I had been hearing the rumor for months. No one knew quite how it started. No one could say definitively that they were the first. No one seemed to really know much of anything, other than a time and a place.
My name is Stephen. I’m a single guy who works in one of those thirty story office buildings that jut out from the heart of the city. A friend of an acquaintance first told me the story. There was a section of the second floor of the basement parkade where it all happened. It required you to duck into a short, narrow maintenance passage that led into a storage area. Much of the building had been completely renovated almost ten years before, and this area was said to be part of the old design that could not be reworked. In the back of the storage area, past all the clutter and mostly forgotten tools, parts and supplies was a door. At one time, that door served as a reception for the mail trucks. With the new layout moving the mail delivery to a more convenient location, it became just another door. That is, until it all started.
From all the rumors I had heard, it must have been going on for months. As time went on, it became harder and harder to find anyone who had not heard the rumors, and the number of men who claimed to have actually visited the area increased rapidly. But their accounts were generally weak, the location vague, and hardly any two stories sounded similar, so I had my doubts. But the stories intrigued more than just my brain.
It happened on Tuesdays and Thursdays every single week, so the stories went. It started at 5:30, and went on until finished. Some men were regulars, some one timers there to see if it was real, and some chickened out at the last minute, afraid of the entire ordeal.
Men would gather just inside the entrance of the storage area, and waited quietly. The men behind acted as watch for the men before them, ensuring no security guard or maintenance man came their way. One by one, they would make their way to the back, to the single old door with the six-inch high, one-foot wide mail slot. Like a makeshift glory hole, they would hand a twenty-dollar bill through the slot. If it was accepted, and from the tales it was never declined, they would drop their pants and push their cocks through the opening, and let however was on the other side take care of them with the best blow job any of them had ever had.
Like I said, I had my doubts. The whole thing sounded too much like a crazy urban legend: office slut blows anyone for money. No one knew who was on the other side. The room beyond was always dark, and no part of the person’s body was ever seen. The door was always locked, too, and even though a few men had lingered around to try and catch their benefactor, there was obviously a secret way into the room that was being used. And as for the best blow job ever, well, I already had a few spectacular ones myself.
Over the few weeks that followed, I only gave thought to that old door when it was brought up. I tried to concentrate on the daily grind of a dull job. Now that I had heard the story, however, I realized that almost ever day I could overhear someone whispering excitedly about the experience. My curiousity peaked as the legend started taking on reality. I tried to continue to dismiss it, but my male drive and neglected cock started to think otherwise. The final determination was made when I was sitting in one of the building’s coffee shops and overheard two men talking.
”I’m telling ya, it was incredible.”
”Nah, you’re shittin’ me. No one does that.”
