3 comments/ 47669 views/ 4 favorites Cock Sucker By: fantasylover 43 I confess, I love to suck cock. There, I've said it. I love that feeling of power, bringing a man to orgasm using my lips and tongue. It's a rush like no other. Don't get me wrong, I love all kinds of sex, and sometimes nothing is better than feeling a hard cock sliding in and out of me, fast and hard. But I love, L-O-V-E, love pleasing my man orally, and I do it every chance I get. Fortunate for me, my guy likes it as much as I do, and never puts up a fight, he just lays back and enjoys...mmmmmmmm...... Last weekend, I planned a very special treat for my lover. He had been so swamped with work and all the hassles all week, so I wanted to do something just for him, so Friday night, I set my plan in action. When he got home from work, I met him at the door, wearing that sexy little nightie he likes so much, the one with the transparent panels. Handing him a glass of wine, and taking his hand, I led him to the bathroom, where I had a nice, hot bubble bath waiting for him. Helping him undress, I then watched as he eased his tired, workworn body into the heated bubbles, and heard his pleased sigh...He soaked a while, unwinding, as I sponged warm soapy water over his shoulders and chest. He likes that, and I could see his appreciation peeking up at me through the bubbles, despite the melting effects of the warm water. Soaping my palms, I ran them over his skin, washing the dust of the workday from his body, and paying close attention to certain parts of his anatomy. Then, taking his hand, I urged him from the water, and proceeded to pat his body dry. This done, I lead him into the bedroom, softly lit with romantic candles. The light from them flickering on his still damp skin, making me take time to admire his rugged good looks, and the manly proportions of his body. Urging him down onto the edge of the bed, I pressed close, pressing his body back until he reclined there, feet on the floor, hips on the edge of the matress...the perfect position for what I had in mind.Slowly, I slid down his body, pressing tiny, open mouthed kisses over his chest and stomach, taking time to suck and tug his nipples a bit with my teeth playfully, then moving even lower. I could feel his stiff cock raking over my stomach and chest as I slid lower, finally knealing there on the floor between his spread legs. His cock was before my eyes now..all stiff and dark red, the head almost purple with passion, a tiny drop of moisture gathering there on the tip, making my mouth water. Slowly, I slid my palms up his inner thighs from knee to hip, followed by my mouth, taking tiny little nips with my teeth as I moved upward. My palms brush up his groin, just on either side of his stiffness, not touching yet..teasing...pleasing...making him suck in his breath, and his cock jerk in anticipation... When I knew he could stand no more, I lightly flick my tongue over his tight balls, making him gasp..I do so love that sound, and the feel of his body as it jerked with the shock of my warm tongue. Slowly, I sucked one ball into my mouth, rolling it gently between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, continuing to apply suction as I let it pop from my lips wetly, and moved to repeat the motion with his other ball. Removing my hand from around him, I began to slide my tongue slowly and wetly up the underside of his shaft, until I reached the head, where I captured that tiny drop of pre-cum on it, and savored the flavor of his sex. The taste, though small, seemed to flood my mouth, and make me hunger for more of the taste of him. My lips softly together, I pressed a kiss to the tip, then opened my mouth and let my tongue slide softly around the helmet of his cock, again and again, changing the direction of my motions often, and stopping only to softly rake my teeth over the now dark purple cap. The feel of my teeth raking that oh, so sensitive skin made him arch and moan..mmmmmm..I love that...and inspiring more creative actions from my willing lips. Opening my mouth wide, but holding my lips firm against the skin of his shaft, I began pushing his cock deeper into my mouth, taking as much as possible into me, until I felt the head pressing deep into my throat, which convulsed and moved around it, my tongue never hesitating in its massage of the underside of the shaft. Just as slowly, I slide him out of my mouth, only to repeat the action again and again. By that time, he was moaning continually, and his hips were arched high, rocking slightly as he attempted to push even more of his hard shaft into my willing throat. Moving back, I slid him from my mouth, and teased him even more with little love nibbles all along his shaft. I felt his hands grasping my hair, and reveled in the power to bring him to this state. Finally, I showed some mercy, and began to move my mouth quickly up and down his shaft, his swollen cockhead bumping along the roof of my mouth as I moved with ever quickening strokes, my fingers massaging his hard balls, rolling them gently between my fingers. His hands now tightly grasping my head, his hips rocking furiously, he proceeded to fuck my mouth for all he was worth, carried away in the sensations of pleasure building and building within his groin. I could feel his balls tighten and contract, and his cock seemed to swell even more, and began to jerk spasmodically. I knew he was ready to explode, so I once more slid him deep into my throat, sucking wildly, tongue moving furiously, as I felt the first hot burst of cum pounding against the back of my throat. He came so hard, and so long, I began to wonder if I might drown, but oh..what a way to go, I thought. Finally, his hips stopped thrusting, and his hands loosened from my hair. I continued to gently suck his wilting cock, his sticky cum oozing from my lips to coat his shaft. As he went totally soft, I let his now limp cock slide from my mouth and proceeded to lick it nice and clean.Moving up beside him, we cuddled close, sharing a long, deep kiss, and the taste of his cum from my lips. He was drained, in more ways than one, his body limp and saited, still weak from the power of his orgasm. I cuddled his head there on my breasts, and let the poor, dear man drift off into much deserved sleep, a smile on his lips, and mine. Mmmmmmmmmmm.....I confess..I do so love to suck his cock. Cock-Sucker: Abducted Of course, insurgency abductions are serious. Not something to be treated lightly, or as titillation. Writing this I was deliberately referencing back to the counter-culture poets and anti-Vietnam agit-prop writers who used extreme satiric and purposefully obscene images to attack what they saw as unjust foreign policy. The title is a reference yet further back to the kind of 'Man's Adventures' magazines of the 1950's with their exploitational anti-Nazi and anti-Commie stories of scantily-clad victims of evil ideologies. Yes, I know the Taliban are not necessarily active in Iraq, although 'Rashid' explains the connection, and hopefully the denouement is humanist and optimistic with a 'message' of common humanity, despite such tacky precedents. That the things that unite us are greater than the ideologies, cultural divides, sexual and religious prejudices that divide us... Just because they call it the 'Green Zone' don't necessarily mean it's green. Like everywhere else in this benighted country it's hot and unpleasant. Made more nasty by the concrete blast-barriers, razorwire and patrols. Which was why Tariq takes me places I'm not really supposed to go. Of course, I trust him. With him by my side I feel invulnerable. He knows the city. He knows where to go. He leads me through a maze of narrow streets into the bazaar. Although times are hard, and prices are being ceaselessly bartered, there seem to be stalls and kiosks, and others just trading bread or fruit from boxes in alcoves. A constant babble of voices and movements with the sun glimpsed somewhere out there beyond the almost aquatic twilight of the 'souk's covered ways. Emerging out of the far end the sudden blast of dazzling heat is overwhelming, and for a moment I didn't realise what was happening. A van halts abruptly in my way. It was green, I think, although corrosion and over-painting with designs and names makes it difficult to tell. Three men spring out, then the tailgates bust open and there's another. I just watch, unaware of anything sinister. Until Tariq breaks, and begins haring back in the way we'd come. I turn to follow, suddenly alarmed, but it was too late, they'd seized me and roughly propelled me into the back of the van. They were silent. The engine exploded into straining life as the doors were juddered back into place and secured. It accelerates away. The full horror of the situation canting my gut. This was the terror that was always there on the edge of your mind. It had happened to others, you'd seen them on Al-Jazeera, but of course, it would never happen to me. And Tariq...? Had he set me up? That was the most appalling aspect of it. Had he deliberately led me to this place? Had this been his motive all along? After all the sweet things we've done together, all the things we'd said... has it all been contrived just so that he could betray me? I couldn't believe it. But staring across at the two terrorists across from me, their faces hidden behind their keffiyehs, it seems I have no option but to accept that it is true. The van lurches and careens at considerable pace, before slowing a little, I guess so as not to attract attention from APC's, the checkpoint armoured personnel carriers. It was unbearably hot. I was squatting on my heels, my back rammed up against the curving wall. They sit across from me, implacable, with their Kalashnikov AK-47's resting idly across their knees. My throat too dry to speak anything beyond 'please, don't do this.' It must have been twenty minutes later, the van-doors erupt outwards and I was shoved forward. My legs barely function. I get the impression we're in some kind of tightly enclosed yard. There's a strong smell of spices unpleasantly mingled with the stench of drains and decay. I was hurried through a door into a long gloomy passage, and eventually into a bare room. Is this it? Is this where I'm going to die? They gesture for me to undress. At first I thought I must be mistaken. I go through a mime of not understanding. Then one of them pokes along the lines of my shirt with the muzzle of his gun, I get the message, and hurriedly do as indicated, nervous and self-conscious. Naked and incredibly vulnerable I await my fate. They pinion my hands behind my back, handcuff them there, and attach me to a water-pipe. All of this happens without a single word being exchanged. They laugh at my predicament, and leave the room. I slump down, finding as comfortable a position as I can manage, my back hunched up against the wall, my head resting on my knees. I sob uncontrollably for... how long? I don't know. They've taken my watch along with my clothes. I might have been there two hours, maybe longer. Sweat crawls and drips along my forehead, down my legs and thigh. I feel sick with apprehension. There are muffled sounds elsewhere in the building, voices pitched just a little too low that I couldn't quite understand. Eventually one of the insurgents returns. He's removed his facial covering, and seems surprisingly youthful. Little more than nineteen. Releasing my hands, he passes me a long chador, and watches with keen interest as I fumblingly envelop myself in the disguising feminine garment. He was joined by two others and I was shepherded out of the building by an entrance onto a back-street where a battered saloon car waits. I realise that my unusual appearance is to enable me to be moved around the country without drawing attention. We drive for a long weary distance. There are tense moments when we pass lazy checkpoints who scarcely bother looking at the driver's ID, casually glancing at the other passengers before waving us on. I was tensed to yell out or make some sign, but I was under constant scrutiny, and I know my captors are armed. Outside the city I was hooded for a while to further confuse me. Not that I'd know where we were heading. As part of the cultural liaison division I'd hardly been outside the Green Zone, let alone the city. We crawl up a coiling gradient with abrupt hairpin bends alongside steep arid cliffs. At last we arrive wherever it is we're going. A remote enclosed property. I manage to grab glimpses of groves of what I take to be warped olive shrubs. A vista looking out between dry crags over the lowland back towards the city, across this mystically ancient land of Mesopotamia and Sumer, by the rivers of Gilgamesh and Babylon, and above to the mountains. Land that had been watered by blood since the very dawn of history. I was escorted directly through to a room at the rear with no outside window, but a bedstead with a soiled mattress. The young guy waits as I remove the chador, then handcuffs me to the bed. Again I was aware of his keen interest in my body. Let him look. It occurred to me it was my foreskin he was looking at. Tariq had confided the same. Where circumcision is the cultural norm, a hooded cock is the cause of amused curiosity. I lie back on the mattress that smells of stale piss. A vast wave of fatigue and aftershock taking me. It was obvious I was not about to be executed immediately, that I was the victim of some kind of hostage scam, and that negotiations would begin. Maybe they're already in motion? Despite everything I sleep dreamlessly. When dawn spills in, it was the light I'd craved for. Light I'd feared I might never see again. My eyes were starved for it. My bones ache for it. In its long absence it seems I've shrivelled to something less than the size of a sand-grain, something to walk on, something you crush without thought beneath the sole of your sandal. 'Asalaamu alaikum' he greets me. I grunt, 'insha-Allah' in response. He gives me an enamel dish with a sparse mound of rice, some lentils and diced aubergine. I'm about to refuse it, until I realise it's exactly what they're eating. They're giving me equal shares. Guiltily, I sit on the edge of the bed, and eat. It leaves me still hungry. The water he gives me tastes distinctly odd too, with an unpleasantly fetid aftertaste. He speaks heavily accented Gelet Arabic. As though it's unfamiliar to him. His name, I discover, is Rashid. When I reply, he's surprised I speak it well, but that's my qualification for being here. 'Yes, I've learned how to 'come' in at least two languages.' I use a slang term for 'come' which will leave no doubt about my meaning. It's a quip I'd used with Tariq, but one entirely appropriate to repeating now. He stands there, watching me in a curious silence for some time. Then he extends the muzzle of his AK-47 towards my groin. I tense in nervous anticipation. The cold metal contacts my slack penis, sliding beneath to lever it up from between my legs, then to flip it loose. With an amused expression he uses the gun to stir it this way, and that. My first reaction is to squirm away from its chill touch, but I force myself to do the opposite. To lie back, smile encouragingly, and part my legs, allowing him greater access to it. Almost despite myself, it quivers into a lazy half-erection. He laughs, and raises the hem of his dishdasha, his long loose-fitting robe. He wears nothing beneath. I can see his cock. His smooth cafè-au-lait body is almost hairless, except genitally. He stands there, watching and monitoring my reactions. His AK-47 rests idly within his reach, but beyond mine. He reaches down and begins masturbating, each long slow down-stroke – soon becoming vertical up-strokes, ending by squeezing the shaft until the bulb swells and its eye opens. 'You like this, Crusader?' A curious tingle in the air. 'I like it very much,' if it's a lie, at least it's half-true, 'but I'm no Crusader.' He moves with a tangibly strange reticence. 'Crusader you are. Christian you are, here to rape our homeland. What else can you be?' 'No. I'm just here to assist reconstruction.' 'Here to rape. So you are here, now for rape. Would that not be justice?' My skin crawls with odd anticipations. With sexual threat, and promise. Sex was something I'd been only too happy to do with Tariq, and he'd betrayed me. I'd been only too eager to do it to him, and he'd turned out to be a member of the same terrorist cell. I remember each sweet time we'd been together with such a confused ache of desire and bitterness. Our relationship caught in a series of illuminated moments, snapshots taken when least expected. He was the honey-trap, and boy, was I trapped! The honey-suckle trap, and boy, did we suck and taste the honey. What did I have to lose by doing it now? Although I'm still shackled to the bedhead I'm able to squirm forward, lean over into his groin, and lick my way up the full length of his cock, tasting its sweat-sour saltiness. He tenses as I slide my lips around its flared bulbous crown, and slip it deep into my mouth, sucking gently, then faster. Before he has chance to change his mind. It tastes clean now, and impossibly smooth. Its youthful vibrant eagerness throbbing hard up along my tongue. My throaty slurp is moist and vulgar, I try to keep it quiet so as not to draw unwelcome attention, but it's impossible. I daren't look up, nervous to see his expression, but I get all the reaction I need from the pulse of his cockhead pressed up against the roof of my mouth, the warm undulations of his stomach as he inhales sharply. I begin pleasuring him with a steady rhythm. But it happens too quickly, before I'm ready. He smothers a low moan as, in a whiplash crack of sudden energy, he spurts off in my mouth, semen squirting in a copious deluge, flooding my throat as his ejaculation goes on and on. Based on the speed, and amount of ejaculate, it must be a considerable time since he's last had sex. His whole body trembling as the rapture wracks through him. I breathe hard, concentrating on holding the spasming cock firmly between my lips until the shudders subside, and he relaxes back. I'm erect too. When you're sucking a guy off you get a contact-high, no matter what the circumstances. With an impenetrable smile he reaches out, down to my hard-on. Grasps it roughly. Teasing my foreskin experimentally up and down, pursing it, exposing the blushing glans. Only two strokes are enough to bring me to ejaculation too, grunting as the stream of milky-white come spatters high up my stomach, my hips bucking. Perhaps it's meant as a kind of 'you bring me off, I bring you off' quid pro quo, a trade-off? A basis for negotiation, maybe? Or is this clutching at straws? Sweat cools on our bodies. His perfect skin glows with vibrant energy. He glistens with the heat we've generated together. And yet, at the same time he seems almost embarrassed by what we've done. With my voice unnaturally husky I manage to say 'I'm not your enemy. I was never your enemy. I was never a Crusader. You never fought beside Salah ad-Din. We are just people. You and I. I'm not even a Christian. I need no gods. I believe in only what I can touch and feel.' After what we'd done, I intended 'touch and feel' to mean something more personal and specific. If so, he misses my intention, picking up instead on something else I'd said. 'I don't understand. How can you look at the world, and deny the existence of a creator?' 'How can you look at the violence around us, and believe that this is the will of a caring god...?' He pauses, as though he's about to respond, then just grins impishly, shucks his dishdasha down, and shakes his head. As I watch him go I'm thinking, this kind of thing had never happened to Terry Waite, or if it did he never let on! There are silences you never want to hear. In a heavyweight silence, the moon seems barely a stone's throw away. These are lethally dangerous times. These people are the product of historical and psychic traumas shocking this land. But my initial terror is already a wild memory that fades and blurs. Replaced by a wasteful cancerous stalemate. If I could teleport out of this place I'd be just about anywhere else. But I can't. So I'm hunched forward on this stained mattress, elbows on knees, kneading my hands together. Kiss these demons out of my dreams. Give me novocaine. I've never thought of myself as a brave man. Sometimes you just get the unpleasant sensation in the pit of your gut, that you've lost control. That you're being carried by events. To be without ID is to be a non-person. Not that we'd been considered human anyway. Just a bit of international flotsam, temporarily useful, sometimes inconvenient, but with a short expiry date. Rashid has been back several times, and we've had sex each time. More leisurely this time, less urgent. Chafik is the leader of the cell. His is a set, stern, determined edifice. Yet he uses me too. Maybe Rashid has talked, hinted about my sexual compliance? Maybe not. Perhaps he's just taking advantage of the situation. And I'm in no position to act coy. It's twilight when he forces his way into my cell. I try to control the panic in my gut. My mind racing, this is another opportunity. Once you've crossed that psychological threshold there's no going back, and it gets easier. I struggle up to meet him, but no, he forces me back down onto the mattress, and around, his intention blunt and insistent. He presses down on the small of my back with one hand, and uses a cloth soaked in olive oil to anoint my anal-mouth with the other. When he pulls his robe up I can't help but be drawn to the half-glimpsed image of the bone-hard cock jutting aggressively from his belly. Then I feel the heat of its bluntness pressing up against my rectum. I wince, brace myself. My hips lift involuntarily, as I feel its head penetrate me, forcing the sphincter open. We're both moaning, a mix of discomfort and pleasure. For him, it's a sexual conquest, a release. For me, is this fraternisation? Or turning the other cheek, in the most literal way. Loving your enemy, in its most physical expression? Is it rape? Only in the sense that, when it's inevitable, you might as well lie back and enjoy it. He presses the full weight of his body down onto me, and it's as though he's forcing all the air out of me so I'm exhaling in one long whimpering gasp. He's straining into me inch by inch, filling me, until I feel his balls tight up under my ass. I steady myself as best I can as the thrusting begins, pressing back to take him, my own genitals swaying and bouncing with each deep penetration. I grit my teeth and close my eyes as it goes on, wordlessly. Stupidly my own fierce ejaculation begins spurting into the air even before I feel his forceful orgasm bursting deep in my gut. He withdraws almost immediately, wiping himself on the moist cloth, and leaves without a backward glance. There's a stifling fecund sex-smell in the room that lingers for a long time. This was hard and impersonal. I feel sundered, used, but oddly calm, lying in the afterglow of that oceanic warmth that follows orgasm. It wasn't as it had been with Rashid. After all, a blow-job is just about the friendliest thing one man can do for another. I've never been what you'd call promiscuous, but sex has always been an important part of life, and when it comes to oral pleasuring I'm not exactly a novice. I know my way around the pleasure-points of that specific part of the male anatomy. As Tariq would surely testify, if only he was here. Meantime, if they learn to like me, maybe it'll work to my advantage. So I ensure they like me. One night Rashid visits me. The next it's Chafik, at first with my hands still manacled behind me. Only later releasing them so I'm able to be more sexually active. Although my ankle's still manacled to the bed, he allows me time to work my saliva-lubricated fingers into my rectum to facilitate his ease of entry. Then bracing myself to receive each thrust, as he takes me from behind with the raw slap of flesh on flesh, as I try hard to force myself to conjure it as Tariq, my treacherous lover. There's another who enters my cell the third night, I don't even get to know his name until much later, Khuder. An older bearded man who wants to be sucked off. He has a big cock, and he laughs with cruel delight as I choke on it. But failure is not an option. He's less excitable than Rashid, I have to work on it, it takes a long time for me to bring him to climax deep in my throat. Then it's Rashid again, allowing me time to cosset his balls as I suck him. They are tight and full. But I know I can empty them. My violators always visit separately, as though not admitting to each other what they're doing, while at the same time, they've worked out a rota. They must know. Another guy looks in at me. I lie on my back and part my legs, with it all on display, inviting. He looks, then withdraws. I've play-acted games of non-consensual sex before, with lovers. This is different. Of course it is. I lie there alone, my head on fire with unwanted thoughts. Getting unprompted erections. Why don't they come and take me simultaneously? Get it all over with at once? Yet it gets easier. I learn to know what they want. Each time, as I ingratiate myself to them, doing whatever they want, I'm trying to develop the situation into debate. Work around the 'Stockholm syndrome' thing, make them see me as a person, a sympathetic individual, rather than a victim, an enemy, a target. Rashid talks. Chafik doesn't. Chafik fucks me in long deep strokes. That's all he needs. I have strictly functional sex with him. But I can never open a dialogue. Unlike Rashid, who seems to enjoy our arguments. I have no choice who I have sex with, but I try to get across to Rashid my preference for doing it with him. Not entirely insincerely. 'Admit it Rashid, this is no more your homeland than it is mine. You came here to fight the intifada, and perhaps to die for your faith, to fight the infidel.' 'In the Caliphate to come there will be no artificial national divisions between us, only the faithful.' 'But historically, you had the Caliphate a hundred years ago. You had the Ottoman Empire. And it was no more pure or corruption-free than any other empire in history, face it.' Cock-Sucker: Abducted It occurred to me that they might regard their treatment of me as some kind of retaliation for the sexual humiliations imposed on the Abu Ghraib prisoners. Then I recall how Tariq had talked to me about how, in a strictly gender-segregated society, young men fall back on experimenting with each other, establishing tastes and suppressed secret desires that persist well into later life. Despite superficial appearances to the contrary. That's why sex-tourists exploit their poverty by coming here for compliant available youths. And that's what happened to TE Lawrence. He was here during the final collapsing days of the Ottoman Empire. He was captured. He was beaten and sodomised. It skewed and confused his already fragile sexuality. Perhaps the older members of the cell had been using Rashid in that way, until now they've acquired me to fulfil that function? And he was only too keen to take advantage of the reversal of fortunes. Despite what he claimed, he wasn't ready to die. His persistent erection tells me all I need to know about his lust for life. I recall post-coital whispers with Tariq, him telling me 'in the west you have your messiah, we have the prophet, but none of their promises of paradise can be verified. We persist in believing because... why not believe, what do we lose by believing? What do we gain by non-belief? It is what they call Pascal's Wager? But I have seen dead men. I saw no eternity. I saw no vistas of paradise. Only death. Perhaps all we have is what we have here and now. If there is a god, this is the consolation he gifts us. And orgasm is the closest we are ever going to get to heaven?' During the night I hear low-flying 'copters choppity-choppity thrumming overhead. Perhaps they are searching for me? Maybe house-to-house searches will follow? But no. There is only silence. What is going to become of me? Are there negotiations going on for my release? Will I be forced to make one of those confessional videos pleading for my life? I was fearfully aware of other stories, other possibilities. About there being at least one dissolute Prince of the Gulf royal families who is said to harbour a seraglio of stolen young men, with a rapacious taste for blonde Europeans. Hopefully, I'm not sufficiently pretty for such a fate. More immediately, there's a yellowing bruise on my leg where I must have caught it as I was bundled into the kidnap van. The bruise is still tender, I wince at each touch. And mosquito sores. That too. I exercise as well as I can. Worried I'm losing weight, and not in a good way. I yearn for a shower to sluice away the sweat and dried semen, but they only provide a single bowl of water to wash by. And somewhere to piss without being watched. But mostly I'm alone, watching cockroaches saunter across the floor as though they're strolling in the park. I watch their progress. There's nothing else to watch. 'You are homesick, maybe?' I ask Rashid, 'you want to go home? Me too.' 'You came here to help us?' teases Rashid, 'and how much were you paid to do that, how much for this noble gesture? What were you paid to live in the pampered privileged compound of foreigners? More money in one day than most families here have to subside on for a month...?' Of course, he's correct. If he learned something from me – and I hope maybe he did, I certainly learned from him. Back in the air-conditioned bulletproof dark-glass office-space fortress of the Green Zone I'd existed in an artificial bubble. I realise that now. There were vast double doors with sensors and coded locks. To get out of the main compound there were more sensors and locks. Then come the locked metal gate at the outer wall, constantly guarded by armed security. What I am enduring now is the reality for the ordinary people. Weeks later, I lose track of time. It is dusk, sullenly warm. Rashid comes to me. But not for sex. This time he releases the manacle that shackles me to the bed-head, and tosses me a chador. I'm able to pull it over myself, and follow him dully. There is change. This is different. And I'm more scared of change than I am of the present. We pace the length of the hallway to the exterior door. There are no sounds in the building. Where are the others? No-one challenges us. No-one moves to stop us. Either they're out somewhere, on a mission. Or they're fully aware of what Rashid is doing. Stepping out into the night is to tread onto the surface of Mars. The battered saloon car is waiting. At the wheel is my faithless Tariq. Yes, I'd been wrong about him all along. I later discover it was he who'd searched me out through the complex web of cells and affiliations, contacted Rashid, and negotiated for my release. My captors conceding, unconditionally. For now, I glance across at him with a curious mixture of relief, and shame. We pile into the car together, Rashid and me joining Tariq. Tariq slides into gear and we pull away. Accelerating into the gathering gloom, descending back towards the city. 'Where are you taking me?' It's Rashid who grins a wide and guiless way. 'Where do you want we should go? Although I must be true to my own voice, to my own place, to my own heritage, as you must be to yours, that does not mean that our three souls cannot touch.' I smile across at him. You could say it was a shared predilection for male genitalia that bridged the gulf between cultures, and established common humanity. I guess so. This must be the future. The way to save the world. 'Yes. If we stand between hope and history, here there is hope.' Cock-Sucker: An Educational Episode I'm confiding in you. Telling you things I've never told anyone else, because... well, I guess you know why. I was never into boys, not in that way. But I was never into girls either, not particularly. My father once told me the penis is the Devil's serpent, and I suspected he was right. I was studious, I was a good scholar. I worked hard, studied hard. I was always self-conscious about my body, about letting others see me because, as you know, it's not very big, not as big as other boys. I was scared they'd ridicule me. At school, in the showers after sports, I'd furtively look at the other boy's cocks and they were all bigger than mine, I was certain they were sniggering about me, making jokes behind my back. I know some of them were playing with each other, tossing each other off, and I was tempted, but I was too scared of rejection to approach anyone. Why would they be interested in my ridiculously diminutive cock which was smaller erect than theirs were slack? I was a quiet kid, reasonably content on my own, insecure and socially ill-at-ease. Until, that is, a certain educational episode that occurred when I was at university. Due to financial constraints, I move in with a room-mate. The letting-agency threw us together, into the dark basement flat-share of a once-fashionable Regency Mews in a down-at-heel student area. He was called Edward, never 'Eddie'. He has that tousled 'Gosh-wow' charm of assured confidence which I totally lack. With a Stieff Teddy-Bear on his bed, a gift from his fiancé, he said. We gradually became, kind-of friends, I suppose. I was well-ahead of him academically, and I guess I made myself useful to him, he could pick my brains when he was writing essays. Some of his essays I even wrote for him. To me, he was the closest friend I'd ever had, although that doesn't mean much, because I'd never had what you'd call a real friend before. There was never anything emotional between us, beyond friendship. I've never told anyone this, I don't know why I'm telling you now. I don't really drink. But one night, after we'd been drinking a little too much in a riverside pub by the campus called the 'Crown of Thorns', we wound up laid on the bed together, and he was saying how horny he felt. How long it was since he'd been with his fiancé. It was a warm night, we were getting ready for bed, we'd stripped down to boxer shorts. He began to simulate sex with the Teddy-Bear, pulling expressions of frustrated lust, both of us laughing. Playfully I grab out to 'rescue' the abused toy, but in the tussle he shifts it away at the last moment and instead I find my fingers coming up around the unmistakeable firm ridge of his protruding hard-on. Alarmed I hesitate feeling sick and anxious, but he just smirks and – perhaps assuming I'd done it intentionally, does the same to me, reaching across and under the waistband into my shorts, experimentally, like a game, a dare. Soon, my heart pounding in my chest, we are playing around a bit more explicitly, the boxers are shoved down, and cautiously we're openly masturbating each other. In the warm fug of wine, he encourages me, half-pleading... 'c'mon, don't be shy, put it in your mouth, go on, I won't tell anyone'. He looks so appealing, how can I refuse? I do, at first just the fleshy head, and that's not so bad. Part of me is shocked and not very happy at this turn of events, but another part of me is excited beyond belief. As though there's a divorce between thought, and feelings. When I try to move away he gently pushes my head down again, 'c'mon, do me then I'll do it to you' he urges, I don't need much persuasion, I suck at it cautiously, and slide a little more in, the more I suck the better it gets. He smiles down at me encouragingly, allaying my nerves, which makes it seem alright. He shoves a little too far, I choke and back off. The room cants a little unsteadily in a blur of alcohol and nausea. But he's suddenly impatient as I cough, no caring consideration now, he allows me only a second before he's nudging it hard back into my mouth. 'C'mon, c'mon, don't tease'. I take it, and resume. The room silent but for the moist sound of my mouth on his cock. Until he breathes 'you know what happens next, don't dare move your head away now.' Suddenly I'm scared and confused again, uncertain, will I choke? will I vomit? but by then it's too late and he's already begun spasming come into my mouth. No gag reaction at all. I wound up doing to him what I've just done to you. Y'know, sucked him off. Tasted his come. 'Have you swallowed all that spunk already?' he gasps breathlessly. 'Yes, wasn't I supposed to? didn't you want me to?' 'No, that's fine, if that's what you want to do' and he just chuckles like he can't believe it. Needless to say, despite his promise, he doesn't return the favour, ever... in a post-orgasmic haze he does consent to bring me off with his hand. But in a way, it doesn't matter, that was less important than what I'd done to him. I don't know why I did it. It was a weird overwhelming compulsion, it just seemed, as soon as I saw it, to be the natural thing to do. The obvious thing to do. The appropriate response, does that make sense to you? It doesn't to me, still. But I did it. He wasn't as big – genitally, as you, but it just seemed the perfect fit, as though it was meant to be in my mouth. I was scared just how much I enjoyed doing it. It didn't square with my life, my world, or my plans. It disorientated me, shoved me out of focus. But after sucking his cock once, I knew I'd do it again whenever he wanted me to. He'd enjoyed me doing it to him, and boy, did I enjoy doing it to him. It set up expectations, for us both. Afterwards, we were a little nervous, a little wary of each other, I couldn't meet his eyes, but it was inevitable, we both knew it. The next night we were both sober. I was sitting on my bed fully clothed. I watch as he gets undressed. I'm thinking 'come on, this is it, this is what you've been waiting for'. But there's another part of me saying 'what are you thinking? You can't do this. You're really going to need the rest of your life to think about whether this is a good idea...' When he's down to his shorts, he glances across at me, 'about last night' he began. I guess we both knew what each other was thinking. 'It's alright' I reply, maybe a little too hastily. After all, it's what I'd been thinking of obsessively all day, I could think of little else. I could feel my cock hardening just at the sight of him. Encouraged, he crosses clumsily over to stand in front of me. With bated breath I reach up and pull his shorts down so his cock swings free. Daring, the most daring thing I've ever done. And it's bigger, and every bit as good as I remember it. I look up at him and smile. Act casual, as though it's no big deal, as though it's a game. I extend my tongue, run it along its fleshy length, using my tongue to raise it horizontal, then higher. Allowing it to fall. He laughs as I repeat the action. This time its downward arc doesn't take it quite so low. It is firming. So next time when I go in, I use my tongue to lap and wriggle around the underside of its head, licking, then drawing it slowly into my mouth, just the tip at first, inching only gradually further along the shaft, pause for a moment with it resting inside me, and begin sucking him. At first he stands stock still and lets me do it. His pants are round his ankles, he moves to step out of them, and as he does so it pops out of my mouth, but I hold onto it, squeezing it gently so a bubble of moisture wells up in its eye, moving my fist up and down its saliva-slippery length, marvelling at it, and that it's my own spit making it so glistening-wet. My own fierce erection is straining my pants out of shape, bigger than its ever been, so I move down to release it, smothering it with a handkerchief, desperate not to distract his attention so that he loses interest. Quickly, it goes back into my mouth before he has chance to change his mind, and I become a little more confident, enjoying the dirty sensation of trying to make it last longer this time, to extend the pleasure, my own bottom wriggling like an excited girl. There's a sound of blissed-out moaning, I realise that it's coming from me. I move my head to the right, so it bulges out my cheek, then to the left, so it bulges again. Then move my head in small intimate circles, moving it around with my mouth. Whatever I do, he seems to enjoy it. It goes on for several minutes. He barely moves, it's me performing on him, I'm using his cock for my benefit, my hands roaming up to feel his balls, and around his arse, holding his body closer to me, and he grows correspondingly more confident too, letting me do it, only becoming more agitated when he approaches climax, moving his hips backwards and forwards in fast jerky movements, forcing it in deeper. I know I'm going to get a slut-load. 'Don't stop, don't stop, I'm coming, I'm coming' he gasps. I feel his knees buckle, his stomach-muscles tensing, his fat balls retracting, moaning out loud as it begins spunking off into my mouth. This time I'm ready, I know what I'm doing, I let it come, taking it all, and just keep sucking as it softens, running my tongue in circles around its head, releasing it only reluctantly, in a warm fuzzy glow, until he pulls away gently. He lays on his back on his own bed for a long moment, leaving me unsure what he's thinking, is he disgusted? have I made a fool of myself? then he just said 'Wow!', long and low, and I know I've done well. Deep inside I was smugly pleased with myself, overjoyed in fact. Now, we share this delicious secret, and I do it to him some more, on other occasions, finding expression for all those things never said. On that first occasion when I'd sucked mature adult cock and swallowed a full man's come-load, I could tell myself, well yes, I've done it, but that doesn't make me a cock-sucker. The second time I do it I tell myself, yes, that was good, I enjoyed it, but that still doesn't make me a cock-sucker. The third and fourth time I felt myself a little confused. By the fifth time I could no longer lie to myself, yes, own up, admit it, this is what I am, I'm a cock-sucker. His cock-sucker. To say sex had never rated very highly on my life-agenda, suddenly I can think of nothing else. I look forward to doing it, loving that luscious expectation. Walking through the quadrangle the other students see me as this nerdy wimp too scared and timid, but how they'd be scandalised to know what I'm doing with... I almost said my boyfriend. Edward was never that. I'm not sure he was even what you'd call a real friend. It was not what you might call a relationship. For him, it must have been more a convenient arrangement. We were roommates. We did other things, social stuff, studying together, debating just as we'd always done. But every now and then we'd get in the right mood, and quietly and discreetly, I'd... erm, go down on him. Once a week. Maybe twice. Never more than half-a-dozen times in total. Did that mean I was gay? Did that mean I was queer? I don't know. I don't feel gay. But hey, I know what they'd say, I'm there with a guy's cock lodged deep in the back of my throat, and I'm loving it, do the math. That's what they'd say. He never reciprocated... well, he did grudgingly toss me off once again when I urge him to, but he complains of wrist-ache and that a stray bead of my sperm was messing his fingers, with such obvious distaste – an inconsiderate attitude in the light of the act I was performing on him, and where his sperm was going, so that I never plucked up courage enough to suggest it again. I seldom see him naked, and I was usually dressed. He frequently just unzips and gets it out for me in our room, or he might bundle his pants down to knee-level so I have better access to his balls, then he sits there watching me while I crouch. On one occasion I squirm with awkward embarrassment when he playfully called me a 'Nancy-Boy'. Although once I suck him off in a dark alleyway on the way back from the riverside 'Crown Of Thorns' pub. So maybe he's right? He stops in the shadows to urinate. Once he's finished he doesn't tuck it back into his pants, but gestures to me, then downwards at his protruding cock. I look at it. 'It's got piss on it.' He grins, flicks it so that the single bead of suspended urine spins off into the night. No reason now not to, and a squat down, fearful – but excited, at the prospect of being observed. I've never felt so vulgar, so cheap, so used. He seems hyped up too, so as I suck him, it doesn't last long, nowhere near as long as I want, and all too soon he's pulling it free and zipping it away. I want more. I like the shape and feel of his cock, I like the way it tastes in my mouth, although I can never decipher his expression whenever I look up and accidentally catch his eyes, is he amused or disgusted, impatient for me to get it over with, enjoying his power over me? I can never tell for sure. I'm his fuck-buddy, his suck-buddy, that's all. Where it might have taken me, I don't know either, because I never get the chance to find out. The closest we get is when he says 'you sure must like the taste of fresh spunk' and I say 'I guess spunk tastes good when it's coming from you'. I was curious about other things. I was scared of the intensity of my needs. A Pandora's Box of desire had been unleashed in my head, what would it feel like to be taken up the bum? I try to imagine how it would feel, I go over it in my mind again and again. I rehearse how I'd brace myself, arch my back, raise my bottom up for him, how I'd stifle my groans as he nudges his way in. What if he ties me up, hogties me, and fucks me mercilessly. He'd say stuff like 'that's right, squeal like a pig, no-one will hear you.' Disgusting, foul things. It would be such a primal, animal act to have him mounting me. Rutting in me... But how can I ask him to try it without offending him, how do I approach him with such a suggestion? Would he be repelled? What I really want is for him to take control, and simply tell me what to do – 'get naked, down on all fours' and then simply fuck me, but – in all honesty, that was never going to happen. I doubt the thought ever entered his mind. It's indicative that, even in my hazy unfulfilled yearning, it was always me being fucked, not doing the fucking. In fact, I had no desire to be the 'active' partner. So is that what I am – a 'submissive'? I've never considered myself to be submissive in any other sphere of my life. But if not, give me another word for it? Yet I was scared, not of doing it, but of asking him. So I never got to do it, and remain forever unfulfilled. How pathetic is that? And I guess, for him, even the novelty of me giving him head soon wore off. He became reluctant, he made excuses, he wasn't in the mood, I had to make the moves, I had to ask him, I had to persuade my way into his pants, can you imagine how difficult that is for me? and how embarrassing it is when he declines. It got to be so infrequent it was next to never. I wanted to, no two ways about it, I wanted to suck him off, but he would no longer let me. Eventually, after summer recess he began socialising with a different set of friends, roomed elsewhere, and made it obvious that whatever we'd had together was over, he snubbed me. I even phoned him, 'if you come around tonight, chances are you'll get lucky'. How desperate is that? even feigning a jokey lightness of tone I didn't feel. Just how much more bluntly can I phrase it without saying 'please spunk-off in my gob, because I'd very much appreciate it if you would, thank you'? But he pointedly fails to pick up on it. You could say he dumped me. Perhaps he was scared by the intensity of it all too? As I was, I felt humiliated. My need is like a sickness within me. The positive thing about the sickness is that I could have taken something to ease it. There was a hose big enough to douse the fire. The hose in his pants, now denied to me. It never occurred to me that there might be other guys out there. It was only him I want. Is he telling his new friends about what we'd done? Are they laughing about me my behind my back. I imagine they're looking at me with derision in their eyes. They know what I am. A faggot cock-sucker, hung like a mouse. I try to kid myself that in a way there's a sense of relief that it's over, it was dangerous, it could destroy me, everything I was and could be, but oh, the pain of wanting him and being denied is a physical ache, like a junkie denied his fix. It was an addiction I was forced to break. ... I pledge I'll never allow myself to be hurt ever again. I freeze out that entire part of my life. Once I graduate I get married. Lead a conventional life, concentrate on my career. And never think of sex with Edward again...' well, that's a lie. It's not true. I do think about it. I think of him. Often. With some frequency. Once we left university we lost touch. I don't know where he is or what he's doing. But in vivid daydreams we meet up by accident, in a restaurant or a bar. Sometimes in the street I'll hear him call my name. And we'll have a drink together, catch up, reminisce about the old times. And eventually he'll lower his voice, a little huskily, and enquire 'do you remember all those things we used to do?' And I'll admit that yes, I do think fondly of it. And by mutual consent we retire to his hotel room, or maybe just a cubicle in the toilets, and – my heart beating up against my rib-cage, I crouch down to suck him off one more time, just for old time's sake. And he leaves his card, just in case... So, I'm confiding in you. Telling you things I've never told anyone else, because... well, I guess you know why...