Another glory hole?

The duct tape bit into his wrists, a familiar, chemical sting. Lily had wound it tight, crisscrossing over the prickling numbness left by the zip ties from the day before. She’d propped him on his knees in the stall, his forehead pressed against the cold, graffiti-scratched metal of the partition. The hole was at mouth-level, a crude circle sawed out of the wall, its edges jagged and unfinished.

“Perfect,” Lily murmured, her voice echoing in the tiled chamber. She kissed his shoulder, a mockery of tenderness. “My little profit center.”

She smeared something thick and cold around the hole, then over his lips. It tasted of her, salty and musky, with a sharp, alcoholic bite. “Lube and me,” she whispered. “That’s all you get to taste from now on.”

From her bag, she produced a small, laminated sign. She tacked it to the outside of the stall door with a strip of tape. He could just make out the words, printed in bold, pink letters: SORORITY PHI KAPPA CHARITY DRIVE - EXPERIENCE A HUMAN GLORY HOLE - $20 - ALL PROCEEDS TO “CHARITY” - TOYS INCLUDED

She laughed, the sound bouncing off the tiles. “The charity is my new handbag fund.” She leaned in, her breath hot in his ear. “You’re going to be very popular. Don’t bite, don’t resist, just take it. And swallow everything they give you. I’ll be collecting the money right outside. I’ll know if you misbehave.”

She placed the remote control for the shock collar on the top of the toilet tank, in his direct line of sight. A silent sentinel. Then she left, closing the stall door but not latching it. He was alone with the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant, echoing drip of a leaky faucet.

The first giggle came within minutes. Whispered voices. The rustle of denim.

“Oh my god, is this for real?” a girl’s voice asked, hushed and giggly.

“Twenty bucks,” Lily’s voice replied, smooth as glass. “Cash, Venmo, or CashApp. He’s clean. Mostly. And very, very eager.”

A crisp bill changed hands. The stall door creaked open. He heard the clatter of a belt buckle, the rasp of a zipper. A moment later, the head of a strap-on, not a cock, slick and shining with the same concoction Lily had used, was thrust roughly through the hole.

It bumped against his teeth. “Open up, bitch,” a voice commanded, not unkindly, just impatient. It wasn’t Allison or Caroline. A stranger. Logan had marketed an opposite glory hole; a glory hole where the roles were reversed. It was genius.

He opened his mouth. The silicone, tasting overwhelmingly of Lily and chemical cherry, pushed past his lips. It was smaller than a real cock, but unforgiving. The girl on the other side began to fuck his face with quick, shallow jabs, her hips slapping against the partition wall. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

“Yeah, take it, you slut,” she muttered, her breath coming faster. She didn’t try to deep-throat him; it was a transaction, an experiment. In under a minute, her rhythm hitched. She gave a final, hard shove, holding herself there as a tiny motor inside the strap-on buzzed to life, simulating an orgasm. She pulled out with a wet pop and was gone.

He gasped, strings of synthetic lube and saliva dangling from his chin. He hadn’t even caught his breath before the door opened again. Another twenty dollars. This one was bigger, a thick, veined dildo. The girl used him slowly, grunting with each thrust, pushing it deep until he gagged.

“You like that, huh?” she taunted. “You’re just a fucking hole.” She came to her own private finish with a low moan, grinding the base of the harness against the wall.

The parade was relentless. A blur of different textures, different rhythms. Some were silent, businesslike. Some narrated his degradation in vivid, excited detail for friends waiting outside. Some spit into the hole before they fucked it. One poured a shot of vodka into his mouth from a flask before she shoved the toy in, the burning **** mixing nauseatingly with the fake-cherry lube.

His jaw ached. His knees were raw against the gritty floor. The taste was a permanent, sickly-sweet film coating his tongue and throat.

Then, a shift. The door opened, but no strap-on appeared. Instead, a hand slicked with more of that familiar juice reached through, groping, fingers probing past his lips. They pushed deep, tracing his teeth, his gums, then retreating. A voice, Allison’s this time, giggled. “Switch it up. Turn around, glory hole. Present that ass.”

With his hands bound, moving was a clumsy, humiliating ordeal. He managed to shuffle on his knees, turning his back to the wall. The hole was now aligned with his ass. He felt the cold air from the other stall on his exposed skin.

The first toy that pressed against him was huge, a rounded, bulbous head. There was no preparation, no gentle pressure. The girl on the other side—Caroline, he thought by the quiet, focused energy—just shoved. The stretch was brutal, a burning, tearing sensation as the oversized silicone invaded him. He screamed, the sound muffled by the metal.

“Quiet,” Caroline hissed from the other side, and began a steady, punishing rhythm, each thrust punching the air from his lungs. She fucked his ass with a mechanical, exploratory coldness, as if testing his limits. He heard the rustle of her phone. “Yeah, he’s taking the big one. No problem.” She was filming, probably sending it to a group chat.

When she finished, she left the toy buried in him as she exited, a final insult. He clenched around it, sobbing softly, until the next customer, another stranger, pulled it out and immediately replaced it with her own, thinner model.

The money kept flowing. He could hear Lily’s cheerful banter, the cha-ching of her phone with each payment. His world dissolved into a cycle of violation: the slap of hips against metal, the buzz of a motor, the choked sounds of his own distress, the acidic taste of synthetic arousal permanently in his mouth. His throat was raw from gagging, his ass burned and felt gapingly open.

During a brief lull, he heard Lily whispering just outside the door. “He’s flagging. Needs motivation.” The stall door opened. She didn’t enter, just reached in and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. “Having fun?” she asked sweetly. She held a twenty-dollar bill in her other hand. She crumpled it into a tight ball and pushed it into his open, panting mouth. “Swallow that. That’s what you’re worth. Paper and come.”

He gagged, trying to work the dry, stiff paper down his abused throat. She let go of his hair and picked up the remote. She didn’t press it. She just tapped it against his cheek, once, twice. “The line’s around the corner. Earn your keep.”

She left. The next customer was already waiting. He was just a conduit, a living tunnel for her fantasy.

Hours bled together. The initial sharp pain in his ass had subsided into a deep, throbbing numbness, a soreness that echoed each new intrusion. His mouth moved on autopilot, lips stretching and sealing around whatever was fed to him. The sounds from the other side of the wall became his only reality: grunts, giggles, the plastic slap of harness straps, the crinkle of money.

Finally, the traffic slowed. The fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder. His body was a collection of hollow aches.

The stall door opened one last time. Lily stepped in, closing it behind her. The bathroom was silent now. She looked fresh, vibrant, a stark contrast to the filthy, trembling creature kneeling in a puddle of mixed fluids and spit. She counted a thick wad of bills with a satisfying snap.

“Six hundred and forty dollars,” she announced, her eyes gleaming. “Not bad for an afternoon’s work.” She pocketed the money and crouched in front of him. He flinched, expecting a blow or the shock.

Instead, she produced a pair of scissors and snipped the duct tape from his wrists. Blood rushed back into his hands in a painful, prickling flood. He couldn’t make a fist; his fingers were stiff, alien things.

“Stand up,” she said.

He couldn’t. His legs were dead. She sighed, as if inconvenienced, and hooked her hands under his arms, hauling him to his feet. He wobbled, leaning heavily against the piss-stained wall.

She looked him up and down, her gaze clinical. He was covered in smeared lube, spit, and the gritty dirt of the floor. His cock, ignored the entire time, was a shriveled, pathetic thing against his thigh.

“You need a shower,” she stated. “A real one. At my place.” She pulled his arm over her shoulders, taking his weight. It was an intimate, caring gesture that was more terrifying than any ****. It meant this wasn’t over. The bathroom stall was just the opening act.

“Come on,” she said, leading his shambling steps out of the stall. “The girls are going out for drinks to celebrate. We have the house to ourselves.” She patted his cheek, her hand coming away wet. “I have some ideas for how we can spend the rest of the night.”