The smell hit first. Sweat, amyl, old cum soaked into the walls. That thick, seedy scent you only find in places like this. I was already dropping to my knees, jeans halfway down, palms on cold tile. My shirt was still on. His cock was through the gloryhole, thick and pulsing, wet at the tip. No names, no rules. Just cock. Just heat. That kind of hunger that blanks everything else out.

Somewhere behind me, a bloke groaned. Somewhere else, someone came. The air was thick with sex. Doors clicked open and shut. Bodies shifted in shadow. I was in a backroom on Oxford Street, deep in Darlinghurst. The so-called Golden Mile. I was 21, skinny, pissed, and gagging for anything anonymous. The kind of place that felt dodgy just by smell alone, but it felt safe too. Like everyone knew what they were there for. And I fucking loved it.

The booth was narrow, barely wide enough to kneel in. Scuffed plywood on all sides, dim light filtering down from a cracked fixture overhead. It was built split-level, just high enough that I didn’t need to crouch too far, perfect cock height. There was a door behind me, I’d barely noticed it when I stepped in, too busy staring at the hole, too keen to think. I hadn’t checked if it locked. Didn’t even realise it had one. I hadn’t cared.

The dick in front of me smelled like he’d been edging for hours. I licked the tip, slow and greedy, then wrapped my lips around him. He was big. Older, maybe late thirties, early forties. I could tell by how steady he stood, not even thrusting, just letting me work. Letting me worship. He gave a low grunt, like he liked how I took him. I moaned, rubbing my cock through my jeans, already hard, already leaking. My mouth filled with salt as he pulsed deeper into my throat.

My head was spinning from the taste, the heat, the smell of him. But then something shifted.

Then I heard it. A soft creak behind me. The door. Shit. I hadn’t locked it. Didn’t even realise it had a lock. I froze for a second, lips still wrapped around the cock in my mouth. But I didn’t let go. I just kept going, slower now, listening. My heart thudded in my chest.

Someone stepped in. The door clicked shut. A lock turned. No words. He moved behind me like he knew what he wanted. Calm. Steady. His hands slid down my back, then gripped my arse and tugged my jeans the rest of the way down. I felt warm spit land on my hole, then fingers spreading it in slow, sure circles. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to. My body tilted back, offering more. Letting it happen.

He got on his knees and spread me open. His tongue licked me deep. Wet, hungry, like he knew exactly how to make me twitch. He buried his face in my hole, rimming me sloppy, breathing hard. I moaned around the cock in my mouth, thighs shaking, drool spilling from my chin. My hole clenched, open and wanting. My throat stayed full.

Then he stood and pushed in. Bare. One thick, steady thrust. I gasped, my body jolting forward, driving the other guy deeper into my mouth. I was stretched, stuffed, gagging, but I didn’t stop. He started fucking me slow and deep, solid strokes. The guy in front pushed in a bit more, his cock slick on my tongue. I stroked myself blindly, my cock bouncing, already soaked with precum.

The guy fucking me leaned forward and growled, “You got any amyl?”

I shook my head, still choking slightly.

“Ask the guy you’re sucking,” he muttered, gripping my hips tighter.

I mumbled, barely forming the words, my mouth still full. “Do you… have any?”

A grunt from the other side. “Yeah.”

His hand reached through the hole, holding a small bottle. “Take it.”

The guy inside me grabbed it and held it to my nose. “Breathe.”

I inhaled deep. The burn hit straight away. My head spun. Everything opened. My throat. My hole. My thoughts. I moaned, sweat running down my face, my whole body trembling. He started to fuck me harder, balls slapping against me. I was leaking like crazy, my hand moving fast, chasing release.

“Shit, I’m close…” said the man in front. He shoved deep. His cock twitched on my tongue. I swallowed quick, heat sliding down my throat. I kept sucking.

The man behind slammed in harder, his voice rough. “Take it.”

He pulsed deep inside me. Warm cum filled me up. He stayed buried, breathing hard against my back. I kept stroking. My cock was throbbing. I was shaking.

I was moaning into the wall, spit running down my chin, my cock hard and leaking but untouched. I stroked it fast, desperate, right on the edge, but I didn’t let myself tip over. Not yet. The guy in front groaned. His cock twitched on my tongue, thick and steady, and then I felt it, warm spurts flooding my mouth. I swallowed quick, gagging slightly as the taste hit. He stayed deep, unmoving, his cock still pulsing. Silent. I used my lips to pull his foreskin back over the swollen head, slow and greedy, then slid my tongue across the tip like I didn’t want to let go.

Behind me, the other man slammed in one last time. His hands locked around my hips, gripping me like he meant it, slick skin pressed hard against mine. I could feel his stomach push into my ass as he drove deep, full-body tension rippling through him. He let out a low grunt, his cock jerking inside me, and then I felt it, thick, searing heat, pulsing raw. My hole clenched around him, aching and stretched, sucking in every drop. He stayed buried, panting, his breath rough against my back. Sweat slid down his chest and landed on my spine. I could feel his heartbeat through his cock, still pulsing.

I didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

And then they left. No names. No goodbyes. Just the sound of boots on tile, one after the other, and the soft click of the door. I stayed where I was, on my knees, mouth wet, ass dripping, cock still rock hard. Still leaking. Still hungry. The room had gone quiet again, except for my breathing and the soft creak of floorboards beneath me. I hadn’t come. Not yet.

I was still on my knees. Fucked. Used. Holes raw, my body buzzing. I exhaled. And then I heard it, a new pair of boots. Slow. Deliberate.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, watching me breathe. Then his voice dropped low. “Well, you’re already slicked up, aren’t ya.”

I looked up.

He was tall. Broad. Already unzipped, already hard. But it wasn’t his cock I noticed first. It was the blond hair, sun-faded and messy, and that thick moustache straight out of a porn reel from the 80s. He looked like someone who'd stepped off an old VHS tape and into the room. The kind of man who didn’t ask. Just took.

Then he bent down and picked something up from the corner. My red boxers. I’d forgotten I’d tossed them aside in the heat. He held them up, turned them in his hand like a souvenir. Then he brought them to his face and sniffed, slow, deliberate, his lip curling under that retro moustache like he was judging the scent. And then, without a word, he ripped the waistband clean in one smooth motion.

He stepped behind me, grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulled my head back and tied the torn fabric across my eyes.

Darkness.

No colour. No shape. Just damp cotton against my lashes, the sound of my own breath, and the heavy scent of latex and sweat hanging thick in the air. My cock twitched. I was still dripping. Still open. And now blind.

He pressed one hand to the back of my neck, the other around my waist. Firm. In control. He didn’t rush. He just guided me. The floor tacky under my knees as we moved, air heavy with leftover moans and that sour-sweet scent of cleaner not quite doing its job. Somewhere nearby, someone let out a low grunt. Or maybe it was just in my head.

He led me a few steps, then stopped. I felt the edge of something low behind my thighs.

“Sit,” he said.

I did. A bench. Cracked vinyl, cold against my arse, sticky where sweat had dried and been half-wiped away. The kind of bench that’s been wiped down more times than anyone can count, but never really clean.

His hands came down to my knees and pushed them wider. One to either side. I was straddling it now. Wide open. Blind. Breathing harder by the second. He didn’t say anything.

Then I heard him spit. And felt the heat of him line up. I didn’t know his name. Didn’t care. All that mattered was what he was about to do.

I felt him lean in. My whole body braced, knowing what came next. Wanting it. Dreading it. The heat of his body, the weight of it, close to mine. His sweat smelled different. Bitter, earthy. Like sun-baked leather and old rope. Rougher than the others. More real. His cock pressed against me, heavy and slick with spit, nudging my used hole like it already belonged there.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t warn. Just took his place. And pushed in.

I gasped. My hole was still open, still sore, but this felt different. He filled me slow, steady, claiming the heat left behind. I could feel every ridge of him as he slid inside. No rush. Just pressure. Possession. Like he wanted to overwrite the last guy. Make me forget anyone else had ever been there.

His hands gripped my hips, thumbs digging in, holding me still while his cock sank deeper. I wasn’t resisting. Couldn’t. I was wide open, kneeling, blindfolded, breathing shallow. My hands searched behind me for balance, fingers scraping the edge of the bench, gripping hard. He bottomed out and held there. His hips pressed against me, firm and hot, his cock pulsing deep inside.

He started to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Controlled. Like he had all the time in the world to make me come undone.

I moaned, low and shaky. Every thrust dragged against raw nerve endings. The kind of rhythm that made it impossible to think, only feel. The vinyl bench squeaked under me. Sweat made my thighs stick to the surface, tacky and hot. I shifted, but he adjusted instantly, kept me still. He was steering everything.

The blindfold made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.

His hands moved again, roaming up my back, across my ribs, down to my ass. He spread me wider, holding me there. His cock hit deeper angles now. Slower thrusts, but harder. Thicker. I was dripping. From both ends.

My own cock pulsed, desperate and untouched. I wanted to stroke it. Needed to. But I didn’t. Not yet.

He leaned in, breath warm against my ear. His voice dropped low, almost casual. "You’re a fucking mess," he said.

I whimpered. Couldn’t even form words. Just nodded, forehead slick with sweat.

Then he started fucking me for real.

Deeper. Faster. His hips slammed into me. His thighs smacked mine. The bench rocked with each thrust. I was sliding forward, knees slipping on the tacky floor. He grabbed a fistful of the blindfold, yanked my head back, and forced me upright into his rhythm.

My body shook. My hole stretched wider. My cock throbbed, untouched, drooling precum onto the bench.

He was using me. And I fucking loved it.

His other hand slid down my stomach, not to jerk me, just to feel how hard I was. He gave a little grunt… approval, maybe… and slammed into me harder. The whole room seemed to close in. Heavy air. Wet sounds. Breath and sweat and skin.

And then he stopped. Pulled out.

Silence.

My chest heaved. My hole pulsed, still open, still wanting.

Then I felt it. His cockhead, warm and wet, pressing between my cheeks. Not entering. Just rubbing. Smearing precum. Marking me.

I was his now. And he wanted me to know it.

And then I heard another voice behind us. Deeper. Rougher. "You done with him yet?"

He didn’t answer the voice. Just pulled out slow, leaving me empty and stretched. His hand pressed to my back for a moment, warm and grounding, then vanished. Footsteps moved away. No words. No goodbye.

I stayed still, hole pulsing, cock hard, the blindfold clinging damp to my face. The air felt colder now. But I wasn’t alone.

I heard breathing. Movement. Someone shifting weight, maybe crouching. No one spoke. They just watched. I felt it, eyes tracing over my wrecked body, my dripping hole, my leaking cock. I was on display. Used. Exposed. And still wanting.

I didn’t move at first. Just lay there breathing, everything trembling under the surface. My knees ached. My hole throbbed. My cock stood up stiff, flushed and dripping. I was blindfolded, soaked in sweat and cum that wasn’t mine.

But this wasn’t just any blindfold. It was my own undies.

The red undies. Torn, tied behind my head. They clung damply to my face, one ripped edge falling unevenly down my cheek. A single thread dangled near my lips, swaying with each breath, brushing my skin like a tease. I could smell myself on the fabric. And others. Faint latex. Sweat. That coppery tinge of pre-cum. Something sunbaked too, like heat off old canvas.

And somewhere around me, voices.

Low. Quiet. Not talking to me. Not asking. Just present. Watching.

I could hear shifting weight on old floorboards, someone breathing with a wheeze, maybe crouching for a better view. I didn’t know how many. Couldn’t see them. That made it worse. Made it better. I lay back slowly on the bench. The vinyl was sticky under my spine, clinging like a second skin. Warm in patches, cold in others. I spread my legs, let them fall open naturally. My cock twitched, the tip flushed, soaked in pre.

I started stroking. Not to perform. Not for them. For me. I could feel their eyes trailing over me. Down my chest. My stomach. To the mess between my legs. My hole still leaked from the last guy, and I was fully aware of how I must have looked. Red cotton across my face, arse slicked open, thighs trembling.

I stroked harder. The sound of skin on skin filled the space between breaths. The blindfold slipped slightly as sweat gathered on my forehead, and that loose thread curled near the corner of my eye. It itched a little, just enough to notice.

Then someone whispered, “He’s gonna shoot.”

That did it.

I came hard. My back arched, hips lifting off the bench, and thick ropes of cum burst across my stomach and chest. The first hit just below my collarbone, warm and heavy. The second landed higher, streaking up my throat, soaking into the blindfold above my lip. Hot stickiness coated me fast, each spurt slapping wet against my skin. I felt it run down my sides in slow, lazy drips. My abs twitched with the aftershocks. The cold air hit it almost instantly, turning the cum tacky, gluing fine hairs to my belly.

My cock gave one last twitch. Then silence.

I could hear someone shifting. Maybe adjusting their pants. No one spoke. But they were still there. Still watching. Still breathing.

The blindfold stayed in place. Damp. Heavy. One corner of it now crusted with my own release.

I didn’t reach to untie it. I didn’t need to.

I don’t know how long I lay there after. Breathing. Listening. Letting everything settle under my skin. Eventually, I sat up. Peeled the blindfold off slowly. My red undies were ruined. Torn, crusted, heavy with sweat and cum. I didn’t bother trying to fix them. Just left them there, limp on the bench like a flag marking the spot.

The hallway outside was still. No music. Just the hum of air vents and the faint, rhythmic creak of bodies moving behind closed doors. I passed shadows in doorways. Men glancing up. Men not looking at all. No one spoke.

I stepped out into the street. Oxford was buzzing like it always did. Neon and taxis. Laughter from somewhere across the road. The sharp smell of booze, weed, and someone’s takeaway wafting in the air. The breeze hit my skin and stuck there, mixing with the dried sweat, the latex, the lingering scent of what had just been done to me.

I was 21. Still drunk. Still trembling slightly. And I’d gotten exactly what I came for. Anonymous. Raw. Filthy. The kind of night that stains you. The kind you remember in fragments. The kind you feel in your spine every time you jerk off thinking back.

And yeah. I’ll be jerking off to this one for years.