This is an adult gay story if you aren’t an adult or “gay” isn’t your thing, you’d better look for something else to entertain you. Cheers, Blake. 🔞
Hi Guys, Blake here. Just a quick word before you go ahead. Writing takes time, a lot of time, and it’s something I love doing so I’d like to thank all of those who are supporting me with their paid subscriptions. BTW, if you pay monthly you can cancel whenever you wish. I know that paying isn’t possible for everyone and I’m certainly not judging, that’s why this chapter is free! Enjoy.
It’s funny how sometimes I still find myself driving in the wrong direction, as if nothing had changed, as if I hadn’t lost my job four months ago.
Cuts. Everything that doesn’t align withe current administration is being erased like chalk on a blackboard, leaving a dusty trail of debris in its wake. Too queer, too artsy, not white enough? Simple: cut, erase, deport. None of this should have concerned me: a white, straight, male journalist.
See? Same mistake: ex journalist.
They weren’t necessarily coming for me; I was just a local reporter covering the city’s underbelly, true stories that tried to give a voice to those who normally aren’t heard, to make the invisible viewed. It was the news corporation I worked for that they didn’t like: too critical and too questioning. The lawsuits began soon enough, later resolved with a massive out-of-court settlement. Expensive!
And not only that: the editorial line had to change if the WBC wanted to stay afloat without attracting further attention from the administration.
And I was a casualty of that: officially, my dismissal was part of the restructuring strategy during a difficult period for traditional media. Yeah, bullshit; the truth? My reporting had the damning quality of humanizing people a little too much.
And so I found myself jobless at 34, with a huge mortgage to pay. By the way, my wife, who was three months pregnant at the time, also worked for the WBC; that’s where we met, and she, too, had been laid off... Worse still, we weren’t the only ones: a whole wave of unemployed journalists was sloshing around town, knocking on doors and competing for jobs that weren’t really there.
Desperation set in. I realized pretty quickly that my options were incredibly limited.
One evening, I asked my wife to sit down. I remember the chill of the air-con settling on my hot sweat, as I embarked on one of the most difficult conversation we had ever had..
A few months before being fired, I’d published a report covering the world of gay male prostitution in Winster. I’d contacted some men who worked the streets, gotten to know them, listened to their stories. I wanted my article to feel real; I wanted the readers to get to know these men, to see street life through their eyes.
What I discovered didn’t necessarily fit my expectations: for most men it was a very transient job, dipping in and out of it to supplement their regular income, some had been doing it for years, some were straight—in fact, that was their selling point—and some did it simply because they got a kick out of it, as much as to make a few bucks.
There was this guy, I called him Jack in my report. We’d become quite close; a good looking fella in his mid-twenties, who’d moved to the city from up in Dayton, middle of nowhere. No much luck; hit the street, but still with a happy go lucky air about him. Anyway, I was about to wrap up my piece and decided to invite him out for a last beer.
We met at the usual bar, a little joint not far from his beat; small windows, a couple of pool tables, shady tradings, that kind of place. When he walked in, he was smiling like a child. I asked him what was going on, and Jack told me he’d just gotten a new job. Great, I thought: you know, I felt sorry for him. It’s not what he did that worried me, it’s the street, who he met: there are a lot of weirdos out there.
It turned out the new job was at the Glass Box. The name of that joint had come up before in my interviews with other rent boys, but since I focused on street hustlers, I’d never given it much thought.
Jack enthusiastically explained what it was all about, and I left with the impression that basically he’d upgraded to working in a gay peep show joint. Still, it was an improvement: at least he wouldn’t be on the street anymore.
I think Jack enjoyed being one of the stars of my reportage, the attention I was paying to his journey. I also suspected he might have fancied me a little: at first he was rather casual about it, possibly a little wary of me as a journalist, buy the end he called me his daddy even though I wasn’t t even ten years older than him.
Every time we met, after a couple of beers, his hand would absentmindedly come to rest on mine, or on my knees under the table.
At that point, I’d roll my eyes at him, and he’d pull it back where it belonged.
“It’s not my fault you look like Reece Belfort!” he said to me the first time.
I had no idea who he was talking about, so he pulled out his phone, looking at me as if I were from another planet, and after a few clicks, he turned it around to show me the picture of a man slightly older than me, with darker hair. Square jaw, short beard, and hair carefully styled in messy strands; the man was very handsome. A brief caption under the photo read he was an British model and actor. I must admit, I was quite flattered, and, to be honest, I did notice the resemblance. That evening, when I got home, I told my wife, who looked Reece up on her phone and nodded: “He’s hot!” She confirmed coming over to kiss me “Tell your little gay boy that you are taken!-” She joked while her hand slid down to my crotch.
A few days after we had met at that bar, I got a call from Jack. He’d spoken to his boss at the Glass Box, and she’d agreed to let me in to check it out and maybe have a chat with her guys. Jack told me all this as if I’d asked him to arrange the meeting, when in reality it had all been his doing. I guess he wasn’t ready to give up his 15 minutes of fame just yet. But it seemed like a good idea, an interesting way to end my piece, so I asked him to send me his boss’number and I gave her a call right after Jack hung up the phone.
The next day I headed to the Longbridge area, a seedy intersection where four blocks meet in a succession of low-rise buildings that, in a now-forgotten past, were part of the thriving river shipping infrastructure. With the opening of the bridge, trade halved until it dried up completely. Now, they’re mostly small warehouses with ramshackle apartments on the upper floors, closed shops daubed with graffiti, interspersed with more or less legal sex joints.
I hoped I had the right address because, once I parked in front of what was supposed to be the Glass Box, I found myself staring at a squat, gray building, its uniform drabness broken only by a small window and a rusty metal door. It was ten in the morning, on a cold day with the sky the same color as the building; piles of dirty snow still littered the sidewalk.
As I got closer to the door, I noticed a small, greasy doorbell with the initials GB written on it, I was in the right place.
After ringing the bell, I had to wait a moment before the door opened. I looked up and saw a small camera hanging in the alcove above the door. A few metallic noises on the other side let me know that my presence had been acknowledged and I would be allowed in.
It was a man in his twenties who opened the door, letting out a gust of warm air. He was wearing black jeans and a tight vest; a dish towel draped over his shoulder. The vest highlighted his strong, arms and broad chest. Maybe it was the cold coming in from the street, but his nipples stood out like two nails.
“We’re closed,” he said in an annoyed voice, calculated to let me know I’d interrupted him while he was doing his actual job.
“I’m sorry, I have an appointment with Jade,” I said, putting on my most apologetic face.
He looked me up and down. “Not bad, you’ll get the job,” he said.
“No, actually...”
But he didn’t let me finish, he hurried me inside and closed the door behind us which made a loud thud.
“Follow me. Jade, we’ll be here in ten minutes,” he had mellowed; perhaps earlier he had mistaken me for a policeman or something.
We were in a large corridor, with gold-painted walls. Halfway down, on the right, was a small ticket booth with metal bars protecting the glass front. After that, another door. My guide entered a code and it opened with a faint electric buzz.
The corridor continued for a few meters until it reached some industrial plastic curtains, cut into strips. I wondered if they had been there since the place was a warehouse. To my surprise, once we went through them, we found ourselves in a large lounge area sunk a few steps lower than the corridor. A cold neon light, which I assumed was turned off during opening hours, gave the place a rather clinical feel. It fell onto the black linoleum floor and the bar counter that occupied one side of the room, also black with a huge -Glass Box- logo written in glowing blue across its front. Blue lights also illuminated the bottle shelves and came from the lamps on the small tables scattered around the room. The wall opposite the counter was occupied by a tiered stage with several black plastic chairs lined up facing the tables. Since the room was very warm, I took off my jacket; my guide gave me another appreciative look as he moved behind the counter.
“I’m Laurence. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself. Would you like a drink?”
“Dean, nice to meet you.” I shook his hand and ordered a coffee.
“So, Dean, is this your first time?”
“Actually, I’m not looking for a job, I’m a journalist.” I laughed, still not wanting to seem dismissive toward the actual employees.
Laurence made a disappointed face and then added, “You’re not going to grass on us, are you?” I was sure he was wondering if letting me in had been a mistake.
“No, no, don’t worry. I do really have a meeting with Jade. Do you know Jack? The new guy.”
“Jack. Yeah, a cheerful fella, quite cute. What about him?”
And so I told Laurence about the piece I was writing and how I ended up there.
“Are you queer?” The twinkle in his eye came back.
“No, not really.”
“Too bad,” he replied rather matter of fact.
“Good coffee.”
“Thanks, Dean!” He blew me a kiss.
“Do you work here?” I pointed to the armchairs on the steps; I figured they weren’t there for an Ikea display.
“I used to, but I got fed-up. The previous barman left, so I asked Jade if I could take his place. It pays way less, but that’s okay, and my boyfriend is happier, if you know what I mean.”
I wonder which part of the job he was fed-up with but our chat was interrupted by the buzz of the electric door, followed by the clank of it closing again. A moment later, the plastic curtains parted to reveal an attractive woman; tall, dark straight hair, probably in her forties.
She walked straight over to me, holding out her hand and shaking mine with a certain confidence.
“Hi, Jade. I guess you must be Dean.”
I nodded.
“Are you sure you’re not looking for work?”
“Positive!” I replied, smiling; my ego was getting a good boost.
“Too bad, you’d be popular.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
I’ll keep that in mind. When I said those words, I never thought they would be so far sighted.
Without asking, Laurence had produced another mug of coffee, ripped two sugar bags, stirred them in, and placed the coffee in front of Jade.
“How’s Jack doing?” I asked.
“Jack’s more than fine, he’ll go a long way.”
I was happy to hear that.
Jade took a long sip of coffee and picked up the mug by the handle. “Shall we start?”
And so the tour began.
The Glass Box had opened four years earlier, her idea, her project. Before that, she used to work the streets, but she was savvy and put some money apart. She saw this place for sale, cheap, like everything else in Longbridge. It used to be a strip club; girls. But she’d always liked the gays better, less troublesome, and she wasn’t referring to the girls, but the punters. “Some of the less regular ones would still come in at the beginning, thinking nothing had changed. Imagine their surprise!” she laughed, “but some didn’t leave right away...” she winked.
There were currently 42 guys signed up to the Glass Box. It was up to them how many shifts they did, how many hours or punters, as long as they committed to at least four hours a week and exclusivity.
“What if one didn’t get chosen by the punters ?”
“They always do, I’m very good at casting!”
So she showed me the armchairs, each numbered. “The guys sit there waiting to be called. Customers pay an entrance fee, which includes a drink. When they choose the guy they want, they make their offer starting at $40, but they can outbid each other if two or more people want the same guy, they pay at the bar and are directed to the numbered room.” Jade pointed to another door, and I followed her. We found ourselves in another gold-painted corridor with several doors on each side.
Jade pulled the handle on the first door, which opened into a small, dark room with a plastic chair in the center. She flipped a switch, and a glass box lit up on the other side of the chair. Apart from the front wall, the other sides of the box were mirrored, including the back door through which the hustlers entered.
“Come ” she said, and we headed closer to the glass box. It wasn’t raised or anything like I’d seen in movies; it started directly from the floor. I could see our reflection in the mirror until something caught my eye. At waist level, a series of concentric circles, almost invisible, were drawn on the glass front.
Jade saw me looking at them and offered to explain.
“That’s what makes the Glass Box a little different from a peep show: the punter and the hustler decide together how far they want to go. By contract, my guys have to accept Circle 8, and 15; everything else is up to them.”
She noticed I wasn’t quite following her. “The circles,” she explained, “imagine an Aga stove: they’re removable, the smallest one is 8 cm in diameter, just right for a blowjob, then we have 15 for a bit of rimming, fucking if they can manage; 20 for fucking, rimming, fisting... you get the idea, and 30 if they want to go in with their head or whatever, as long as my guys are okay with it.”
It was hard not to imagine what had been going on around those circles the night before my visit. Definitely not just a peep show.
I also noticed a POS terminal on the side of the box and another small hole with -tips- written above it.
“My guys get a basic pay of 10$ by the hour plus 30$ per punter, and they keep 70% of whatever is paid on the spot for extras in the glass box. They set the price, that’s where they make their money.”
Jade looked at me carefully. “In case you are wondering, even if you didn’t get past Circle 8, a good looking fella like you...” She paused, looked at me again. “You could make $250, $300 per punter, if you push it up to Circle 30... I’d say four, five hundred bucks. What’s your dick like?”
Those figures rattled me; it was way more than I made as a journalist. And my cock had proved to be very popular when I was younger, and still is with my wife!
“Big,” I replied like an obedient schoolboy.
“Very good!”
“That’s a lot, right?” Sure, I knew of high-end hookers who earned much more, but that was on a whole different level, not in some seedy place in the middle of Longbridge.
“Yes! And do you know why?” I shook my head. “It’s the glass, the barrier, the edge. My guys are in there, in that box, sometimes they don’t even have to undress, you know? And those holes... because of the glass, they become a symbol of the unattainable: the body on the other side. And the punters love it, the constant battle between their desire and how far they can go. You know, our most popular size is Circle 15, just for a blow, rimming, maybe a fuck, and not because it’s necessarily cheaper than size 20 or 30, no: because it’s the most frustrating! That’s why. We’ve had clients who paid 500 bucks for that, obviously with the right guy. Do you have a hairy chest?” I’m not sure why she asked, and I didn’t want to find out, so I asked her another question.
“What happens after?” I imagined the aftermath of such encounters must be pretty messy.
“Once the customers leave, it’s my guys’ job to clean everything up, both in the glass box and in the room. The punters walk to the other end of the corridor where we have showers and lockers and then come back to the lounge, where, hopefully, they’ll be thirsty. See, it’s a full circle!” she laughed.
I guessed that’s why the rooms were so hot; I was impressed by her organizational skills.
“One last thing,” she said suddenly, quite seriously. “I take care of my boys, you know: they get tested, prepped, we have medical checkups, blue pills; everything necessary. That’s why they like it here.”
I got the impression that, weirdly, Jade was more of a caring mother figure to her boys than a glorified pimp.
We went back to the living room, and I was surprised to see Jack there, drinking coffee. He stood up and hugged me.
“Cool, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure what to reply, but I thought that, yes, it could have been worse, much worse.
We chatted for a bit, more good looking men began to arrive, and Jack told me he had to get ready because the Glass Box was opening soon. I thanked Jade and told her I’d come back to check the place in action, maybe chat with some of her guys, if that was okay with her.
“No problem, the Glass Box’s door is always open for you.” The way she said it, oh man! It made me shiver.
As I stepped outside, I welcomed the cold wind; it had started snowing, and I felt like I was walking through the rotating brushes of a car wash; I needed it. I sat in my car, parked across the street, and waited. After a few minutes, the rusty metal door of the Glass Box opened, and a warm, yellowish light streamed from the hallway onto the sidewalk. Shortly afterward, a tall, thin man wearing a smart coat and an incongruous black cap walked in; the first punter. I stood there for fifteen minutes, long enough to watch seven more men discreetly enter the place. Some of them did so as if they’d been sucked in by the little door while on their way to work. Most of them were wearing some sort of headgear. From their gait, their general demeanour, and their clothing, I could tell they were in their 40s or 50s, well-off, and well-groomed. I felt better for Jack.
And that’s exactly what I wanted to talk about, sitting around the kitchen table, that warm summer evening four months ago. It was the most obvious solution, at least until I found a real job.
Well, it didn’t go the way I expected.
I don’t know how many times I skirted around the subject, how many times I said, “I’ve been thinking about it... what if we considered... I’d like your opinion...” without actually telling Kate: my wife, what my plan was. Eventually, when it became pretty obvious where I was going with my rambling, she interrupted me and burst out with a “Thank fuck for that!”
I wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction: she was shaking and had torn the small grocery list on the table to pieces.
Without looking at me, she continued, “I’m on OnlyFans. I wanted to tell you, but I was ashamed...”
I was stunned: my wife, pregnant wife, on OnlyFans? I remained silent.
“I’ve been on it for a month and I ‘ve only just started earning something. I was worried: the bills, the house... the baby...”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Yes! I wanted to see if it worked first. I actually wrote you a letter because I wasn’t sure I could tell you face to face.” She got up and went to the kitchen drawers, opened one of them, and after rummaging around, came back with a sealed envelope that she placed in front of me. I took it in my hands, but I wanted to hear it from her.
“What do you do on there?”
This time she looked me straight in the eye.
“I strip...” Okay, not too bad, I thought before she continued. “And I use the dildo; it pays more,” she added the last bit as if to justify herself.
The dildo! It was one of my Christmas gifts, just for a laugh: she always said she wanted a 3D printed version of my cock, for when I went away for work. And now it was on OnlyFans.
I didn’t know what to say, but I managed to ask:
“Can people see your face?”
“I wear a little mask, but, you know, if it was someone who knew me, they’d definitely recognize me...”
What was I supposed to say? After all, I was planning on getting naked, in person, maybe even getting blown by some random strangers, I couldn’t really be preachy about it.
“What happens when your belly starts showing?”
She went back to tearing up the shreds of paper.
“Actually, that’s when things start to get interesting. You know, there’s a niche market for that, and they’re happy to pay…”
Sick fucking bastards, and how did my wife know all this? So I asked her.
“Chat GPT, as simple and boring as that.”
She had a business plan, and now that we had no more secrets, she wanted to know about mine.
So I told her. When I got to the numbers Jade had given me, her eyes widened.
“I did think about OnlyFans,” I confessed to Kate, “but you can’t compete with those numbers, and it would take time to get established anyway.”
“What about your health?” She was obviously worried, and so was I!
“It’s quite a tight set up: checkups, pills, vaccines, the lot. You’d like Jade.” Strangely enough, it was true; I was sure the two of them would get along just fine.
“Will you manage to get hard?”
Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it: I was talking to my wife about getting hard for other men!
“The pills, and in the actual glass boxes, there are little screens where I can watch porn, you know, pussy porn.” Strangely, I was getting turned on.
“Oh yes, pussy, I’ve heard about it...” She joked, leaning closer and rubbing my crotch. “The magic word... it’s already working. Do you fancy some now?”
“So indulgent, before dinner!” I laughed and we kissed. I picked her up in my arms and went upstairs to the bedroom, in our expensive house. The house that had turned us into whores.
All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.
The day after I spoke to Kate, I had the formal job interview with Jade.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” That’s all she said before diving straight into the details of the job: what was required of me, what I should expect, how many shifts, setting my price. Ordinary things like that; hadn’t we been talking of how I felt about being blown by a man? I’d rather didn’t think about it. Had I ever given head before? No! Being rimmed? Weird. Rimming? Was she serious? And escalating to “You might want to consider getting fucked.” No way!
By the end of the interview, my profile; or calling card as Jade referred to it, was ticked.
I agreed to being blown, rimmed, wanked, and, if asked, I’d jerk off and fuck the punters, at least to begin with.
“As you get more comfortable, we’ll update the card. You know, the more you are open to, the more clients you’ll get, simple as that. But don’t worry: with the way you look, they’ll be happy to pay just to see you in the box. By the way, get it out for me.”
Shit, I didn’t expect this to be part of the job interview, but I had to admit it made sense. I was sweating.
I pulled down my jeans “Strong hairy legs” Jade was licking her lips, then I took off my boxers.
My cock was soft, a large piece of meat, the hood nice and long, closing around the head and some.
“Lovely, uncut, they like that. Can you get it hard for me?” She was dead serious.
I closed my eyes and started tugging on my flaccid cock.
“You know? You can look at me,” When I did, I saw Jade had pulled her skirt up over her stomach, revealing a neat pussy with a stud pierced at the top. She was touching her labia with her well-manicured fingers, spreading the folds for my pleasure.
It worked, I felt the blood rush to my cock as it lengthened and hardened under my tugs until it reached its full potential.
“Great girth. I like how straight it is. I’m happy with that, but feel free to finish yourself off, if you wish”. I felt like an animal in a zoo, but I guess I had to get used to it, and I actually quite enjoyed my little foyer into exhibitionism.
“ No, thanks, I’m fine.” I pulled up my jeans, washed my hands and, after signing the contract, went home and had sex with my wife.
Two days later, in the morning, I started my first shift at the Glass Box.
“We’ll take it slow at first. I have a few punters I trust with my virgins,” Jade said virgins with a wink. “Did you check your profile on the website?”
I did, of course I did. In those two days, I’d had 732 views and counting, but it meant nothing to me.
“Your numbers are good, excellent in fact, you should be busy.” I should also have been happy, but that wasn’t exactly how I felt. My stomach was in knots.
People weren’t allowed to book one of her guys, as she called us, on the website. They could only look at our photos, dressed, standing in one of the glass boxes, check what we were willing to offer, our dick size, and hope that the ones they liked were there when they came to the joint. That’s what Jade wanted: she wanted the Glass Box to be busy, for people to hang out there, outbidding each other for one of her guys.
“Let’s go then, we are opening soon” she smiled at me reassuringly
I took a deep breath, “Let’s go”
To be continued
Hi guys, I hope you liked this story, and if you did, please share it and click that tiny heart!
Thank you!
Be prepared, be safe.
Blake
Looking forward to reading further exploits to this story! xx