Office Glory Hole With My Married Coworker

I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, pretending to study the quarterly analytics dashboard while Mark hovered at the edge of my cubicle for the third time that week. At thirty-five, he looked like the poster boy for straight suburban success—broad shoulders straining against his button-down, a thick wedding band glinting on his left hand, and a dad bod that had hardened into something muscular from weekend CrossFit. He was the guy who brought in homemade cookies for his kid’s birthday and talked about date nights with his wife, Jenna. Yet here he was again, fingers drumming on the partition.

“So… you ever go downtown on the weekends?” he asked, voice low enough that only I could hear. “That adult bookstore on 9th? The one with the video booths in back?”

I kept my face neutral even as my pulse kicked up. I was twenty-eight, openly gay around the office, and had zero reason to hide my habits. “Sometimes,” I said casually. “The glory hole booths are decent if you hit them on a Thursday night. Anonymous enough that nobody has to pretend.”

Mark’s ears went red. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and gave a laugh that sounded forced. “Yeah. Heard the same thing.” His eyes flicked to my mouth for half a second before he looked away. “Must be wild. Not knowing who’s on the other side.”

The tension crackled between us like static. I let the silence stretch, then added, “It’s hotter when you do know, though. Takes the edge off the fantasy and makes it real.”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded once, adjusted his tie, and walked back to his desk with a stiffness in his stride that told me everything. The married straight guy had a secret. And that secret had my name written all over it.

Over the next three weeks the coded conversations multiplied. He’d linger after stand-ups, asking me what kind of guys showed up at the bookstore. I’d describe them in detail—thick cocks, veiny shafts, the way some men groaned when a warm throat took them to the root. Mark would shift his weight, eyes glazing with hunger he couldn’t quite hide. One afternoon he “accidentally” brushed against me in the break room, his hip pressing against my ass for two full seconds longer than necessary. The air felt thick enough to choke on.

By the time we grabbed an after-work beer at the dive bar two blocks from the office, the dam was ready to burst. We sat in a dim corner booth. Mark’s knee jittered under the table. After his second IPA he finally looked me dead in the eye.

“I go every Thursday,” he said, voice rough. “Lunch hour. I tell Jenna I’m running errands. I lock myself in a booth, drop to my knees, and suck whatever cock comes through that hole like a fucking addict. I tell myself it’s just stress relief. Just anonymous dick. But lately…” He licked his lips. “Lately I keep imagining it’s you on the other side. Your cock. Your load. I jerk off at night thinking about it and I feel disgusting and so goddamn hard I can’t stand it.”