The Hole in the Wall

The leather club was in a basement under a closed auto shop on the edge of the industrial district. Marcus had been going for three years. He knew the smell—old sweat, polished hide, the sharp chemical bite of the cleaner they used on the floors, the faint metallic tang of the chains that hung in the back—and he knew the layout. Front room for the bar and the men who wanted to be seen. Back room for the ones who wanted something else. The glory hole was in the far corner, a plain wooden partition with a circular cutout at waist height, the edges worn smooth by years of hands and hips and the occasional impatient thrust.

He had worn the full kit tonight. Black leather pants with the codpiece already unlaced and hanging open, boots that creaked when he walked and left scuff marks on the concrete, a harness that crossed his chest and left his nipples bare and already tight from the cold air, gloves that stopped at the wrist and smelled like the conditioner he used on them. The mask was simple, just enough to cover the upper half of his face. He liked the weight of it. He liked that no one could see his eyes unless he wanted them to. Under the mask his mouth was already dry. It reminded him of the weight of leather.

The hole was occupied when he arrived. A man in a jockstrap and boots stood on the receiving side, one hand braced on the partition, the other working his own cock while whoever was on the other side used him. The man in the jockstrap was thick through the thighs. His boots were scuffed at the toes. Marcus waited. He did not touch himself. He watched the way the man’s thighs trembled and the way the leather of his boots creaked when he shifted his weight and the way spit ran down his chin and dripped onto the floor. When the man came—short, sharp grunts, come spattering the concrete in thick white arcs—he stepped back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and nodded at Marcus like they had just finished a business transaction. His cock was still half-hard, shiny with spit. It reminded him of the ritual of dressing for desire.

Marcus took the spot. The partition was cool against his palms. Through the hole he could see a pair of leather-clad thighs and the base of a cock already hard, the skin flushed dark. The man on the other side did not speak. He simply stepped forward. The head of his cock pushed through the hole, thick, the slit already wet. Marcus opened his mouth and took it.

The taste was salt and skin and the faint bitterness of the lube the other man had used earlier. He sucked slow at first, letting the stranger feel the heat of his mouth, tongue working the underside, then deeper. The man on the other side made a low sound that Marcus felt through the cock on his tongue. He worked the shaft with his gloved hand while he sucked, the leather smooth and slightly tacky against the other man’s skin. Spit ran down his chin and onto the floor and into the open codpiece. He did not wipe it away. He took the cock to the root and held it there until his eyes watered, then pulled back and did it again.

After a few minutes the man pulled out. Marcus stayed where he was, mouth open, waiting, spit connecting his lower lip to the head for a second before it broke. A different cock came through—longer, thinner, circumcised, the head already wet and angry-looking. He took that one too. The second man fucked his mouth in short, hard strokes, one hand gripping the top of the partition for leverage. Marcus relaxed his throat and let him. The head hit the back of his throat on every thrust. When the man pulled out and came across his tongue and lips, Marcus swallowed what he could and let the rest drip down his chest and into the harness. The come was hot. It cooled quickly on his skin.

He stayed for three more. One of them reached through the hole and gripped the back of Marcus’s head, leather glove against leather mask, and held him there while he came down his throat in thick pulses. Another did not come at all; he just used Marcus’s mouth until he got bored, pulled out, and walked away with his cock still hard. The third one was thicker than the others. Marcus had to work to take him. His jaw ached. His own cock was hard and leaking inside the open codpiece, pre-come soaking into the leather, but he did not touch it. The point was not to come. The point was the weight of a stranger’s cock on his tongue and the anonymity of the hole and the smell of leather rising off his own skin every time he moved and the way his knees hurt from the concrete.

When the room started to empty he zipped the codpiece, wiped his mouth with a paper towel from the stack on the shelf, and went back to the bar. His throat was raw. A man in a full leather suit—hood, jacket, pants, the works—bought him a beer without asking his name. They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched the room. Marcus’s gloves were sticky. Under the mask his face felt hot. The beer was cold enough to hurt going down.

“You were at the hole for a while,” the man said. His voice was low, muffled by the hood.

“I was.”

“Any good?”

Marcus took a drink. “They all are if you stop thinking about who they are.”

The man in the full suit smiled behind his own mask. Marcus could see the edge of it. “You staying for the second shift? The late crowd is meaner.”

“Maybe.” Marcus finished the beer. His cock was still half-hard, pressing against the leather. The hole was empty again. He set the bottle down and walked back toward the partition without saying anything else. The boots creaked. The harness pulled across his chest. On the other side of the wall someone was already waiting, cock in hand, and Marcus dropped to his knees before the man even stepped forward. The second shift was rougher. The man who used him next was bigger, less patient. He fucked Marcus’s mouth like he was trying to reach something on the other side of the partition, one gloved hand gripping the wood, the other occasionally reaching through to slap Marcus’s cheek when he gagged. Marcus took it. Spit and pre-come ran down his chest and soaked into the harness. His own cock throbbed untouched. When the man finally came it was deep in his throat, thick and bitter, and Marcus swallowed every pulse while the man held his head in place and called him a good hole. Afterward Marcus stayed on his knees for a minute, breathing hard through his nose, mask fogged, leather sticking to his skin. He could still taste it. He wanted more.