Second Shift at the Hole

The leather club was in the basement under a closed auto-repair shop on the edge of the industrial estate. Marcus had been visiting it for three years. He knew the smell the moment he walked down the concrete steps: old sweat baked into leather, the chemical bite of the floor cleaner, the faint metallic tang from the chains that hung in the back room. He knew the layout. Front room with the bar. Darker rooms further back. The glory hole was in the far corner of the second room, a plain plywood partition with a circular cutout worn smooth at the edges.

He had dressed fully tonight. Black leather pants with the codpiece unbuttoned and hanging open so his cock was already free. Heavy boots. A harness that crossed his chest and left his nipples bare. Gloves that ended at the wrist and smelled of the leather conditioner he used on them. A simple half-mask that framed his eyes. The weight of it all settled something in him. His mouth was dry under the mask by the time he reached the hole.

Someone was already using it. A man in a jockstrap and scuffed boots stood on the receiving side, one hand braced on the wood, the other stroking his own cock while whoever was on the far side fucked his mouth. Marcus waited. He watched the way the man’s thighs trembled and spit ran from his chin onto the concrete. When the man came in short grunts he stepped back, wiped his mouth, and gave Marcus a short nod.

Marcus took the place. The partition was cool against his gloved palms. Through the hole he could see leather-clad thighs and the thick base of a cock already hard. The man on the other side stepped forward. The head pushed through, wet at the slit. Marcus opened his mouth and took it.

The taste was salt and skin and a faint bitterness from lube. Marcus sucked slowly at first, tongue working the underside, then sank deeper until the head pressed into his throat. The man groaned. Marcus wrapped his gloved hand around the shaft and stroked in time. Spit ran down his chin and into the open codpiece. He took the cock to the root and held it until his eyes watered, then pulled back and did it again.

After a few minutes the man pulled out. A different cock came through, longer, thinner. Marcus took that one too. The second man fucked his mouth in short hard strokes, one hand gripping the top of the partition. Marcus relaxed his throat. When the man pulled out he came across Marcus’s tongue and lips in hot stripes. Marcus swallowed what he could and let the rest drip down his chest.

He stayed on his knees for three more. One reached over the top of the partition, gripped the back of his masked head, and held him in place while he came down his throat. Another used his mouth for a long time without coming, then walked away still hard. The last one was the thickest. Marcus had to work to take him. His jaw was aching. His own cock was rock hard and leaking inside the open pants, pre-come soaking the leather, but he refused to touch it. The point was the anonymous weight on his tongue and the smell of his own gear.

When the room began to empty he buttoned the codpiece, wiped his mouth with a paper towel, and walked back to the bar. His throat was raw. A man in a full leather suit bought him a beer. They stood shoulder to shoulder. Marcus’s gloves were sticky. Under the mask his face felt hot and damp with sweat.

“You were at the hole for a while,” the man said.

“I was.”

“Any good?”

“They all are if you stop thinking about who they are.”

The man smiled behind his mask. “Second shift starts in twenty minutes. The late crowd is meaner. Club rules still apply: tap out or say stop if you need it.”

Marcus finished the beer. His cock was still half-hard. The hole was empty again. He set the bottle down and walked back. Someone was already waiting. Marcus dropped to his knees. The second shift was rougher. The next cock fucked his mouth like the man was trying to punch through the wood. A gloved hand reached over the top of the partition and slapped his cheek when he gagged. Marcus took it. Spit and pre-come ran down his chest. When the man came it was deep in his throat and Marcus swallowed every pulse while the hand held his head and a low voice called him a good hole. Afterward he stayed on his knees for a full minute, breathing hard, sweat under the mask, leather sticking to his skin. He could still taste it. He wanted the next one already. He stayed until the club closed. By the end his jaw was sore, his knees bruised, and his cock had leaked so much the inside of the codpiece was soaked. He came once, finally, in the toilets with his gloves still on, thinking about the last cock that had used his throat. After he got home he texted the club’s private list asking when the next late shift was. He already knew he would be on his knees again. The taste stayed with him on the drive. He did not wipe his mouth until he was in his own bathroom. In the shower he stroked himself thinking about the last cock that had used his throat and came across the tile. He texted the club list again asking for the date of the next second shift. Two men replied within the hour. He already knew he would be on his knees for both of them. The leather pants were still damp when he hung them up. He left the codpiece open so they would dry. The next second shift he arrived early and took the hole before anyone else. He stayed on his knees for nearly two hours. His jaw was useless by the end. He came in the toilets again, gloves still on, thinking about the thickest cock of the night. On the drive home he did not turn the radio on. The taste was enough.