15 comments/ 41516 views/ 23 favorites FAWC 1: A Gloryhole Adventure By: BuckyDuckman (Moderator's Note: This story is a submission to the first Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC). The true author of this story is kept anonymous, but will be revealed on June 22nd, 2013, in the comments section following this story. Each of the stories in this challenge are centered around the common theme of the main character being an author who then experiences the erotic and/or unusual events he or she writes about. There are no prizes given in this challenge; this is simply a friendly competition.) (Author's Note: This story includes the themes of explicit, heterosexual sex between consenting adults.) * * * * Rain dotted the diner's windows. I pressed the side of my face against the cool glass and felt tapping raindrops trying to kiss my cheek. Houston Jones sat across from me with a steady smirk on his handsome face. I liked Houston. I amused him and didn't care. "You will hate morning," he said. "I'm not planning on seeing morning," I said. My words were still slurring. I was so drunk, too drunk. The world felt mushy and blurry. Soft was too soft, hard wasn't firm enough. The glass against my cheek felt as if it was moving. "Did you carry me in here?" "I think you floated." He pushed my coffee cup closer. It was stout coffee, bitter from sitting too long on a burner. I added another cream and two more sugars. Stirring was a problem. Making a circle with my floppy, drunk hand felt awkward. Maybe I could close my eyes for a moment and the world would firm up. The plastic covered seat of our booth spun wildly. No. Closing my eyes was not a good idea. I gulped at the coffee. "If I die of alcohol poisoning, will you delete everything from my computer's hard drive?" "You're not going to die," he promised, still smiling. Houston had a big nose, but not when he looked directly at me. From the side, his nose reminded me of a beak, but straight on, his nose looked normal. I liked his nose. It gave his face character. "Why do you want me to wipe your hard drive?" "Ooo, that sounds dirty," I giggled. He shook his head and chuckled. He always dismissed my sexual references. I felt safe with him; Houston Jones liked me without wanting to do me. He didn't push, he waited. It was the right call and I made the sort of confession people save for being drunk, "Because I don't want anyone to find my porn." Houston has such a great laugh; too loud, too big and just right to my ears. It's the way a laugh should be. Houston didn't care how loud he laughed. The stares he received didn't inhibit him. Houston loved to laugh and did. He had lots of different laughs, from chuckles and chortles to full on belly laughs. The belly laughs were the best. Those were loudest. Those were the laughs that drew stares from strangers. Houston roared with laughter at my reason. "What kind of porn could you possibly have?" "Stories," I said. "Sexy stories." I said the words slowly so I didn't slur them and say "shexy shories." Houston kept smiling. He didn't believe me and I made the rest of my confession: "Sexy stories I wrote." "Uh-huh," he said, nodding his head. That was distracting; seeing him nodding his head made my head spin. "I'm serious," I insisted, suddenly angry that he didn't believe me. That's embarrassing to admit, but if you've nursed a drunken friend, you've experienced their mood swings. I was telling the truth and it became desperately important he knew it. Maybe because I really wanted him to wipe my hard drive if I should die or because I knew my reputation as an innocent. I can't remember the source of my urgency, only the importance of convincing him. I leaned on the table, waving him close until I could whisper in his ear, "He shoved his hard cock deep inside her tiny, tight pussy." "Oh wow," Houston said, pulling away and staring at me as if I had suddenly sprouted tentacles from my forehead. He blinked hard before his smile returned and he began laughing. "You did not just say that!" "Say it? Hell, I've written it!" His big, happy smile remained as he considered the new me; the tentacle sporting version of me. I waited for his challenge. A wholesome, young woman at barely twenty-four doesn't write porn and doesn't write seriously. I knew how I looked: fresh faced, straight off the farm with my blonde hair still in braids. I preferred jeans to dresses, cotton over silk and could sex baby chicks. I was the heartbreaker for every country song ever written; a good church-going woman who liked to write monitor melting sex scenes too raw for any Harlequin brand romance novel. I sell my novels electronically through different venders. I do okay. I'm not ready to quit my day job, but maybe, one day. "Deal," he promised without questioning me any further and I fell a little deeper in like with Houston Jones. If he had been twenty years younger or I had been more open-minded, he would have gotten lucky that night. He fed me more coffee until the rain stopped and the world felt real. He led the sleepy-tired me to the car, drove back to the hotel and walked me as far as the door to my room. He did not invite himself inside. He did not accept my invitation to come inside. He did not try to kiss me. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said. He hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on his side of the door before pulling it closed. As a ray of sunlight knifed its way through the tiniest slit in my curtains, morning proved vampires had it right: sunlight does kill. "Fucking sun," I swore, stumbling from the bed to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet and assessed my world. I was alive. I wasn't sick to my stomach. My mouth felt dry. No work today or tomorrow. Was I hungry? My stomach rolled at the thought of food and I chased it away. Coffee would be good. Good coffee. Unburnt coffee. I wiped, flushed, washed my hands and went back to bed until morning ended. A hotel designed for the business traveler feels extra lonely on the weekends. The few stay-overs weren't happy people. Without work to accomplish, they roam the halls and give each other solemn nods when passing between the pool, the laundry room or the parking lot. I found coffee and went back to my room. I sent Houston a two word text message, "She lives!" When he wrote back a simple "LOL," I heard his laughter in my mind. It was probably a chuckle that time but still counted as a Laugh Out Loud. All his laughs did. A moment later, he asked "Lunch, dinner or none of the above?" It was two o'clock in the afternoon. I was drinking my first cup of coffee. Twelve hours had passed since my confession. I needed more time. "Dinner at Denny's?" I suggested. I knew I would have pancakes. Houston and I were corporate trainers for a small retailer. We flew into town a week before an opening and after accepting the finished store from the contractors, we would begin setting up shop with the new crew. It was our job to train as we unboxed product. Except this time, the store didn't pass its final occupancy inspection. Locked out of the space by a pesky inspector and a frustrated contractor, we had spent the week receiving shipments into a storage unit and paying crew members to stock boxes instead of unpacking them. A two week job had turned into a three week assignment. The Evil One had not taken the news well. I had pieced together the evening from scraps of scattered memories. It had started with the news from our contractor he could not have the store ready for occupancy until Monday. I sent a text home to The Evil One and received a "Dear John" break-up text from him. I mean, really, who breaks up with someone via text? The Evil One (his new name for the rest of eternity) said I travelled too much for him to remain faithful, as if he was the only person who got horny when we were apart. I told Houston he was going to drive and cock-block for me while I got shitfaced drunk. Yes, I had said "cock-block" to Houston, much to his amusement. It's another reason I liked the man; I could be me around him. Denny's was a two star step up from last night's diner. "Where did you find that place?" I asked. "I think it found us. It was like something out of a slasher film," he said, laughing as always. I'm sure he was frustrated with the change in plans, but he accepted the alteration with grace and a sense of humor. He sat across from me in another plastic coated booth. How many of booths like this had he and I shared in the last two years? That's an answer I don't want to know. "At least I got some writing done," I said. I hadn't, but it felt like a good way to bring up the topic. "Good for you," he said without judging. "I meant what I said last night." "Which part?" "The part about wiping my hard drive," I said. He tilted his head to one side as if my forehead tentacles were showing again before shrugging and giving a one word reply, "Okay." "You don't believe I write that kind of stuff, do you?" I challenged, entertained by his lack of judgment against my hobby. Either he was remarkably forgiving or he didn't believe me. I didn't care which was true, but I was curious. "I never said that," he replied, still smiling. He never asked to read my work nor why I wrote it or a half-dozen other questions I think I might have asked. Questions like: What do you write? Do you write naked? Do you get off while you're writing? Are you writing truth or fiction? Who buys your stuff? His lack of judgment fascinated me. As an erotic writer, I think having a confidant is as important as having a muse. I never expected mine would become a man twice my age. It didn't happen until I stopped working for the company. My writing was doing well and I realized Houston was the primary reason why I still worked at a job that required me to travel. After I quit, we stayed in touch via emails, phone calls, text messages and the occasionally face-to-face meeting. Houston Jones became my alpha reader, occasional editor, and more importantly, my confidant. Whenever I got stuck in life or my writing, I sought out his advice and his constant merriment. His laughter was the crack in my pipe, the dope to my smoke and the vibe to my vibrator. What I never expected was how his knowledge and the breadth of his life experience would fuel my craft. "How much do you know about 'gloryholes?'" I asked Houston on the phone. Phone calls were better than emails or the texts, because I could hear his laugh. "Well, that's a different direction for your stories," he laughed. "It's a commission. He says I'm welcome to sell the story, but he gets to read it first." "What do you know about this guy?" Houston asked, still protecting me from the dicks of the world without being asked to cock-block. "Absolutely nothing except his emails," I said and smiled at Houston's signature belly laugh. "Then how do you know he's real?" "He gave me an advance. Five hundred dollars." "For one story?" he asked, his laughter finding a hitch and stopping. I laughed. I knew how he felt. I had felt the same way when the money showed up in my account. When he started laughing again, I knew he had wrapped his mind around the idea. "Okay, what do you want to know?" "Have you ever been to one?" I asked. The other end of the phone fell so quiet I checked my screen, making sure we were still connected. "Is your silence your answer or have I finally gone too far?" Houston chuckled and turned the question back on me. "What do you know about gloryholes?" "My internet searches and what's been described in email exchanges." I ran down the list: found in adult bookstores, video booths, holes in the walls, and often frequented by men servicing men. "So you're writing gay fiction now?" "No!" I said, realizing how he would get that impression. "He was very clear about that. He wants the story to be a woman visiting a gloryhole and that's where I get stuck. Is that even possible? I mean, I've seen internet videos that show it, but does it ever happen?" "It could," he said. "But never seen it." "No, I... Look, it's not as if I..." "Oh," I said, realizing I had overstepped. "Damn." "I'm sorry," Houston said. "You stumbled into a blank spot. Maybe I could do some searching for you, see if there's one close or something?" There was. I knew where. I said as much to him. "How do you know that?" "Internet," I said. "There are lists. Sites that rate places, that sort of thing." "Of course there are," he said. I swallowed hard before I asked the big question. It felt like too big of a question, but I didn't know where else to turn. I wasn't going to do it alone and it wasn't the sort of thing you can ask of any old friend. "Will you go with me?" His silence had me checking my phone again. It showed we were still connected. I waited. Like before, his silence ended in a bellow of belly splitting laughter. "I'm sorry," he huffed between guffaws. "I was remembering the night you asked me to cock-block for you. I've guess we've come full circle." "So you'll do it?" I asked and got the answer I hoped for. Houston insisted on driving. I was nervous, starting with what to wear. What does one wear to a gloryhole? I dressed as I usually did: a t-shirt, bra and jeans. Houston looked nervous, too. His signature laughter sounded reedy and thinner than usual. There was a bar nearby and we stopped for liquid courage before walking into the building without windows. The shop portion was brightly lit, brighter than expected. The clerk behind the desk looked bored, unwashed and unkempt. Houston approached the counter, passed the heavily tattooed and pierced bad boy a twenty and received a stack of tokens. Making sure I was behind him, he led the way towards the darken door with the neon sign reading, "Videos Booths." I grabbed his hand as we walked, stopping him. I turned to my right and picked up a box as if I was examining its contents. "You've been here before," I whispered. "I might have cased the place," he admitted. Of course he did. "Are you going to buy that?" I looked at what I was holding. It was a life-sized, latex casting of a porn star's massive, erect penis. "Not for seventy dollars," I said, setting it back in place. Houston's laughter was reassuring. He knew I wasn't paying attention to what I had picked up. I flashed him a smile and nodded at the doorway. He led the way. The hallway behind the opening was poorly lit. A glass showcase held DVD cases with numbers beneath each erotic film. I didn't understand the numbers, but quickly learned they matched the channels of the TV inside the booths. It got darker past the wall with the showcase. The video booth area was an L-shape lined with booths other either side. The booths had full doors on them and lights above them. Most of the lights glowed red. Dotted along the way were green lights above some doors. The green lights came in pairs and I could guess why. What I didn't expect were the men standing in the darkness. At least half a dozen men stood along the sides of the hallway. Where they waiting for someone? I didn't know and I didn't ask. Investigative journalists immerse themselves into an environment without asking questions. I followed Houston as he led me around the corner where more booths stood waiting with men near them. Midway down the row, he stopped, nodded at the door in front of him and I stepped inside. The booths were smaller than I expected. Next to the door was a folding chair. Embedded into the wall across from the door was a TV behind glass. Next to the TV was a machine that accepted tokens. As soon as Houston began feeding the machine tokens, the TV sprang to life in the middle of an explicit porn scene. I reeled backwards from the sudden noise and the close-up picture of a large penis pumping in and out of a pink, swollen vagina. It was action I had described dozens of times, something I had experienced plenty of times and something I had witness via video more times than I could remember. I giggled and jumped when Houston reached for me. He nodded at the door. He wanted to work the lock on the door and I had been in the way. Struck with more giggles, I pressed my back against the wall and gave him room. "I think we can change the channels here," he said, pressing a button I didn't bother to notice. My eyes were on the round hole in the wall. The hole was bigger than I expected. It was an elongated circle, which I supposed would accommodate men of different heights. The hole was dark when we first went into the booth, but a moment later, it emanated a blue glow. "Someone is in there," I whispered, still giggling. "I know. What did you expect?" "Who is it?" Houston smiled at me. I rolled my eyes. It was a stupid question. It could be any one of the half dozen men we passed or one of the three or four men patrolling the hallways. "What happens next?" I asked, though I had a good idea. "He'll probably stick his dick through the hole." "I know that, but then what?" "Good question. I'm not sucking it," he said and he laughed. I froze and looked up at the tall, older man whom I once considered my mentor. Houston Jones was too old to be a brother to me and thinking of him as a father figure felt creepy. He was my friend; a funny, gracious, understanding and patient friend. Because of our age difference, I had never considered him as a sexual partner. The ironic part was, because of my hobby, he and I had talked about sex more often and explicitly than I had ever done with another person. I can't say he knew my secrets, because that wasn't the nature of our conversations. We talked about the sex the characters were having and nothing more. He had never revealed his secrets or asked about mine. Some of my stories included snippets from my life, though he had never asked which pieces were written from the perspective of experience. I never tried guessing if he knew the reason my female characters loved sucking cock was because I loved sucking cock. I never told him about the threesomes I had had in college or how I had to quit my job as a stripper because rubbing against all those hard cocks was getting to me. He never knew I had spent a week as a stripper and I doubted he could guess it. To him, I was the sweet farm girl with pigtails who enjoyed an unusual, moneymaking hobby. Houston had been my erstwhile protector and never my facilitator. "We can go if you want," he offered. "No, I want to see what happens," I said. He nodded and gave me a reassuring smile. He leaned against the door and watched the porno on the TV screen. I glanced at it. He had stopped on a video of a young woman servicing a roomful of men. Had he done that on purpose? Was that something he liked? Did he think it was something I might like? I didn't know and wouldn't ask. I watched the hole in the wall. It felt as if a long time had passed. "He's not doing anything." "I bet he's watching and wondering the same thing." It was another foolish "ah ha!" moment for me. Holes worked in two directions. "What should I do?" "Whatever you want. I don't know. Peek and see what he's doing." "Am I allowed?" "He wouldn't be in there if he didn't want you to look." I hadn't felt like this much of a neophyte since my first road trip with him. As he had been then, Houston was patient and non-judgmental. "Maybe we should go," I said. "Okay." He turned to unlock the door. I don't know why, but that gesture reminded me I was safe. I was with Houston Jones, the safest man I had ever met. I put my hand on his and stopped him. He raised his eyebrows. "Not yet," I whispered. "I have to look." He nodded. He understood. I stayed along the side of the booth, away from the hole. I squatted and tried to see. I was too far away. I could see someone was on the other side. I saw him looking through the hole, but I didn't see more until he stuck his prick into our side. He was long and hard. His penis was fully erect. He poked it through the hole. When nothing happened, he moved it back and forth a few times. FAWC 1: A Gloryhole Adventure Houston laughed. "Stop it!" I said, louder than I meant. "What am I supposed to do now?" "Whatever you want," he said, still smiling. "Turn around," I asked. "No," he said. "Please?" "Why? What are you going to do?" "I'm going to touch it." "Then do it," he said. "Not until you turn around." He stared at me for a moment before nodding and turning. I made sure his back was to the hole before I reached across the tiny booth. I did it. I touched the hard prick sticking into our side of the booth. The man's penis felt warm and I could swear I heard a moan from the other side. I caressed the fearless stranger willing to shove his dick through a hole in the wall. "How does he know it's me touching it?" I asked. "He doesn't," Houston replied, his back still turned to me. If he peeked over his shoulder, I didn't catch it. "Do you want a turn?" I asked. My hand was exploring the dick in the wall. I was fascinated by it. The man, whoever he was, had a nice sized prick. I wasn't an expert, but he wasn't the first prick I had caressed. I pulled on him, falling into a rhythm most men seemed to enjoy. It was automatic and I won't say more about it. I was marveling at the experience. Here, inside this cramped booth, inside an adult bookstore near the airport, a man was offering a stranger his hard prick. He had no idea what I would do to him. He didn't know if I would do anything to him. Hell, there was no way for him to be sure it was me touching him. Was this an act of faith or desperation? I tried remembering the men I had seen in the hallway. I had been too embarrassed to look at them. I remembered shapes more so than features. The men appeared fit and of a non-descript age. They could have been twenty-five or thirty-five, though my instinct said they were older. I tried imagining they were gay and it didn't fit. Maybe they were, but I had the sense they shared a single trait: they wanted to get off. They each wanted to shove their dick through a hole in the wall and imagine it was the woman of their dreams on the other side. Maybe they were desperate for a blow job. Maybe they were in sexless relationships. Maybe they wanted to suck dick, though it felt as if they should be sitting in a booth waiting for dick if that's what they wanted. The best answer I had was the simplest one: they were horny and tired of doing it themselves. "Are you good?" Houston asked, still facing away from me. "Is this okay?" I asked, willing to keep stroking the man I held, but not at Houston's expense. How good of a friend was he being? "You're fine. Are you touching him?" "Is that okay?" "Yes," he said without judgment or question. I felt the man I held throbbing. He was getting close to his orgasm. My hand knew how that felt. I didn't want to overstay my welcome with Houston, but I didn't want to shortchange this brave soul who had risked offering me the very essence of his manliness. I stroked him harder, gently tugging and pulling on his man-meat. If he would hurry up, if he would come quickly, I decided I would do it. I would stroke him until he came. He was close. I had only the light from the TV in my booth to illuminate him, but I could tell his head was darkening from deep red to a darker color. He was in need. He wanted this. Hell, he needed this and I was his good Samaritan. I didn't want to stop. Through the elongated hole, I could fit my other hand. I did. I grabbed his balls as I stroked him. His balls were tight and hard. He was close. I glanced at Houston's back. He dutifully remained turned away. Damn it, I didn't want to be rude to Houston, but I didn't want to be rude to this man in need, either. I picked up the pace again and hoped for the best. I would do it for a few more seconds and if he didn't get off, I couldn't help him. I started counting to myself. I didn't know my limit, maybe a hundred? I don't know. I remember counting in time with my strokes. One, Two, Three... I got as far as forty when it happened. The man on the other side of the wall erupted in my hands. He came, shooting his orgasm into the empty space between my arms. I rejoiced, watching his orgasm and mentally celebrating it with him. Go for it, I thought. Do it. Give it all to the world! From what I saw, he did exactly that. He came, spurting and spraying for several long pulses before he was spent. I felt him tugging away and I let go. "Thank you," a breathless voice called from the other side. "Is it okay for me to turn around?" Houston asked, guessing I was done. I told him it was. He saw me squatting on the floor. He saw the puddles of semen on the floor between me and the hole. He smiled. "Did you have fun?" "Yeah, I did," I admitted, standing. I did something I had never thought of doing before. I kissed Houston on the cheek. "Thank you." "For what?" "For being patient." "I think he owes you the biggest thank you." "Maybe," I said, smiling. I felt funny. I had just stroked off a stranger and that felt funny. I had stroked off a prick that could have been a phantom prick unattached to any man. And Houston knew what I had done. He might not have seen me doing it, but he knew. "If we wait a moment, someone else will do the same thing." "Really?" I asked, glancing through the hole in the wall. That thought hadn't occurred to me, but he was right. The movie still played on the other side. I saw another body stepping inside the booth. The new man changed the channel on his side. I saw him rubbing the front of his pants. I moved a bit closer to the hole. I saw the man rubbing his crotch and pulling open his jeans. I saw his hardening prick as he pulled on it. I saw him turn towards the hole. As a 3D movie must appear to a one-eyed person, I saw the man's prick moving towards the hole. I saw it near the hole, growing bigger with proximity. I pulled away and his cock became 3D as it entered our booth. "I guess I should turn around again," Houston said with a gentle little chortle. He did. I almost told him not to do it, but I was stuck. Part of me said we should go. I had had my gloryhole experience. I had enough firsthand information that I felt I could write about it. I could describe the store, the bored looking clerk and the purchasing of tokens. I could describe the silhouetted shadow bodies in the hallway and the way a booth felt and smelled. I felt as if I could describe the aching need a man might feel to stick his manhood through a hole in the wall and hope for the best. Without using my imagination, I could describe a hand-job or a blow-job or anything else. I had no reason staying and imposing upon my friend, except a new prick was on my side of the wall. This new man had a smaller dick. He wasn't as long or as fat as the first man, but his need was the same. Trusting Fate, he had presented me with his cock, hoping it was not in vain. If he was quick about it, I would do it again. If he didn't waste my time, our time, I get him off. I touched his cock and felt his ache. I felt his need and his eagerness. I ignored the thrill inside of me. "One more," I told Houston as I began pulling on this new man's prick. I wasn't sure how thick the walls were between the booths. They felt and looked like plywood. I closed my hand around the smaller dick presented to me. I could hold him in my hand. Given the depth of the wall and how close the man was to the hole, it was easy guessing this man was lacking in the penis department. I once had a boyfriend who was shorter than the rest. Someone always will have to be the shortest, but like my one-time boyfriend, this man's prick left much to the imagination. He was short, narrow and had a slight curvature to my left. I felt sorry for him. Maybe he had a woman and she wasn't satisfied. Maybe he was too embarrassed to have a woman. Maybe he couldn't keep a woman. I didn't know, but he had a woman for the moment and if he was quick, I would do him. I did what I could to give the unseen man a thrill. I pulled and tugged on him as I had the last man. I even reached inside the hole, cupped his balls and squeezed them. Unlike the first man, this guy remained absolutely still, allowing me to have my way with him. His prick was smaller than average, but still as pretty as a prick can be. Maybe I'm alone in thinking a man's prick can be pretty. Not all of them are, but most of them have a royalty to them I appreciate. His did and I worked it over with an equal about of respect and appreciation. His balls felt good in my hand. I felt them tight against his body and I gently pulled on them as he came. As my shorter-than-average boyfriend had done, this man made up for his lack of size with the copious amount of his orgasm. He nearly sprayed on me. I hooted a joyful giggle and stroked him until he pulled away. "Sounds as if someone is having fun," Houston said, glancing over his shoulder before he turned. "One more?" "Can I?" "I have a pocketful of tokens. We're good." "You sure?" I asked, noticing a changing of the guard through the hole. "Positive," he said. His smile was as easy and carefree as always. It felt funny looking up at him from where I squatted. Houston was a tall man and my perspective made him appear taller. He looked past me at the TV screen. I followed his gaze. It was the same woman onscreen, now receiving orgasms from the men surrounded her. Was I different than her? The two guys who had offered me their dicks weren't in the same room. They never saw me naked. They didn't fuck me or know the pleasure of my lips around their pricks. Still, I was receiving their orgasms and that counted for something, didn't it? The idea sent an unexpected surge of pleasure through me. I never considered myself a porn star, but here I was waiting for my third prick of the night. What did that make me? I pushed the thought away before I came up with an answer I didn't like. Hard cock number three wasn't as quick to feed me his prick. I saw a man through the hole. He was bathed in the otherworldly blue light TVs emit. I saw his hardness and saw him stroking it. Surely he knew I was there. Surely he was interested, wasn't he? I moved closer to the hole, in case he couldn't see me. "Try sticking your fingers in the hole," Houston suggested. I nodded. It was a good idea and something I had read on a website about gloryhole etiquette. Poking two fingers through the hole gave me a sense of what the men were experiencing. It felt daring, like an act of faith. What if he grabbed my two fingers and chopped them off? I waved them around until I felt him pressing his prick against them. I moved my hand towards me and his cock followed. As soon as its head was exposed to me, I began touching him. "Shit, sorry," Houston said. He had been watching, caught himself and quickly turned away. I nearly told Houston it was okay. I nearly said, "You can watch if you want." I didn't. It didn't feel right inviting him to watch, but I would have allowed it. My thought faded as I explored the glory of this new prick. I didn't know what the man attached to it looked like. I didn't know if he was a good man or a bad man. I knew only his prick. It was long, slender and very hard. I was reminded of another old boyfriend who had a long, slender dick. I remembered how Ricky's dick never filled me but it still would touch my cervix. It had been an odd sensation of depth without girth. I had never taken a man up the ass, but if I ever wanted to do it, I once thought I wanted Ricky to do it. I didn't know how his length would feel in that other place, but his girth would be more appropriate for that tighter opening. I like a longer dick. I guess I'm like most women. I don't care about size until the man is exceptionally short or long. Most pricks fall within an inch or so of each other. Like any woman, I know most guys worry too much about their size. An average length and width feels good. Too big of either could cause problems and too little of either created different problems. This prick was long and thin. It was a nice size for my hand. I could wrap my tiny hand around it and close my thumb to my fingers. That allowed me to stroke him differently. I hadn't thought to bring lotion, so I spat on his shaft and used my spit as lubrication. It made a difference to him. He came long before I thought about touching his balls. It was too bad. I like touching balls. He came faster than either of the other two men. I poked my eye closer to the hole, hoping for a better glance of him as he left. I didn't get one. He was quick to leave and another man took his place. The new man wasn't hard when he poked his dick through the hole. His cock laid soft, waiting for my attention. That was fine with me. As I stroked him, I got to watch him grow hard. It felt like a magic trick as he grew fatter and longer inside my hand. I was close enough to lick him and I thought about it. Just one lick. I wasn't going to suck him, not a stranger and not through a gloryhole. That would be too much. But I could give the head of his prick a single lick, couldn't I? Who would know? I leaned forward and pressed my tongue against him. I didn't suck him. I didn't slather my tongue around his cockhead as I might describe in one of my stories. I licked him once, just below the tip and I jumped when Houston picked that same moment to ask, "How's it going?" "Good!" I said, pulling away in case he was looking. I didn't need Houston seeing me with my tongue sticking out. "Having fun?" he asked. "It's... interesting," I hedged. How was I supposed to answer that question? "Is he getting close?" I hesitated for a moment. Damn it, Houston didn't know. He thought I was still on the third dick of the night. Should I tell him? I knew I would feel guilty if I lied. "Sorry, I'm on a new guy now. Is that okay?" "Definitely. This door and I are beginning to have quite the relationship." "Sorry," I mumbled. I needed to make this the last dick of the night. I was being rude and I didn't want to be rude to him. About that time, the booth went dark. It was very dark, too dark to see or be seen. "Whoa, what happened?" "We need to feed the machine," he said. "Hold on, I have more tokens." I heard the jangle of the tokens in his pocket. He bumped into me. "Oops, sorry." "It's okay," I said, still holding the now hard dick I had been offered. This man had an average sized prick. He didn't feel especially fat or long, but just right. By touch alone, he could have been any number of men. I kept stroking him while Houston leaned over me. I heard the first coin drop before the TV sprang back to life, filling our booth with its light. Six more tokens dropped before Houston was done. I looked up. He had one hand against the wall containing the TV as he fed tokens into the coin slot. He was looking down at me and he smiled. I smiled back, even though I was still stroking another man's cock. He stared for a fraction of a second longer before he caught himself. "Shit, sorry," he said, looking at the TV beneath his hand. "No, it's okay," I said, afraid I had embarrassed him. I didn't mean to do that. "What's okay?" he asked. I didn't realize he was watching again. "This?" he asked. I glanced up and saw he was watching. That was awkward. Making matters worse was how I was reaching through the hole again, cupping this man's balls. "I'm just, you know, doing my thing," I said, trying to play it off with as much casualness as possible. Okay, that's a damn funny lie. I did say that and I did try to sound casual, but what could possibly be casual about what was happening? I was stroking off a stranger through a gloryhole. I had my left hand inside the gloryhole so I could fondle this stranger's balls. I had a handful of cock Houston could see and handful of balls he could imagine. It was not a casual situation. "I think he likes it," Houston said, still leaning over me. "I think he's about to like it a lot," I said, sensing this man's pending orgasm. I glanced up at Houston and he looked confused for a moment until he figured it out. He kept staring. His eyes were wide and hungry looking. It was a look I knew, but not one I had seen on his face. He liked what he saw. I'm going to give him credit he might not deserve. I'm going to suggest he wanted to look away. I'm going to suggest he stared because he couldn't help himself. I choose believing he wanted to be a gentleman and his baser needs got the better of him. I didn't know he was stuck in that position, not yet. I had only glanced at Houston, I didn't study him. I glanced; saw the confused look of duplicity in his eyes and then a splash of semen struck my cheek. That splash received all of my attention. I pulled away and it didn't work. This man's orgasm was too strong. He shot his semen towards me and I tried pushing his cock up and out of the way. That was the wrong direction. It made his semen arch through the air and hit my chin. The rest of it struck the front of my t-shirt before the last few drops landed on the floor between my knees. "Shit!" I said, looking at my t-shirt. I didn't try to wipe it away. It wouldn't do any good. My shirt had already absorbed the creamy ejaculate. "Not quite the right word," Houston said. He laughed. "Yeah, I know, but look at me!" I turned my head up so he could see the semen running down my cheek and chin before I wiped it away on my shirt sleeve. "I don't know, it's a good look," he laughed. "Fuck you," I teased, wondering why he was still leaning over me as man number four left satisfied. "Are you planning on staying like that?" "I'm sort of stuck," he said, both hands now on the wall with the TV. While working around me to feed the machine, he had spread his legs too wide and leaned over too far. I saw how he was on his tip-toes, doing his best to respect my space. When I looked to my left, I was looking directly at his crotch. That's when I saw he was excited. I write about big dicks. I make up stories about larger than life dicks fucking impossibly small, tight holes. My stories feature porn star sized pricks that stretch women into having orgasms on demand. In real life, my biggest hadn't been exceptional. The hard cock sandwiched inside Houston Jones' jeans was the size of legend. It arched diagonally across his crotch, reaching from the center of his crotch and well past his pocket. Once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it. "Damn, Houston," I said. "Someone has been holding out on me!" I had never considered Houston Jones as a sex partner. He was too old for me, but if he had been twenty years younger the night The Evil One had broken up with me by text message, he would have gotten lucky. No, Houston Jones was my safe, sane, funny and much too older-than-me mentor, friend and confidant. Yet, we were crammed into the video booth of an adult bookstore. Porn was playing in his face. He had witnessed a man cumming on my face. And now I knew he was as hard as a man can get. Seeing Houston Jones had a huge dick made matters worse for me. "Stop it," he said, chuckling at his predicament. "I don't want to step on you." "Please don't," I giggled. I gave him more room to maneuver by wiggling closer to the hole. He was able to step behind me until he could stand without using the far wall for support. We were both laughing, but my laughter stopped when a new prick slipped into the hole and pressed against my face. "What the fuck?" I cried out, moving backwards. I bumped into Houston, pinning him behind me as I stared at the hard prick of the newest man to visit the booth next door. This new man was impressively larger than the previous four. His displayed above average length and girth. "Now that's a dick," Houston said, still stuck against the wall behind me. When I careened my head backwards, looking up at Houston and he appeared upside-down to me. It occurred to me that I was rubbing the back of my head against his prick. I kept my eyes on him and rolled my head. Would he notice what I was doing? Without looking, I reached out and began caressing the newest cock to share our booth. "Are you going to watch me this time?" FAWC 1: A Gloryhole Adventure Pinned behind me, Houston grinned. "Do I have a choice?" I rolled my head again. "Stop that," he said, catching on. I pulled away from Houston and closer to the super-sized prick offered to me. "What happens if I promise not to look over my shoulder?" I asked, using both hands to stroke the big cock in front of me. I tried closing my fingers around the stranger's prick and couldn't. Oh, that was fun. If I placed one hand on top of the other, I could hold all of his cock. That was still a personal record for me. "Don't tease me," Houston warned with a sinister sounding chuckle befitting a super villain. "You mean like this?" I asked, pressing my head back against his crotch. When I did, I felt his hand moving out of the way. I could guess what that meant and it made me smile. "I think you like watching." I gave the long, fat prick in my hands a slow stroke from its head to the wall. "Why wouldn't I?" Houston had a point. I wasn't immune to the thrill of what I was doing, either. My nipples were hard and my pussy ached for attention I didn't dare offer. I behaved, as long as behaving included me jerking off a stranger's cock through a hole in the wall. I should say I focused on the task at hand and did my best to keep my mind off of what was happening inches behind me. "I wish I knew if this guy was good looking or not," I said. "It doesn't matter, does it?" Houston suggested. "What if I told you he was drop-dead gorgeous?" "Now who's teasing?" "He might be. If he was; what would you do different?" "I don't know," I lied and my lie bothered me. Houston was my confidant. I don't lie to him and it felt foolish to start now. "Maybe suck him?" I amended. "That's what I think most guys are hoping for." "If I do it, you're going to watch, aren't you?" "Up to you," he said and I believed him, because Houston Jones was a man of his word. If I asked him to turn away, he would. If I asked him to wait outside the booth, he would. I opened my mouth, shimmied closer to the big cock I held and worked my lips around him. The man was big, but my mouth was bigger. I made a mental note about it. In my stories, I sometimes wrote that it was a difficult for the woman to wrap her lips around his big dick. That couldn't be true. A mouth is a large and accommodating orifice. While I couldn't fit him far down my throat, I could still wrap my lips around him and still have room for my tongue to dance along the underside of his shaft. His cock felt hot inside my mouth. I heard him moan through the thin wall separating us. I heard a second moan behind me. Houston's moan was soft and clipped. It made me happy to hear it and I resisted the urge to look. Sucking cock is not the same as stroking it. I believe a good blowjob includes a good handjob, too; especially when the prick is too big to swallow. I worked my hands in opposition to my mouth. When I pushed forward with my mouth, I pulled him towards me. Whenever I pulled away, I stroked towards his base. As I sensed him slipping closer to his orgasm, I would double up on my stroking. When he moved closer still, I began jerking him off. The point of a blowjob is getting the man off and that was something I knew how to do. I tugged, pulled and jerked faster and faster while my lips and tongue caressed his meaty shaft. It made my pussy ache, but that was part of the thrill for me. It always has been. Giving a handjob or blowjob meant arousing your partner while ignoring your need for pleasure. Men had told me how excited they get eating pussy; I get excited blowing a man. I sucked my newest stranger without shame or hesitation. I wanted to get him off. I wanted to feel his cock throb and shoot. I wanted to feel his semen pumping through his plumbing. I abandoned any concerns I had about him cumming inside my mouth. Screw it. I knew the science and blowjobs were not as risky of an activity as most public health departments would have you believe. Fuck it. I wanted this. I needed this. Damn it, I had earned this! The man inside my mouth came. He shot his warm semen against the roof of my mouth, the back of my throat and coated my tongue. I kept licking, sucking, tugging and pulling through-out his orgasm until he pulled away. I heard a mumbled, "Thanks," from the other side of the wall and he was gone. I was left kneeling on a cumcoated floor with a mouthful of a stranger's semen. I swallowed and wished for another cock to arrive within seconds instead of moments. It was easier embracing my inner slut in the heat of the moment. I felt self-conscious. I also felt wanton, naughty, horny and out of control. I turned to see Houston's reaction. "Shit!" he said, quickly turning away, but not before I caught him battling with closing his open pants and tucking away his massive prick. "Sorry." "Don't," I said, though I think I meant: Don't be sorry. I don't know. I put my hand on his, stopping him. "It's okay." He stared down at me, his constant smile replaced with an expression I had seldom saw on his handsome face: concern. With his torso still turned away, he continued struggling with wrangling his big dick back inside his pants. "Stop," I said, tugging at his hand. I laughed, pulling on his hand and turning him towards me. "I want to see." When he stopped struggling, a small grin came back to his face. That was better. That felt normal. He allowed me to push his back against the sidewall until he was facing me. I pushed his pants open, fished inside his shorts and pulled out his big, hard cock. I always thought the plural of penises should be "peni." Guess it's the geeky writer in me showing. It doesn't matter. There are lots of commons words for a man's sex organ: penis, cock, prick, dick and even "fuck-stick." There are more. I'm citing the ones I use in my writing. Sometimes I'll use the word "man-meat." I shy away from talking about his "love organ," "shaft," or worse "the object of his turgid need." My stories cross the edge because I hate using flowery euphemisms. Women in my stories have breasts, tits and pussies. They don't have "twats" or that c-word; I do have somedecorum. People fuck in my stories. They don't "make love." I don't use code words in my stories. All men can have a cock, dick, prick or what-have-you, all depending on which word felt best when I wrote the story. But Houston Jones broke that mold. Houston Jones had a "man-unit" best described as a "cock." His prick was long and fat. His man-meat exceeded the length and girth of the one I had just finished. His penis was an anaconda of lust. Meaty and veiny, his dick was a thing of beauty. Houston had a cock. A big cock. A huge cock. A cock of mythic proportions that belonged onscreen. I wrapped my hands around it as I had done with the former prize winner. After both hands, his cockhead remained open and accessible. I opened my mouth and wrapped my lips around his glorious cockhead. "Whoa," he said with his hand on my head. He couldn't back away. His ass was against the wall of the tiny booth. He might have retreated to one corner or another, but I would have followed. I brushed his hand away. "Don't stop me," I said. I pulled his cock towards me as I pressed my mouth down and around him. I could reach past the scar of his circumcision, reaching the most sensitive areas of his cock with my wet mouth and eager tongue. From my research, I knew men enjoyed the sensation of being engulfed, taken completely from stem to stern of their dicks. Including my hands, I did my best giving Houston that sensation because it's how far I wanted him inside of me. I wanted him down my throat if I could deep throat. I wanted to nuzzle my nose against his pubic hair and look up at him with glee in my eyes. His age no longer mattered. Our relationship was irrelevant. We were reduced to the phrasing used in old Tarzan movies: Me, woman. Him, man. Me, eager mouth. Him, needful cock. "You have a friend," Houston groaned. He nodded past me. I glanced. A lesser endowed man's dick intruded into our booth. I ignored him. That man had a dick and Houston had a cock. I knew which one I wanted. I didn't know how long Houston had been hard. There was no way for me to measure his need, how long it had been since his last release or how excited he had gotten sharing this booth with his wanton, young friend. Time wasn't my issue, urgency was. I wanted him in my mouth. I wanted him cumming inside my mouth. I wanted the full experience of this man's hard cock throbbing, swelling and releasing for me. The sooner it happened; the better and I applied myself with my full need. "Oh fuck," he said in a different tone. He sounded desperate and needful. I tugged and pulled on him harder. I bobbed my head faster. If had a second mouth for speaking, I would have used it to chant: Do it. Cum for me! Cum in mouth! It wasn't needed. My actions spoke louder than my words. Houston came inside my mouth. He splashed, ejaculated, had an orgasm, and exploded. He sprayed my tonsils, hosed my tongue and creamed me. He bellowed, moaned, groaned and yelled as he came. He redefined the way I would describe the act of a blowjob and the measure of a man. He was spent. His head made a loud "thump" against the wall when he threw it back. "Ouch," he said and he began to laugh, rubbing the back of his head. I remained focused on his cock. I kissed the shaft of his cock. I rubbed his cockhead against my face. I nestled my face against his big cock , smearing the combination of my spit, saliva and his semen against my cheeks, nose and forehead. I didn't care. I wanted to wear him on face. I would have kept going, except he stopped me. "That's good," he said, still grinning. Nodding, I backed away and watched him tucking away his cock. He shoved it inside his shorts, angling it down his pant leg before pulling his jeans together again. A cock like his required special placement. He glanced again at the eager prick still intruding into our booth. It throbbed with need, but I shook my head, I was done. He held out his hand, helping me to my feet. Houston wiped a stray lock of hair away from my forehead before kissing it. "Ready?" he asked. I nodded, holding his hand and opening the door. Our booth had created a stir in the hallway. A line of silhouetted men stood in a row. I noticed some of them were clutching the front of their pants in eager anticipation of their turn. The men looked at me. "Aw, don't go," one of them whispered. He was third or fourth in line. I doubted I would have worked the hole that long. Houston steered me in front of him and guided me into the brightly lit shop and towards the front door. Dusk had fallen and the world looked orange. He led me to his car, opened my door and walked around the back to his door. I spent those few seconds sitting in shame. There were cumstains on the knees of my jeans along with the few splashes that had reached my t-shirt from eager men orgasming in my direction. My nipples were still hard and poked their way through my thin bra and t-shirt. Houston climbed inside his car, turned the ignition, but waited before putting the car into gear. "Okay?" he asked. I nodded. He checked his mirrors and put us back on the road. "Are you sure you're okay?" I put my hand on his knee. "I'm fine." He put his hand over mine, interlacing his fingers with mine and gave me a reassuring squeeze. "I'm horny as hell," I admitted, still taking stock. I squirmed. My panties felt wet, as if I had soiled myself, except I knew why I felt as I did. In the fading light of the day, Houston looked as he always did; a handsome older gentleman with a beak-like nose from my perspective. His gray hairs shimmered when the last of the fading sun struck his head. There was something different about him and it took me a moment to figure out what it was; he wasn't smiling. "Are we okay?" he asked and I squeezed his hand. What a great question! "Is it going to embarrass you if I tell you I can't wait to get home so I can masturbate?" "Me too!" he said, glancing at me with a smirk before he laughed. I laughed with him, leaning over and laying my head on his shoulder. "You're a funny," I said, squeezing his hand again. "And you're hung like..." "Don't say horse." "Whale? Elephant? Porn star?" I offered. "How about: like a fictional character in a porn novel?" We laughed together and it felt good. It felt normal. It felt like always. "Will I get to read your story?" He drove me home, walking me as far as the door to my apartment. I invited him inside. I don't know why he said no and it felt awkward throwing myself at him. I didn't. We stayed in touch as we always did. It took me calling, texting or emailing. He always answered, replied or emailed me back. When I promised he could read my story, I wasn't lying. I don't lie to Houston Jones. I never have and I'm not starting now. But there are things I've never told him. I never told him how I had to play with myself three times that night before I was satisfied. That means I didn't share how I had masturbated in ways I had never done. Okay, not the first or second orgasms. The first time I got off that night was my usual way, with my fingers a desperately rubbing my clit in a need for release. The second time, I used my toy -- a vibrating buddy that I enjoy, but I don't use every time I play with myself. The third time was the embarrassing orgasm. I'm ashamed to say this, but I pulled a cucumber from my refrigerator and pretended it was Houston Jones penetrating me. It was a cold and poor substitute and after I came, I laughed at myself for a long time for doing it. I never told Houston about revisiting the adult bookstore for a new toy. I didn't tell him how I spent seventy dollars for the life-like casting of the porn star. I did it for two reasons. It feels goofy admitting I did it for sentimental reasons. It was the toy he had seen me holding during our adventure. The second reason is nearly as embarrassing: it was as close as I could get to owning something shaped like Houston's cock. I have never told him how often I use that big toy. I haven't admitted how I'll suck on it while rubbing my pussy and pretending it's him back inside mouth. I've never admitted how often I fuck that toy, riding it and trying to accommodate as much of its length and girth as I can inside my tight, tiny pussy as if prepping my body for the real thing. Our adventure resulted in two stories. There was the lame story I wrote to complete my commission. It's for sale on a site and the person who gave me the commission was satisfied. It remains one of the most explicit stories I have ever written. That was the story Houston read as my alpha reader. The second story is this one. He didn't get a preview of this story. It's being posted "warts and all" and without the services of an editor, but as soon as it posts, I'm going to send him a link to it. After practicing with that toy for the last month, I'm ready for the real thing. It's time I tell him the things I think he knows but I've never said. I love Houston Jones. I love you as my mentor, my friend and when you're done reading this, I'm ready to show you.