I Went Cruising and Ended Up Naked in the Hallway

You wake up from your nap with a beast of an erection. You’ve been like this for a while, with your crotch heavy, feeling the pulse of blood pooled under the sheet. You rub yourself over your boxers and a low moan slips out of you all on its own. Mmmm. You’re too turned on for a quick wank in bed and too awake to fall asleep again.

You sit up. The afternoon is fading and that orange light that comes before sunset is streaming through the window. You look at the bulge under the fabric and think about alternatives. You don’t feel like wanking. What you feel like is something dirtier, more anonymous, faster. You want to go out and let someone use you without asking you anything.

You decide to go to the cruising club they opened a few months ago near Avenida Castellar. You’ve walked past it several times without daring to go in. Today you’re not going to hesitate. You jump in the shower, wash yourself thoroughly, inside and out, trim a little where you’re longer, pull on jeans straight over your skin and a white T-shirt that’s just sheer enough. Trainers, no socks. Keys, phone, wallet. You lock the door.

You park two streets away. The place has a discreet frontage, a black door with a tiny sign. You pay the entry fee, they give you a small towel and a locker key. You hang it from your wrist with the elastic and go straight into the maze.

The corridor is dimly lit, with red lights that let you make out silhouettes but not faces properly. It smells of smoke, sweat, cheap disinfectant. You do one first circuit, sizing people up. There’s a forty-something guy leaning against the wall with his cock out, there are two young guys kissing in a corner, there’s a big guy with a shaved head staring right at you and not looking away when you pass by.

In a tighter bend, you cross paths with a guy who brushes your package over your pants without breaking stride. Just one touch, firm, and he keeps going. You turn and watch him walk away. You can feel the heat in you climbing another notch. You want to be naked already. You want them to see the slut you’ve turned into this afternoon.

You go into an empty booth and lock the door. You take off your T-shirt, pull down your pants, step out of them along with your trainers, then put the trainers back on because the floor doesn’t invite bare feet. Just the trainers. You hang your clothes from the wall hook. You look at yourself in the scratched little mirror and almost laugh to yourself at how horny you are.

The booth has a glory hole. A hole at just the right height, its edges polished smooth by use. You think about it for a second and decide. You turn around, brace your hands against the wall and back your ass up to the hole. If some cock wants in, it can help itself. You wait without touching yourself. Your dick is so hard you’d rather not rub it, to make this last as long as possible.

Three minutes pass, maybe five. You hear footsteps on the other side of the partition. Someone’s breathing, having stopped. Then fingers. Fingers stroking your ass cheek, sliding down to the crease, brushing your hairless little hole, taut and eager. You let it happen. You close your eyes.

“Stay still,” says a voice from the other side, low and rough.

You let yourself be moved. But curiosity gets the better of you and after a minute you turn around. You want to see at least what’s about to go into you. You crouch down and press your face to the hole. Through the opening a lovely cock appears, not too long and not too thick, a clean, symmetrical dick with a shining head. You lunge. You take it all into your mouth in one go, no ceremony, hungry and long overdue.

The guy grunts something on the other side. You suck him off eagerly, letting saliva run down your chin and drip onto your thighs, onto your stomach. You scoop up the spit with two fingers and take it to your ass. You lube yourself properly while you keep sucking him with your other hand. You’ve got a stupid hunger for cock, the kind that never gets satisfied easily.

When you think you’re wet enough, you straighten up and put your little hole back against the opening. You feel the head, thick and hot, pushing in. You open up. You bite your lip. The guy plays a little: in, out, in, out, just the crown, until he gets tired or too aroused. He gives one deeper thrust, groans low, and you feel him come inside you. Hot. A lot. And then… he leaves. You hear his booth door open and close.

You stay there with your hands on the wall, panting, your ass full of another man’s load and your cock still untouched. Mmmm, son of a bitch. You come out of the daze and realize this hasn’t calmed you down at all. It’s turned you on even more.

***

You undo the latch and step out into the corridor. Naked. No towel, nothing. Just the trainers and your stiff cock out front, announcing your arrival. You feel the looks immediately. The adrenaline hits you like a long swig of something strong.

You walk slowly. You stop in front of another booth with its door ajar and look inside. There are two guys. One is bent over against the back wall and the other is fucking him from behind with a hard, steady rhythm. You stand there staring, leaning on the frame, biting your thumb without even noticing.

You decide to slip into the adjacent booth, the one that shares a glory hole with that one. It doesn’t have a latch and you leave it half closed. You lean against the wall and put your eye to the hole. From here you can see them from another angle. The one getting fucked has his eyes closed, mouth open, tongue out. I want to be him.

Behind you, someone pushes the door and comes in. You don’t turn around. You feel two hands on your hips, pushing you forward, bending you over, setting your ass out. He doesn’t ask. You don’t ask. He spreads your cheeks with his thumbs and goes in straight away. The first guy’s cum serves as lube. A long moan leaves your throat, unfiltered, bouncing off the booth walls.

The two next door stop. They come closer to the glory hole to see where the noise is coming from. After a second of silence, one of them thrusts his cock through the hole, on offer, still wet from the other guy’s ass. You stretch your neck and catch it with your mouth. It tastes like ass, like sweat, like the guy he was fucking a minute ago. It has that specific, dark taste you can’t explain but recognize instantly.

You’re getting fucked by one guy from behind and sucking another from the front. You’re not a person anymore. You’re a body in the middle of a booth, a mouth and an ass available, and you’ve never felt more alive.

The guy behind you picks up the pace. You can feel his cock swelling in your insides, pumping faster, more deeply, until he unloads into you with a stifled grunt. He fills you. He stays still for a moment, breathing against the back of your neck, and pulls out. Another load left inside you. You hear the door again. He’s gone. You never even saw his face.

Without waiting to recover, you turn around and drive yourself onto the cock you had in your mouth, the one still sticking through the hole. It’s thicker than the last two. It opens you up. Fuck yes. You brace both hands on the wall of the glory hole and start moving, fucking yourself on that cock coming through the partition.

Two more guys push the booth door and come in. You hadn’t seen them coming. They enter with their cocks out, without speaking, as if this were a tacit agreement. One stands in front of you, the other at your side. Without letting go of the cock in the hole, you reach out and grab the one beside you. You take the one in front into your mouth. You’re handling three cocks at once while your ass rocks on the fourth one protruding from the partition.

The glory hole guy comes first, inside you. He fills you for the third time that same afternoon. And, almost at the same time, without you having touched your cock for a good while, you come too, without warning, without managing it. Your cum shoots out in thick spurts over the tiles, over your feet, over your trainers. You moan with your mouth full. The guy in front shoves your head and ejaculates against your palate. You don’t have time to swallow it all: some of it spills from the corner of your mouth, thick.

***

You stay crouched. The two on either side are left with their cocks in your hands: the one in front has barely moved, the other hasn’t come yet. You alternate. One blow job and then the other, sometimes trying to fit both heads into your mouth, one pressed hard against the other. Saliva slips down your chin and falls onto your thighs. Without you hardly moving, the earlier loads keep seeping out of your ass in hot threads that run down the inside of your thigh to the floor. They mix there with yours. A small pool of semen starts forming between your trainers.

You revel in it. You’re not in a hurry anymore. You’re at that exact point where the heat has eased just enough for you to savor everything calmly. You lick the balls of the guy on the right, go up the shaft of the one on the left, come back down. You ask with your eyes, not your voice. They know what they have to do.

When they come, they do it almost at the same time, one on your face and the other over your chest. You feel the hot cum dripping down your chin, over your sternum, toward your navel. You lick up what you can reach with your tongue. The rest slides down and joins the puddle already on the floor. The two of them pull their pants up without saying a word and leave the booth.

***

You lock the door from the inside. You slide the little wooden panel over the glory hole. You breathe.

You sit on the floor, back against the wall, legs open. You look at yourself. There’s cum on your face, on your chest, on your stomach, on your thighs, in the puddle under your ass. You scoop semen off the floor with two fingers and bring it up to your cock. You spread it all over, slowly, as if it were expensive oil. You coat your balls. You coat your little hole, still open and dripping.

You want to feel the cum of every man who used you this afternoon in every pore of your sex. Not to come again. To wear it. So your body smells like them for hours.

You get dressed like that, without cleaning yourself up. The white T-shirt sticks to your chest and soaks up what’s left. You pull the jeans straight over your semen-soaked skin, thankful you didn’t put anything on underneath when you left home. The fabric molds to your dampness and suddenly you understand you’re going to carry that smell on your body until you get home to the shower. Good.

You leave the booth with the T-shirt marked inside and out, but nobody looks at you as if it’s strange. Here it isn’t. You hand back the locker key without ever opening the locker. You push the black door open and step out into the open air. The sun has already set and Avenida Castellar is almost empty. The cool air hits your sweat-slick skin under your clothes.

You walk to the car. On the way you think about what you’re going to do when you get home. You’re going to take your clothes off carefully. You’re going to hang them from the headboard of the bed, the T-shirt and the jeans, laid out properly so they don’t lose the smell. You’re going to get under the sheets with the trace of four unknown men thirty centimeters from your face. And you’re going to fall asleep without touching yourself, with your little hole still swollen and your thighs sticky, smelling like men.