The first time he tasted cock after becoming a dad, it was in a filthy truck-stop booth with a gloryhole the size of his fist. He was forty-two, married, two kids in high school, and his mouth was watering before he even shut the door.
The moment the lock clicked he dropped to his knees on the sticky floor, heart hammering, and waited.
A thick, veiny prick slid through the hole, already half-hard and flushed dark. He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his lips around the head and sucked like he’d been starving for it. The stranger on the other side groaned low and pushed deeper. Spit ran down the dad’s chin as he worked the shaft with long, wet strokes, tongue flat and eager. He loved the weight of it on his tongue, the way the cock pulsed when he swallowed around it, the salty-sweet leak of precome that told him the guy was close.
He bobbed faster, one hand jerking the base while his other hand squeezed his own aching dick through his jeans. The stranger fucked his face in short thrusts, balls slapping the plywood. When the cock swelled and flooded his mouth, he swallowed every hot spurt, throat working greedily, then licked the slit clean until the man pulled away with a shaky curse.
He stayed on his knees, breathing hard, come on his lips. Another cock replaced the first almost immediately—longer, curved, uncut. He peeled the foreskin back with his tongue and sucked the smooth head until the stranger cursed and started pumping. This one lasted longer. He edged the guy on purpose, pulling off to lick the shaft from balls to tip, then swallowing again until the stranger banged on the wall and shot down his throat in thick, ropey pulses.
By the time he left the booth his jaw ached and his own cock was leaking steadily into his underwear. He drove home with the taste still in his mouth, kissed his wife on the cheek, and helped the kids with homework like nothing had happened.
The next week he went back. And the week after. Soon it became twice a week. He learned the best times, the regulars, which cocks he could deep-throat without gagging and which ones made him choke in the best way. He got good at it—sloppy, noisy, no hands when he wanted to show off. He let strangers use his mouth like a hole, let them fuck his face until tears ran down his cheeks and come painted his tongue. Sometimes he’d jerk off while he sucked, sometimes he’d hold it and come later in the car, fist flying over his cock while he replayed every thrust and every load he’d swallowed.
One night a thick black cock came through the hole, heavy and already dripping. He moaned around it like a slut, both hands stroking the shaft while he nursed the head. The guy on the other side talked dirty through the wall—“Suck that dick, daddy. Yeah, swallow it”—and the dad came in his pants without touching himself, just from the words and the taste and the sheer filth of it.
He started wearing a cockring under his clothes on those nights. His wife thought he was working late. The kids thought he was at the gym. He was on his knees in a piss-scented booth, taking load after load, letting anonymous men empty their balls down his throat while he moaned like he was the one being serviced.
Eventually he stopped pretending he only did it for the thrill. He needed it. Needed the taste, the stretch, the way his throat felt raw and used afterward. He needed to be the dad who sneaked out and sucked cocks like a desperate whore. And every time he swallowed another stranger’s come, he went home harder than he’d ever been with his wife, already planning the next trip back to the booth.
He never told anyone. But every load he took made the secret sweeter.
