My Married Coworker's Secret Glory Hole Addiction

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.”

The confession hit me like a freight train. My own cock thickened instantly inside my slacks.

“So do something about it,” I told him quietly. “I rigged a glory hole in the supply room last month. Small circular cut in the door that connects the two sides. Nobody uses that room after seven. Thursday night, eight o’clock. Come ready to worship.”

Mark’s breathing had gone shallow. He stared at me like I’d just offered him salvation and damnation at the same time. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive.

“Eight o’clock,” he repeated. His wedding ring tapped against his glass as he drained the rest of his beer.

Thursday arrived wrapped in anticipation so sharp it felt like foreplay itself. I stayed late, killing time with meaningless reports until the office emptied out. At 7:55 I slipped into the supply room, locked the main door, and dimmed the lights. The makeshift glory hole I’d cut weeks ago—perfectly sized, edges padded with electrical tape so nothing would snag—was waiting at waist height in the interior door that led to the adjacent storage closet. I took my position on the near side, heart hammering, and waited.

At exactly eight I heard the exterior closet door click open, then shut. A lock engaged. Footsteps. Then the sound of a grown man lowering himself to his knees.

I didn’t speak. I simply unzipped, pulled out my thick seven-and-a-half-inch cock—already leaking at the tip—and fed it through the hole.

The groan Mark let out was pure animal need. A married man on his knees in the dark, wedding ring still on his finger, staring at the cock he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. His hot breath ghosted over my shaft first, then his tongue—broad, wet, greedy—licked a long stripe from balls to crown. He swirled around the head, tasting the pre-cum that had already gathered there, and moaned again like he was savoring his favorite forbidden meal.

“Fuck, it’s even thicker than I imagined,” he whispered, voice cracking with shame and lust. Then he opened wide and swallowed me.

The heat and suction were immediate and devastating. Mark didn’t ease into it. He took me straight to the back of his throat on the first bob, gagging wetly as his nose pressed against the wall. Saliva spilled down my shaft in thick strands. He pulled off, coughed, then dove back down, sucking harder, hollowing his cheeks, working me with the sloppy, desperate technique of a man who had spent years perfecting his craft in seedy booths. Every time he took me deep his throat convulsed around my cockhead, massaging it. The wet glucking sounds echoed obscenely in the small room.

“That’s it,” I growled, keeping my voice low. “Suck it like the married cockslut you are, Mark. Show me how much you’ve needed this dick.”

He whimpered around my length and doubled his efforts, one hand coming up to cup my balls through the hole while the other undoubtedly worked his own cock in his slacks. I could hear the frantic rustle of fabric. The married father of two was jerking himself furiously while deepthroating me like his life depended on it.

After ten minutes of that glorious torture I pulled out, my cock shiny with his spit.

“Stay right there,” I ordered.

I zipped up long enough to slip out of the supply room, walk around to the closet side, and let myself in. Mark was still on his knees, lips swollen and glossy, eyes glassy with lust. His shirt was half unbuttoned, tie askew, and his hard cock jutted out of his open fly, leaking onto the tile floor. The sight of his wedding band wrapped around that married fist while he stroked himself nearly made me come on the spot.

“Stand up. Bend over the desk.”

He obeyed instantly, shoving paperwork aside and presenting his ass like a bitch in heat. I yanked his pants and boxers down to his ankles, revealing a surprisingly smooth, muscular ass dusted with dark hair. His hole was already winking, glistening with the lube he’d clearly applied before arriving. The dirty bastard had come prepared to get fucked.

I lined up and pushed in with one long, relentless stroke.

Mark’s head snapped back, mouth open in a silent cry. “Oh my fucking God,” he gasped. “You’re so thick—fuck, you’re splitting me open.”

I didn’t give him time to adjust. I grabbed his hips and started pounding him in deep, measured strokes that made his heavy balls swing. The desk creaked beneath us. Every thrust forced a guttural moan out of his throat. His powerful back flexed under his dress shirt as he pushed back to meet me, greedy for every inch.

“Harder,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please—give it to me. I need it so bad. I think about this every time I fuck my wife. I think about a thick cock owning me.”

The confession sent fire up my spine. I reached around, wrapped my hand around his wedding ring, and used it as leverage while I railed him, the metal digging into my palm. The symbolism was filthy and perfect.

After a few minutes I pulled out, sat in the rolling chair, and crooked my finger. “Come ride me. I want to watch that ring while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

Mark didn’t hesitate. He kicked his pants the rest of the way off, straddled me reverse cowgirl, and sank down onto my slick shaft with a long, broken moan. The view was obscene—his muscular back tapering to a tight waist, that married ass stretching wide around my girth, and the constant flash of gold as his left hand gripped my thigh for balance. He started bouncing, slow at first, then faster, impaling himself with shameless desperation. The wet slap of flesh filled the room. His cock slapped against his abs with every downward thrust, leaving sticky trails.

“Look at you,” I groaned, gripping his hips. “Married man riding dick like a whore. That ring looks so good bouncing on my cock.”

Mark’s head fell back. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice cracking. “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—”

I reached around and stroked him fast. Two more bounces and he seized up, ass clamping down like a vice as thick ropes of cum splattered across the desk and the floor. The contractions milked my own orgasm out of me. I buried myself to the hilt and unloaded, pumping pulse after pulse of hot cum deep into his married guts. The sensation of filling him while his wedding band glinted in the low light was almost too much.

We stayed locked together, panting, for a long minute. Finally Mark lifted off with a wet sound. A thick trickle of my cum immediately leaked from his used hole and ran down his thigh. He looked utterly debauched—tie hanging loose, shirt wrinkled, hair wild, lips puffy, and cum still dripping from his ass.

He turned to face me, eyes soft with something like gratitude and lingering shame.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I needed that more than I can say.”

I watched as he cleaned himself with paper towels from the supply shelf, wiped the cum from his thighs and the floor, then tucked his spent cock away. He buttoned his shirt with practiced efficiency, straightened his tie, and slid his wedding band back into its proper, prominent position. In under two minutes the cock-hungry glory hole addict disappeared, replaced by the polished, straight-presenting project manager who had a wife and kids waiting at home.

He paused at the door, hand on the knob, and looked back at me with a small, conspiratorial smile that sent fresh heat curling in my gut.

“Next Thursday,” he said quietly. “Same time. But I want you to fuck my throat until I cry, then breed me again right here over the desk. I’ll wear the navy suit you like. Jenna’s taking the kids to her mother’s that night.”

He slipped out without waiting for an answer, the door clicking shut behind him.

I sat there, cock still half-hard, already scheming exactly how I was going to ruin that navy suit and that married ass all over again.