Gloryhole Shift: Legs Strapped, Flooded With Cum

The vinyl stool sticks to the backs of my thighs every time I shift, and the leather stirrups creak where my bare feet are locked in tight. I am Vanessa, twenty-four, and this is my long Tuesday shift at the adult bookstore off the highway, the one that starts before the lunch crowd and does not end until the neon outside goes dull. My lower body is pushed through the wide padded hole in the partition so that on the other side all anyone gets is my legs and my pussy, knees bent, thighs hauled open by the straps that circle my ankles and keep me spread. The rest of me stays hidden behind the wall. Face, chest, the sweating water bottle in my hand, the phone I am barely looking at. Anonymous. That is the point of the job, and I like the point.

I sip. The water is lukewarm and tastes like the plastic bottle. I scroll past nothing, a blur of messages I will answer later, and listen to the fluorescent hum and the muffled bass leaking from the video booths down the hall. I am bored. That is the honest stretch before the line starts, the part where my mind drifts and my body just waits. Even so, my cunt is already wet. The position does that. Cool air from their side kisses my exposed slit, slips between my spread lips, and makes me clench around nothing. A slow slick heat gathers at my entrance and starts to drip. I take another drink, wipe my mouth on my wrist, and check the time. Twenty minutes until the booth door unlocks for the booked rotation.

My toes flex inside the stirrups. The leather is snug around my arches, buckled so I cannot pull my feet free until the closer comes around with the key. I agreed to the straps when I took the shift. I like them. I like knowing I will not be able to close my legs once the men begin. A thin line of my own wetness slides down toward my ass. I rock once, testing the frame of the hole, feeling the padding press into the soft crease where my thighs meet my belly. On their side I am just a body offered up, pussy bare and shining under the booth light. On this side I am a woman killing time, already pulsing, already listening for footsteps.

They come in a cluster. More than one set of shoes on the tile. Male voices, low and rough, gathering in the booth beyond the wall. I set the phone face-down on the little shelf, take one more sip, and hold the bottle against my stomach while I listen.

"Jesus, look at that," someone says, close enough that I feel the warmth of him before he touches me. A broad hand settles on the inside of my thigh and squeezes. I shiver, and the boredom cracks at the edges.

"She's dripping already." That voice is nearer the smaller gloryhole at crotch level, the one they feed their cocks through when they want to rub against me before they take the open space between my strapped legs. Zippers. Belts. The wet, rhythmic sound of a man stroking himself.

I know two of the regulars by the way they talk, even though they never see my face and I never see theirs. Emmett is thirty-two, a warehouse supervisor who always clears his throat before he puts his hands on me, like the permission is a ritual he enjoys. Marco is twenty-nine, an orderly on night shifts at the hospital, and he laughs under his breath when he is hard. The rest are new to my ears tonight. The clerk already told me the rotation is verified adults with memberships. A forty-one-year-old with a gravel voice I have never heard murmurs, "Hold her open." A thirty-six-year-old with a softer accent says he wants a taste before anyone fucks me. Someone else, thirty-eight and breathing hard, just groans like the sight of my spread cunt is enough to wreck him.

A cock pushes through the smaller hole and bumps my inner thigh, hot and heavy, smearing precum on my skin while its owner strokes the shaft against me. Fingers find my slit at the same time. Two of them, thick, sliding through my wetness and pushing in without ceremony. I gasp. My hips jerk toward the touch before I decide to let them. Emmett, I am almost sure, from the careful throat-clear and the way he curls his fingers against the front wall of my cunt. Heat flares up my spine. I set the water bottle down so I can grip the edge of the stool.

"Tight," he says. "God, she's tight."

A mouth replaces part of the pressure. Hot, open, tongue flat on my clit. Marco, from the little laugh he gives when I whimper. He licks me in slow, filthy strokes, then sucks, and my knees try to draw together and cannot. The straps hold. Leather bites sweetly at my ankles. I am spread and I stay spread, and the helplessness of it makes me wetter, a fresh pulse of slick that he licks up like he earned it. Another hand palms my ass and spreads me wider for the tongue. The cock at the smaller hole drags along my lips, not inside yet, just there, throbbing, painting me with precum while Emmett's fingers pump.

"She's rocking," someone says, amused and hungry.

I am. I did not plan it. My hips roll, chasing Marco's mouth, then chasing the fingers that slide back in beside his tongue. Three now, stretching me, the wet sound obscene in the small booth. A second mouth takes over my clit when Marco moves aside to stroke himself. I grind down on them, straps creaking, thighs starting to shake. The long bored wait has turned into an ache so sharp I can barely sit still on the stool. My phone buzzes once on the shelf and I ignore it. Water forgotten. I am working, and I want the work. I want the stretch of a cock instead of knuckles.

"More," I say, voice muffled by the wall, meant for me as much as for them. "Don't just tease. Fuck me."

A low chorus answers. Agreement. Need. The cock at the smaller hole withdraws, and the line shifts. I hear Emmett step into the space between my open legs, feel his hands brace on my thighs, feel the blunt head of him notch against my dripping entrance. I rock toward him, desperate, anonymous, already clenching for it.

He seats himself in one slow, thick thrust, and the fullness knocks a moan out of my chest. He holds there a second, the way he always does, letting me feel every inch before he starts to move. Then he pounds. Deep and fast, hips slamming the padding around the hole, his balls slapping my ass with every stroke. I grip the stool and take it. Nothing but a strapped-open cunt for him to use, face hidden, name irrelevant on his side of the wall. The drag of him over that swollen spot inside me lights me up. I meet him as well as the straps allow, rocking, greedy.

"Coming," he grits out. "Taking all of it. Stay open."

He unloads inside me, thick hot pulses painting my walls, and the sensation tips the ache into something frantic. He pulls out with a wet sound. Cum spills at once, a warm heavy trickle down toward my ass, and I clench on the emptiness and whine.

Marco is next. I know the angle of him, the way he hooks a hand under one thigh even though the strap already holds me wide. He thrusts in through the mess Emmett left, sliding easy and filthy, and fucks me harder than the first, short brutal strokes that knock the air out of me. "So full already," he says, delighted. "Gonna add to it. You want that, don't you. Working girl with a cunt made for a line."

"Yes," I gasp. "All of it. Inside."

He comes with a choked laugh, flooding me, and when he withdraws the overflow is heavier, creamy and hot, dripping off my pussy. I hear it hit the tile. My thighs tremble. I am not bored anymore. I am lit up and leaking and already pushing my hips toward the next man.

They rotate without a pause. The forty-one-year-old with the gravel voice takes the space between my legs and stretches me wider than the others, grinding deep, talking about how my pussy flutters around him, until his cum joins the rest in a long, pulsing flood. The thirty-six-year-old fucks me in long strokes and tells me, voice gone rough, how pretty I look cream-coated and gaping between thrusts, how he is going to fill me until I cannot hold it. He does. A thirty-four-year-old whose name I never catch just uses me fast and silent, hands braced on my thighs, cock driving through the slick mess, unloading with a shudder I feel in my bones. Then another. A forty-four-year-old who groans my wetness back at me like praise. Then a thirty-one-year-old who rubs my clit with his thumb while he pounds, and I sob at the extra friction.

Cocks of different shapes, all hard, all of them burying themselves in my helpless, strapped-open pussy and emptying straight inside. No one pulls out to finish. Every load stays in me until my body cannot keep it. I lose count of the men I cannot see and keep count of the weight instead. Six. Eight. My cunt is a sloppy, overflowing mess. Cum leaks constantly, sliding down my ass, pooling, stringing between my lips when they pull out to let the next man in. I am moaning without shame, rocking to meet every thrust, chasing mouths and fingers when someone leans in to lick the cum and my slick off my clit before he fucks me. Pleasure climbs higher than it ever has on a shift. My belly feels tight and bright. My thighs shake in the leather. Something is building that I do not have a name for yet, a pressure behind my clit that sharpens every time a cock drags over that spot inside me.

The man currently fucking me grunts that he is forty when someone in line asks, like it is a joke, and then he stops joking. He hits that spot again and again, fast, deep, his cock slick with everyone who came before him. "She's gripping," he says, awed. "She's gonna—"

It breaks.

I squirt for the first time in my life. A sudden violent gush soaks his cock and sprays out around the thick shaft, splattering the floor, my own thighs, the straps. I cry out, shocked, legs trembling so hard the stirrups rattle against the wall. The orgasm rolls through me in waves I cannot stop. I gush again, harder, clear fluid mixing with the cum already flooding me, and he groans like the clench and the wet ruin of me drag his own orgasm out of him. He unloads while I am still squirting, thick spurts I feel even through the flood, and the combination whites out the edges of my vision. My feet strain in the stirrups. My hidden hands claw at the stool. I have never come like this. I did not know my body could do it, and now it will not stop, fluttering and gushing around him until he has to hold my hips to stay inside.

He stays buried until the last pulse, then pulls out. More of me spills, cum and squirt together, a mess running down my ass onto the already soaked floor. My cunt flutters, empty and oversensitive, still trying to come.

They are not done. I hear them shifting in line, hard again or hard still, eager because they heard me scream and saw me gush around a cock. A twenty-six-year-old who says he works construction pushes in while I am still twitching and fucks the aftershocks, slow at first, then rough, and the overstimulation tips into another smaller crest that makes me squirt a weaker, shaking spurt around his shaft. He curses, broken, and comes inside me. Then a fifty-two-year-old who moves carefully for three strokes and then loses that care, burying deep and filling me until I feel impossibly full, pressure and heat and the obscene leak of all of it. Then two more I only know by their hands and their groans, a thirty-nine-year-old and a forty-seven-year-old, both of them adding their loads to the creamy, quivering mess my pussy has become. More than a dozen. I stopped trying to count after the first squirt, and the number still climbed. Every one of them came in me. Every one of them left me wetter, sloppier, more used, and I took it because I wanted it, because the straps held me open and my hips kept asking.

My legs shake. I cannot close them. I do not want to. I am panting on this hidden side of the wall, sweat on my stomach, hair stuck to my neck, mouth open, anonymous and wrecked. The last stranger pulls out with a wet, filthy sound and a satisfied sigh. Cum pours out of me in a thick rush, warm over my ass, pattering onto the tile. I hear zippers. Low talk. Footsteps dispersing toward the hall. The booth door opens and shuts. The line is gone for now.

The air on my soaked, creampied cunt is cool again. My body twitches, aftershocks sparking through my thighs and up into my belly, the powerful squirting orgasm still echoing in every clench. I am a dripping, quivering mess, strapped in place, pussy fluttering around nothing and leaking their combined cum in slow pulses.

I reach, clumsy, for the water bottle on the shelf. My hand finds it. I bring it to my mouth and drink, throat working, still spread, still trembling, already wondering, dazed and throbbing, how many more loads my shift will take before someone comes to unbuckle my feet.