Fourth Wall Gloryhole
By Kaydrien Iceclaw AKA IcyCoatl

You’re probably late. Or maybe early. That’s how this sort of thing works, right? ‘Late’ or ‘early’ ground you in a particular time, but it doesn’t really matter which. This is the bathroom at Club Crossover… Or rather, the other side is. Where are you?
So. Here you are, looking at this text, watching it form a little hole in your world to look through, and it’s looking out onto the last urinal in the row, in the bathroom, at an odd little club that happens to be at a major multiverse intersection. If you could walk around, look through that hole from the other side, you’d almost certainly see the inside of the first toilet stall. It’d be pretty clean, but riddled with graffiti: ‘NAME was here’, ‘anon sucks dicks’, ‘for a good time call…’, ‘sylveon ass is best ass’, ‘I’ll see your sylveon and raise it a lopunny’, ‘y’all pokephiles are so last decade, everyone knows maomao is thicccccc’… That sort of thing.
But you’re on the opposite side of that hole, wherever it’s opening onto at the moment. You can see the urinal, and one of those dinky half-length privacy barriers between it and the next one, and past that there’s the sinks and that disease-breeding paper towel dispenser and the entrance door. Anything could come through that door, because everything hangs out at Club Crossover at least once. Pounding dance music filters through that door and flashing neon light bleeds under the bottom.
It’s comfortably medium-quiet in here though. Whoever built this place thoughtfully soundproofed the peripheral rooms for the benefit of those needing a break on rowdy days, using the best in technology and nailed-up egg cartons. Also a little black magic, going by the funny glyphs carved into the doorframe. They glow and pulse in time with the beat to bleed off the sound energy.
What walks through that turns out to be a renamon. You know the ones: yellow, foxy, with the purple gloves and chest floof. They’re popular, odds it would be one of them are pretty decent. This one’s wearing fishnet stockings and ratty denim short-shorts, and you can make out a heavy bulge constrained by the worn blue fabric.
He’s gone for that furthest urinal, lucky you. Or maybe they’re a shi or a xi or just a they, whatever’s ‘in’ this decade. You were too busy watching those curvy legs carry him over toward you and that package trying to wobble despite the tight shorts to notice if there was some boobage up above. Knowing this place; if there is, they’re real knockers. You’ve seen enough rena-breasts to see them up there in your mind if you want them.
We’ll go with ‘he’, because this fox is definitely that no matter what else they’ve got going on. He’s walked himself over on those thick thighs to ‘your’ urinal, and he’s bringing down his paw to his crotch right now to set that sucker free. You can’t help but feel your chest tighten up in need as he pops that button loose at the waist and zips it down, pulling shorts and the jockstrap just out of the way to release the beast.
Judging by the size of that sheath, it is a beast. You want that puppy, or why else would you be here? Sure those fluffy balls are damned nice too but we all know they can’t fill you until after their tall buddy’s got you good and stuffed.
Hey, he came into the bathroom for a reason. Maybe you feel like watching, and you’re drinking it in with your eyes as he aims that whole fat sheath at the porcelain and lets loose. Or maybe you’re not into that and you’ll skip the next parentheses. (I know I’m watching. I’m watching with you as that golden stream pours out like a miniature fire hose, splattering all over that urinal back and filling the air with the hot smell of fox piss. Sheath and stream together both insist that dick has got to be enormous, and he just keeps emptying himself out through it; guy’s got a hell of a bladder on him. Wish he’d turn about ninety degrees right about now? So you could drink that down with more than your eyes? Well, he doesn’t, but you’ve got a front row seat and one lonely drop of that backsplash arcs through the air to a cheek. Go ahead and lick that cheek off, why don’t you? You could use the salt.)
Anyway, he’s finished getting empty, and it looks like he’s just about to zip back up and head out there to the pulse of the music, swishing his pretty little tail and phat ass at you the whole way. Can’t have that, you didn’t get what you need yet have you? So in the universal gesture you reach two fingers through that hole, tap on the wall to get his attention. (Go ahead. Tap your screen, or the paper. I know you want to. I won’t tell. Just use those two fingers, ‘cause that’s gotta be important right?)
It takes two tries. (Yeah. Tap again. You want that fox dick.) You can feel the greasy smile in his body language when he catches on, ‘cause you and I and him both know no one can resist that vulpine cock. Or is it that a fox ass can’t resist a willing dick?
He turns, pulling down those pants and jock hard to give you a better view of his equipment. Man, those balls look like they must weigh a ton, and that sheath… Hoo mama, that’s the good stuff, with his tip red as a cherry starting to poke out from the cozy nest of fuzzy yellow. For a minute I thought he might be packing a horse-dong in there from the size (there was a time everyone had one, you remember that?) but from the tip it looks like this big gun is all good old Canine Model #1.
Who am I kidding? You shoved your mouth up to the hole two sentences ago didn’t you? Dirty slut. 
I don’t blame you one bit, not with that sausage tip on display.
And holy heck does he oblige. “Get to work, slut.” He orders you from out there, resting his long arms up against the stall wall and his fingers up over the rim. You can’t see those clawed fingers out of your peripheral vision because the hole he’s poking his business end into, the hole you have your face pressed up against, reaches from one world to another and you’re not in that stall.
But the hole? The whole hole is as real as you can make it, drilled through hard particle board and lovingly sanded and shellacked, no duct/duck-tape needed for splinters here. (They’re both correct, it was first made for boat repair and called duck tape from what I hear. But would you really want to quote a smut writer on that?) And you can feel the smoothed rim of that hole on the skin of your greedy face, damned sure people and things and who knows what else have been rimmed through that rim, splattering the floor on the other side with the rim-ee’s love juices.
Right now though he’s got his barely hard foxcock pressing right into your hungry little face-hole. You can only get at the pointy tip right now, but you’re making up for it by wiping your tongue all over the short fur of that sheath, and right down into it so you can get at more of that shaft while it hardens up.
Did I mention the smell? Foxes are rank, dude/tte. Musky as hell. Even digital ones, apparently. It’s, like, a scent-marking, pheromone-spewing, force-of-nature thing. It’s how they get all those thick dicks out and into their black-hole keisters. (That and between the curvy buttocks, luscious lips (either set), buffed boobs, and I’ve even seen once or twice in those tight little bellybuttons.) You can smell it right? That animal reek that makes you want to scream in rut?
Wait, you’re just going to block that with the fourth wall? Tune me out until I get back to the sucking and fucking? But the smell is like, the best thing ever. Thanks homies, three cheers for fox stank! The rest of y’all don’t know what you’re missing.
Anyhoo, you’ve got your taster in and around and between his dick and cock-pouch and probably sometimes those churning balls; you’ve been a little to busy making sure to lavish every bit of what he gives you to work over to keep track of which bits those are. Doesn’t taste like he’s turned around to make his sweaty tailhole one of them. Oh well, maybe next time, for now he’s gotten all the way hard and it’s time for the main fucking event.
He pulls back for a second so you’ll press your needy maw up against the gloryhole, begging to have your treat back. Don’t lie, we’ve all been there, in our dreams or imaginations or even in your particular dimension of meatspace, you lucky bastards and bitches. And like a good dom alpha he gives you that treat with one big ol’ thrust of his hips that crams his pointy leaky tip way past your lips and jaw and right up against the back of your throat.
Kill that gag reflex like a good cockslut, won’t you? …Already done that? Damn, you are thirsty. So am I, mind if I suck that fox dick right along with you? 
Fine, fine, all yours, I get the message, you can stop with the possessive death glare. Good talk, good talk.
And while I was trying to horn in on your action you’ve got that tip a few inches right down your avaricious unwilling-to-share throat. He’s just as thick as he is thicc, if you know what I mean. You might have to wait a while before your esophagus works right again when this is over, and it’s fantastic. Go right ahead and work that hand down between your legs, because if this mouthful isn’t inspiration enough for that I don’t know what is.
Up here at the other end you started bobbing back and forth on his rager. Only for a minute or so. Because you’re damn good and tight around his tasty fox-cock, so he started doing most of the work not long after that. He’s smooth enough that it’ll take a long time to swab your dirty throat clean, and that’s okay because he’ll go extra hard to make up the difference.
Only problem is that damn knot is elusive. It popped out of his sheath ages ago, sure, and it rams up against your lips every time he goes deep enough to waste some of that scrumptious precum where you can’t taste it, but the partition wall is thick enough and he’s moving enough that you can’t get it in your mouth. Not really. It’s a damn shame, because going by his panting and mumbling he’s going to shoot his load without you ever getting his base-bulge into you.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh shit that’s good.”
Compliments feel nice, don’t they? Not as nice as that knot would feel, wedged between your teeth like a meaty ballgag, but damn good. Better reward this alpha pup by working over his front with your tongue some more, pressing him up into the roof of your mouth, wouldn’t you say?
That’s what does him in. He shudders against the stall wall- did you just feel that? Better rewind, back up, reread it to be sure, because if you really felt that translate you just might be able to shove your face against these letters and get at that forbidden knot.
Foxy-boy there pumps his load right into the tube running through your neck, glutting you with thick steamy cum. The good stuff, right from the tap, made locally in the balls rubbing themselves against the wall just under this glorious hole, packaged and shipped by the prostate. Poor prostate, underrated because nuts and cock are so much more visible. His is working overtime to give you that male milk you crave, be sure to thank it.
When you can feel the pulsing swells in his urethra starting to die down you risk pulling back to get the tip in your mouth. That salty, otherwise-hard-to-describe but oh-so-savory flavor is not to be missed, not when you’ve gone to all this work. It would have been even worse to waste any on the floor. (That’s why you kept him deep in your throat where he could shoot most of it right into your stomach, instead of in your mouth where his sheer volume would have spilled out.) That last spurt is still enough to bulge out your cheeks before you swallow that down too, so he can feel it draining around the skin of his dick.
“Oh damn. Good whore, take it all.”
It’s not like you were ever going to do anything else, so no problem. You lick around that softening cock lovingly, just in case you can get a little more of his rut-goo into you before he leaves, but he’s already pulling out no matter how you try to hold him in by suction alone. The effort gets you a satisfying popping noise to cap off the encounter at least.
“Such a good slut.” Little bit repetitive, though you just soaked his brain in endorphins but good, so we can forgive that. “I’ll have to come back some time. Be ready to press your other end up to that hole then, yeah?”
He’s walking away now, shorts back in place and sweet ass swinging that tail all the way to the door. He doesn’t care about your answer. He knows what it is. Sticking around to watch your slut face nodding frantically through the glory hole, this glory hole in the fourth wall, would be redundant.

The End