Gloryhole of the Unseen
Brad's grip on Jake's upper arm was the only thing keeping him vertical. The alley tilted and swam—part exhaustion, part the layer of cooling semen tightening across his face like a clay mask. His sheer socks on his feet.
"Walk," Brad said.
Not unkind. Not kind either. Just the necessary instruction of a man who'd been filming for hours and whose phone battery had just died.
Jake's feet moved. The sheer fabric slid against the alley grit with a whisper. No loafers. No trousers. No pink string. Just the jacket, stiff and crusted across his shoulder blades, and the socks. The socks that Spike had commanded him to keep. The socks that had witnessed everything.
Brad steered him past the dumpster, past the utility door the bartender had vanished through, toward the mouth of the alley. The street beyond was quiet—that dead hour between last call and first light when the city held its breath. A single streetlamp pooled orange on the pavement. A distant siren wailed and faded.
"Where?" Jake's voice scraped like gravel.
"Public restroom. End of the block." Brad's thumb pressed into the soft flesh inside Jake's bicep. "Spike set it up. Gloryhole. Busy night, apparently—some convention let out, city's full of lonely businessmen." A dry chuckle. "You're the party favor."
The word gloryhole landed in Jake's stomach like a stone. He'd seen them in videos, clicked past them on sites he'd never admit to browsing. The anonymous mouth. The disembodied cock. The surrender of everything but the most basic physical function. His pulse, which had been sluggish and spent, kicked up a notch.
They turned onto the main street. Closed storefronts. A Laundromat with a flickering fluorescent. The public restroom sat at the edge of a small plaza—concrete box, municipal green, graffiti scarred into the metal door. The bulb above the entrance had been smashed, leaving the structure in shadow. But Jake could see movement inside. The orange glow of a phone screen. The silhouette of a man entering, then another.
Brad stopped at the door. His hand slid from Jake's arm to the small of his back, and he leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted across the shell of Jake's ear.
"Inside. End stall. There's a hole cut in the partition—fresh, Spike did it himself. You kneel. You stay. You take whatever comes through. Understand?"
Jake's head nodded without consulting the rest of him.
"Good." Brad's other hand came up, and Jake felt something cool and metallic press into his palm. A small tube. Lube. "You'll need this eventually. Pace yourself." Then the hand retreated, and the door swung open, and Brad was gone—melting into the shadows with the practiced ease of a man who'd done this a hundred times.
Jake pushed through.
The restroom was harshly lit, the kind of fluorescent that turned every surface into an accusation. White tile. Gray grout. A row of sinks along one wall, a row of stalls along the other. The air reeked of industrial cleaner and stale urine and something muskier underneath. Two men stood at the urinals—one in a navy suit, one in a rumpled blazer—and neither looked up when Jake entered. A third was washing his hands with the methodical precision of a man killing time.
Jake's reflection caught him off guard. The mirror above the sinks threw back an image he barely recognized: a man in a once-pink jacket, now smeared with gray and white, his face a gleaming mask of drying semen, his hair spiked in wild directions where Spike's grip had rearranged it. The sheer socks clinging just to his calves like the ghosts of an outfit. His eyes—blue, Elena always said, the color of a summer lake—looked back at him from the mess with an expression that was equal parts terror and hunger.
The man washing his hands glanced up. Their eyes met in the mirror. The man's gaze traveled down Jake's reflection, took in the jacket, the bare thighs, the socks. His eyebrows rose a quarter-inch. Then he dried his hands, slowly, and walked out.
Jake's chest tightened. Everyone can see. That's the point. The restroom was public. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see him. Anyone could—
The end stall door creaked open. Spike had cut the hole, Brad said. Fresh.
Jake's bare feet—the soles tender, unaccustomed to walking without leather between them and the world—slapped against the tile as he crossed the room. The two men at the urinals finished and left. The door swung shut behind them, and the silence that followed was broken only by the drip of a faucet and the distant hum of the fluorescent.
He entered the stall. It was standard issue: gray metal partition, toilet with a cracked seat, a roll of single-ply that had seen better decades. And the hole. Cut into the right-side partition at knee height, maybe four inches across, the edges still rough where Spike's blade had sawed through the metal. Light bled through from the adjacent stall.
Jake lowered himself to his knees.
He waited.
The restroom door opened. Footsteps—hard soles, dress shoes—crossed to the urinals. A zipper. A stream. A flush. The footsteps crossed to the sinks, paused, then moved toward the stalls.
The adjacent stall door opened and closed. A belt buckle clinked. Fabric rustled. And then, through the hole, a cock emerged.
It was average—that was Jake's first absurd thought. Average length, average girth, circumcised, with a neat thatch of dark hair at the base. The man on the other side said nothing. Just pushed through and waited, his breathing slightly elevated, the head already gleaming with anticipation.
Jake's mouth opened.
The taste was salt and skin and the faint chemical residue of whatever soap the man had used hours ago. His lips closed around the shaft, and the man groaned—a soft, surprised sound, as if he hadn't quite believed this would work. Jake's tongue found the ridge, traced it, and the cock twitched against his palate.
This was different from the alley. Different from Spike, from Brad, from the bartender. This was anonymous. Faceless. A cock attached to no identity, no demands, no history. Just a need that Jake could meet with his mouth.
His jaw, still sore from the double-stretch of Leo and Spike, protested at first. But the angle was easier—straight on, no twisting, no hands gripping his head—and his throat opened with a familiarity that no longer shocked him. The man's hips pushed forward, tentative, and Jake took him deeper, until his nose pressed against the cold metal of the partition.
"Fuck," the man breathed. "Fuck, that's—"
Jake pulled back, sucked, took him again. His hands stayed on his thighs. The lube tube sat untouched. The fluorescent hummed. The faucet dripped. And the man on the other side began to thrust in earnest, his groans echoing off the tile.
Time blurred. The cock in his mouth was replaced by another—thicker, uncut this time, with a curve that made his jaw work differently. Then another, smaller, attached to a man who whispered "good boy" over and over until he finished. Then another. The restroom door kept swinging open. Footsteps kept crossing the tile. The stalls kept filling and emptying. And Jake stayed on his knees, mouth working, the sheer socks disintegrating further with every shift of his weight.
Somewhere around the fifth cock—or was it the sixth?—his own arousal rekindled. His dick, which had been soft and spent since the alley, began to fill, pressing upward against his stomach. The sensation was almost irritating. His body was supposed to be done. He'd been used for hours. And yet here he was, kneeling on a public restroom floor, mouth full of a stranger, getting hard from the sheer depravity of it.
The stranger finished with a grunt. Jake swallowed—automatic now, no thought required—and the cock withdrew. The stall door opened. Closed. The restroom went quiet.
Jake's forehead pressed against the partition. The metal was cool against his fevered skin. His breath fogged the gray surface. The lube tube caught his eye, still unopened, and he realized with a distant sort of shock that he was going to need it. His ass, empty since the alley, had begun to ache with a hollow want that surprised him.
The door opened again.
These footsteps were heavier. Boots, not dress shoes. They crossed the tile without pausing at the urinals and entered the stall directly beside Jake's. The partition rattled. A zipper. And then the voice—low, familiar, with the flat affect of a man who'd seen everything and filmed most of it.
"Still going, huh?" Brad's eye appeared at the hole, glinting with amusement. "Knew you would be."
Jake's head lifted. "Brad?"
"Spike sent me to check. Said you'd need..." The eye disappeared, and a moment later, Brad's cock pushed through the hole. It was as Jake remembered—slimmer than Spike's, with a slight upward tilt and a mole on the underside that Jake's tongue had memorized. "But it looks like you've been busy without me."
Jake's hand wrapped around the base. His thumb found the mole. "How many?"
"Seven. I've been counting from outside." Brad's hips pushed forward, and Jake's mouth opened automatically. "You're the talk of the convention. Some guy in a navy suit went back to his hotel and told his buddies. They're lining up."
Jake's tongue worked the underside, tracing the vein. Brad's breath hitched—that particular sound Jake had learned to recognize, the one that meant Brad's composure was slipping.
"Not just my mouth," Jake said, pulling back. The words came out hoarse but steady. "I need—" He stopped. What did he need? What was he asking for?
Brad seemed to understand. His cock withdrew, and a moment later, his stall door opened. Jake's door opened a heartbeat later, and Brad was standing there—jeans undone, shirt rumpled, the phone-shaped bulge in his pocket dark and dormant. He looked down at Jake with an expression that was half-assessment, half-something softer.
"Turn around," Brad said. "Face the toilet."
Jake turned. The cracked seat pressed against his chest. His hands gripped the tank. The position arched his back, presented his ass to the open stall door—and to anyone who might walk in. The restroom was still public. The door was still unlocked. Anyone could see.
Brad knelt behind him. The lube tube clicked open, and a moment later, cool gel slicked Jake's entrance. Brad's fingers—two of them, familiar and patient—worked inside with none of the urgency Jake had expected. Stretching. Preparing. His other hand rested on Jake's hip, thumb tracing circles over the bone.
"You're still loose from earlier," Brad observed. "But this is going to be a long night. Spike wants you ready."
"Spike." The name came out as a breath. "Where is he?"
"Around." Brad's fingers withdrew. "Watching. Probably." The head of his cock replaced them—that familiar tilt, the mole Jake couldn't see but knew was there. "Ready?"
"Yes."
Brad pushed in. The stretch was different from the alley—sweeter, less urgent. Brad's hips moved in a rhythm that wasn't about finishing but about feeling, about drawing out the sensation, about the warm clench of Jake's body around him. His hands gripped Jake's hips with a steadiness that anchored them both.
The restroom door swung open.
Jake's head jerked up. A man in a gray suit stood frozen in the entrance, his hand still on the door, his mouth slightly open. Behind him, Jake could see the orange streetlamp and the empty plaza and, further back, the dark shape of someone leaning against a lamppost. Watching.
Brad didn't stop. His thrusts continued, slow and deliberate, and his voice came out calm. "Stall's taken. But the gloryhole's open if you want to wait your turn."
The man's mouth closed. Opened. Closed again. Then he stepped inside, let the door swing shut, and walked to the adjacent stall. The partition rattled. A belt. A zipper. And then his cock pushed through the hole—average, uncut, already hard.
Jake's mouth, empty now, opened toward it on instinct. But his body was pinned between Brad's rhythm and the toilet tank, and the angle was wrong. His neck craned. His lips brushed the head but couldn't close.
"Hold on," Brad said. He adjusted his stance, pulled Jake back an inch, and suddenly the angle worked. Jake's mouth sealed around the stranger's cock at the same moment Brad's thrust bottomed out inside him. Two points of penetration. Two strangers. The anonymity of it—the faceless cock in his mouth, the familiar one in his ass, the open stall door exposing everything to anyone who entered—sent a shudder through him that was closer to revelation than orgasm.
The man in the adjacent stall didn't last long. The combination of Jake's mouth and the wet sounds from the other side must have been overwhelming. He finished with a strangled groan, and his cock withdrew, and the stall door opened and closed.
Another took his place within minutes.
And another.
Brad's rhythm built. His breathing roughened. His fingers dug into Jake's hips, and then he was pulling out—always, always pulling out, that was Brad's signature—and the hot pulse of his release striped Jake's lower back, joining the dried layers from the alley.
"Fuck," Brad breathed. "Fuck, Jake."
He stood. Zipped up. His hand touched Jake's shoulder—a brief, almost tender contact—and then he was gone, the stall door swinging shut behind him.
Jake stayed on his knees. The sheer socks were entirely gone now, just elastic rings around his ankles, the rest vanished somewhere in the night. His kneecaps were raw. His jaw ached. His ass was slick and open and starting to feel empty again. But the door kept swinging open, and the cocks kept pushing through the hole, and his mouth kept working, and his mind had gone to a place that was very quiet and very simple.
Take. Swallow. Wait. Repeat.
Somewhere around the eleventh man—or was it the twelfth?—the restroom went quiet. The door stayed shut. The adjacent stall stayed empty. Jake's forehead pressed against the partition, and he breathed, and he waited.
Then the main door opened with a heavy swing, and the footsteps that crossed the tile were hard and deliberate and made the floor vibrate. Work boots. Jake knew that sound. His pulse, which had been sluggish and mechanical, kicked into a gallop.
The stall door opened behind him.
Spike's silhouette filled the frame. The charcoal button-down. The strong jaw. The flat brown eyes that gave nothing back. He looked down at Jake—kneeling, exposed, face still painted with the dried evidence of a dozen men—and his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You're a mess," he said.
Jake's voice was a ruin. "Yes."
"Good." Spike stepped into the stall, and the door swung shut, closing them in together. His hand dropped to his belt. "Because I'm not done with you. And neither is she."
She?
Spike's hand reached down, not for his belt but for Jake's chin. He tilted Jake's face up, studied the layers of white that had dried into a mask, and nodded once—a private confirmation of something Jake couldn't guess at.
"Elena's flight to Singapore isn't until tomorrow night," Spike said. "And she's been texting you. Your phone's been buzzing in your jacket pocket for the last hour." His thumb traced Jake's lower lip, smearing the dried semen into a paste. "She's worried. Wants to know where you are. Wants to know why you disappeared from the restaurant."
Jake's stomach dropped.
"So here's what's going to happen," Spike continued, and now he was unbuckling his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper. "You're going to take me one more time. And then you're going to walk out of this restroom, get in a van, and go to the final party."
The belt came free. The jeans sagged. Spike's cock, thick and curved and already hard, emerged from the denim.
"Understand?"
Jake's mouth opened. Not to speak. To receive.
Spike's hand fisted in his hair.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
