Construction Worker Meets Neighbor Gloryhole

Derek’s steel-toed boots echoed down the concrete stairs into the basement of the apartment complex. Another Thursday night, another fight with his wife that ended with her locking the bedroom door and him with a throbbing hard-on and nowhere to put it. Six days since he’d last gotten laid. Six fucking days of blue-balled frustration while she complained about headaches and stress from her new job. He was 28, built like the construction sites he worked on—broad shoulders, thick arms, a solid chest that still turned heads—and his wife treated his cock like an afterthought.

He needed to blow off steam. Badly.

The basement bathroom was always empty this late. Most tenants used the laundry room on the other side. Derek had noticed the hole in the partition wall between the two stalls weeks ago. At first he told himself it was just some weird plumbing thing. Then one night he saw the faint light from the other side and the crude writing above it: Feed me.

Tonight the frustration won.

He stepped into the left stall, heart hammering, and locked the door. The hole was perfectly sized—smooth edges, about waist high. His cock was already straining against his work jeans. He rubbed the thick bulge once, twice, then muttered a curse under his breath and unzipped.

The moment his heavy cock sprang free, Derek felt a rush of shame and raw need. Eight thick inches, veined, uncut, the head already slick with pre-cum. Married cock. Straight cock. He gripped the base, breathed deep, and pushed his hips forward.