Jenny’s Risky Riches: A Gloryhole Initiation

The global pandemic had truly upended everything, particularly for my generation. Turning eighteen should have marked a thrilling new chapter of freedom and late-night adventures with friends. Instead, it delivered enforced isolation, a suffocating quiet, and the gnawing frustration of missed experiences.

To compound my woes, I’d lost my part-time job, yet the monthly payments on my gleaming new car loomed large. My step-parents offered what assistance they could, but their own finances were strained, and selling my beloved vehicle felt like a defeat I couldn’t bear.

Hundreds of job applications later, I faced an equally staggering pile of rejections. Only one listing had been immediately dismissed: a sales assistant position at a discreet adult shop on the industrial estate. The mere thought of peddling explicit magazines and novelty items to leering older men made my skin crawl, my stomach churn with revulsion. It was utterly unthinkable.

Weeks bled into one another, my unemployment stretching longer, the threat of repossession from the garage and finance company becoming increasingly real. Job boards and social media offered no solace; the economic shutdown had only exacerbated the scarcity of work.

Staring out the window at my car, a solitary tear tracing a path down my cheek, I finally made the call. Part of me, a tiny, desperate part, hoped they’d been forced to close. But after a few rings, someone answered. A brief conversation about past work experience led to an interview invitation for the very next day.

Sleep eluded me that night, my mind racing, calculating how many shifts it would take to clear my car debt before I could escape this unthinkable profession.

Choosing an outfit was a torturous dilemma. I aimed for modesty, fearing any suggestion of impropriety, yet needing to project competence. A pair of close-fitting jeans, accentuating my slender legs and modest backside, paired with a high-necked top that hinted at my C-cup chest without revealing any cleavage, seemed a suitable compromise.

Clutching my largest sunglasses, a shield against recognition, I headed out. I parked discreetly around the corner, determined no one should associate my car with the shop. After several anxious passes, summoning every ounce of courage, I slipped inside, relieved to find the place deserted. Approaching the counter, I murmured, “Hi, I’m Jenny, here for the job interview.”

“Ah, yes,” the proprietor replied, emerging from behind the counter. He led me to a small, tidy office. He offered me a drink, which I accepted, pleasantly surprised. He was, well, normal. Mid-forties, average build, not the stereotypical lecherous figure I’d conjured in my imagination. He felt more like a distant step-uncle than anything else.

Our conversation flowed easily for nearly an hour, covering my work history, interspersed with discussions about the pandemic. He offered me the job on a two-week probationary basis, with hours from 10 AM to 6 PM, while the shop itself operated from 9 AM to 7 PM. “Fine,” I mused, realizing he must handle opening and closing.

He walked me through the till system, ordering process, and a quick tour of the merchandise. The sheer variety was astounding – from magazines to lingerie to an array of sex toys. From a distance, it almost looked like any other retail space, just with a rather unique inventory.

Nervous but relieved, I took solace in the better pay compared to a supermarket job. The first customer arrived about fifteen minutes later, purchasing a couple of lube bottles without much interaction. The next, surprisingly, was a woman in her late forties, who bought a vibrator after a pleasant chat about the weather. The day passed swiftly, far less dreadful than anticipated. It wasn’t my dream job, but it was tolerable.

The following two weeks followed a similar pattern. A few customers were indeed inappropriate, but no worse than one might encounter anywhere, and generally, people were polite. Often, they seemed more awkward than I felt.

It was during the second week that I noticed a peculiar trend. The customer restroom at the back of the shop was typically unused, as we had a dedicated staff facility. Yet, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the shop would experience a flurry of male visitors who would briefly browse, use the toilet, and then depart almost immediately. I initially assumed it was due to the closure of fast-food restaurants on the industrial park.

I mentioned it to my boss, who merely waved it off, instructing me to focus on sales.

My two-week review arrived, and he expressed satisfaction with my performance, offering a permanent position. I readily accepted.

Another fortnight passed, and the curious restroom trend persisted. After one particular customer, I peered into the toilet. Nothing seemed amiss; it was just a standard lavatory.

A week later, still observing the Tuesday and Thursday pattern, often with the same recurring faces, I finally confronted my boss. He again dismissed my concerns, but when I threatened to deny access to non-paying customers, he insisted I sit down.

“Do you know what a gloryhole is?” he inquired.

“No, what is it?” I replied, a knot forming in my stomach.

“Listen, you cannot, under any circumstances, reveal this. The shop would be shut down. And if you wish to quit, I’ll completely understand.”

I just stared, speechless.

“Behind the toilet roll holder, there’s a hole in the wall. It leads to another room, accessible from outside. In that room, every Tuesday and Thursday, a girl sits. For twenty pounds, she provides oral pleasure to men who insert their… you know, through the hole.”

“What?!” I gasped, “Are you serious?”

“Ssshhh, keep your voice down,” he hissed. “Yes, I’m serious. That’s why those men come in just for the ‘toilet.’ Some stay and buy things, which is the idea, but many just get their release and leave.”

“Wow,” was all I could manage.

“But remember, not a word to anyone, alright?”

“No. Okay.”

The revelation left me reeling. I’d never imagined such a thing existed. I finished my shift in a daze. That night, sleep was impossible. My mind replayed the days, calculating. “Ten to fifteen guys today… and last week. That’s two hundred to three hundred pounds a day. Four hundred to six hundred a week. That’s insane.”

My brain, still buzzing with shock, eventually succumbed to exhaustion.

That night, I had the most vivid, intensely erotic dream of my life. I was on the other side of that wall. I awoke mid-night, bathed in sweat, a different kind of dampness on my sheets.

“I can’t,” a voice in my head insisted, immediately followed by, “Six hundred pounds a week, and my car will be paid off in no time!” My head spun as I drifted back to sleep.

The rest of the week at the shop passed in a strange silence between me and my boss.

It was Thursday. I meticulously counted the men entering the bathroom: twelve. I knew I’d missed some, and some might genuinely just be using the facilities, oblivious to the secret behind the wall.

My decision was made. At the end of my shift, I walked into the office.

“Alright, if you want me to keep quiet, I need a raise.”

“Done,” he said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “I figured you’d say that.”

“And I want to be in that room on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” I declared, my voice surprisingly steady.

“What?!” he exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious. I’ll work the shop Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I’ll be in the room Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

“Okay, if you’re certain, it can be arranged,” he conceded, pulling a key from his desk drawer. “But you have to be in every day you commit. And whatever comes through that hole, you have to suck. You don’t have to swallow, but you must suck until they cum or pull out. Is that agreed?”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“It’s usually fifty pounds a week to rent the room, and you keep everything else. But for now, until word gets around about you, it’s free.”

“Excellent. I’ll start Monday.” I turned and headed home.

The weekend passed in a blur of gloryhole pornography research. While certainly no expert, I’d pleasured enough men to confidence in my oral skills. Still, the mechanics of it through a wall required some strategic planning.

Monday morning, I parked in my usual spot. This time, instead of the shop entrance, I unlocked a side door with my new key, stepping into the secret room and securing the lock behind me.

The space was surprisingly well-appointed: a neat desk, a small private toilet and shower, and a mini-fridge stocked with drinks. On the desk sat a multipack of mints, which inexplicably made me chuckle.

In one corner, there it was – the gloryhole. Large enough to accommodate both shaft and balls, its surrounding wall adorned with subtle pornographic images and a few tongue-in-cheek motivational quotes. Plush cushions lay on the floor, atop a thick rug, promising comfort for kneeling knees.

Just after nine, I began my preparations. I arranged the cushions for optimal positioning, placed a small bowl nearby for any… discretionary spitting (I hadn’t quite decided on my policy yet), and grabbed a packet of mints. Almost ready. I retrieved a small bottle of vodka from my bag, downing a quick shot for courage, followed by another. Now, I was truly ready.

It was almost eleven when the soft buzz signaled the opening of the outside door. A quick pep talk, and I moved to the hole. I knelt, a sliver of light illuminating the opening, followed by a crisp twenty-pound note. Then, my first customer appeared.

My porn-fueled fantasies had envisioned a thick, perfectly shaven, already erect member. Reality presented an average-sized penis, trimmed but decidedly flaccid. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, parted my lips, and leaned forward, encompassing the tip in my mouth. It twitched instantly, beginning to stiffen, accompanied by muffled moans from the other side.

Slowly, rhythmically, I bobbed my head along the shaft, gradually increasing my pace, intent on bringing him to climax swiftly. I felt his body tense, trying to hold back. Taking as much of him as I could, I cupped his testicles, massaging gently until he convulsed, shooting his load. Before I could even register, instinct took over, and I swallowed every drop. Leaping up, I darted to the desk, took another vodka shot, and popped several mints into my mouth.

I wouldn’t say I enjoyed the act, but I didn’t detest it either. There was an undeniable thrill, a clandestine excitement I couldn’t quite pinpoint. And twenty pounds for ten minutes of work felt undeniably good.

It was a slow day. Only two more men came through. They were similar to the first – average, reasonably trimmed, and climaxed within minutes. I hadn’t touched the vodka since the initial encounter and felt sober enough to drive home.

On the way, my boss called. “How was it?”

“I’m good,” I replied, sifting through my complex feelings. “I’m good.”

“Pleased to hear it. I know it was quiet, but word will spread. The guys sang your praises, so you’ll be busy in no time.”

“Thanks,” I managed.

“Get a good night’s sleep. See you at the shop tomorrow,” he said before hanging up.

Wednesday was slightly busier; I orally pleased five men, swallowing each time. My mind, it seemed, had made its decision. Mints were still a constant, but the vodka was no longer needed.

Friday was when things truly escalated. I was in the room by nine, and the buzzer sounded shortly after. Taking my position, I waited for the money, then the cock. Not bad for a first of the day – quite small, allowing me to take most of him deep into my throat. I quickly developed my rhythm, sensing the right moment to cup the balls and trigger his release. My technique was becoming refined. A few men seemed surprised, almost annoyed, at how quickly they came, but a whispered “Mmm, yum” usually soothed their ego. It felt like an endless procession of men and cum. By lunchtime, I’d pleasured eight. My jaw began to ache, making the break a welcome reprieve, though my stomach felt too full for much food.

The afternoon mirrored the morning, adding another seven men to my tally, bringing the day’s total to fifteen. A surge of satisfaction, coupled with the satisfying weight of money in my purse, filled me.

As I was leaving, my phone buzzed. It was my manager. “Never seen the shop so busy. Did you have fun?”

“Yes, but my jaw aches!”

“I’m not surprised. It’ll be like that most days now, probably even busier.”

“Good. Have to rest my jaw tomorrow and eat soup, lol.”

“Lol, good idea. And by the way… best twenty pounds I’ve spent in a while ;)”

“Cheeky fucker,” I retorted playfully.

“Annoyed?”

“Yeah. I’d have charged you double! See you tomorrow.”