Special guest blog for you all today – an extract from a brand new collection of erotica! You might remember JK Mill’s fabulous short story here from a few months ago – fucking 150 feet up – a devastatingly horny tale about shagging halfway up a cliff-face. She’s back today to promote Wicked Little Miracles, a collection of erotic stories written by 18 different writers spanning everything from the tender and romantic to the strange, funny, filthy and fantastical. To whet your appetites, here’s an extract from a piece by Paragonas Vaunt, set at a gas station glory hole. I know how much readers here go wild for a glory hole story, so I’m delighted to share it with you. We join the action once the main character, Amy, has already stepped into the glory hole booth, and rung the ‘Priority Service’ bell, but she still has every chance to walk away. She’s weighing shame, respectability, age, loyalty, and the fear of being judged against a desire she’s denied herself for years…
Priority service at the glory hole
The sharp report of the bell faded away and all Amy could hear was her heartbeat hammering in her ears.
What had she done?
What on earth was she thinking? Standing in her underwear in this red-painted booth with the holes in the walls and the sign marked PRIORITY SERVICE? How could she be so foolish as to ring that bell?
For the longest time nothing happened, seconds stretching into minutes, and Amy wondered again if she’d misjudged what the room was for, worried that she’d suddenly be confronted with eyes, peering in at her as she stood there edgy and alone in her bra and panties, or that the lens of a camera would poke through and make a permanent record of her rash stupidity.
The dick when it arrived was almost a relief.
There was no warning and no sound. One moment she was dividing her attention pensively between the two holes and the next moment one of them was full of dick.
Tanned, circumcised, erect.
A chunky dick, as brutish and as thick as any she’d ever seen, its head rounded and bulging wider than the shaft that supported it, like the cap of a mushroom.
A magic mushroom.
Suddenly the room was even hotter and closer than before. There was no air, and Amy could hear her own breathing, heavy and nervous, on the verge of panting. It was the only sound she could hear as she stared at that thing.
She glanced at the bell.
What would happen if she rang it again?
Would he take it back?
As she watched, a second dick appeared, pushed through the other hole.
This one was longer, more slender, the skin paler. Uncircumcised.
Amy stared at the two of them, chalk and cheese, wondering whether one of them belonged to the man behind the counter and, if so, which one. She wondered which one she would like it to be, in a world where she might be thinking of kneeling to take him in her mouth.
Him and this other guy, this other dick whose owner she hadn’t even seen, let alone spoken to.
Even now she could leave. She should leave. Squeeze between those two erect and cheeky dicks without touching either. She’d have to shimmy through sideways to do it, but she could, she could grab her clothes and go. She’d have to demand her keys back from the guy at the counter, and she’d still be without new tyres, but she could march out if she wanted.
But if she left they’d swap stories of the dowdy housewife with the Buick station wagon. They’d laugh at the woman who couldn’t cut it.
Only…
Amy straightened herself to her full height, proud and fierce.
…she wasn’t a housewife anymore, and she wasn’t dowdy.
Not stripped to her stockings and suspenders and burning to break loose she wasn’t.
She could cut it.
There was no place that was out of bounds, nothing she couldn’t master.
She could certainly suck a dick, if she wanted to.
There was nobody to stop her, nobody would know.
Amy sat down on the box seat, its cheap carpet coarse through the delicate lace of her panties, and stared at the first pair of dicks she’d seen since that crowded gathering at Yasgur’s Farm in Upstate New York.
She’d been there with her friend Martha, because Pete had been – as she remembered it – too busy discovering he had the bone spurs that saved him from the draft, and too uninterested in any supposed Summer of Love. And indeed it hadn’t been love, not for Amy at least, when Martha had brought two guys back to their tent and suggested they take one each. Amy had politely declined, but not before they’d shown her the goods, let her see what she was missing. She’d been tempted, so very tempted, to do the thing and worry about the consequences later. But she was faithful to Pete, so she’d turned down the only dicks she’d ever seen that weren’t her husband’s. If she’d known then that Pete was at that very moment off banging that little piece of trim from his office she might have chosen differently. But she hadn’t known, so Martha had gone off skinny-dipping with the two guys and then laid them both, coming back with a trace of them on her breath and a satisfied smile that made Amy wish she’d had the chance to be so free.
Now, here in this booth, was her chance to make up for lost time and missed opportunities.
Anger had brought Amy here, to this sweat-slicked red box, anger and outrage at being told she couldn’t, but it was something else that kept her here, and something else again that now brought her to her knees between those two erect dicks, made her reach carefully out to grasp them both.
They’d called it the Summer of Love. But it hadn’t been love she’d felt, that time, that summer, but something primal, something deeper, more potent. And that something was coming back to her now as she slipped her fingers around those two stiff shafts, and she slipped to her knees on the floor between them, and she chose which one she was going to start on, the magic mushroom, and she leaned towards it, to kiss the tip, just kiss it at first, her lips tight-closed, but then as she neared it she caught the scent and her mouth was opening automatically and she slipped her lips over its head, unthinking and instinctive, yawning wide around its girth.
She heard a sound that wasn’t her own breathing then, the man on the other side of the wall groaning deeply, and her own moan rose to meet him as she tasted a man for the first time in far too long.
He was youngish, she thought, and his dick was nice, its skin silky and clean, with the musk of a man but without the odour of the unwashed, and as she began to bob her head up and down on it she kept her other hand stretched awkwardly behind her head to stroke the other man, Mr Long-n-Slender.
The Summer of Love it had been, the last time she’d had this opportunity, an opportunity she’d denied herself out of misplaced loyalty and naïve duty, to a husband who’d turned out to be faithless and disloyal and jealous. She’d come away from that trip hungry and needy and unfulfilled, but she could put it right now, put it all right now. Free of duty, free of him.
So she sucked harder on that fat dick, surprised to find how easy it was to slip back into the old ways, shocked to find that feeling still inside herself, beneath the power dressing and the business-like exterior. How exhilarating it was just to kneel and suck a dick, nice and simple, the man twitching his hips to press against the barrier between them, to sink deeper into her mouth, and she pushed forward to meet his eagerness with her own, huffing small moans through her nose as her mouth filled with him, and as she did so the fingers of her free hand slid down, delved inside the front of her panties to find just how wet she now was, how wet she had become in the moments since she’d last touched herself there, the hungry feeling growing, the need.
Wicked Little Miracles is an anthology of 18 erotic stories from 18 writers, spanning everything from the tender and romantic to the strange, funny, filthy and fantastical.
This delicious slice of erotica comes from Paragonas Vaunt’s Priority Service, a story of a gas-station glory hole and a woman who knows how to get what she wants, finding that a flat tyre and a flat sex life can both be solved simply by ringing the bell for Priority Service.
You can find the full version of Priority Service and 17 other bite-sized erotic delights in Wicked Little Miracles.