhythm he imagined: slow, deep thrusts, the suction pulling at a dick he couldn’t see but could feel in his bones. His own cock pulsed, the tip glistening as he skinned his foreskin back and forth, thumbing the sensitive helmet, every nerve alight.

The sounds grew messier now: gags mingling with wet slurps, a faint whimper that could have come from either side, and Mark’s imagination ran wild. He pictured it, vivid and unbidden: lips stretched wide around the man’s thick shaft, spit dripping down a chin, a tongue lashing against his hairy balls. He didn’t let himself think beyond that, didn’t dare consider the ‘who’ or the ‘what.’ It was some faceless vixen from the office, surely; Karen with her knowing smirk, maybe, or Lisa with her brazen curves, who else could it be? His strokes grew frantic, the dirty talk sinking hooks into him, dragging him deeper into depravity. “Gonna blow so hard, you’ll fucking choke on it, you filthy little cumslut,” the guy rasped, voice cracking with strain. “Here it fucking comes, drink it down, every fucking dro—ungh!” A choked moan tore through the wall, then silence, heavy and thick, broken only by the faint sound of swallowing, a soft gulp that sent Mark careening over the edge.

Mark lost it. His hand flew, click and desperate, the cubicle wall rattling as he braced against it with his free arm. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, vision blurring as he pumped himself harder, the filth echoing in his head: demeaning, delicious, a siren call to his basest instincts. His balls tightened, drawn up close to the base of his throbbing dick, and his orgasm ripped through him like a storm breaking. His cock jerked violently, spraying thick scatters of cum against the tiles underfoot, one shower after another, a rushing flood he couldn’t stop. He gasped, a strangled sound escaping his throat, his body shuddering as he milked himself through the hypersensitivity; each stroke a new jolt, his dick twitching in his grip, tip glistening with the last dribbles of release. His knees gave way, collapsing against the wall, chest heaving and sweat beading on his brow as the world swam back into focus.

He slumped, panting, cum streaking the floor in obscene patterns, his hand sticky and trembling. The other cubicle fell quiet; then footsteps shuffled, a flush roared, and the toilet cubicle door clicked open, its occupant leaving without washing his hands. Mark scrambled to clean up, dragging toilet paper across the tiles with shaking hands, wiping his palm on his trouser leg when it wouldn’t come clean from an errant droplet. Shame clawing at him, sharp and familiar, but beneath it, a dark satisfaction simmered, warm and steadying. He could get through a weekend of Sarah’s curt nods and his kids’ noisy chaos, his thirst abated and nerves balmed by the release. Monday, his birthday, glowed on the horizon like a beacon, and he found himself looking forward to Sarah’s obligatory interest in satisfying him, his mind conjuring newfound dynamics they could explore. He straightened out the creases in his shirt, smoothed his hair in the scratched mirror, and slipped back into the office, his rumbling stomach the only hint of his adventurous lunch break.

 

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Chapter Five: Happy Birthday, Mark

The weekend was a slow, torturous bleed of frustration. Mark tried, God knows he tried, to spark something with Sarah, anything to break the monotony and stoke the fire that had been smouldering since Friday’s release. Friday night, he’d set the stage: tiding the lounge after the kids crashed, lighting a candle she’d once liked, and suggesting a film with a sly “Maybe something romantic?” She’d glanced at him over her phone, scrolling through cookie recipes for an upcoming PTA event, muttering “Too tired, Mark, maybe tomorrow,” as she turned back to her screen.

Saturday, he doubled down, followed her around the kitchen as she prepped lunch, brushing the small of her back while she chopped carrots, leaning in to whisper “You look good today”, his voice thick with hope. She shrugged, said, “The kids need feeding, Mark, not flattery,” her focus on the knife unwavering. That night, he’d dimmed the lights, poured her a glass of the pinot she liked, slid his hand along her waist while they washed dished, fingers tracing the curve of her hip. She smiled, distracted, said “I’m knacked from chasing the kids all day,” and pulled away to fold laundry.

Sunday, he was desperate, lingered in bed after the alarm, pressed himself against her under the covers, letting his morning wood nudge her thigh with clear intent, his breath hot against her neck. “Not now, Mark,” she muttered, rolling away, leaving him hard and aching, staring at the ceiling as his daughters’ arguing voices rose up from the floor below. In the evening, he paced the lounge, horny and restless, his dick throbbing at every stray thought of the hole. He’d tried flirting again over dinner, a suggestive little, “You in that apron’s doing things to me,” but she’d scoffed, told him to focus on the washing up, and turned on the TV. By Sunday night, he was a coiled spring, his skin prickling with unspent need, hanging all his hopes on the expectations of his birthday.

Monday morning dawned grey and ordinary, a drizzle streaking the windows. Mark woke to the kids’ clatter downstairs, no trace of the playful birthday wakeup he’d half-expected, Sarah’s hand or mouth a rare gift from their early years when she’d grinned and obliged with an eager touch. Today, she’d pecked his cheek over coffee, handing his a card with a generic “To Mark, Love Sarah” scrawled inside, and shooed him out with a distracted, “You need to shower, don’t be late for work.” In their bathroom, he’d hinted harder, towel slung low and cock half-hard as he leaned against the sink, grinning at her reflection while she brushed her teeth. “Maybe a little something special, today?” She frowned, toothbrush pausing, her eyes narrowing in the mirror. He pushed it further, voice low and reckless, “How about… you know, your mouth?” Her face soured, toothpaste dripping as she spat, “Seriously, Mark? That’s disgusting. I’m not some porn star.” She stormed out, slamming the bathroom door behind her, leaving him with blue balls and a simmering resentment, his erection wilting under the sting of rejection. ‘Happy fucking birthday,’ he thought, stepping into the spray, letting it scald his skin.

The commute was a slog, traffic crawling; his hands gripped the wheel as he brooded, Sarah’s words looping in his head, dick still tingling with unmet need. At the office, he was a mess, snapping at Dave over a simple misplaced file, “Where’s the bloody report, mate? I don’t need this today!” His tone was sharper than intended, coffee sloshing over his sleeve as his hands shook. Dave chattered on about football, oblivious and undeterred, while Tim cornered him in the breakroom, his sharp eyes probing, “You alright, Mark? You look off.” He brushed him off, “Fine, just busy,” his voice as jittery as his pulse. Greg grunted approvingly from the coffee machine, muttering something about deadlines that Mark ignored, his mind already drifting to the bathroom. By 9:30, he couldn’t take it any longer; the hole called, an irresistible magnet drawing him in, drowning out the hum of printers and chatter. He slipped away, muttering about a phone call, dodging the new IT lad’s curious glance; his steps quickened as he strode down the corridor, rehearsing excuses in his head, tie loosened to ease the chokehold on his throat.

The bathroom was quiet, the hum of the vent a low drone as he pushed through the door, his heart pounding as he scanned the stalls. The last cubicle was thankfully empty, the gloryhole a dark promise staring back at him, unchanged, waiting. He locked the door, trousers down in seconds, dick already raging and desperate, foreskin already retracted with unbridled need as he shoved it through the hole. His breath hitched with anticipation, fingers trembling against the wall.

But nothing happened. No warm breath, no eager tongue, just the cold silence of the tiled room with the faint whiff of bleach mocking him. He shifted foot to foot, tapping an impatient rhythm, sweat beading on his brow as he mutters, “Come on, someone… anyone…” Minutes dragged, his hope fraying as his dick twitched in the cold air, neglected, a bead of precum slipping free to drip onto the floor.

“Fucking typical,” he muttered, voice low, bitter, his forehead pressed against the partition. “Can’t even get a birthday blowjob. Wife won’t touch me, and now this? What a joke.” He rambled on, pouring his heart out to the silence, “Some birthday, nobody cares. I just wanted one damn thing, one bloody break. Not too much to ask, is it?” His hand hovered over his shaft, debating a quick wank to spite the universe, frustration boiling and chest tight with the weight of the world, when a sudden heat cut him off, soft lips brushing the tip of his cock, tentative then firm, closing around him with purpose, a jolt that snapped his eyes wide.

He gasped, hips jerking forward; the mouth took him deeper in a slow, deliberate slide that sent a shiver up his spine, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill of waiting. The tongue flicked out, tracing the slit, lapping up the precum beaded there with a slow, teasing relish, and then dipped lower, down his shaft and over the tight, sensitive skin of his balls, its heat a shock that made him groan, loud and raw. It lingered there, sucking gently, rolling each one with a reverence that made his knees tremble, fingers curling against the wall as his breath caught in his throat. Then, it ventured further, wet and bold, sliding along his taint, a place no-one had ever toughed; the sensation was electric, sending a shockwave through his core that left him dizzy, his “Oh fuck, yes” unplanned but not unwelcome, echoing in the stall around him. The tongue lingered, probing, slick and fearless, drawing a shudder from deep within him, his thighs quaking as he pressed harder against the wall.

The mouth returned to his cock, engulfing him, lips stretching wide as it worked him with agonising slowness, its suction perfect, tight, wet, pulling at him like it wanted to unravel him thread by thread. The swirled under his foreskin, teasing the tender skin with delicate flicks, then flattened against the underside of the helmet, dragging back and forth in a torturous rhythm that edged him closer, his pulse hammering in his ears. His balls tightened, drawn up against his body, dick pulsing in that hot, greedy grip, but the mouth wouldn’t let him finish. It paused, suckling the tip with a soft pop, then pulled back, leaving him panting, teetering on the brink, body trembling with the strain, his muttered “Come on, please,” barely audible.

“Please,” he rasped, voice cracking, dignity gone, “Fuck, please, let me cum. I, fuck, I need it… please… it’s my bloody birthday.” The words spilled out, desperate, pleading; his hands clawing at the wall as the mouth finally relented, diving back in, taking him deep with a hunger that matched his own. Then it started, a slow, vibrating hum, the tune of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ buzzing against his cock like a live wire, the vibrations rippling through his shaft, his balls, his core: a maddening pule that shattered his control. He came undone, a guttural moan tearing free as his dick erupted, a torrent of cum, flowing continuously as only a three-day-load can, flooding the mouth that still hummed through it, relentless, swallowing every drop with a greed that student him, the celebratory tune stretching the orgasm into a mind-blowing climax. His vision whited out, the probing tongue unbearable yet exquisite, his cock twitching, spent and raw, as the mouth kept going with a soft and teasing hum that forced a second shuddering wave: a dry, torturous peak that left him whimpering, “Fuck, enough,” as he rested his forehead against the wall.

Mark pulled back, dazed, as cum dripped down his softening shaft, his workload a distant memory obliterated by the high. He wiped himself with shaky hands, toilet paper sticking to his sweaty fingers as he swabbed the tiles where a stray drop had landed. Adjusting his trousers and smoothing his shirt, his mind reeled at the contrast of Sarah’s cold rejection versus the hole’s searing generosity. The bland card, the grey morning, the kids’ noise; all of it faded, drowned by the raw thrill still buzzing in his veins, sated, yet hungry. “Fuck it,” he muttered, chuckling weakly, “Round two.” He checked his watch, 9:45, plenty of day left, and pressed himself to the hole again, half-hard already, ready to lose himself once more; birthday blues forgotten, mind already focused on the next fix, the next hum, the next shudder of release.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Six: A Whisper of Sugar

Mark floated through the afternoon, his mood soaring after the morning’s double hit at the gloryhole, a lightness in his step that hadn’t been there in years. The bathroom’s raw thrill lingered, his limbs loose and chest humming with a quiet, reckless joy as if he’d tapped into some secret well of vitality. He leaned back in his chair, tie undone, whistling a snatch of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ under his breath, a grin tugging at his lips as he stretched, joints popping with a satisfying crack. Emails piled up unread, their red flags meaningless, the numbers on his screen unimportant today, powerless to drag him down. Janice shot him a narrow look from across the aisle, muttering to her neighbour, “He’s too bloody cheerful, that one,” but the kid just laughed, tossing back, “It’s his birthday, leave him be,” without breaking the deft swipes of his fingers over the keyboard. Mark didn’t care, he waved them off with a lazy hand, his mind still buzzing from the hole’s magic.

Dave caught it first, leaning over the cubicle wall, dabbing sweat from his brow with the tail of his tie, “You’re like a different man this afternoon, Hammond, what’s got you grinning like a twat?” Mark chuckled, a deep, rolling sound that felt foreign but good, “Birthday perk, mate, found a way to keep the day interesting.” Dave raised an eyebrow, smirking, “What, a pint at lunch? A cheeky wank in your car? Come on, spill it, you’re practically bouncing.” Mark leaned it, voice low, conspiratorial, “Let’s just say I’ve got a trick up my sleeve, keeps the blood pumping, you should try it sometime.” Dave guffawed, clapping the partition between their desks, “You sly bastard, keep it up, whatever it is, and try not to make me too jealous!” He ducked behind his desk, muttering about deadlines, but the exchange fueled Mark’s high; the hole was his edge, a gift that kept on giving, better than any lunchtime pub crawl.

His mind wandered, picturing the lads in on it, a filthy pact to spice up the grind: Dave slapping his back with a “Nice one, mate,” as they queued up for their turn on the vixen behind the hole, Greg grunting approval while he waited his turn, Tim keeping tabs with that stiff efficiency as he lounges against the door, smirking, “Next!” A shared release, a secret club cutting through the office’s grey haze, their laughter echoing over the hum of the vent and the moaning of the secret slut, a brotherhood born in the fifth-floor bathroom. His dick twitched at the thought, a warm pulse under his desk, and he shifted, crossing his legs, savouring the image; the day felt alive now, electric with possibility.

Around 2:30pm, Tim materialised at Mark’s desk, a study in pressed slacks and a warm smile that somehow didn’t quite reach his eyes, carrying a chocolate cupcake piled high with a tower of whipped cream and a coffee, setting both down with mechanical precision on Mark’s blotter. “Happy birthday,” he nodded, his voice clipped but earnest, before adding “black, with a whisper of sugar? Thought you might need this.” Mark blinked, thrown by the gesture and the knowledge that Tim had memorised his coffee preferences; hell, he reasoned, the guy was so meticulous that he probably knew everyone’s coffee preferences by heart! The cream glistened like a tease, a dollop slipping down the side of the cupcake. “Cheers, Tim, didn’t expect that,” he said, reaching for the treat, but Tim was already moving away, one hand smoothing out his quiffed and lacquered hair, throwing a dismissive “Don’t mention it, enjoy,” over his shoulder.

Mark licked the cream slowly, letting it melt on his tongue, its sweetness tying back to the decadence of the hole, his mind drifting back to the thought of the office lads sharing it: Dave elbowing him, “Your go, birthday boy!”; Greg barking, “Hurry up, Hammond, some of us have work!”; Tim ticking off names as a parade of faceless accountants, IT nerds, security guards and administrators entered and left the bathroom. A messy, raucous crew, blowing off steam between spreadsheets, their grunts a secret anthem known only to them and the mystery mouth behind the hole. His dick stirred again as he put down the cupcake and sipped at the coffee, letting the fantasy roll; the office droned on, oblivious, but he felt like a king in his corner.

The clock hit 3, and Mark’s high thickened. He hadn’t touched his inbox since the morning, hadn’t seen the red-flagged email from Greg about the Q4 projections, due at 2:30; the deadline had slipped by, unnoticed in his glow. He was mid-bite, chocolate smearing his lips, crumbs dusting his shirt, when Greg’s voice roared down the hall, “Hammond! My office, now!” The cupcake fell, splattering on his desk, heads snapping up with eyes wide in dread. Mark’s stomach dropped, his high faltered; he stood, coffee spilling as he grabbed it, and walked the gauntlet towards Greg’s domain, each step sinking his mood.

Standing in Greg’s office, the door clicking shut behind him like a trap, Mark took in a tense breath; the air was heavy with stale coffee and what he assumed was Greg’s cologne, a heady musk that choked the room. Greg loomed behind his desk, all muscle and menace, his linebacker frame hulking over the chair, pacing as he slammed a drawer, jaw tense as he stared down his subordinate. His face was flushed, a vein pulsing at his temple and his voice a low, intimidating growl. “Q4 projections, Hammond, due at 2:30. Where are they?” Mark opened his mouth to respond, “I was just—” but Greg cut in, “Save it. I don’t care about your birthday buzz, or that bloody cupcake; you think one good presentation means you can slack off?” He leaned forward, fists on the desk, knuckles white. “You’re a liability, Mark, not a fucking star; shape up or you’re out on your arse, got it?” His voice rose, “What’s next, missing the audit? Forgetting your own fucking name? All because you’re too busy grinning like a fucking idiot?”

The words hit hard, peeling back Mark’s joy; he shrank, his earlier swagger crumbling and cheeks burning as Greg’s bulk towered over him. A scolded boy playing in a man’s suit. “Sorry, Greg, I’ll have it by morning,” he muttered, voice small, his mind flashing back to the hole, its lift now a distant taunt. Greg scoffed, “Morning? You’re lucky I don’t bin you today; get out, fix it!” Mark slunk out, head low; the silence in the office telling him that his coworkers had made themselves scarce as they always did when Greg was in one of his tempers. Looking at the smashed remains of his cupcake, smeared across his desk and mouse, the last of his high snuffed out and at the back of his mind, the itch returned, sharp and insistent: he needed the hole.

The bathroom was empty, the last cubicle his refuge as he locked the door, trousers and briefs down fast and cock springing free, thick, uncut, and hardening with indignant fury, this morning’s weakness a forgotten memory. He shoved it through the hole without any ceremony, the wood biting his girth, fists clenched and breath halting. The mouth came thankfully quick, warm and wet, wrapping around him with a hunger matching his rage. He thrust, hard, hips slamming forward and burying himself deep, the wall shaking with his force.

“Take it,” he snarled, voice jagged, new, “Fucking choke on it.” The mouth gagged softly, the sound spurring him as he thrust again, brutal, relentless; his balls slapping against the wall as the tongue, the tongue swirling under his foreskin, lapping the ridge, but Mark didn’t want finesse, this was about power, reclaiming Greg’s sting. “Yeah, suck it, Greg” he spat the name like profanity, “How’s that for a report?” He pictured the lads cheering him on, Dave yelling “Stick it to him,” as Tim nodded, Greg humbled, throat full of subordinate cock as he laughed, a shared win over management-inflicted grind; not Greg sucking, but Greg beaten down. The fantasy flared, wild, wrong, but it was control, he convinced himself, not lust.

His thrusts turned savage, hips pumping as the mouth gagged harder, spit dripping unseen. “Take it all,” he growled, “every fucking inch of my fucking liability, Greg!” His dick pulsed, straining, foreskin receding with every bob of the head, balls tightening, pressure surging. He came suddenly with a roar, thick, hot ropes blasting out from his bellend, flooding that beautiful throat; the lads’ imagined cheers pushing his orgasm higher, mind-blowing, disrespectful, depraved. He shuddered, the mouth cleaning him thoroughly, tongue flicking the tip until he hissed, pulling back, spent and shaking.

“Shit,” he muttered, hoarse, “Thanks… Sorry, lost it.” The words stumbled out awkwardly, the hole silent in response. He yanked his trousers up, wiped his brow with the sleeve of his crumpled shirt. As he stumbled out of the cubicle, he told himself it was about the power, his filthy fantasy, not about getting sucked off by a guy. His pulse raced, clinging to the excuse like a life preserver in stormy seas.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Seven: Blowing Off Steam

The clock struck 5 p.m. as Dave clapped Mark on the shoulder, his balding, rosy face splitting into a grin, “Come on, birthday boy, drink’s on me, you look like you need it after Greg’s tantrum.” Mark hesitated, still rattled from the office blowout, his brutal release in the bathroom a fresh echo, but the lure of beer, the chance to shake off the day, tugged him along. They landed at O’Malley’s, a dim dive bar two blocks from work, its flickering neon signs buzzing over sticky tables, the air thick with hops, fried onions, and a faint whiff of spilled lager. Mark sank into a booth, cracked vinyl creaking under him, the day’s weight loosening if only a fraction, as the jukebox kicked out a bass-heavy tune.

Two pints in, Dave was loose-lipped, his eyes locked on the barmaid, a curvy redhead with freckles dusting her cleavage, her laugh cutting through the din like a siren. She leaned over the bar, pouring a draught, skirt hugging her hips and blouse straining as she moved. “Look at her,” Dave muttered, leaning close, his voice thick with buzz, “Those hips, those tits, I’d bend her over the bar right now, fuck her till she’s screaming, bet she’s tight as a drum, wet as a river.” Mark laughed, a low, conspiratorial rumble, his dick stirring hard at the image as he pictured it: her skirt hiked up, Dave pounding her from behind, her moans bouncing off the bottles, pussy clenching around him as she begged for more. The hole flickered in his mind, wet lips and eager tongue, and he shifted, jeans tightening, his breath catching as the barmaid’s floral perfume drifted over. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice rougher than intended, “She’d fucking love it, spread wide, dripping.”

They stumbled to the urinal later, beers sloshing in their guts, the barmaid’s flirty wink as she’d cleared their empties still searing their heads, her hips swaying as she’d walked away. Mark unzipped, his cock half-hard and heavy in his hand, the tiles cold under his boots as Dave grumbled beside him, “Fuck, man, she’s got me too stiff to piss, just need a tight hole to shove it in, you know? Her cunt gripping me till I blow.” Mark nodded, grinning as his eyes closed, but his grip lingered, fingers brushing his shaft, a slow, absent stroke sending warmth up his spine, reckless and bold. He kept going, soft and teasing, foreskin sliding back, precum collecting at the tip, his thumb smearing it over the head; barmaid’s hips looping in his mind, her imagined moans urging him on. Dave caught it, barked a laugh, “Jesus, Mark, save it for home, you perv, night’s done!” He zipped up, still chuckling, and staggered out, leaving Mark red-faced, alone at the trough. Dick throbbing, he squeezed once more, another jolt of heat, and forced himself to stop, shame prickling hot at his ears as he tucked himself away, the ache unrelenting.

Back home, Sarah slept beside him, her breathing even and oblivious, nightdress a chaste wall between them. Mark lay awake, the barmaid’s hips and Dave’s filthy fantasy circling in his thoughts, erection a persistent ache under the sheets. He slid his hand down, boxers tugged low, wrapping it around his cock: raging, foreskin slicked back, dripping already, the skin hot against his palm. He stroked slow, deliberate, foreskin gliding back, thumb tracing circles over the slick head, suppressing the low groan caught in his throat. The hole crept into his thoughts, who was it? Karen’s sharpened nails clawing the wall? Lisa’s pout stretched wide? The new intern, her name not important enough to even recall, choking on his length? Some vixen who’d craved it, who’d sucked him dry, her pussy dripping as she debased herself before him; he pictured her: faceless, eager and loving each inch. His mind spun with beer and lust, fogging despite his aching urges.

Sleep took him mid-stroke, hand still on his dick, the dream unfurling: vivid, wet, and relentless. He knelt behind a gloryhole, a pussy pressed to the opening, pink and glistening, folds parted, dripping with need. He licked it, slow and hungry, tasting salt and musk as his tongue delved deep, circling her clit as she moaned on the other side, a throaty, desperate sound that vibrated through the wall. His cock throbbed in his hand, thick and leaking, as he imagined her, the faceless slut, some eager barmaid or office vixen, hips grinding against the partition as she begged for more, her wetness dripping down his chin. The scene shifted, he peeked through the hole and saw her getting fucked, legs split wide, a thick cock slamming into her, stretching her pussy now glistening with her juices as her moans sharpened into gasps. He watched, mesmerised, the rhythm hypnotic, the slick slide of flesh against flesh stirring a hunger deep and unnameable.

He watched as she came, shuddering, her pussy clenching as cum dripped down her thighs, pooling on the tiled floor underneath. Mark leaned in, cleaning her, lapping at the mess, juices sharp and tangy on his tongue; her gasps egged him on, dick pulsing harder as he sucked her clean, savouring every drop. The cock pulled out of her, still hard, dripping with her fluids, bead hanging at the tip, and slid itself through the gloryhole, inches from his face: glistening, musky, coated in her with a scent that hit him, heavy and primal. He froze, breath catching, his mind locked on her pussy, her moans, but his tongue flicked out, almost on instinct, brushing the tip, tasting her on it, the salt of her mixing with something else, something thicker; his cock jolted, shockwaves ripping through him.

Mark jolted awake, a choked groan tearing free; his cock erupted, pulsing hard, cum firing into his boxers, thick, hot, soaking through as his body writhed, hips bucking as spurts coated his hand, his belly, the sheets tangling in the chaos. He lay panting, dream fading as he clung to the thought of her pussy, her gasps, convincing himself that’s what did it, but the image of that slick, cum-covered cock lingered, unacknowledged at the back of his mind, the dirty spark that ignited the fuse of his orgasm, as he drifted back to sleep, sticky and spent.

Mark dragged himself into the office at 6:45 a.m., the sky still bruised with dawn, his boxers swapped but the wet dream’s aftertaste clinging, a faint musk in his nose. Greg’s ultimatum loomed, Q4 projections or bust, so he’d come in early, coffee in hand, determined to claw back control; his desk lamp cast a lonely glow, the air conditioning’s hum his only companion as he hunched over the report, numbers blurring into a penance for yesterday’s lapse. The hole taunted him, a phantom itch, every creak of the building whispering its promise as his dick twitched at the thought. He fought it, focusing on the screen, but his mind wouldn’t, couldn’t, settle.

Coworkers trickled in, Mark’s eyes flicked up, a twisted little inner voice sizing them up. Karen from HR strode past, heels clicking, lips a bold red: he pictured those lips wrapped around him, sucking him dry, a secret slut beneath her prim blouse, throat tight and eager. Then Lisa from Marketing, all curves, confidence, tossing her hair as she waved good morning; maybe she’s knelt there, craving the anonymity, pussy soaked as she took him deep. His dick stirred, a low throb, as he shifted and forced his focus back to the spreadsheet; it had to be a slut, that’s who’d love it and get off on it, his brain locked onto that logic.

Across the office, the copier whirred; Mark’s gaze drifted, someone was bent over it, loading paper, their slacks clinging to a pert, bubble ass, round, tight, swaying lewdly with each move. His breath hitched, ‘fuck, perfect’; he pictured stalking up behind, ripping those pants down, plunging his cock into her, her hot, sloppy pussy sucking him in, dripping and greedy. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers grazing his growing dick through the fabric, stroking slow and firm, the fantasy digging into him, deep and degrading. He’d start slow, teasing her soaked slit, then ram her hard, owning her, muffled whimpers begging for it, cunt gushing down his thighs and soaking his balls. “Fuck, yes, you slut,” he’d growl, pounding her raw right there in the office, claiming every inch of that tight hole.

The figure straightened, turned, Tim’s quiff bounced into view above his bright eyes, sharp jaw, prim smile, oblivious to his role in his colleague’s fantasy. Mark froze, hand yanking out of his pocket, ears burning scarlet. Shit, he’d been wanking to Tim’s ass; his gut twisted, shame slamming him, hot and sour. He shoved it down fast: it was the ass, not Tim, just a shape, a woman’s shape, some dirty bitch who’d love it. Never a man, couldn’t be, wouldn’t be.

Dave rolled in at 8, clapping Mark’s shoulder, “Morning, Stroker,” he boomed, loud enough for heads to swivel, sly enough to dodge HR. Mark groaned inwardly, last night’s urinal flashing back: his hand pumping, Dave’s laugh echoing, a nickname forged in piss and need. “Thought about that barmaid all night, you?” Dave whispered, breath rank with coffee. Mark smirked, “Bet she’s too tight for me, mate,” he muttered as Dave cackled, shoving him. “Keep that prick zipped today, yeah?” he said, louder, as Mark flipped him off in response. Amongst the hum of the office, shrill phones and rising swell of chatter, Tim’s ass lingered in his thoughts, a phantom curve, not Tim, just the shape, a vessel desperate for his load. He finished the report by 10, emailed Greg, then leaned back in his chair, smugness prickling in him as he thought ahead to his filthy reward.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Eight: Food For Thought

Mark and Dave agreed to grab lunch; a greasy burger joint down the street that promised a break from the office grind that had the team’s nerves fraying like old rope. “Gotta hit the john first,” Dave said, stretching with a groan as they left their desks, his crumpled shirt riding up to expose his hairy stomach; Mark nodded, his pulse already quickening as they approached, a greedy little jolt sparking low in his gut. The bathroom was their pit stop, a ritual: for Mark, it was more, the tiled room humming with the vent’s drone, tiles slick with morning mop water, bleach faint in the air as he beelined for the last cubicle, locking the door with a soft click that echoed too loud in his ears.

Dave claimed the stall next door, the wall creaking as he settled, boots scuffing the floor, too close for comfort; the shared partition was a thin barrier between them, and Mark’s eyes locked on the hole, his dick twitching in his slacks, a beast with a mind of its own. He could hear Dave unzipping, the faint splash of piss hitting porcelain; he hesitated, his breath shallow, wondering if he could pull this off with Dave right there; too loud, so nearby? But his cock didn’t care about caution, already thickening as he unbuckled quietly, trousers sliding down just enough to free himself: thick, leaking a slick bead as he pressed in through the hole, the cool edge grazing his skin, a familiar thrill that made his balls tighten.

Dave’s voice drifted over, casual, oblivious; “You see Greg’s email? Man’s a prick, probably jerking off to the sound of his own voice, but at least you’re off his shitlist, Stroker— how’d you pull that off?” Mark grunted a vague “Yeah,” his world narrowing as hot, damp breath bathed his tip, a teasing puff before a tongue, thick and wet, slathered his slit, slurping the precum with a greedy little smack, spit dribbling as it lapped his piss-hole raw, sending a shiver up his spine. His breath caught, a ragged gasp he choked down, shame pinching hot as he bit his tongue to stay silent; the mouth waited, not rushing, plush lips grazing his head, smearing spit over the swollen ridge, then clamping down to suck the tip with a filthy, wet pull spit coating his head as it tugged his foreskin back slow and deliberate.

His hands braced the wall, nails digging into chipped paint, jaw clenched tight as the tongue dug under his foreskin, hot and relentless, scraping the tender skin with slow, lewd laps, savouring every inch as they coaxed a groan he swallowed hard. Dave kept yapping, “Think I’ll hit O’Malley’s again tonight, chase that barmaid’s fat arse,” and Mark nodded to himself, silent, and the mouth slowly took him deeper, inch by inch, a warm, wet vise that knew how to play him, edging him ruthlessly, pausing to suckle the head with a soft pop, then sliding halfway down and back up, never giving him the full throat he craved. A muffled slurp, faint but pronounced enough to make his heart lurch, echoed; he froze, but Dave didn’t falter, “You in, Stroker? Beers on me,” his stream still going strong.

Mark’s “Mhm” came out strained, high-pitched, as the mouth relented, swallowing him whole, the suction tightening, tongue flattening against his shaft; he thrust shallowly, desperate, silent, his balls pressing against the rim of the hole. “Hey, you good over there?” Dave called, mid-stream, and Mark’s voice cracked; “Yeah, just, uh, finishing up,” he managed, as the climax hit, brutal and sudden; his cock spasmed, blasting thick, scalding ropes into that ravenous mouth, the suction turning savage, tongue ravaging his slit, guzzling every thick spurt with a sloppy gulp as his balls emptied. His eyes rolled back in his skull as he felt a finger jabbing his taint, firm and slick with spit, grinding the sweet spot behind his balls till his arse clenched tight, sparking within him a dirty new thrill he couldn’t name; his knees buckled, a choked whimper slipping out, masked as a cough, the pleasure spiking, now mind-numbing, dragged out as his dick twitched helplessly in the aftershocks.

Dave flushed, oblivious, “Meet you at the sink, man,” he called, his footsteps fading as Mark pulled back, panting hard, his softening shaft slick and clean, the hungry mouth licking off every trace of his load. His legs shook as he wiped a trembling hand on his thigh, the mouth’s final slurp a taunt ringing in his ears. He zipped up fast, face flushed, sweat beading on his brow; he stumbled out, praying Dave wouldn’t clock the tremor in his hands or the wild glint in his eyes. Mark stumbled out of the bathroom, still buzzing, face flushed as Dave clapped his back.

The burger joint was a bust, too packed, too loud; they veered to O’Malley’s instead, Mark’s senses still alight, craving the familiar dark of the bar and sliding into their usual booth with a round of drinks to steel them against the afternoon between them. O’Malley’s pulsed with midweek noise, neon flickering over sticky floors, the air heavy with hops, sweat, and the barmaid’s cheap perfume as she weaved through tables, her red hair a beacon, hips a magnet for Dave’s eyes; he didn’t waste any time, leaning across the table, voice low and thick.

“Fuck, look at her,” Dave growled; “I’d slam her tits-first against that bar, rip those jeans to her knees, and ram my cock into her sopping cunt till she’s howling, juices running down my balls, her arse jiggling with every thrust.” Mark grinned, caught in the web of it, his own dick stirring as Dave painted the scene; “Then I’d flip her, legs splayed, her pussy gaping as I pound her raw on the snooker table, cunt clenching as cum drips down her thighs, staining the felt as she screams for more.” Mark leaned in, enraptured, sniffing her cheap perfume like a dog in heat as she passed, her dick throbbing as he imagined her sweat-slick arse, her nails raking the table, needy gasps sharp in his ears; the hole flickered in his mind, a shadow of wet lips tying it all together, his jeans tightening as he let the buzz of beer and filth carry him.

They drained their drinks, ordered another, and stumbled to the urinals, shoulders brushing, a sloppy camaraderie in their step; Mark unzipped, his cock still half-hard from Dave’s talk, and glanced sideways. Dave’s dick jut out from his open fly, thick as a fist, shorter than Mark’s but memorably meaty, veins bulging, a brute glistening with a stray drop. Mark blinked, startled, then looked away, but the sight kept drawing him back: Dave’s cock, raw and real, spurring a jolt he shoved down fast. “Still can’t piss,” Dave groaned, gripping it, stroking slow and hard, twisting as he peeled the foreskin back, rumbling a low growl as he muttered, “I’d shove this down her throat, make her gag till she’s drooling. You’re lucky, Stroker, with a wife at home and pussy on demand.” Mark’s hand faltered, stroking his own now-raging shaft, the beer loosening his tongue, “Not from the wife, mate. Found a gloryhole at work, mate, right there, wet and ready, sucks me off anytime I need it, better than Sarah’s dry hand ever could,” he blurted, the words slipping out, unguarded.

Dave’s head snapped up, mid-stroke, catching Mark’s gaze on his dick; “No shit, Stroker— you’re hitting that?” Before Mark could respond, the door banged opened, sharp and jarring, as a drunk stumbled towards the stalls; they froze, hands quickly stuffing themselves back into trousers, and shuffled back to the bar to drink their last round. Dave’s grin faded, his tone shifting serious as he swirled his glass; “You gotta watch that hole, man, could be a set-up, HR waiting to sack you; or some toothless hag— fuck! What if it’s a bloke? Some hairy bastard gobbling you down, balls deep!” He barked a laugh, loud and sudden, slapping the table; “Imagine that, some lad sucking you off!” Mark’s stomach lurched, his beer turning sour in his throat; a guy? The idea hit like a brick, the possibility alien, inconceivable, a nonstarter as his mind recoiled, shame clawing hot; Karen, Lisa, the barmaid, anything with tits, slipped through his grasp like smoke. Dave was joking, but the seed lodged, ugly and sharp.

“Nah,” Mark forced out, laughing too hard, too late; “No way, impossible, it’s some slut who lives for my cock, mate, not— not that…” Dave shrugged, draining his glass, but Mark’s head spun; a bloke? No, it was a woman, had to be, some nympho who craved it, but the doubt gnawed, a splinter he couldn’t dig out; he downed his beer, resolve hardening as the bar lights dimmed. He wouldn’t go back: not tomorrow, not ever; the hole was done, he’d quit it cold, finished, he vowed to himself.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Nine: Cracks in the Mask

Mark fumbled the key into the lock, cheap lager from his solitary visit to the bar sloshing thick in his veins after an afternoon of impotently going through the motions at work; a sour fog clouding his head. Dave’s cackle rang in his ears, “some hairy bastard gobbling you down,” a taunt that stuck to him like gum to his shoe. The house loomed dark, a tomb of silence save for the fridge’s hum, its cold sterility mocking the heat pulsing in his groin; his shoes hit the floor with a sloppy thud, and he swayed up the stairs, each step a battle against the booze and the itch clawing at him. He’d sworn off the hole, Dave’s warning a barb in his resolve, but the isolation of the evening, coupled with the sight of scantily-clad girls partying hard at the bar, stirred his dick, neglected and restless; begging for something, anything, to shake the need.

Sarah lay entombed in bed, a shapeless lump under the duvet, her hair snarled in pink rollers like some parody of seduction; a green facemask cracked over her cheeks, a grotesque shield of indifference, her snores a soft rasp against the silence without any trace of the young man he’d fucked with abandon in their youth. “Hey,” he mumbled, peeling off his shirt, voice thick with beer and want; he crawled onto the bed, hands fumbling at her nightgown, hiking it up her pale thighs, cock swelling, a clumsy and beer-soaked beast nudging her hip through stained boxers. “C’mon, Sarah,” he slurred, lips sloppy on her neck, sour breath mixing with her floral cream; she groaned, eyes slitting open, “Mark, it’s late,” but he pressed on: boxers down, his dick thick and veiny, uncut tip glistening as it traced the folds of her dry, unyielding cunt, a sandpaper scrape that made them both wince, his grunts desperate, animalistic, needy.

Her flesh stayed cold, unready, a closed door of resistance. He dry-humped harder, hips jerking in a graceless, drunken dance, chasing a heat that wouldn’t bloom, her hands limp, breaths flat, waiting him out patiently. He tried to picture her: Sarah, younger, eager, her cunt wet and welcoming, but she blurred out, rollers and facemask a mockery, the barmaid surging in instead with lush hips and a dripping slit, but the fantasy flickered and died under Sarah’s deadweight stare. He thrust fast, beer dulling his edge, his dick straining but numb, her disinterest a scream louder than any moan she’d made for him. He came quick, a pitiful spurt, hot but thin, dribbling across her pussy lips like a leak; no fire, no flood. She tugged her nightgown back down, a curt “Happy birthday for yesterday” spat like a chore, then turned away, asleep in seconds, leaving him panting, sweat-slick and deflated; cum cooling in a sticky smear on his thigh.

Her rollers glinted, a crown of disdain, her mask a monstrous testament to his failure. This was his life now: tepid, dutiful rutting against a wife who’d never kneel, never suck him dry like the hole did, the walls of his beige prison closing in. Shame burned, sour and hot; he’d sworn off the hole, Dave’s words a jagged edge, but this was worse, this hollow nothing, his dick limp and mocking his resolve. He stared at her, at the life he’d built, and felt the walls press tighter, a trap of tedium and unspent need. His fists clenched, fighting the pull, that desperate ache for that wet, anonymous heat, but what was left here for him? A woman who didn’t want him, a bed as cold as his prospects, and a vow fraying thin under the weight of his own skin.

Mark woke to a bed cold as a slab, Sarah’s side empty; her rollers and mask gone but her scorn thick in the air, a silent sentence for last night’s fumbling disgrace. His head pounded, a hangover laced with regret and unwelcome flashes of her disinterested form, his pathetic thrusts. A note glared from the counter, ‘Behave tonight; kids with Mum,’ no kisses, no warmth. The doghouse was his kingdom now, her handwriting sharp as a slap.

His journey to work stretched beneath a dark cloud, the tedium of routine a noose tightening with every step, though his dick still tingled expectantly as he passed by the bathroom, a traitor begging for more. The office yawned grey around him, a purgatory of flickering lights and stale doughnuts as he sank into his chair, the day already a slog; shame and restless need curdled in his gut like bad milk. Greg pounced at 10 a.m., barking him into the boardroom, tie askew, shirt damp with nervous sweat. The Q4 rundown was a challenge: numbers droning from his mouth like a script he’d never learned, flat and lifeless, the suits staring back at him, unimpressed. “Passable, Hammond,” Greg sneered, “barely. Work on it.”

The jab sank deep into the funk fouling Mark’s gut: shame from Sarah, from the bar, now this. He slunk back to his desk, spreadsheets a blur, the day stretching endless, a grey limbo of clicks and sighs. Tim breezed by, quiff bouncing, coffee in hand: black with a whisper of sugar, predictable precision. His chirpy “Rough day, huh? This’ll help,” grated on Mark’s raw nerves; that slim frame, that too-bright smile, the curve of that ass as he set the coffee cup down on Mark’s desk. Dave’s taunt still festered in his mind, “what if it’s a guy?” and Mark couldn’t meet his eyes, anger flaring at the thought, at himself, at the creeping doubt that tainted every man, every innocent gesture, with suspicion.

The clock crawled to 6.30 p.m., the office a ghost town, shadows stretching long across the carpet. Mark sat hunched, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the bathroom’s pull a siren song tugging at his gut, dick twitching traitorously in his slacks. He’d sworn it off, ‘no more hole’, but the itch gnawed at him, relentless; Sarah’s dry cunt flashed back, a failure that fuelled the ache, the wet promise of that anonymous mouth a lifeline he couldn’t shake. His melancholy was interrupted when Jamal loomed at his cubicle; broad as a linebacker, skin gleaming dark under the fluorescents. His security uniform stretched tight over thick arms, a quiet heft in his stride, as his voice rumbled, low and firm: “You’re one of the last ones, man; don’t be long. I’m locking up soon.” Mark nodded acknowledgement and watched him leave, before standing, swaying, caught in the tug-of-war: go to the hole, shove his cock through, and feel that hot suction again; or go home, and cling to his crumbling oath. His breath quickened, shame coiling hot as he paced around the office, a caged beast, the need suffocating him with every tick of the clock. Then a thought struck, sharp and reckless; what if he didn’t go in, but looked instead, peeking behind the veil, seeing the other side?

His feet moved, hesitant at first, then firm, bypassing the bathroom for the door leading to the room beyond the hole. He paused, hand trembling on the doorknob, heart thudding loud enough to drown the silence. ‘Just a look,’ he told himself, ‘I’m not breaking any promises,’ and pushed it open, the creak like a scream in the stillness. Musty air hit him, thick with dust and something sour, the dim bulb flickering to life; the room was a cramped closet. Walls stained yellow, a mop bucket rusted in the corner, shelves sagging with old files, but there, against the partition: a cushion, worn thin, its fabric pocked with dark stains, deliberate as a throne. Beside it, a makeshift station: lotion tubes half-squeezed, a scattering of condom wrappers both sealed and torn empty, lube glistening in a sticky bottle, moist towelettes crumpled in a pile, a curated kit for a purpose Mark knew too well. His stomach flipped, nerves rising as he traced the rim of the hole with his fingertips. Someone knelt here; sucked here. Planned this, chose this! Who?

A thud jolted him, the wall rattling as a door slammed. He pulled his hand away, and a second later, there it was: a cock, cut and brutal, thrusting through the hole, skin taught and deep brown, the shaft thick as his wrist with veins snaking like roots under the surface. The head flared wide, a bulbous crown, slit weeping a fat bead of precum that glistened in the dim light, pulsing with an arrogant, decadent need. “C’mon, Mark, I’ve still got to lock up, hurry up and suck it,” Jamal’s voice rumbled through the wall, low and urgent, a command that froze Mark’s blood. He watched in horror as Jamal pressed his dick further through the hole, the curling hairs of his crotch framing the thick shaft, his bulk a shadow through the hole. He must have seen Mark duck in, misread it entirely! “Fuck— no!, I— I wasn’t— !” Mark stammered, voice cracking and shame flooding hot as he stumbled back, the cock bobbing untouched ahead of him, a taunt of his confusion; “I just— I thought— shit, I was checking, not— not that!”

Jamal’s laugh cut through, rough but no cruel; “Easy, Hammond, didn’t peg you for it. I just saw you go through the door, thought you were game.” Mark’s face burned, hands shaking, feeling the room’s walls weighing down on him: the cushion’s stains, the lube’s gleam, that cut prick still jutting proud; “I’m not— fuck, let’s just— don’t say shit, yeah?” he blurted, desperation lacing every word. “Deal,” Jamal chuckled, voice steady, “I don’t exactly want a reputation for sticking my dick through random holes in the wall, either.” His retreating steps echoed, the offending cock now hidden from view, “Won’t hear it from me, man. No harm, no foul!”

Mark bolted, legs pumping, as the trauma replayed itself in his mind: not his, not a woman’s, but a man’s raw prick, its circumcision scar glistening with droplets of pre-cum falling from the weeping. And that room, the life behind it; someone had knelt where he’d stood tonight, sucked where he’d thrust before. He didn’t stop running, down four flights of stairs and out to where he’d parked, until he was sat in the safety of his car, breath ragged and shame clawing hot as confusion twisted tight in his chest. He’d quit, he had sworn, but the hole’s pull had ensnared him and that curiosity led him straight into trouble.

Sleep clawed at him that night, fitful and cruel, the house a silent cage around his restless body, Sarah’s rejection, Jamal’s cock, the hole’s lure tangled in his skull tying a knot of shame and need he couldn’t sever. He lay rigid, boxers tented, his dick a traitor pulsing against the fabric; he tried to picture Sarah, all curves and cunt, but the fantasy dissolved as rollers and mask mocked him again, a boundary he couldn’t breach. As his eyes flickered shut, the hole loomed in his thoughts, its dark promise pulling him under, dreams unfurling like a baited trap. In slumber, he knelt at the gloryhole, his wife’s pussy pressed to it, plump and glistening, folds splayed wide like in his memories of their courting, dripping honeyed musk onto his tongue as he dove in, lapping at her clit, a swollen pearl throbbing under his greedy swirls.

Her moans poured through, throaty and needy, a siren’s call that soaked his chin with her slick decadence; he sucked harder, tongue plunging into her spasming depths, salt and lust flooding his mouth, his cock raging in his fist, thick and leaking. He pictured Sarah, years earlier when she would greet him with kisses and wake him in the early hours for sex, but memories of her disinterest the previous night kept flickering, cold and limp, shattering his concentration. Then the world shifted, the pussy vanished, replaced by Jamal’s cut beast, shaft a dark, veiny tower, head flared obscene in primal desire, a glistening slit drooling pre-cum, musky and thick, inches from his open lips. He recoiled, heart slamming, but the dream twisted again. Now Dave’s jawbreaker thrust forth, shorter, thicker, a brutal cudgel of flesh whose foreskin peeled back, tip oozing against his lips, heavy with sweat and sin. It pressed in, stretching his mouth wide, hot and unyielding as his tongue traced the underside; a decadent violation splitting his jaw as he gagged, spit drooling down his chin, shame burning hot even in sleep.

He jolted awake, gasping, teetering on the brink of an orgasm: cock rigid, balls aching, a slick mess pooling at his tip. ‘No, fuck, not that— !’, his mind reeled, frantic, shoving the image down in favour of Karen’s lips, the barmaid’s tits, even Sarah’s face in layers of rose-scented slime. He forced his wife to the forefront of his thoughts, searching for anything soft his mind could cling to, but Jamal’s cut prick lingered, dripping, Dave’s brute girth haunting him. His hand flew, gripping his haft, stroking fast, foreskin sliding back to bare the swollen head as cum erupted, scattering like a sprinkler, thick and scalding across his chest, a teenager’s untameable flood dousing him in hot, shameful showers. He milked it, grunting and twitching, the decadence souring as Sarah stirred, eyes slitting open. “Christ, Mark, act your age, stop bothering me with that shit,” she snapped, rolling away. He lay panting in the dark, cum cooling on his chest, a sticky badge of his ruin, as the dream’s cocks tangled with Dave’s hearty chuckle, resolve cracking as drifted back into slumber, hopelessly lost.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Ten: The Storyteller

Mark’s resolve hung by a thread, frayed by dreams of Jamal’s probing prick and Dave’s mighty girth; his vow stretched thin under the weight of restless need. He’d held firm through the week, until Thursday, when Dave cornered him at day’s end, a sly gin splitting his ruddy mug. “O’Malley’s, Stroker, I need a beer, and you need a story, it’s your round,” he summoned, voice thick with mischief. Mark followed, wary but hooked, the itch flaring hot under his skin like a beast clawing to break free. They slid into their booth, the bar buzzing with midweek noise, neon lights flickering above chipped and smeared glasses, air ripe with sweat and cheap perfume. Dave leaned in close, eyes glinting, voice dropping low. “Tried that hole you mentioned, mate,” he started, smug as sin, “Fuck, you weren’t kidding!” Mark felt his stomach flip, a gut-punch of irrational betrayal laced with hunger, his dick twitching awake in his jeans.

“You did?” Mark croaked, beer stalled halfway to his lips, throat dry. Dave nodded, slow and deliberate, relishing the power of it. “Lunch break, shoved it through, and that mouth? Jesus, it’s a pro; took me deep, no gag, just clamped down like a fucking vacuum, tongue slathering my head, slurping every drop like it was starved.” Mark’s cock surged, hard in an instant and straining against his zipper as Dave painted it in vivid detail: those wet, plush lips wrapping tight around his incredible girth, the suction pulling relentless, a greedy heat that he’d had craved all week.

Mark shifted, jeans pinching, caught in the filthy thrill, a dark brotherhood binding between them, comrades in arms. “Yeah?” he breathed, leaning closer, voice thick with want; “What else?” Dave’s grin widened, a predator savouring the kill. “Kept teasing, edging me, till I was begging, mate; licked my hairy balls, sucked ‘em all wet and sloppy. Fucking wild, blew a load like a fire house, swear I saw stars,” he chuckled, heartily, and Mark groaned low, the image searing behind his eyelids: Dave’s thick shaft swallowed with ease, spit-slick balls worshipped, and a release so fierce it echoed Mark’s own desperate nights.

He'd sworn it off, told himself no more, but Dave’s words cracked his resolve like sugar glass; the shared depravity sank hooks deep into hi, control slipping as the hole’s pull roared back, louder and hungrier than ever. Dave saw the fog clouding over his eyes and tipped his head towards the gents’ like a dare, “Fancy a wank, Stroker?”, and Mark was on his feet before his brain caught up, following like a dog on a leash as shame and arousal warred in his chest. They hit the bathroom, dim and sour, lined at the trough and unzipped in sync, cocks out: Mark’s long, foreskin glistening with pre-cum, Dave’s shorter but thick as a fist, veins popping under a brutal, blunt head. “That mouth’s a fucking artist,” Dave muttered, stroking slow, his dick swelling fat in his grip; “Bet it’s some slut from Payroll, lives for this shit.” Mark nodded, hand moving too, pre-cum slicking his palm as he slid his foreskin back; “Yeah, sucks like she’s starving, loves it dirty, anonymous,” he rasped, clinging to ‘she’ like a lifeline, forcing the barmaid’s hips into his mind, not Jamal’s cut slab, not Tim’s slip frame, and not Dave’s girthy monster he couldn’t tear his eyes from.

They stroked faster, eyes swinging from one cock to the other, voices low and ragged; “Could fuck that throat all day,” Dave growled, “make it choke on me, gag till it’s drooling.” Mark’s balls tightened involuntarily, the thrill electric, his control a distant memory as the fantasy spiralled: those lips stretched wide, spit dripping, a throat convulsing around Dave’s girth now burned into his brain. Dave hit the edge first, hand a blue; “Fuck, Stroker— here it comes,” he grunted, a raw sound tearing free as his cock pulsed, shooting thick, white ropes into the trough, splattering the piss-streaked porcelain in heavy streaks. Mark’s eyes locked on it, the first time he'd seen another guy cum, raw and real, a messy testament to the lasting power of the hole, and it tipped him over the edge. His orgasm crashed through him, dick jerking wild, cum arcing out in hot, heavy spurts and mixing with Dave’s in the basin, a filthy communion as he groaned, voice breaking, lost in the flood.

The door swung open mid-spurt, and the barmaid burst in: red hair wild, mop in hand, wet floor sign swinging. She froze, eyes wide, catching them mid-climax with dicks dripping, cum pooling in the trough. “Oh, fuck— sorry!” she yelped, but her gaze lingered, a flush creeping up her neck, pupils dilating before she bolted, the sign clattering to the tiles. Mark and Dave stood panting, cum-slick and exposed, a beat of silence stretching taut before Dave chuckled, hoarse and wild, “Caught us good, eh?” Mark didn’t join in; his chest heaved, shame slamming into adrenaline, a chokehold on his brainpower: the barmaid’s stare, Dave’s ease, their thick loads washing away together down the drain, the gloryhole’s pull undeniable. He zipped up, hands shaking, thrill given way to panic; “Gotta piss off,” he muttered, fleeing the bathroom as Dave’s dirty laugh chased him out.

Friday morning hit Mark like a brick, his head still fuzzy from O’Malley’s: the barmaid’s wide-eyed shock, Dave’s thick spunk splattered beside his own. He stumbled into work, tie crooked, the weight of his crumbling restraint dragging him down. Greg beckoned him before he’d even sat, barking from behind his desk, all muscle and clipped efficiency; “Business trip, Hammond, next week; sort it: tickets, hotel, agenda, by Monday,” he snapped, and Mark nodded, scribbling notes. The opportunity was a delicate tightrope: travel with Greg, a chance to prove himself or fuck up beyond repair. He spent the day ping-ponging between departments, HR for approvals, Finance for fights, Clerks for a draft itinerary; each stop tightening the knot in his gut, tedium grinding against the chaos beneath, the lure of the hole pervading his thoughts, his control slipping from his grasp.

By 3 p.m., he slumped at his desk. Sweaty and frazzled, the office humming with Friday slack; Dave’s chair sat empty, his jacket slung over the back, and Mark’s stomach sank. He knew, felt it in his bones: Dave was at the hole, right now, feeding that mouth his thick, jawbreaking dick. His own cock stirred, jealous and hard under the desk, pressing painfully against his slacks; he pictured it: a woman’s lips, plush and greedy, stretching wide to take Dave’s girth, gagging softly as she fought to swallow him hole, tongue lapping at the fat head as spit dropped from her chin and pool at her knees as she struggled with the sheer bulk of it. Dave would groan, Mark knew from last night, hips bucking as he owned her throat, drowning her in a flood of cum. Mark’s hand twitched toward his lap, fingers brushing the bulge and a shudder ripping through him as he gripped his pen instead, clicking the plunger nervously, breath shallow and clawing his way out of the filthy spiral: powerless, jealous, aching to reclaim it.

“Hey, Mark,” Tim’s voice sliced through his daydreaming, sharp and chipper, and Mark jolted, chair creaking loud. The executive assistant stood there, quiff immaculate, a stack of folders in his hand, his eyes flicking down, catching the tent in Mark’s pants: unmistakeable, throbbing, “I, uh, hope I didn’t catch you at a ba— Greg, uh— I’m on the trip too, thought you’d appreciate the heads-up. “ Tim flustered, one eyebrow arching, not offended, just cognisant; Mark’s dick pulsed, a hot, unbidden spike he couldn’t hide, and Tim’s lips quirked in a silent, sudden flaw in his corporate veneer, before he dropped the folders on Dave’s desk. Mark’s face burned, shame and frustration boiling as he stared at the receipt for an extra plane ticket; he had no reins here, no power to rally him back. Tim saw, judged, and walked away untouchable, while Mark sat trapped, cock raging uselessly under the desk.

The office door swung open then, and Dave strolled back in, a smug swagger to his walk. He caught Mark’s glare, grinned wider, and plopped into his chair; legs splayed. “Miss me yet, Stroker? You should’ve seen me ten minutes ago,” he called, loud and careless, the nickname ringing out like a taunt. Tim’s head tilted nearby, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face, but he said nothing, smoothing his tie and sauntering off with a quick glance at his watch. Mark’s jaw clenched, his lack of control a fist around his own throat: Dave’s casual claim on the hole, Tim’s knowing smirk, his own hard-on a humiliating shackle. He shoved the trip papers into his bag, the day souring fast with a bitter taste of betrayal and need he couldn’t swallow down. “Fuck this,” he muttered, voice tight, finally accepting the magnetism of the hole was a pursuer he couldn’t outrun.

 

[mGlottalstop]

Chapter Eleven: Unravelled

The clock ticked towards 5 p.m., each second a sledgehammer grinding Mark’s resolve into dust; he’d buried himself in emails all afternoon: flight confirmations, connections from the airport, Greg’s shifting agenda; his fingers rushing over the keys, sloppy but persevering, anything to put off the pull. But it clawed back, relentless, primal, a dark pulse coiling in his gut. Dave’s smug strut back from the hole yesterday, Tim’s coy smile, the barmaid’s gasp as his cum hit the trough, they all swirled in his skull, a maelstrom of want and shame that wouldn’t let go of him. His dick stirred, half-hard once more in his slacks and making a mockery of his every attempt to focus, to hold the line. He’d sworn it off, ‘no more,’ he’d hissed into the dark last night, Sarah’s continued rejection still stinging, but the itch had festered, an infection taking place deep within his head, a fever he couldn’t shake. Work was a grey slog, home a beige cage, but the hole? It glowed vibrant in his mind, a filthy beacon promising pleasure beyond measure, something he wanted, needed more than air.

By 4:50, his restraint was a ghost, a frayed thread that snapped under the weight of his need. He glanced at Dave in the pod next to his: sprawled in his chair, picking his teeth, satiated and oblivious, and the jealousy flared, sharp and hot, knowing Dave had claimed it again, fed that wondrous mouth his thick spunk while Mark sat chained to his desk. His breath quickened, shallow, as he weighed his options: he should stay, finish the itinerary, go home to Sarah’s rollers and scorn; or, he could go, shove his cock through that hole, feel that wet heat swallow him as he reclaimed what he should never have turned away. The choice churned, a war in his chest, but his dick decided for him, swelling full, straining against his zipper, a beast he couldn’t unleash. “Fuck it,” he muttered, “We’re doing it.” He grabbed his bag, voice lost under the hum of the office, and bolted, a curt “See you Monday” tossed at Dave as he fled, legs pumping towards the bathroom with shame burning hot on his heels.

The last cubicle loomed, sanctuary and sin; he locked it with a desperate click echoing too loud in the tiled silence and fumbled his slacks down to let his cock spring free: his tip already slick with pre-cum, leaking like a loose tap from days of pent-up need. He shoved it through the hole, breath shaking, expecting the usual wet lips and filthy taunts, but this time, Mark broke first, voice spilling out, low and unsteady. “I need this,” he said, words tumbling unscripted, raw as a wound. The mouth was there for him, warm and eager, sucking him in slow, tongue lapping softly at his slit, teasing out another generous bead of fluid with a greedy little slurp; “You don’t get it— it’s not just— uh, fuck, it’s more, now,” he rasped, thrusting shallowly, hips trembling as the confession poured. “Gives me purpose, you know? Makes me happy in a way I didn’t even know I was missing— shit, I’ve been numb, asleep, coasting through and, fuck, this— you— these wake me up.”

The suction deepened, a silent reply, lips clamping tighter and sliding halfway down his shaft before pulling back, spit coating his head in a glossy sheen. Mark’s hands braced the wall, nails scraping paint, his control a memory as he bared it all. “Work’s a fucking grind: spreadsheets, Greg’s fucking barking, it doesn’t end, and home— fuck, home’s worse! Sarah doesn’t look at me, doesn’t want me, just lies there like a corpse,” he said, voice cracking, the truth a knife he couldn’t stop from twisting in his gut. “But this— you? I crave it, every day, every fucking minute. It’s all I’ve got left, this dirty little pulse that keeps me going.” The mouth paused, listening, then resumed, slower, softer and wetter, like it understood. The tongue swirled under his foreskin, rolling it back with deliberate, decadent lapping that dragged a groan from his throat. He thrust deeper, lost in the rhythm, the confession stripping him to the core: shame, desperation, and a growing hollow ache he’d buried for too long.

Then it shifted, unexpected and electric; the mouth pulled off, leaving his cock throbbing, exposed and slick with pre-cum and spit, and before he could catch his breath, a new heat pressed against him through the hole. Soft, bubble-like ass cheeks, smoother than silk, hot and sweat-slick, cradled his dick in a tight, pert valley, His tip nudged between them, catching involuntarily with every primal thrust on a slick, hairless ring, warm and quivering: a tight pucker, unexplored, teasing him with its barest give each time his tip pulsed against it. Mark froze, mind spinning, heart slamming against his ribs; ‘must be a woman’s ass,’ he reasoned, chanting, forcing Lisa’s curves, Karen’s hips into focus, anything to keep it safe and familiar and louder that the voice whispering about Dave’s jawbreaker. ‘Not a guy,’ but his body didn’t care regardless; instinct took over, hips bucking, the sensitive ridge of his cockhead rubbing that hole, the friction sparking raw and wild through his shaft, a world away from the cold, unwelcome rutting against his wife just a few days prior. ‘Fuck— oh,fuck,’ he gasped, voice breaking, the sensation a jolt he couldn’t fight, his control shattered and a passenger to his own need.

The ass pressed harder, cheeks squeezing his length as the hairless ring kissed his tip with every shallow thrust. He studied it for a moment: smooth, pale skin, maybe a hint of pink beyond his own throbbing shaft, hole yielding just enough to taunt him like a decadent trap he didn’t want to resist. “So fucking good,” he groaned, words slurring as the heat built, his dick sliding slick between those cheeks as pre-cum smeared the pucker, making it glisten under the fluorescent light. The mouth had been greedy, skilled, but this? This was raw, uncharted, a new perversion that buried its hooks deep into his psyche. His balls tightened, heavy and aching, the pressure coiling unbearably. He thrust faster, chasing it, the ridge of his head catching the tight ring again and again, each snagged stretching a burst of pleasure-pain that shredded his last grip on sanity. ‘Fuck— man, woman, I don’t care anymore, just let me—”, as the pull of the hole drowned out his voice of reason.

“Gonna cum,” he rasped, a warning to no-one, and it hit him hard, sudden, a climax ripping through him like an oncoming whirlwind, His cock pulsed, jerking wild as he rutted mindlessly, cum blasting out in thick, scalding ropes, splashing against that hairless hole and coating those pert cheeks in a creamy flood. The vision seared into him: glistening white streaks dripping down unblemished, smooth skin, pooling at the tight ring, some even trickling inside; a filthy, flawless ruin. His knees buckled, a guttural grunt tearing free, raw and broken, as he milked the last spurts, dick hypersensitive in the slick valley of the cum-covered ass. The intensity blinded him, burned the image deep: those cheeks, that hole, his spunk claiming it; he stumbled back, pulling out as he yanked up his pants in a daze, bag slipping off his shoulder as he staggered from the bathroom.

His chest heaved, breathing heavy, the confession and the climax leaving him raw and exposed, aroused beyond reason despite his confusion over the arse, the shift in his dynamics, and the undeniable thrill. “What the fuck,” he muttered, voice hoarse, emotions tangling in another impenetrable knot as quick as he could unravel them: shame for spilling his soul, desperation for needing this so bad, a strange and hollow joy in his release. He’d bared it all: work’s tedium, Sarah’s distance, the hole’s grip; and it hadn’t pushed him away, it pulled him deeper, igniting a craving he couldn’t name, wouldn’t shake. He lurched out of the bathroom, the office building a blur, a cum-covered ass burned into his brain every time he closed his eyes. The gloryhole had deemed him worthy of a new obsession and sin; he stumbled to his car, hands shaking on the wheel; shame and exhilaration wrestled in him as the line between want and ruin blurred hopelessly. But for the first time in a long time, he felt curious tugging at his lips; a crooked, shaky spark of colour born of his rebellion against his grey life, spurred on by that cum-drenched ass.

Mark realised he was smiling.

 

[Juanmhx75]

Wow! Just like Mark with the gloryhole, Im obsessed and I can’t get enough of this story!

 

[mGlottalstop]

Wow! Just like Mark with the gloryhole, Im obsessed and I can’t get enough of this story!

Thank you, I really appreciate that!