Glory Hole Goalkeeper

I can’t masturbate at home.

I don’t even have a door to my room. My dad took it off the hinges.

Even so, I’ve tried. I’ve succeeded. Everything works like it should for an 18-year-old boy. Only imagine having to hear about it later from your parents.

We attend the Church of All Believers without fail. Sunday School and Regular Service on Sunday; not to mention an evening service at Seven. Bible Study and Devotionals on Wednesday, where I come prepared with a dozen or more verses memorized. If I don’t know them, I spend my soccer practices studying the weekly lesson.

For my folks, life begins at ejaculation – or at least that’s how they acted. My mother was a little more reasonable. Once upon discovering a crusty sock in the wash, she took me aside, telling me that while she understood these urges of mine, she hoped that I wasn’t giving into lusty thoughts while I “indulged” myself.

My father took a more disciplined approach.

I couldn’t conceal my efforts in my clothes; my mother was too meticulous of a housekeeper. Neither could I control myself. I would fight against my urges for a few days, maybe even a few weeks, only to spill my seed like Onan into the nearest sock, shirt, or pair of jockey shorts.

That’s how I lost the door.

My dad told me when he removed the door that without a wife to take care of that for me, there was no reason to touch it. He told me it was a sinful distraction, keeping me from the Lord’s word. But I kept going – whenever I got the chance – ignoring the potential consequences. I was addicted to my own flesh, unable to overpower these sinful desires.

A few times, I tried sneaking a roll of toilet paper into my room. I got away with it twice. Only the last time, I snuck down the hallway, the tissue still sticky with semen, only to find my dad waiting, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed. He made me present the evidence to my mother, who sighed as she threw it away.

My dad went on about how disgusting it was that someone else had to touch my sin. The toilet paper roll was for everyone, and after touching myself I had placed my hands-on toilet paper. Better I should see my mother having to touch my sin, to know what I had done, then carelessly leave impure things out for her to accidentally use.

Then he bent me over his knee.

Eighteen years old, and my dad pulled down my pants. 15 wallops with his belt on my exposed buttocks, all in front of my mother.

I cried into my pillow half the night.

I am homeschooled, raised in a religious setting around like-minded parents. My education, my friends, my entire existence is dictated by my parents. My only hope of escape was to earn a high enough SAT score for a scholarship to Baylor or some other Christian university. Even then, this had to been earned through a pattern of pristine behavior.

My only respite was soccer.

I played goalkeeper, though I could alternate at any position. My upbringing led me to enjoy many activities more than my teammates. Practicing was one of the few pleasures I was allowed. It was one of the only times when my mother would simply drop me off and let me loose. And I was good at it. I could stretch out my lanky arms to stop a shot. My well-toned legs could punt a ball well past mid-field, and I never was afraid to sacrifice my body to take a possession away from an oncoming forward. I loved the game. Pulling the ball out of the air to prevent a goal, directing the defense against oncoming attacks, being in complete control over what would determine the course of the game.

That, and three times a week, I could usually find time to jerk off.

Near the field where we practice was a derelict old bathroom. Our field was right off the highway, so lots of cars would stop so that travelers could use the facility. We made a lot of jokes about the poorly maintained urinals, the holes cut into the stall walls, and the graffiti giving out names and numbers now decades old.

Coach usually ended practice by making us run three times around the field. Due to my superb conditioning, I always outpaced the rest of my peers. Once finished, I grabbed my things and trotted immediately to the bathroom to take care of my business. This had become such a pattern that most of my teammates joked that the only reason I ran so fast was to keep from peeing my pants. I didn’t care. Three times a week, I ran right into the restroom, pull out my penis, and came into the dry, prickly toilet paper or the rough, dark brown paper towels. Once, when both were empty, I ejaculated by aiming poorly, bending myself to shoot at the bowl

I was desperate.

I always came quickly, concerned about being caught. Traumatized from my past experiences and always a little cautious about the weird hole in the partition, I didn’t waste any time. A few times, a teammate or a traveler had entered before I could finish, prolonging my desperation for a few days.

I pulled down my shorts and sat down on the seat. I was already half-hard. I wrapped my fingers lovingly around it, treasuring my own touch. I let out an audible sigh, my flesh expanding in my own hand. I pulled the skin on my shaft up and down, making me look almost like I still had a foreskin, until every inch of extra skin disappeared into my erection.

I started to stroke myself, breathing heavily, enjoying the sensation. I went faster, hearing the sound of my palm pressed against my penis echoing just a little in the empty room. My whole body tingled, my urethra starting to twitch, my heart rapping against my chest. I was so close, on the verge of spraying everywhere. I reached out and grabbed the toilet paper, ready to catch the semen before it landed.

Then I heard the sharp sound of pee hitting the trough next to me.

I panicked. My hands went to cover myself. Not that it did much good – my boner refused to simply go away. I just prayed – legitimately prayed to God – that it was some stranger and not one of my teammates next to me.

I looked out through the large hole.

The man wore one of those cell phone holsters across his belt. Not anyone I recognized, though he could have been a parent. He was a little heavyset, I guess a reasonable Dad bod. But my eyes gravitated accidently to his stream, tracing the urine up to his wiener. I knew it was wrong, but I so wanted him to finish so bad. I couldn’t stop myself from staring, silently begging him to hurry.

His skin was a little saggy, his balls dropping down much lower than mine. But what burned into my mind was the size of his head. Round, almost mushroom shaped, much wider and girthier than me. Though, the same thing could be said about his shaft. My gaze focused on the urine leaving that big pink helmet.

Then he shook out of the last few drops.

I couldn’t help it. My hand moved back to my prick in eager anticipation.

“I know what you were doing,” the voice said, as he turned.

I went white with terror, frozen in place, my eyes transfixed as his whole body turned towards me. The pendulum shaped head poking out of his pants caused his penis to flop up and down as he walked. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to burst out of the stall and run way, but my shorts and underwear were still down around my ankles. By the time I had considered my options, he’d closed the distance between us.

I gulped, hearing his breathing through the thin, plastic divider. I looked away, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. Every possible scenario went through my head as I waited for the hammer to fall. I imagined him looking over the wall, seeing my face and telling my family. Even if he just beat me up – I’d have to explain why some stranger in the bathroom decided to decorate my face with his fists.

I was catastrophizing, though not without proper cause. Discovery could mean the end of my college prospects, another embarrassing punishment, and worst of all, the end of soccer.

How humiliating, to be taken off the team for masturbating?

But even though I shut myself down, closing my eyes, pretending this wasn’t happening, the man hadn’t gone away. I heard his voice, brimming with lust in a conspiratorial whisper.

“This is for you…” He said. “Go on, before one of your friends comes along.”

I looked up and then nearly fell off the toilet, my bottom barely able to stay on the seat. Through the hole, the man had shoved himself, his thing only a few inches away from my face. I have never considered this as the purpose for that hole – only now it made so much sense. I should have taken the opportunity right then to pull up my shorts and run screaming from the stall. But I was terrified, certain I’d been caught, willing to comply with anything to keep him quiet. I reached out my hand slowly, sure that he wanted the same thing as me.

I took a deep breath, looking at that big, curved head dangling down in front of me. That pink end with a wide part in the middle almost had a face. It seemed to smirk at me, to mock what he was making me do. I tried to look away, reaching out my fingers, touching it as though it were a venomous snake. It wasn’t slimy like I expected, nor was it completely like my penis. His skin was a little sweaty, warm and clammy, and so soft. I bit my lip, letting go for a second, shaking my hand in a stupid attempt to clean it.

“Get to it boy,” He growled.

Simply reaching out and feeling clearly wasn’t cutting it. I swallowed my reservations, gripping this thing like my own. I used my left hand, squeezing softly at the skin just below his bulging head. As I stroked him, he grew in my hand, until he was much bigger than mine. I started to relax, realizing this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. I even moved my right hand to my own swelling hard on. For a brief moment I forgot about my squeamish and my own sexual hang ups – figuring why not? I mean he was enjoying it. Why couldn’t I continue doing what brought me to the bathroom in the first place?

But no sooner than when I put the fear of being discovered out of my mind, another thought crept into my consciousness. A bizarre panic about the potential of sexually transmitted diseases came over me. It was too late to withdraw my hand, I only focused on getting in over with, scared and worried about his skin secreting god knows what into my hand.

“Come on kid. We don’t have time for this ticky-tacky bullshit!” He hissed. “Suck my cock!”

Suck it? I mean I wasn’t dense, dumb, or mentally deficient, but for someone as sheltered as I was even hearing the word cock seemed strange. And while I had no idea what could be shared through my hand, I knew that anything was possible once I started ingesting. I tried to ignore him, hoping that he would make do with what I was giving. I forgot about my own pleasure and used both of my hands, alternating as I worked him as I fast as I could.

“Suck my dick, before your teammates come,” He said again.

Forgotten were my fears of catching some strange disease. The man knew I was on the soccer team. It wouldn’t be that hard for him to identify me. I stood at least a few inches taller than anyone else, and besides I was the only player who wore the long-sleeved off-color keeper’s jersey. He must have seen me go in and followed.

There was no choice.

I lowered myself off the toilet, my shorts still around my ankles. My bare knees felt the cold cement as my shin guards clicked against the surface. I looked face to face with the penis – no, the cock in front of me. Long, fat and veiny, a real man’s dick, throbbing in my hand, wanting more. I looked up at it, my eyes welling with tears. I didn’t want this. All I needed was a little solitude, a place alone to masturbate.

“Get on with it faggot!”

I silently started to cry, softly letting a few tears sprinkle down my cheeks as I let the tip of my tongue touch it. He tasted salty, almost rubbery. I tried to block what I was doing from my mind as I placed a kiss on his pee hole. I reared back, looking at his penis in my hand, then truly gave in. I opened wide, taking in his bulbous head, letting it push past my lips. I opened wide, trying to keep my teeth clear as he went further down my throat.

I closed my eyes, moving further down his shaft. I did my best to relax, almost impossible, given the circumstances. I moved my mouth down, then I ran out of room, my nose nestled against his coarse pubic hair. I stayed still for just a second, forcing down my gag reflex. I opened my eyes, suddenly aware of just how deep down my throat he was and unable to maintain this momentum. I sputtered, coughed, and spit down on the concrete as I ejected his cock in a fit of rapid breathing.

He let a loud moan as he went past my lips.

I’d never heard anyone sound that way.

Resigned to my fate, I started on him again. This time I paced myself, bobbing up and down on his dick, using my hand to stroke him when I needed a breather. I found myself able to take more and more. Though he was much bigger than me, I started to relax, buoyed by the knowledge that I had already taken every bit of him before.

“That’s it, just like that… whore!” He said.

Was that what I was?

No, a whore gets paid.

What did that make me? Worse than a whore… a dirty faggot. To my parents, a murderer might be forgiven easier than a homo. And yet here I was, on my knees in a filthy bathroom, allowing my mouth to service a man I would never know. My parents were right – I was only in this horrid situation because I was too horny. Because I gave into my urges so easily and so often.

I couldn’t shake this new belief that I deserved to be treated like this, like a disposable human sock. Not a person, just a warm place for him to masturbate.

Did that make it easier? Or did that perverted though just make me harder?

Humbled, I continued to give up the rest of my self-esteem, sucking with a new vigor. The soft slurping sounds grew louder, echoing off the acoustics in the wide-open bathroom as I gobbled up his cock like a greedy little whore. He started to react, pumping his hips against the wall. I could hear the loud clatter of metal against cheap plastic as the divider shook with each thrust. As he moved faster, his head would pop out of my mouth, only for me to redirect it, licking up the long trail of spit and precum dangling from his end.

He picked up the pace, using my mouth for sex. I couldn’t keep my hand moving because of how quickly he was pumping into my face. I stopped trying, letting my hands fall to my sides, one of them gripping the underside of the stall just to keep my balance. The other drifted down to my own dick, pulling on it absently, involuntarily masturbating almost against my own will.

I should have shrunk from the very idea of giving another man a blow job. Instead I clasped his cock in my own hands, greedily gulping down everything offered to me as I gave myself over. My lips almost touched the sides of the wall as I continued taking him deep into my throat. I lost track of myself, absorbed in the act, letting myself become someone else.

A dirty faggot, good only for fucking.

He pistoned himself faster, rocking the hinges on the stall. Then, inexplicably, he stopped, his cock twitching against the back of my throat. I tasted it before I knew what was happening – an overflow of salty, acrid semen flooding my mouth. I pulled back, only to briefly think about what would happen if I came home covered in ejaculate. Reluctantly, I kept my lips closed around his cock, halfway out my mouth as he shuddered a few more times, spraying my teeth and tongue with the rest of his load.

“That’s it boy, swallow that cum…”

I forced it down, finding it not near as distasteful as I thought. I swallowed the last few drops leaking out of him, then let him withdraw from the hole. Through the opening, I watched him tuck his cock back into his pants, leaving me short of breath, on my knees in the stall, stroking my desperate dick.

He made as though to leave, and then, almost as an afterthought, said it.

“You’re the goalkeeper, right?”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Be here at the end of next practice…”

And then the kicker, right before he left.

“I’d hate to have any of your friends find out about this…”

I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there in shock for a few moments, slinking down, my bare ass resting on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Desperate to cum, I started to stroke myself again, replaying the last few minutes as my imaginings went beyond my will. I kept at it, growing closer, about to reach my climax at any second…

Only to hear the phone go off inside my duffel bag.

Flicking the head of my penis with my index finger, desperately trying to make it go down, I answered, already knowing who was on the other end.

“Sorry Mom,” I said, out of breath. “I’ll be out in a minute… I’ve been having some… problems…”