The Performance Review

I’m a cocksucker. My name is Ron. I’m in my early sixties, the kind of age where you look at your life and realize you spent forty years climbing a ladder only to find out the ladder was leaning against the wrong wall. I’ve been there, done that—the corporate grind, the suits, the endless meetings. Now, I’ve traded it all in for a quiet existence in an older home that needs a lot of work but offers plenty of privacy.

My current employment is a freelance gig solving client account issues. It’s a service I provide remotely, hopping on Text messages to troubleshoot problems for various businesses. The work used to require heavy lifting, deep analysis, and a lot of late nights. Now? It’s a joke.

The world has shifted under my feet, driven by the explosion of AI technology. I don’t have to think anymore. When a client reaches out with an issue, I don't analyze the data. I run it through the AI diagnostic engines that are now accessible to anyone with a subscription. The AI diagnoses the problem, generates a step-by-step solution, and I just click "approve" to get paid.

It’s incredibly efficient. My eight-hour shift is over in about thirty minutes. For the last six years, I’ve sat on my sofa most of the day, waiting for client accounts to come through so I can quickly solve their issues with a few clicks and collect my few bucks. This gave me a lot of downtime during my workday.

Now, with the AI being able to diagnose problems and provide solutions in less than a minute, I can answer questions even faster. Which means for about seven and a half of the eight hours that I’m on shift, I’m sitting around doing nothing.

I was getting bored. I was getting lonely. And I had a lot of pent-up energy.

But I came up with the solution: I built a glory hole.

It started with the house. I live in an older place, nothing spectacular from the outside. It’s a solid structure with a front door leading into a vestibule, and then a second door into the living room where I spend most of my time. I decided the door between the vestibule and my living room was the perfect spot.

I built the glory hole frame entirely out of PVC pipe. I didn't use anything fancy. I carefully measured the inside door and built a frame that fits snugly inside the door jams. It was a bit of a puzzle to get the measurements right, but once I had it, the frame slid in perfectly.

The real magic happens in the fabric. I jumped on Amazon and bought two large black polyester tablecloths. They were cheap, thick, and effective. I cut them into rectangles and created a giant rectangular sack. I sewed a giant envelope sewn on three sides and open at the bottom.

To set up the glory hole, I just put together the PVC pieces and slide the black tablecloth envelope over the frame. It drapes over the PVC, covering the mechanism completely. I've cut out holes on either side of the fabric envelope where guys can then stick their dicks through to close the gap. The hole is a narrow but long glory hole where guys of varying heights can easily put their dicks through.

The secret to the seal is velcro. I put some industrial-strength velcro on the inside of the envelope around the circumference of the hole. It’s very satisfying. When a guy sticks his cock through, the velcro grabs the fabric, creating a vacuum seal that muffled the sound and kept the light out.

The routine is simple and satisfying. I hear the front door click open. I get up from my sofa, walk over to the door and a dick waits on the other side. I drop to my knees and get to work. A few minutes later, they bust in my mouth or my ass, and they’re out the door.

I don't know their names. I don't see their faces. I don't care about their lives outside this door. I know them by their dicks. I know their preferences based on their many returns. It’s a transaction, but it’s one that fills the empty hours of my day with something that actually feels alive.

The first time I did it, I was nervous. I stood by the door, listening to the rain against the glass. Then I heard the lock click. I didn't speak. I just opened my mouth and waited. He reached through the gloryhole, his fingers brushing my lips, and then his cock was there. It was warm, hard, and urgent. I took him in. It was the most alive I’ve felt in years.

Part 2: The Regulars

I have three regulars, men I’ve never seen without their clothes on, men who know exactly how to use me. I don't ask their names. I don't ask where they work. I am purely receptive. I am here to serve. I am here to be used.

The first regular is "The Quiet One." He comes every Tuesday afternoon. I can hear his shoes before I see him—a sharp click-clack on the hardwood of the vestibule. He’s a man who values silence. He enters, locks the door, and walks straight to the glory hole. He doesn't rush. He unzips his fly with a slow, deliberate pull. He reaches through the opening and guides his cock into my waiting mouth.

It’s a thick piece of meat, cut, and veiny. I wrap my lips around the head, swirling my tongue against the sensitive frenulum. He stays still, letting me work. I take him inch by inch, feeling fabric scrape against my lips as I deep-throat him. I drool around him, a hot, wet mess sliding down my chin. He breathes heavily through his nose, his hands resting on his hips, enjoying the sensation of a warm mouth doing exactly what it was built for. He doesn't thrust. He doesn't demand. He just stands there and lets me worship him. When he finally comes, it’s a slow, steady stream that floods my throat. I swallow it all, choking slightly on the sheer volume, before pulling back to let him clean himself off on the towels I left on their side of the hole.

The second regular is "The Young Gun." He comes in on weekends, usually around noon when he’s got nothing better to do. He’s twenty-something, loud, and eager. He enters the vestibule, unzips his pants, and shoves his dick through the hole without preamble. It’s a young cock, hard and throbbing, leaking precum that soaks the fabric of the tablecloth. He doesn't want a blowjob. He wants to fuck my mouth.

He grabs the door frame for leverage, pulling my face onto his dick. He face-fucks me hard, his hips snapping forward with animalistic urgency. I choke, I drool, and I gag, but I keep my mouth open wide, welcoming his assault. He talks dirty to me, telling me how much of a slut I am for this, how good my mouth looks wrapped around his cock. It’s vulgar and degrading, but I love it. I am just a warm hole for him to dump his load in. He cums fast and hard, shooting a hot, sticky load across my tongue and the roof of my mouth. He pulls out and wipes the tip of his dick on my nose before zipping up and stumbling back out into the rain, leaving me gasping for air.

The third regular is the one I look forward to the most. He comes in every Friday evening. I call him "The Regular." He’s in his early sixties, like me, but he’s kept himself in shape. He enters, locks the door, and walks straight to me. But he doesn't put his cock through the hole. He stands in front of me and unzips his pants, revealing a thick, angry erection that demands attention.

I don't just sit there. I spin around. I move to the back of the glory hole frame, facing away from the wall, and bend over. I place my hands on the floor and push my ass back, presenting it to him. I give him access to my hungry hole. He steps forward, and I feel the cool air against my skin before I feel the heat of his body. He doesn't use lube; he uses his spit, coating his cock and my ass with a thick layer of saliva. Then, he pushes.

I groan as he forces his way inside, stretching me open. The velcro seal around my entrance grips his shaft, creating a vacuum that pulls him deeper. He fucks me hard, his balls slapping against my ass, the sound echoing in the small vestibule. I’m just a receptacle for his lust, a warm, tight cunt designed to take his cock. He grips my hips tight, digging his fingers into my flesh, and drives his cock deep with every thrust. I grunt and moan, enjoying the feeling of being stuffed and used. He leans over me, his chest against my back, and whispers how good my ass feels. Then, he gives one final, hard thrust and fills me up with a hot, pulsing load of cum. He stays inside me for a moment, milking himself, before pulling out and leaving me there, panting and full of his seed.

Part 3: The Surprise Package

The surprise didn't come with a knock at the door. It came with the sound of two pairs of heavy sneakers scuffing the floorboards of the vestibule, followed by the low rumble of laughter. It was a Saturday, and the boredom was already setting in, my AI assistant happily crunching numbers while I stared at a blank screen, waiting for the clock to strike twelve.

The front door clicked open. I stood up, my heart giving a familiar flutter. I smoothed my shirt and walked to the glory hole, ready to service whatever was waiting for me.

But when I peeked through the black tablecloth, I didn't see one face. I saw two.

The first was the "Young Gun." He was the regular I’d been seeing for months, the eager college kid with the need to ruin a mouth. He was standing there, shirtless, wearing basketball shorts that had seen better days. He was grinning, his face flushed, his chest heaving.

"Hey faggot," he breathed. "I came back. But I brought a friend."

I looked past him. Standing there, tall and lanky, was another guy. He was older, maybe in his twenties, with a buzz cut and a tattoo on his neck. He looked like he worked out with the Young Gun. He didn't say a word. He just unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, his boxers tenting with excitement.

"We saw your ad online," the Young Gun said, his voice thick with arousal. "We figured we could kill two birds with one stone."

"Get that mouth ready," the Young Gun commanded. "He's got a big one."

I didn't need to be told twice. I dropped to my knees, my face inches from the fabric. I spread my lips wide and engulfed the Young Gun's cock, swallowing him down to the base. I wrapped my tongue around him, swirling and sucking, making sure he was wet and ready.

The other guy didn't wait. He spat into his hand, coating his cock with the salty fluid. He positioned himself at my entrance and pushed. I groaned around the cock in my mouth as he forced his way inside. He was thicker than I expected, stretching me wide. He grabbed my hips, his nails digging into my flesh, and began to fuck me with long, hard strokes.

I was just a hole, a mouth, a receptacle for their lust. He gave one final, hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt. He let out a low rumble, a primal sound, and filled me up with a hot, pulsing load of cum. I could feel it spurt against my walls, filling me to the brim. He stayed inside me for a moment, milking himself, before pulling out and leaving me there, panting and full of seed.

"Thanks for the service, man," the Young Gun said, grinning. "We'll be back."

They walked out the front door, leaving me alone with the PVC frame and the lingering scent of sex. I collapsed back onto the sofa, my body aching and satisfied. I looked at the clock. It was only noon. I had seven more hours of work ahead of me. But I didn't care. I had been used. I had been filled. And I had been happy.

Part 4: The Performance Review

It seemed like any other Tuesday afternoon. I’m sitting there, sipping lukewarm coffee, watching the AI diagnostic engine run another routine check. The front door clicks open. The sound is distinct—professional, confident.

I stand up, my heart beating a little faster. I expect a middle-aged businessman, maybe a contractor or a delivery guy. I expect a mouth, a cock, a quick transaction.

Instead, I see a pair of polished brogues shuffling onto the vestibule floor. I look up.

It’s Thomas. Thomas is my office manager. He’s the guy who yells at me over email about "underutilization of resources" and "efficiency metrics." He’s thirty-five, sharp dresser, wears a suit every single day, and usually has a scowl plastered on his face.

"Good morning, Ron," Thomas says. His voice is deeper than I thought, raspy with exhaustion.

"Mr. Henderson," I reply, surprised. "I... didn't expect you to stop by."

"I did," he says, walking right up to the glory hole. He doesn't look at me. He looks at the hole in the black fabric. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. "I was in the neighborhood to pick up some files, and I knew you'd be at home. I thought I'd swing by for a quick performance review."

He unzips his pants. I watch, mesmerized. Thomas, the man who micromanages my every move, is now standing in a cheap vestibule with his dick out. He pulls it out—it’s thick, cut, and already rock hard, pulsing against his belly.

He sees the other loads dripped on the black fabric. "I see you’ve been busy," he murmurs, looking at the hole. "Very efficient use of your downtime. I like that, Ron. I really do."

He steps forward, guiding his cock through the gloryhole opening. It fills the hole completely.

"Since I’m here to evaluate your work, I think I’ll give you a hands-on assessment. Get to work, Ron."

I didn't hesitate. I dropped to my knees, my knees hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. Thomas stepped forward, his hand guiding his rigid cock through the gap. He was completely isolated in that small black space, but his heat and his scent were overwhelming.

I opened my mouth wide, ready to take him. I wrapped my lips around the head and swallowed him down to the base, my tongue working furiously to please him. I took him all, gurgling around the thick meat as I deep-throated my boss.

Thomas let out a sharp intake of breath. His hand moved through the glory hole to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. He didn't just hold me; he gripped me, using me as a tool for his pleasure. "That’s it," he grunted, his voice muffled by the fabric. "Good cocksucker."

I moved my head back and forth, a steady rhythm, matching the bobbing of his hips. I could taste the salt of his precum mixing with the tang of the other loads that had coated the fabric earlier. It was a perverse cocktail, but I loved it. I was servicing him while he was judging me, evaluating my technique, checking off boxes on his imaginary performance review form.

"Efficiency," he murmured, his hips thrusting forward to drive his cock deeper. "You know how to handle a workload. Just like I taught you."

I hummed in agreement, the vibrations sending shivers through him. He pulled me back until just the tip was in my mouth, then shoved me forward again, hard. "Suck it, Ron. Don't be shy."

I did as I was told. I sucked him with abandon, my mouth a wet, warm sheath for his cock. I looked up through the gap in the tablecloth, watching him. His face was flushed, his eyes closed, his jaw slack. He looked different from the man who scowled at me over Zoom calls. He looked like a man who was finally getting what he wanted.

He didn't last long. His breathing grew ragged, his grip on my hair tightening painfully. "That’s it. Good work. You’re a natural at this."

Then, he gave one final, hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt. He let out a long, guttural growl, his body tensing. I felt his cock pulse inside my mouth, hot and hard, spewing a thick load directly down my throat. I swallowed it all, choking slightly on the sheer volume, feeling it coat my tongue and slide down into my belly.

He stayed there for a moment, milking himself, his body trembling with release. Then, he pulled back slowly, zipping his pants up with a sharp zip. He smoothed his shirt, fixing the wrinkles, and regained his composure.

He looked down at me, standing there on my knees, covered in spit and his own seed. A satisfied smirk played on his lips.

"Good performance, Ron," he said, his voice returning to its professional tone. "Meeting adjourned. We can discuss your bonus at the next email."

He turned and walked out the front door, leaving me alone with the PVC frame and the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with the musk of sex. I collapsed back onto the sofa, my body aching and satisfied. I looked at the clock. It was only 11:00 AM. I had another seven hours of work ahead of me. But I didn't care. I had been reviewed, evaluated, and thoroughly used by the man who signs my paycheck. And for the first time in years, I felt like I had actually earned my keep.