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The Exclusive Men's Club #2 - The Glory Hole Shebang


[MM erotica, gay erotica, gay orgy, glory hole, big black cock, fellatio, oral sex, anal sex, masturbation, public sex, public nudity]

In this sequel to Welcome to the Club, Mr. P, the newest member of an exclusive men’s club (for those “who enjoy the Greek side of things”) is tasked with setting up the next quarterly meeting. And by “meeting,” they mean gay orgy. After running into an old college buddy who’s now at the D.O.T., Mr. P is able to rent an aging interstate rest area slated for demolition. On a hot summer evening, the old men’s room will be the site of the first annual members-only glory hole shebang.


      The bus pulled into the interstate rest area, moved past some temporary barricades and stopped in front of the cinderblock building. The sun had just set, and it was a hot and humid night.
      “Gentlemen, we have arrived,” I announced on the P.A. system. I stood at the front of the bus. “Please open your packets.”
      I gave them a moment.
      “Our field trip this evening is to a closed, about-to-be-demolished interstate rest area, as you can see,” I told the bus passengers, who were about to find out exactly what kind of sexual event was in store for them. “Welcome to the first annual, members-only, glory hole shebang.”
      All eyes were on me.
      “Please be aware, this is perfectly legal. The club rented the facility for the evening. The utilities are turned on. The building, as you’ll see, is a bit shabby, but everything is in working order. The lawn around the building is ours for the evening, too, all the way up to the fence. The first order of business is to undress. This event is not clothing-optional. As you remove your clothing, I’ll fill you in on more details.”
      Everyone—about 30 men and a handful of women, significant others who had volunteered to help-started to undress.
      “Your packet includes condoms, lubricants, a pair of disposable slippers and a card with a number between one and twelve. Even numbers indicate a men’s room stall—there are a dozen—where a glory hole has been cut at waist level. “Odd numbers indicate the stalls next to the even-numbered stalls. Those with odd numbers will go to those stalls, where you will find an occupied glory hole.
      “After thirty minutes, our volunteers will make an announcement. You will exit your stall and take a number—if you were an odd number, take an even number or vice-versa, and proceed to your new stall.
      “In the lobby there will be cold drinks and old black and white pornography for your viewing pleasure.
      “Any questions? It’s almost nine p.m. now. We plan to leave before eleven, which should give everyone time to both pleasure and be pleasured.
      “And, we have security at the entry ramp to ensure that our evening of fun won’t be interrupted.”
      Grungy was the best word to describe the run-down public restroom—peeling paint on walls, the steel mirrors over the cracked sinks were scratched and cloudy, and the odor of bleach couldn’t conceal decades of use.
      One nice touch provided by the club’s decorating committee were newspaper clips hung on the wall about state police busts of perverts arrested in sting operations—sting operations operated in this rest area, where men were arrested for soliciting and performing oral sex. A nice touch.
      Coolers full of ice kept water bottles and soft drinks cold on folding tables in the lobby, and a laptop and projector threw images of retro porn on the cinderblock wall.
      “Dude, this is brilliant,” enthused a member, his erect member bobbing as he approached me. “Everyone’s having a blast! It’s so goddamned perverted! How did you pull this off?”
      “It’s all who you know,” I replied, acting cool. “Ran into a guy I went to college with who’s now a bigwig at the D.O.T.”
      I stepped inside the rest room, eager and anxious to see how the extravaganza was progressing. Grunts, howls, and groans emanated from the dozen or so, metal-enclosed toilet stalls. Two men, their backs to the sinks across from the enclosures, were being serviced by men kneeling on the floor.
      Two women volunteers, nude like the rest of us, scurried about armed with towels, spray bottles of disinfectant, bottles of lube and packets of rubbers, all held in small shoulder bags.
      Some stalls didn’t have doors, and it was easy to walk by and see if any action was going on. Men either sat on the toilet or kneeled on towels as they serviced men through the glory holes. In the adjacent stalls, they splayed their bodies against the cold metal walls, hands gripping the tops of the enclosures, their buttcheeks clenching and unclenching as they were serviced through the glory holes.
      My self-assigned job was to make sure every man was getting serviced. I moved down the row of stalls, looking in, until I found an empty one. I stepped inside, and, sure enough, there was a…

Word Count: 5,600

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