Reluctant Suckslut: Gloryhole Girl by Tori Hamlin
- Kink Reads
- Aug 5
- 6 min read
Fortunately for us (and unfortunately for Sophie), Sophie never learns the power of a good phone signal and a AAA membership.
Want more stories from Tori Hamlin? Find them all at Erotikinks.
Want more stories of girls serving at the hole? Check out our resident gloryhole girl, Gloryhole Gloria!
Sophie’s car shuddered, coughed, and died on a stretch of two-lane road that felt like the middle of nowhere.
Fields of tall grass and distant tree lines. No cell signal worth a damn. The nearest anything was a low, weather-beaten building with a gravel lot and a flickering neon beer sign: some dive bar that looked like it had been rotting in place since the seventies.
She sat behind the wheel for a long minute, jaw tight. Of course this was happening. Of course her body—those heavy tits that bounced with every step, the ass that filled out everything she wore—would make whatever came next worse. Men would look. They always looked. They never saw a person. They saw a pair of soft, fuckable things attached to a warm mouth.
She got out, locked the useless car, and walked across the gravel. Her outfit wasn’t helping: a soft, pale pink tank top that clung to her chest because the afternoon heat made the fabric stick, dark jeans that hugged her hips and thighs, simple sneakers. Nothing special. Still, she could already feel the eyes that would land on her the second she opened the door.
The bar smelled like stale beer, old grease, and cigarettes. A handful of men in work shirts and ball caps looked up from their stools. Conversation dipped. Sophie kept her chin high and walked to the scarred wooden bar like she belonged there.
The bartender was a thick-shouldered man in his forties with a gut and a permanent squint. He looked her over once, slow, the way every man did. “Car trouble? Can't think of any other reason a pretty girl like you would show up in this shithole.”
“It died just up the road. I need a tow.”
He nodded, already reaching for an old landline. “Nearest guy’s about an hour out. You can wait. Want something while you’re here?”
Sophie ordered the least offensive thing on the laminated menu—greasy burger and fries that arrived tasting like they had been cooked three hours earlier—and a soda. She sat at the far end of the bar and tried to make herself small. It didn’t work. Men drifted closer. Comments came: soft, testing, then bolder. One asked if she was lost. Another offered to “look under her hood.” She shut them down with clipped answers and the cool stare she used when men got ideas. Twenty minutes of it. Her skin crawled.
When the bill came, she pulled out her card. Declined.
The bartender tried it again. Same result. Sophie’s stomach dropped. She checked her phone. No signal strong enough for banking apps. No cash. The sinking feeling was familiar now. The universe had a pattern where she was concerned. It always found a way to put a cock in her mouth when she needed something.
She knew exactly where this was going. She hated that she knew.
The bartender leaned on the bar, voice low. “Look. Tow’s already on the way. Bill’s just over twenty-five. I got a way you can work it off if you’re interested.”
Sophie already knew the shape of the offer before he said it.
“Bathroom’s got a hole in the wall. Five bucks a customer. Five customers and you’re clear. Place don’t get many girls through here that ain’t half-dead already. You’re the prettiest thing that’s ever sat on that side of the board.”
She stared at him. Feminist. Independent. She had spent years telling herself she was more than the body men drooled over. More than a set of soft tits and a mouth that could stretch. And yet here she was again, trapped by the same biology that made her cunt clench at the thought of some hillbilly using her throat like it was nothing.
“That’s disgusting,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s that, or I can call the sheriff. I reckon he'd have a good ol' time with a set of tits like yours in his jail cell. We might be a backwater set of hilljacks, but we don't take kindly to city girls trying to stiff us on the bill. Your call.”
Sophie closed her eyes. She could feel the heat between her legs already, traitorous and wet. Her body had never been on her side. It got slick every time some misogynist asshole decided her mouth was the solution to a problem. She hated it. She hated how the shame made her nipples tighten under the thin tank top.
She stood up.
“Fine.”
The bathroom was small, grimy, and smelled of industrial cleaner that couldn’t quite cover the underlying funk. A plywood partition had been bolted across one of the stalls. A rough oval hole was cut at roughly waist height. On her side, there was nothing but stained tile and a single bare bulb.
Sophie locked the outer door, dropped to her knees on the side of the hole, and waited. She told herself she was doing this because she had no choice. That it was temporary. That once the tow arrived she could leave and never think about it again. Her cunt was wet anyway.
The first man was quick. He slid his cock through the hole without ceremony—average, already hard, smelling of sweat and cheap beer. Sophie wrapped her fingers around the base, took him into her mouth, and worked him with efficient, detached suction. She kept her eyes closed. He grunted, thrust twice, and flooded her tongue. She swallowed because the alternative was having it drip down her chin and onto her tank top. He pulled out. A five-dollar bill appeared under the door.
The second was almost the same. Slightly thicker. He lasted a little longer, hand resting on the top of the partition like he was steadying himself. Sophie hollowed her cheeks and let him use her mouth until he came with a low, satisfied sound. Another bill.
The third took longer. He was thicker, and he seemed to enjoy the power of the hole. He pushed deep, testing her throat, making her gag once before settling into a steady rhythm. Sophie’s jaw ached. Spit ran down her chin. She could feel her own wetness soaking the crotch of her jeans. Every time her throat fluttered around him, she hated herself a little more. He finally came hard, flooding her mouth in thick pulses. She swallowed again.
The fourth was worse. He was heavyset, and when he came it was a lot—thick ropes that overshot and painted her cheeks, her lips, the bridge of her nose. Some of it landed in her hair. Sophie wiped her face with the back of her hand, breathing hard, cunt throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Another five-dollar bill.
The fifth man didn’t use the hole.
The bartender came into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and told her to stand up. He didn’t want the partition. He wanted her on her knees in the open, looking up at him while he fucked her face properly.
Sophie obeyed. She always did, eventually.
He was rough. One hand in her long dark hair, the other braced on the sink. He used her mouth like it belonged to him—deep, punishing strokes that made her eyes water and her throat burn. He called her names the whole time. Suckslut. Gloryhole whore. Pretty little feminist who just needed a cock to shut her up. She didn’t push him away. Her body was on fire with shame and unwanted heat. Every time he bottomed out, she felt another trickle of girl honey leak from her pussy.
He came with a curse, holding her down so she had to swallow around the head of his cock. When he finally pulled out, a thick string of spit and cum connected her lower lip to his shaft. He dropped the last five dollars on the floor beside her.
“Tow’s here,” he said, zipping up. “You’re clear.”
Sophie cleaned herself as best she could with paper towels and cold water. Her tank top was damp and torn, stained with jizz. Her jeans were ruined between the legs. She walked out into the late afternoon light with her chin high and her stomach in knots.
The tow truck driver was lean, older, with grease under his nails. He looked her over the same way the others had. Sophie already knew. She climbed into the cab. The drive to the nearest shop was twenty minutes of country road. She spent most of it with her head in his lap, mouth full, the taste of the last load still coating her tongue while a new one built at the back of her throat. He came just as the shop came into view.
Sophie sat up, wiped her mouth, and stared at the open bay doors. The mechanic was already walking toward them. She could feel the weight of the next negotiation settling over her like a familiar, hated coat.
Her car needed work. It would cost more than a few five-dollar blowjobs.
Her cunt throbbed again, traitor that it was.
She already knew how she was going to pay.
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