The following true sex story details my escape from sexual repression at the age of 18. It’s an insight into a bygone era of London sex. Before we were afforded the benefits of hookup apps like Adult Friend Finder, sexually liberated adults had to do field work to find debauchery.
As I walked home in the rain, I felt the cum of men I’d never met drool down my sticky thighs. At the time, I had no idea what had caused me to seek out the seedy Gloryhole in London.
What have I done? I thought in shame. Little did I know, I’d regularly return to this UK Gloryhole like an addict until it caused the collapse of my marriage.
This true story took place a long time ago. Like many girls in the UK at the time, I was married young to a guy I hardly even knew. Fuck, what a brutal mistake it was.
I was 18, in the prime of my life. Slim, busty, and with an ass to die for, I had no shortage of men eager to take me out for dinner and fuck me. But I was faithful. At least in the beginning.
But my life consisted of a loveless marriage and night shifts broken up by the occasional trip to the local pub with my inattentive husband.
I had a ferocious sex drive (nothing had changed), but it was a British era when it was advisable for women to suppress their desires rather than be labelled as a whore.
Aside from a drunken pump and dump that lasted seconds, my sex life with my husband was dire. But fate, as curious as it is, was taking me on a filthy path I could never have imagined.
Where My Teen Gloryhole Fascination Was Sparked
Four closely-packed pints of beer slam onto the sticky table, spilling white frothy foam everywhere. With a brandy in hand, I’m penned between my husband and his friends.
The conversation is dire, and I find myself daydreaming until one particular topic comes up: Gloryholes.
“I almost punched the dirty bastard when I saw his cock come through the wall!” shouted Paul, the shaven-headed plasterer, “then I saw about ten blokes hanging around, all looking for it!”.
My husband and his friends howled with laughter. Paul had unwittingly stumbled across a Gloryhole in London when he ran into an underground public toilet for a quick pee.
Until that day, I’d always assumed Gloryholes were a mere urban rumour. To hear that they existed for real, and not to far from where I lived, completely enthralled me.
As his anecdote went on, I couldn’t help but envision this seedy, underground den of sex. What kind of people go there? What’s it like? Suddenly, I found my pussy becoming involuntarily wet.
“A combination of stigma and illegality has made it difficult to track the exact moment that glory holes as we know them today came into existence.”– A definitive guide to glory holes, Cosmopolitan.
“It’s fuckin’ disgusting,” said Terry, “even though they don’t reproduce, there sure is a lot of them, isn’t there?” in a tirade of vile homophobia that was sadly commonplace back in the day.
“No, mate! I forgot to tell you; there were two birds (women) down there as well!” Paul barked with beer breath, “I told them all to fuck off and got out of there. It Made me sick!”.
As the men discussed their notions of what happens at Gloryholes, I had to clasp my legs together to stop my juices from leaking on the chair. “Where did this happen?” I asked.
“Ha!” Paul chortled, as if it was a stupid question, “King’s fuckin’ Cross, where else, love? In an old Victorian toilet right opposite the train station.”
That night, as my husband passed out in a drunken stupor, I locked the bathroom door, stripped naked and roughly fingered myself to the explicit images of Gloryhole sex in my head.
Before I reached an orgasm, I stopped. I looked down at my neglected pussy and the miserable bathroom where I was forced to masturbate secretly. Something switched.
Looking back, I was thinking with my pussy, not my brain, as I touched up my makeup, slipped into my favourite heels, and walked out into the rain to flag down a taxi.
“King’s Cross, please,” I said with my head down in the back of a taxi. It felt like the taxi driver knew exactly what I was up to.
The Search For The Infamous Gloryhole in Kings Cross
London’s two places of ill fame back in the day were King’s Cross and Soho. Both were the playground of thieves, pimps, hookers, and perverts. Not a place for a lone woman at night.
Yet here I was. Clad in a black woollen coat and scarf, I walked fast with my head down. It’s just to satisfy my curiosity; I’m not going to do anything, I kept telling myself.
The snap of my high heels attracted unwanted attention from some creeps on the street, but I ignored them as I made my way to the public toilets Paul had talked about.
Gangs of London prostitutes dressed like sex on legs eyed me angrily, probably suspecting if I was a new whore trying to work on their patch.
Marked by an old Victorian street lamp, arched enamel signage in royal blue spelt out the words “Public Toilets”. My heart thumped at the thought of what awaited me inside.
But faced with the prospect of another second on the dangerous streets of King’s Cross, I hurried down the old tiled stairs and into subterranean London.
The smell of decades of stale urine and the cheap bleach fighting an unwinnable battle against it violently plunged into my nostrils.
The toilets signposted Gentlemen were at the bottom of the stairs. Instinctively, I entered the women’s toilets further down the corridor, only to discover them completely deserted.
I listened intently. The men’s toilets sounded like a social club, with conversation and laughter emitting from its entrance.
When I heard a female voice leave the toilets with what I presumed was her male partner, I plucked up the courage to go in, only to be greeted by the stares of 10 to 15 men hanging out.
In a nervous panic, I headed to one of the cubicles and blurted out, “Sorry, guys! I’m bursting!” As an excuse to enter their lair, I said, “the women’s toilets are out of order!”
The men’s voices had all gone quiet as the cubicle door locked behind me. As I feigned a pee and pulled my skirt down to sit on the filthy toilet, my heart was throbbing in my chest.
Of course, my heart was far from the only thing throbbing violently in this UK Gloryhole den. As I was to find out momentarily.
A Cheating Wife In a London Gloryhole
I was so nervous; I didn’t even see the two crude cut-out holes on each of the cubicle walls stuffed with cheap toilet paper to obscure it from ordinary members of the public.
I knew the sight of dried jizz well, and the wall immediately below it was completely caked in it, alongside other mysterious stains. A quick sniff test confirmed it; This was a Gloryhole.
*Knock knock* I sat there frozen in terror. Who the fuck is that? I thought. Is it my husband? Has someone I know followed me here? I couldn’t see any feet under my cubicle door.
*Knock knock knock* they grew in intensity. I soon realized they were coming from each side of the cubicle.
Then, in a scene that reminded me of the Night of the Living Dead, the toilet paper blocking the holes was pushed through by the probing fingers of anonymous men.
Suddenly, two cyclops-like eyes are peering at me from either side. The sound of multiple leaking pipes is contrasted by the familiar sound of *slap slap slap* of male masturbation.
“What’s she doing?” a horny, frustrated voice called out from somewhere in the toilets. “Is she looking to play?”
“Dunno, she’s just sitting there,” the voice belonging to the eye peering at me from the right said, “cracking tits, though. Oi, love! Fancy giving me one to suck on?”
Leave, Joanne! I said to myself. Your curiosity has been satisfied; do the sensible thing and go home to your husband. But I’d left my common sense at the door; in here, lust was in control.
That lust made me subconsciously open my shirt and unveil my plump, smooth 18-year-old tits to two men I couldn’t see.
It also made me press my erect nipple into the cum stained hole to see what happened. As the soft skin of my tits stuck to the filthy, cum-splattered wall, I waited with bated breath.
“Bloody hell, love, you nearly had my eye out with that!” the voice laughed before ravenously feasting on my flesh. This man I’d never met made me wetter than my husband ever had.
I released a moan that echoed across the tiled Victorian toilets. It was like a mating call to the gang of seedy men hanging out here at 4 am.
Every hair on my 18-year-old body stood on end as his hot saliva painted my breast. Looking back to the other wall, I’d hoped to see the lustful eye of the other guy watching intently.
But his eye had gone. In its place was a hairy, veiny cock that must have been around 7 inches long. I watched it with fascination as it dangled in the cubicle and quivered almost nervously.
Aside from the rare times my husband fucked me, I’d hardly seen a male dicks in the flesh. This Gloryhole cock was almost twice his size and had an almost hypnotic effect on me.
Pulling my breast from the hungry mouth on the right, I kneeled in front of the Gloryhole cock to my left and lightly held it in my soft hands. It looked and felt absolutely beautiful.
It simply seemed offensive not to pay tribute to such a beautiful specimen of the male organ. Before I could stop myself, I found my lips making their way past its bulbous head.
“Oh fuck yeah!” called the voice from the right side as he snuck a peek through the hole before replacing his eye with his dick, “suck that fucker, girl! You look beautiful sucking dick”.
His last words made me stop in my tracks. As much as I loved giving blowjobs to my husband, I was anxious to do so.
If I deepthroated him, gagged, and really went to town on his cock in the style I loved, he would call me a whore, say I looked stupid, and belittle me in his post-orgasm clarity.
But here, in this London Gloryhole, there was no judgment. In a lust-fuelled rampage, I transformed the dicks around me into shiny, spit-soaked, fuck sticks.
My tongue swirled wildly around the smooth, throbbing, bulbous heads of the random cocks coming through the wall. It didn’t take long for my work to pay off.
As his cock tensed and his balls tightened, I opened my mouth in anticipation as the pearl-coloured strings of hot semen sprayed over my face and tits. The smell was intoxicating.
As the cock disappeared, it was quickly replaced by another. Women are good multitaskers, and I quickly became a natural at handling two dicks at once.
The floor below me was soon turned into a quagmire of stale pee, toilet paper, deepthroat spit, and pools of sticky semen.
Whenever I took a breather and wanked their spit-covered dicks, I watched with fascination as their hairy balls stuck to the stale cum of the men who’d blown their load before them.
The musky tastes of all of these different cocks had me moaning wildly in lust and gasping loudly for breath as groans and roars of masculine pleasure bounced around the seedy toilets.
My makeup ran, my body became glazed in sweat and deepthroat spit, and my pussy turned red and raw as I rubbed it into oblivion until I came with an audacious scream of pent-up lust.
“Your mouth feels great, hun, but how about giving us a go on that pussy?” the voice behind one of the random cocks sticking through the wall muttered.
I’d already gone this far; there was no going back now. My pussy was already a leaking mess, but I slapped an extra layer of spit on it to cope with the dicks it was about to take.
“Just… just please don’t cum inside me,” I pleaded, “I’m married”.
As I edged my ass towards the wall, I felt my thighs kissed by the remnants of anonymous pleasure left by countless people before me. In seconds, I was mounted like an animal.
“Did you hear that?” A voice from somewhere in the toilets laughed, “She’s fucking married. Dirty bitch, I thought she was just some horny Brass!”
As the cock thrust wildly into my neglected pussy, my body shook uncontrollably from the force, causing droplets of spunk to be thrown off my hanging tits and chin.
I sucked the dicks coming through the other wall and was soon being spit roasted, alternated by roaming hands coming through and groping my jizz-soaked tits that were hanging down.
Pinned between the walls, it was difficult to manoeuvre. When the cocks in my mouth decided to cum, I had no choice; it went straight into my mouth.
Completely engulfed in the pleasure and debauchery, it was rudely interrupted by an overwhelming, hot, and wet sensation deep inside of me.
“Did you just fuckin’ cum in me?” I called out in my 18-year-old niaevity, “I told you not to! What am I going to tell my husband?”
“I’m not arsed, darling”, said the voice behind the cum-leaking, semi-erect cock now disappearing through the Gloryhole, “that’s your fella’s problem, not mine!”
In a panic, I got dressed. Pulling my woollen coat over my sticky tits, I slid my panties back up over my sweat-soaked thighs and hurriedly went to leave the toilets.
To do so, I had to run the gauntlet of the seedy gang of men whose cocks I’d just worshipped. One slapped my arse on the way out as others made sleazy comments towards me.
“Got what you wanted, did ya? I hope I tasted good!
“She’s just as sexy as she felt, isn’t she, lads?”
“That’s a proper cockslut! Hope to see you back here again soon, love!”
“Don’t worry; she’ll be back in no time!”
After a few steps, the creampie inside my pussy lost the fight against my panties and soon it rudely seeped through the fabric and down my legs. I was totally freaking out.
A Coffee, Sandwich & Gloryhole Cum
I ascended the Victorian staircase into the daylight of early morning London. The fast-paced buzz of commuters had replaced the sleazy pulse of nighttime creeps, pimps, and hookers.
With cum dripping from my womb, my first port of call was to get my hands on a morning-after pill which had been launched in the UK a few months before my London Gloryhole escapade.
I felt a deep sense of shame for what I’d done. I felt dirty. But I would later realize it was all caused by societal pressure. Deep down, I knew I’d just sexually liberated myself.
Stopping off for a breakfast coffee and a bacon sandwich, I fondly remember the mix of brown sauce and Gloryhole cum blending together in my mouth. It was a bizarre taste indeed.
Back home, I discovered my husband still snoring in bed where I’d left him. In the bathroom, I basked in the hum of Gloryhole sex that clung to my body and masturbated to orgasm.
More True British Sex Stories
Then, my night of taboo sleaze faded as the hot shower took it off my body down the drain. Returning to find my husband awake, the crushing reality of my life came crashing down.
Aside from a comment about lack of sleep stemming from my red, bloodshot eyes and tired demeanour, my husband was none the wiser. But it wouldn’t last for long.
My first visit to the UK Gloryhole in London was far from the last and triggered a primal lust inside of me that constantly needed to be fed.
My debauched secret life would soon be uncovered, and my doomed marriage would later collapse, giving me the freedom to become sexually liberated. But that’s a whole other story.