Free Read: Hole in the Wall by Alison Tyler

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[intlink id=”131″ type=”post”]Find out more about Alison here[/intlink].

Alex almost missed the place the first time.

The store was nondescript, a gray concrete hole-in-the-wall with black-shaded windows. Cheap glass door with chipped silver paint. Not even a neon Open sign. Hanging slightly askew was a plastic one you could buy at any local hardware store.

The place seemed to disappear between the dry cleaners on the right side and the liquor store on the left. Alex took a breath, opened the door, and hurried through the black curtain, past the racks of magazines, tables displaying inflatable dildos, chintzy-looking cock pumps. The store was filled with stale, hot air. A glowing red heater perched on the counter to keep the customers malleable.

The young, tattooed clerk gave Alex a quick once-over, before nodding toward the back.

What had the clerk seen? A long dark coat, with a collar up against the chill. Short hair slicked back. A strong chin, sharp cheekbones. Sunglasses hiding hazel eyes. Alex slipped past racks of DVDs, visions of fucking on four-color glossy display. Girls on their knees, eyes so wide and innocent, as if they’d never sucked a cock before right this minute. But oh, how they were ready to suck one now.

The clerk’s motion had been this way. Alex’s hard footsteps echoed on the linoleum floor. Heart pounding. Too hot in the heavy trench now, even though the temperature outdoors was down in the teens. Couldn’t risk removing the coat yet. Drip of sweat erased with the back of a shaking hand.

To the door marked Private, rusted gold paint on the knob, a twist, a pull. Alex entered a bathroom with a foggy mirror, a toilet with the seat up, and a hole in the wall. Breath coming faster now. Heart racing. A quick flick of a tongue on parched lips.

A hole.

Lonely nights with nothing but fingers working. Pages of magazines torn and scattered. Neon through the window. Trucks blaring by.

Fumbling now, jacket open, jeans split, the foil condom wrapper torn open. Jesus. Tugging the slippery circle of rubber—come on, kid, you’ve done this a million times—reservoir tip, up and over the shaft, palm stretching the latex, and done.

A hole.

What had that clerk looked like? Wearing a muscle shirt on a day like this. Black on black with some hard-core band name on the front. Sleeves cut. Thin arms adorned with tribal art. Who the fuck cared about the arms? The mouth. What had the mouth looked like? Petulant. Pouty. Pink.

Glance into that scum-fogged mirror. Then down at the dirty sink. Wadded brown paper towel on the edge. Dust of dusky powered soap on the rim—no soap left in the container. Eyes on the hole. Fucking god. Now? Now?

Then a knock. Soft. Not from the door, but from the wall.

Body to the graffiti-covered plaster, just the tip inside, pushing through the space into the unknown.

Knees weak at the first lick. Mouth on head, sucking. God, yeah, just sucking. Another inch into wet heat. Palms flat now, body so still, until the sigh came through the opening. A sigh of pleasure, of delight. Hips slammed in response. A forward thrust hard, pressing in deep.

How long would it take? How long would the clerk suck it?

Alex had read about places like this, had heard from a man at a bar down near Whiskey Gulch. Go to the store. Find the hole. At first, the concept hadn’t been a turn on. Not that anonymous sex wasn’t a thrill. But not being able to see a face, or touch a body, that had seemed alien. And yet the image had remained. Night after night, the concept growing bigger, bolder, demanding, necessary.

Another sigh. This was torture. Alex wanted nothing more than to break down the wall and grab up the clerk, longed to demonstrate what it would feel like to really get fucked, to pound hard into a different sort of hole. But all that was available was this circle in the plaster. What if it wasn’t the clerk back there? What if someone else had gone behind the wall?

A shudder worked through Alex.

The climax was getting closer.

Sometimes what you want and what you get don’t match up. Sometimes reality is a poor facade of a fantasy. But not this time. That mouth was working Alex’s cock. Those sounds—fucking hell, man, those hungry desperate sounds—were exactly like the ones you hear on dirty tapes, in X-rated movies. Those sounds took Alex over the cusp.

Down the rabbit hole.

And back.

Alex was coming, but not filling the condom, because that wasn’t humanly possible. Alex was coming under the base of the rubbery dildo, coming in what felt like the first time in years. The clerk pulled back. The mouth left the hole.

Alex tucked the cock back into the slacks. She adjusted her shades. She stilled her breathing. Walking out was going to be much simpler than walking in. The orgasm had calmed the need for the moment.

No sense in washing hands without soap, in wasting time in a dirty bathroom.

Alex felt the clerk watching her leave, but she did not turn her head. She was shaking as she walked down the street, legs weak. Had she done it? Had she really? She passed her car in a daze before circling back to the old beater. In the driver’s seat, she unbuckled the harness.

A sound at the window. Alex stiffened, turned to look. The tattooed clerk, rapping on the glass. The clerk—Alex looked at the heart-shaped face full on, popped the lock on the door, waited as the stranger climbed into the passenger seat.

“You liked that?”

It was a girl’s voice. Alex felt her head spinning. The clerk kissed her lips, her neck, thrust her own hand deep into Alex’s pants, into her wet panties, pushing hard, touching her nether lips, her clit. Alex leaned back against the headrest.

Finally.

Whole.