3 comments/ 16987 views/ 9 favorites Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 01: Dean By: tristantrotsky 'THE LEGEND OF THE HOUSE OF SHAME ...' Editor's Note: This terrifying manuscript is not offered as an authenticated document, neither is there any indication that its contents are anything other than the day-dreaming of a fantasist (indeed, at several points in the manuscript the anonymous narrator suggests that this is, in fact, the case). Nevertheless, there must be conjecture... did the events so vividly portrayed here actually happen? Can we be certain...? Doubts must remain. Similarly, although the narrator finds a form of salvation towards the end of the testimony, in which he rises above the disadvantages of his background, and the problems of his incarceration, there is a subtext to which he is not probably aware, that his relationship with 'Bryan' will also be of an exploitative nature. That once - at his own admission, 'broken in', his supine acceptance of abuse will continue once he returns to the world beyond 'The House Of Shame', albeit within the framework of a consensual arrangement. Therefore this uncorroborated document is presented for your consideration in the form of what is termed a 'Misery Memoir', yet more as a sociological study of an extreme state of mind rather than an accurate record of lived experience... ***** (1) DEAN A forbidding place, set in wooded grounds behind impossibly high walls. A chilling sense of foreboding the moment the darkness of its gates falls over me. Normal life and the rules that govern it cease forever within its enclosure. This is the moment you know it's for real. It's September, the death of summer, only bleakness ahead. I'm beyond help, set apart from everything I know, a victim of powers with absolute control over every aspect of my life. And here I'm trapped in a world with no escape clause, inhabited by no-hoper delinquents and no-account maladjusted youths. At eighteen, I'll be one of the youngest. I strip naked and shower as the social worker watches. Entering my new life as naked as I'd come into my old life. Given a pitifully inadequate rough-textured towel I struggle to keep in place as I'm hustled from the shower-room into the adjoining clinic. With a single gesture of his finger the bored doctor indicates its removal, so I stand before him naked again. I'm weighed and photographed. Yes, I appreciate the need for photographic records, but why does that mean full-frontal nude, arms by my side? I read faded posters blue-tacked to the wall. Warnings of unsafe sexual practices. Illustrations of infected body-parts. Anatomical 'visible man' diagrams of muscle-tissue and the nervous system. The male reproductive organs, showing a droopy little penis, and a cross-section illustrating the chambers that engorge with blood to produce erection. While, during the cursory medical, surely the Doctor's taking too long examining my scrotum for hernias, rolling my balls between his fingers? And why use a rectal thermometer to take my temperature, and why probe it so deep? "Do you have homosexual tendencies?" he asks, ticking boxes on his chart. A noncommittal shrug. "Not particularly." "Pity" he muses. "Spend some time here, you'll come to appreciate certain aspects of it. We can't eliminate sexual activity among inmates. That'd be impossible. But you're all age-of-consent, and at least we can monitor to ensure there's no communicable genital infections. We do that. We're a clean establishment... y'understand?" I nod, not sure exactly what he's telling me. So I act dumb. "But any problems, any problems of a sexual nature, come see me, OK? No need to book an appointment." "I don't have any sexual problems." "You will. An attractive young boy like you, believe me you will." Surely that's a weird thing for a doctor to say? Stranger yet, because I'd never really thought of myself in that way. Attractive? - me. Naw, I've always been the problem. Not the solution. He merely nods to indicate the session is over. The chair I'm sitting on is moulded-plastic, so my bare bottom - still slightly moist from the shower, sticks to it. As I stand up it makes a sluuucking-sound, as if I'm not self-conscious already. With the towel barely around me I'm hustled into the next room where I'm issued with grey tracksuit bottoms and a long-sleeved grey sweatshirt to wear for my induction-period. A leering guard watches as I struggle into them, and I despise the way I feel in them. Like I've left the last vestige of individuality behind and I now belong to this place - as Bryan later phrases it, 'detained at her magistrate's pleasure.' This is my freaky story. I'm telling you every detail, and it's not for the faint-hearted. It's not that I'm bad, not as if I'm evil, just... disturbed, just easily led, suggestible and confused. I've always been the skinny ticky kid who lacks self-confidence, always weak-willed, always giving in to a more forceful personality. The regular truant, with disruptive behavioural problems. Drawn into shoplifting more through attempts to fit in than by criminal tendencies. 'In need of care and attention.' After recurrent prosecutions for persistent petty crime I wind up here, in this Secure Assessment Centre for an indeterminate period - in practise, nine months. This House of Correction, this Home For Wayward Boys. A long way from town, a longer way from the familiar world, a large Victorian building which at any given time houses some fifty dysfunctional miscreant youths who sleep in six-berth dormitories, only half-a-dozen of the low-risk trustees granted the privilege of their own room. Being naturally shy, avoiding confrontation, with low self-esteem, I'm nervous of my enforced stay in this threatening place. Already I sense insolence and aggression in the air as I'm escorted deeper into the lock-up. There's intimidation implied by the stance and slouching menace of those we pass. I've been cast into a Never-neverland among the Lost Boys. Only they're psycho-Lost Boys. Lost Boys and good-for-nothing youths, wackos, nut-jobs and weirdos reverted to psycho-barbarism, direct from the pages of 'Lord Of The Flies'. They escort me to where I'm to share a small dormitory room with four others, already it's a prospect that horrifies me. There's a formation of five utilitarian beds, each with its bedside cabinet large enough for a minimum of personal effects. And it scares the hell out of me. I eat in the common-room, conscious of eyes on me, appraisals taking place from sociopath scum, slow-learners, retarded brats, and low-life inadequates. They're sizing me up as their next target. Their next victim. I feel weak and wretched, dreading the weeks and months of unpleasantness I'm going to have to endure here. I watch a mind-pulp of TV in the evening, and keep out of their way as much as possible, avoiding their eyes. In the room I'm to share there is Dean. Although no more than two or three years older than me, he's the only one who seems to inspire anything like authority. A brooding arrogance, a dark pent-up insolence, a burning aloofness that sets him apart, and when he passes by, all misdemeanour ceases. But dark, taller than me, he's quiet, as though concealing depths of hidden energies. His bed is set apart at the far end of the dorm, beneath the window. To the left are two beds that belong to Solomon - 'Sol', a black layabout perhaps a year older, and suedehead Ian who is maybe a little younger. To the right, Hooch next to Dean, and then my bed, nearest the door. Welcome to the House of Fun! But if my first day is hell, the night is to be even stranger. I wait as late as I can, hiding in the toilets, then slip into bed as the lights go out, and lie still. Once in bed I consider myself safe. By closing my eyes into blackness, the breathing of others in the dormitory is the only reminder of my imprisonment. There's a long moment of stillness. I hear the distant tide of wind in the trees outside. The low hum of circulation, water percolating through the radiators, or something like it. Footfall and muffled indecipherable conversation passing by in the corridor outside. Then there's a closer stirring, the squeak of bedsprings, and I stiffen involuntarily. I sense something in the air. Next thing I know there's movement and sniggering in the darkness. The slap of bare feet on canvas, the creak of disturbed floorboards. I don't like the sound of those sounds, each creepy crick and crack. My stomach contracts, I shrink protectively deeper beneath the coarse blankets. Nearer. Nearer still. I cringe inside myself. Suddenly my covers are ripped back, and I feel a looming naked body straddling me, knees nudging up against my ribs. I'm confused, it's twilight dark, I'm only half-aware of darker shapes and a sudden weight as he sits heavily on my chest, high up, driving the breath out of me, so it's difficult to inhale, his leg-hairs brushing rough up against my cheeks as his knees scissor in at either side of my head, the genital aroma of him inescapable. The bedspread rustles as I try to draw away, but immediately his hands clamp on me. Not hurting, but firm. I half-heartedly resist, squirming ineffectually, mind swirling in numbing panic, but one hand is guiding the side my head, I sense the other arrowing his erect penis at my mouth, radiating heat, quivering and flexing in the darkness like some thick python with a forceful animal life of it own. "Shhhh, just suck it" he urges. I writhe helpless. It's not like I'm unaware of what I'm supposed to do, I'm neither stupid nor naïve, I've been around, done stuff. Just frightened to do it, but more frightened to resist. I squirm, the rubbery pressure of it smearing bluntly up against my lips, rigid and insistent. What can I do? Fight him? No way, he's older - stronger, more dominant. I'm weak and scared. Shout out? I'm trapped in this dorm with him, he can exact whatever revenge he chooses, at his leisure. Fighting will only make it worse. I have no alternative. Sick with fear and revulsion. I can delay no longer. Miserably I gape my mouth, allowing the monster to slither in, already my lips are hooked over the raised ridge of his glans, I can trace its rim, which means its tip is somewhere past my teeth, and it's feeding in deeper, shoving my tongue aside effortlessly and socketing my retching choking throat. The pressure forces my head back, until it bumps up against the wooden headboard, and can go no further. Then he relaxes a little, and I'm sprawled there, his cock filling my mouth, distorting the shape of my lips around it. He nudges his hips back and forward, fucking in and out, my head crammed up against the pillow. Then "C'mon, suck it, don't pretend you don't know how to." His body-weight heavy on me, my only defence is to do what he wants, and get it over with, so, contracting my mouth around it, enclosing it tight and - still reticent, I exert tentative suction, swallowing the salty taste flooding my mouth, it twitches appreciatively in response, encouraging more, so I suck in a numb submissive acceptance, then suck again. After long uncomfortable moments he relaxes his grip on my hair as it's obvious I'm coming around to accepting what I must do, and he allows me to get on with it. I can smell the stale maleness of his groin, sense his power and urgent sexuality, his cock thick and demanding in my mouth, pulsing up against my teeth and tongue. Although I feel I might suffocate on the sweaty fug of his thighs, in the wiry pubescence of him, my own thighs are crawling in answering bizarre sensations I can't control, responding to the enforced intimacy, the thrill of disgust, the base compulsion of raw sex. I'm ramrod erect too, on the edge despite my cold fear, closing my eyes in heady surrender to sensations stimulated by the twitch and pulse of him hard up against the roof of my mouth. While I suck he offers no further pressure, but the moment I pause for breath he rams his hips forcefully into my face, so I take the path of least resistance. After some time I settle to his rhythm, then sense his breathing quicken, his hairy stomach flexing, he nudges forward deeper into my throat, his fat balls stirring, squashing up against my chin, with a shock of disgust I know what's happening. He grunts obscenely in a way that must be audible to the rest of the dorm, I feel the raised ventral ridge of the sperm-duct running its underside expand and pulse against my stretched lower lip, and I taste the first spasm of creamy come spit up against my tongue. Like I'm taking a mouthful of electric shocks. It flexes vilely in my mouth as it pumps into me, it seems to go on forever, endlessly choking with its cloying spurts of fluid, as I lie petrified, frozen, my mouth gummed, unable to move or even breath, until it ceases and he's throbbing to quiescence, and I lie there with his cock absurdly still in my mouth, in a swirling fug of sweaty heat feeling him soften and the tension leave his body. "Don't let it stain the sheets" he hisses. "Understand?" Unable to reply, jaw aching and lips numb, I make a mewling sound, as he slowly withdraws inch by inch, leaving long drooling strands of saliva and spunk on my chin. As he gets up I catch fleeting glimpses of those distended testicles hung in pendulous obesity over my face, pubic hair moist with sweat rough on my skin. Just as suddenly I'm alone, shivering, sobbing quietly in the aftermath as shockwaves recede in a rage of adrenaline. It's not a warm night, but I'm damp with sweat and uncomfortably flushed hot. I feel dirty and used, his emission swimming around my teeth. I daren't spit it out. I can't get up and go to the toilet to gob his seed out for fear of drawing attention to myself. So I lie for long moments of psychological indecision. Then, when I can delay no longer, I screw my face up, and swallow. I feel sick, want to brush my teeth and rinse my mouth out. This fulfils my worst expectations. Being here, in this place, is bad enough. Being sexually victimised too is a worst-case scenario. At least he hadn't hurt me, and now he's left me alone. I'm incapable of sleep for a long long time, drawn against my will, until it takes just two light wank-strokes to bring me orgasming to my own climax, ejaculating across my stomach and up as far as my nipple in long white gooey strands. I think of the diagram in the Doctor's clinic. The illustration of the droopy penis. The cross-section showing the chambers that engorge with blood to produce erection. Well, I've sure had a thorough demonstration of the way it all functions. The following morning I feel guilty and confused. Encountering the crinkly hairs around my navel with my fingers, they're stiff with dried semen. It sparks off vivid flashbacks of how it came to be there. Looking around me I realise, my night visitor must have been the aloof older boy, Dean. But he doesn't speak, doesn't glance at me, doesn't even acknowledge my presence. When I take my morning ablutions my piss-stream is bifurcated by spunk-matted strands of pubic hair. The shower is freezing cold, I'm nervous of being observed, I can still taste him in my mouth, but can't understand my own physical reactions to what happened either, why had I been so aroused during the episode? There are jism-stains on my pyjamas, they are my own. What does that mean? Is it my weakness, the devil in me, my Achilles heel? - after all, I'm no rogue, but I've been no boy scout either. I desperately try to sponge them clean in the toilets. The rest of the day is sheer torment. The walls are painted dull fake-neutral colours, and they smell of hospital corridors. There's a faint aroma of cheap polish in the day-room. The same tacky chipped down-at-heel faded quality of, just about everything. With an all-pervading stale institutional torpor spiced with something of the nastiness and playground cruelty that's an accepted part of life here. I've seen that movie, 'Scum', I know what to expect in this kind of enforced confinement. And I've always been ill-at-ease with others, over-conscious, hypersensitive to being singled out for ridicule and verbal intimidation. It's not my fault I don't belong. It's the world around me that's got it all wrong. How else did they expect me to turn out? There's a postcard from my mother. She was never much into the writing thing. She explains how it is too far for her to visit me, but she's sure I'll understand. She's met this wonderful new boyfriend, and she hopes I'll wish them well. Yeah, like I've not heard that before! Later, I have an interview for psychiatric assessment during which I stay sullenly silent, it lasts most of the morning. "Do you understand why you are here?" He wears corduroy trousers and horn-rim glasses like a trendy-liberal English Teacher. Calls me by my first name too frequently, in an attempt to establish trust. I just nod. "This is an opportunity, not a punishment. We operate a progressive correctional regime here. We are people who have your interest at heart, we can help you. But only if you want to be helped. It's up to you. The choice must be yours. You understand?" Another nod. Shuffling awkwardly in a cold sweat of embarrassment until it's over. Yeah, yeah, yeah, just leave me alone, you, them, everyone. If you want to count me, count me OUT! In the afternoon I'm delegated to help work in the vegetable garden where I keep to myself as much as possible. After lunch the suedehead called Ian smiles across at me and says "You alright?" He's slim, slighter build than me. "'Course I'm alright, what do you mean? Why shouldn't I be alright?" I respond defensively. Don't want to talk. Don't have nothing to say. Until the evening. Night holds terrors for me. For some time I stand at the top of the stairwell where a window looks out over the grounds, to where mournful crows circle over the outbuildings and the potting shed. I can see the wall, the wire and the surveillance cameras that hem us in and define the edge of the world. The event horizon of what is possible. Beyond is only the endless bleak moor. If I could get out. Over that wall. Across the moor. Follow the road down apiece, catch a bus to take me away. To where? I got nowhere to go. But anyplace's got to be better than where I am now... isn't it? I'm trapped in a Gothic cliché, a counter-life, but if my experience here is meant to be a weird fable, then fables are supposed to be disconnected from reality. This is too real for comfort. My clothes are in my bedside locker, laundered, ironed and neatly folded. Pyjamas too. My toilet bag with tooth-brush, flannel, nail-clippers, razor, a foil of paracetamol, a tube of Medac cream for those unfortunate acne breakouts (they used to say spots are caused by excessive masturbation, and I fear they might be right, monitoring each new facial eruption as a mark of betrayal proclaiming my guilt to the world. But what constitutes excessive? Five times a week - once every night, or more? Sure, I'd fought against temptation, but it was a long losing fight). The door of the locker sags inadequately on its brass hinges. No locks. No key. A battered paperback crushed into the draw, left by the previous occupant - 'Man In A High Castle' by Philip K Dick. I surf through its pages, but can't concentrate. At lights out my heart is pounding loud up against my ribcage with dread. I lie in a terror of what's to come. Although I'm curled beneath the covers, in my head I'm climbing the walls. Then I hear the slap of his bare feet on the floor as he paces towards me. He draws the sheet back, his intimidatingly huge nakedness mounting my bed, saying nothing, until he's sitting on the pillow, legs splayed on either side. This time he just waits. I hesitate as long as I dare. My mind screaming 'no, no, leave me alone, don't make me do it.' But, throat dry, afraid to touch it, but more afraid not to, I reach out nervously, find and grasp his stiff cock with a thrill of fear, and begin to masturbate him slowly. Up and down its full length. Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 01: Dean "No, not that way" he whispers derisively. "If I wanted that I could do it to myself, you know how." Reluctantly I pluck up courage to humbly shuffle forward between the splayed 'v' of his legs, docile and submissive, my own erection awkwardly and embarrassingly hard. Wriggling down, my mouth nervously seeks out its moist tip. The burden of choice having flown the room along with my conscience, there's no sound, no-one else will know. I slip my lips over the salty smooth arrowhead of flesh and suck it into my mouth, easing my pyjamas off as I do so, anxious not to soil them further. I suck at it gingerly, he's big, circumcised, his glans impossibly smooth as my tongue traces its rim, my saliva making its seamless texture slick. Then I plunge it deeper into my mouth, surrendering all will and resistance to his dominance. It swells up against the roof of my mouth at my attentions. It is dangerous. But if I don't do it right he'll be displeased, I can't risk that, so I begin massaging his balls gently, and ease more cock into my mouth, sucking more aggressively. His body reacts. And when he grunts I take it as a sign of approval, feeling an odd sense of relief. My head bobs up and down impaled on him, sliding along its length, sucking with greedy abandon, as my own cock wobbles and burns hotly between my crouching legs. I'm aware of his stomach undulating above me, the sound of his breath rasping, his hand laid lightly on the nape of my neck. I've got nothing left to lose so before he has the chance of exerting pressure I gorge myself on him, sucking as much of his cock into me as I can possibly take. It's a weirdly erotic situation, my closeness to his hard arousal, the animal sex scent, body heat and wiry public hair. The strange contours of the pulsing cock filling my mouth with its direct eagerness. My own cock bobbing up and down with the motion as I feel my own excitement building uncontrollably, until agonisingly I cum first, spurting up over my gut. It drives me to suck harder until he moans softly. This time I'm more prepared. I detect his sperm-duct swell as I close my eyes, his shaft seems to fatten up against my lips. I hold it as deep as I can, fingers clenched and toes curling with anticipation, the beat of my heart counting out the seconds, and he shoots into my mouth. Even though I'm prepared for it the force of its eruption comes in throbbing waves of shock. I swallow immediately this time, to get it over with, but keep sucking long after its finished its final spurt, until he irritably shoves my head away. For a moment I crouch there, all I can see is the glistening tower of his erection aimed at my head, strands of liquid silver still connecting me to it. A teardrop bead of his goo dangling from my nose. He grunts 'shit', and gets up. I see it bob and quiver as though it's hypnotising me. He swings his leg over and down, stands, and I watch the curve of his naked bottom as it recedes into the dark. And he's gone. What did he mean 'shit'? Was I no good? Didn't I do it right? Or was it an exclamation of satisfaction? Was he conceding 'good', so breathily? Did I do as good as I hoped against hope I had? Either way, it's over. I lie still. I'm not used to praise. I've never been good at anything. I feel almost flattered by his apparent approval. There'd been no coercion, it hadn't really been - own up, that bad. And my own aroused response, and spontaneous orgasm, while still disturbing, was undeniably pleasurable. What happens the following day helps alter and alleviate my fear. Ian again tries to strike up a conversation. "Dean isn't bad, y'know" he whispers to me, in a conspiratorial way. Does he know? Surely not. "He'll look after you, you know, if you look after him." I pull away. "I don't know what you mean, leave me alone." Later, as I'm descending the stairs, my way is blocked by three aggressive retards in an arrogant mood. One braces his boot across the stair, hard up against the barrier, blocking my way. I'm forced to stop, scared. I feel colour suffusing my face. Why is everybody always picking on me? They begin to shove and jeer, the usual bratty 'D-U-M-B' stuff... Until one of the shifty-looking creeps says "Hey, don't you see who he is? He belongs to Dean. We'd better leave him alone." And they back off abruptly, let me pass, leaving me alone. I'm still confused, relieved sure, but confused too. What did he mean when he said I 'belonged'? I've never belonged to anyone, or anything. Ever. I've always been the loner, forced to look out for myself. Through necessity. 'Belonging' is not something I've subscribed to. But ideas begin forming. As before, throughout the day there's been no mention of the sexual activity that had taken place, but I realise with a shock that they all know. There seems to be an understanding that Dean has 'claimed' me, that I'm his property and subject to his protection. I was not bullied, I was even treated with a surly deference that I've never known before. I'd always been a target for manipulation, now at last I was being treated with respect. That night he doesn't even speak. I hear him approach, slip out of my pyjamas, and crouch bashfully ready in submissive expectation. He just lies beside me on the bed while I obediently dip my head into his groin. Mouthing it immediately. I'm still the victim, fairly obviously, none of this is my choice. But this time I know what's expected of me, I understand the limits, I know what I have to do, and do it without a whimper, worming my way down and around as he splays his legs accommodatingly to give me greater access. There's the stiff hot-throb of his cock in my mouth and an iron-hard bar protruding between my own legs as my straining lips delve down towards his pubic hair. His hips rising to meet me in response. I don't gag as it forces its way further in, something that makes me feel oddly smug. Taking the initiative I reach down to fondle his balls lewdly, taking their weight in the palm of my hand and softly rubbing the fleshy ovoids upwards, sucking all the while. I lose track of how long it goes on, it seems to extend indefinitely - how long? an hour? surely not. But subjectively it seems that way. It seems like forever, but probably isn't. And then, when he finally spews I drink it down in a gushy spit-saliva cocktail, coming myself spontaneously as I do so. I reach down desperately to seize my cock in an attempt to staunch it, squeezing it hard for as long as I can bear it, then gasping out loud as it explodes in long gooey streaks up across my stomach. If this is the worst this hellish place can do to me, I can deal with it, I can do it and survive. Next morning, as I wake, I try to meet his eyes, and smile. In the same way that apes assume submissive postures to acknowledge the dominant male. But he just blanks me again. When I get out of bed I do it in such a way that I'm certain he'll glimpse my bare bottom, and, shyly, exposing my cock to him as I turn. But he doesn't react, he just ignores me. Whatever we have, it isn't a relationship. An arrangement, an understanding perhaps. But no more than that. I'm disappointed. What do I expect? Friendship...? Recognition? What we do under the covers in darkness after lights-out is obviously intended to be a scuzzy secret beyond words that can never be acknowledged in daylight hours. Even though everyone already seems to know anyway. I shrug. If that's the way he wants it. But deep down he can't deny a connection. I'm intimately familiar with the contours of what he has in his pants. I can taste it still. That's a bond, even if unacknowledged, even if it's one that can never utter its name. And everyone here knows that for a fact. Later, there's another card from my mother. She sends her best wishes and hopes I'm managing alright. Yeah, Mum, fine and dandy. She's moving in with her new boyfriend, her last chance at finding happiness, and she says please don't think badly of me. Later still there's a remedial class given by some writer-in-residence. I don't recognise his name, and can't remember what his name is immediately afterwards. But I've nothing better to do than 'take advantage of the Learning Resources.' Ian is there and keeps making stupid faces and gestures that crack me up. The writer looks at me as though he can't understand what's so funny, then gets on with telling us whatever it is he's telling us, and setting us projects. If we want to participate, he says, it would be positive. Prat. Ian has a talent for drawing, rapidly sketching ribald cartoons with a few fluid strokes of a black ballpoint, then under-handing the results around the class. His breathtaking dirty caricatures spoof instantly recognisable figures, provoking gut-guffaws. Figures with grotesquely exaggerated sex-organs and expressions of startled shock as they're menaced by giant phalluses. And as if what he's illustrated isn't obvious enough, he adds arrowed names, captions, speech-balloons. 'Attack Of The Dicky-Birds' - a social worker surrounded by flying penises. 'Oh dear, I'm All Mouth And No-Trousers' - a counsellor confronted by one discorporate cock while another threatens his bare bottom, trousers around his ankles. During a recess lull I deliberately seek Ian out. Shy, but determined, I cough and shuffle awkwardly. Opening up, "I like your pictures, they're brilliant." "Thanks. Glad you approve." Then, a little bolder, "What you said the other day. Does Dean... do things to you?" He smiles, as though glad my reserve and evasion have melted a little. "No. Not now" he admits. "I'd do it like a shot if he wanted me to. But he's got you now, and I go with Solomon instead, and do what he wants me to do." "Do you... dislike it?" "With Dean? At first I guess. But you learn quick. Sol likes it different. But it's not so bad, and it's better than the alternative. Without a protector it can be very bad in here, without a protector you're shark-bait. So you find a protector. Then the bad guys have to start showing you respect. Even if it's by proxy. You were fortunate, a protector found you first." "Fortunate? You call it fortunate?" "Sure. You think the screws care? You think they'll intervene? They don't care what goes on so long as discipline isn't disturbed. They won't help us. It's up to us to survive. They all know what goes on. It's impossible for them not to. Some of them actually enjoy it. But no matter what you are, or claim to be outside, no matter what your orientation or sexual preference, in here it's a different world. An enclosed world. We all have physical needs that must find an outlet. It's only natural. Only human. And there's so many good ways to be bad, so many bad ways to be good." I'm scared to meet his eyes. Don't know quite how to ask. "What do you do with Sol?" "He puts it up my bum." The thought so terrifies me I'm frightened to ask any more. But by then the class is resuming, and things are clarifying in my head. Everyone is hurting here in the Big House. There are undercurrents of violence and intimidation. But there's a microclimate of pent-up sexual frustrations too. Simmering hormones coming to the boil in a pressure-cooker of massive lusts screwed down hard, one that offers no escape, except through each other. It seems that - although not universal, some try to stand out against it, some aren't seduced or tempted by it, some fight against any form of involvement, some go brain-capering on (un)controlled substances instead, but in the hothouse enclosed environment of frustrated sexuality, 'pair bonding' is far from uncommon, and is tacitly recognised as being advantageous to both parties. I see young guys in the breakfast room, sitting quietly in the corner, or talking in whispers to each other, and try to imagine what they've been subjected to at lights-out the previous evening. How those faces look scrunched-up in the throes of orgasm as they're being used. I can't help but wonder. And imagine. And I've got a vivid imagination. There's rumour and gossip. There's always rumour and gossip, and secrets that remain unspoken. If you keep your eyes open and your ears sharp, you pick up on suspicions, but can never know for certain who was bonded, who was keeping furtive trysts, and who was sexually involved with whom. Who was gobbling, and who was being gobbled. Who was 'the bitch' and who the bum-boy. But oddly, the awareness that others are being mouth-fucked, being subjected to the same treatment, some even more so, and that Dean's cock had regularly been forced down someone else's throat before mine, was a thought both reassuring, and even erotic. Mixed in with a kind of possessive jealously. Perhaps there's a greater degree of mutuality at work than we dare suspect? That to be used provides just as much of an erotic outlet as to use? That we unconsciously seek out those who are equally complicit in what we do by a kind of sexual telepathy? We are soft targets because all we need is the excuse for it to happen, even when we daren't admit it to ourselves? Perhaps Dean had sensed my answering need? That he somehow correctly sensed my true nature from that first night, even before I did? Is that what he'd meant when he said 'c'mon, suck it, don't pretend you don't know how to'? Was it so obvious, even then? Was it written on my face? He saw the need, I saw the supplier. After all, there has to be something there, surely, for me to even accept what was happening? Other boys are more - or perhaps less fortunate. If Ian is forced to accept anal in turn for his protection - something that horrifies me, it made me realise I was lucky that Dean only seems to want a gob-job. While other youths - unprotected, represent rough temptation, not only open to random bullying and intimidation, but also to casual sex-assault by whoever takes it into their heads. I saw it happen in the showers. Coming in unexpectedly there's a group of them, three glistening-wet naked bodies crammed up together. One boy is holding another down, bracing him, forcing his legs apart, while a third is gleefully soaping himself, using the cheap soap as a lubricant in preparation for penetration... I don't stay long enough to see it all. I get out quick. Although I can't help but notice that the victim is merely putting up a token struggle, as though - like me, he's decided resistance is futile, concluding with a kind of bleak acceptance that it's going to happen anyway, and fighting back will only make it more unpleasant for him. I also can't help but notice that all three of them - victim as well as assailants, are powerfully erect. I hear the grunting moan as I hurriedly leave, imagine the penetration slamming home. There's a Care Worker supposedly invigilating - Mr Reed, but he's deliberately looking in the opposite direction, he watches me pointedly as I emerge, but he's not noticing what's going on behind me. As though he doesn't want to get involved. Chooses not to interfere. Or maybe he's even part of it...? Perhaps he even gets off on it...? To survive alone you have to be tough, and you have to be prepared to fight your way through. I'm not tough. I don't know how to fight. I'm a target. I need a friend to protect me. Without one I'd not know a second of peace. I'd be terrified. I'd be lost and scared. I must have a protector, and because nothing comes free in this life, a lesson I've learned by bitter experience, I must pay the price for that protection. If I submit to Dean's physical needs... it will bring me peace of mind. It's my magic ticket. My free pass. All this makes me stiffen my resolve to ensure he remains my 'protector'. I was determined that, this very night, it was in my best interest to please him so much that he'll never spurn me. The evening seems endless until at last 'lights out' arrives and I'm already stupidly erect in scary anticipation of what I must do. Sick in the pit of my gut. Then - he doesn't come. I lie waiting, tensed ready for him. Nothing happens, and a mix of emotion rips at me, relief at being spared the subjugation, but unease too. To my left I imagine I hear Ian and Sol, a grunt and an obscene exhalation of breath. They're already doing it - so why isn't Dean coming for me? Perhaps he preferred the way Ian had done it? Maybe I'm not good enough? What if he no longer wants me, which leaves me without protection? I'm more scared of that prospect. I'd already shucked off my pyjamas in anticipation of his visit. So now I take the initiative, slip out of bed, nude, steeling myself to cross to where he's lying. Towards his bed beneath the window, which is outlined by faint moonlight. My cock swaying, tight testicles dangling like two heavy stones. The air seems tense with sexual charge and the linoleum is chill on my bare toes, the cold canvas sensual beneath my feet. I cat-pace past the end of Hooch's bed, towards Dean's in the half-light. Half-way I freeze as I hear muffled laughter from somewhere in the dark. My will almost dissolving, I'm being observed, and the sense of being watched makes me itch all over, like ants crawling beneath my skin, but then it comes to me that the more overt my dependence on Dean the more securely under his protection I become. I turn in the direction of the laughter and stand proud, let them see me like this - going to his bed, let them look, then I continue across the floor. I can hear Sol and Ian clearly now. The thought of anal penetration scares me. I'm lucky Dean only wants oral. I'm lucky I tell myself. Lucky to be doing this. I stand still in chilly nervousness beside his bed. "Do you want me to do it tonight?" I whisper hoarsely so no-one else will hear, a quaver in my voice, my palms sweaty, blushing furiously, heart pounding. No reply. Only the rhythmic rasp of his breathing. I can still return to my own bed. I can still back out. But tomorrow I'll not know if my status remains. He might find another boy. I lean forward, lick my lips nervously. "Can I suck it for you? Your cock, please can I suck it?" a little louder, a little more urgently. At last he turns to look at me, eyes travelling up and down my embarrassed unmissably blatantly aroused nakedness. He grunts in a tone of bored exasperation. "If you must, you know what to do, so do it," and he lies back. He's making me do all the work. I can turn and go, save myself the humiliation, but lose Dean. I thought of the youth in the showers - imagining me as the victim of that assault, thought of Reed the Care Worker, hadn't he eyed me up and down a little longer than was strictly necessary? I'm trapped here in the madhouse of 'Do-The-Boys Hall'. I'm the New Meat, and they'd all want a slice of me - or am I just getting paranoid? Then I thought of Dean's cock lodged in my throat, what's so bad about that? It's been there already, this is nothing I've not done before - do it, and I'm safe from all that madness. Just do it. He's granted assent, he's given me permission, hasn't he? So get it over with. Suck the damn thing. Suck it! I purposefully draw the covers aside. He's lying on his back. I pull the sheet further down, feeling like a wanton as I fold the material away, reaching out to fumble clumsily at his pyjama chord, my own genitals bobbing and dancing. I can see it now, lying flaccid over his hairy abdomen, as frighteningly ugly when it's soft as it is when erect. It's not fair, I'm supposed to be the reluctant victim, yet he's still limp, while I'm erect. Why isn't he aroused at the prospect of what I'm about to do to him? Doesn't what I do turn him on? Am I doing it wrong? I sit down lightly on the edge of the bed, glance up towards his face seeking some kind of approval, but he's taking no notice, he's looking away, so I force myself to lean low over his thighs, gathering his loose cock into my fist, aiming it up towards me, and - greatly daring, set about the task, dip in to suck on its soft pliable head. Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 01: Dean There, I'm doing it, it's not too bad, a little sour, that passes, so I gulp more of it, then - because he's not erect, I manage to get all of it into my mouth clear down to the hairy base with my nose nuzzling flesh, and feel it stiffen magically, reacting satisfyingly to my attentions, swelling and expanding as I suck until it begins forcing me back, forcing me to relinquish it. Impaled on the now-fiery and towering member, cheeks caved in with the force of my suction, I can glance up over his stomach and chest. His arms are folded behind the back of his head and, less casual now, he's watching me with an amused smirk as I debase myself. Good, I'm forcing him to take notice of me. I've tongued and teased it to full arousal and it's much too late to stop. This is the fourth time it's been deep in my mouth. It no longer seems strange, no longer quite so terrible. I'm adjusting to it. I know what I'm doing, and what is about to happen. I can deal with it. Come on - own up, how long did it take? Four nights. Four nights to go from self-pitying victim to brazen initiator. Tonight, I'm not being forced to do this - no, in the face of his indifference, I'm the instigator. It took just four nights to break down the resistance, to overcome revulsion, to become reconciled to the inevitable - does that seem reasonable? Reasonable - yes, but only in the sense that I'm now colluding in it all. Somehow, I'm less victim that I imagine myself to be. How else to explain the iron hard-on in my groin? How else do you explain the spontaneous ejaculation I'm struggling to hold back? Not now, not yet, shame on you! Yet I await the anticipated semen-gush to fountain into my mouth with meek moist acceptance. His body is warm. As I suck I can hear his heart beating. Feel his stomach rise and fall as he breathes, sense the movement of blood and muscle beneath his skin. I move around to gain better access to it, lifting myself until I'm nearly crouched over him, deliberately trailing my sensitive knob-end across the cool coverlets of the bed, drooling strands of glittering clear fluid in excited anticipation, my balls dangling and swaying up against my legs, sensually, moaning and slobbering over my meaty mouthful. I release it long enough to tongue into the 'v'-shaped cleft where the underside of the head meets the shaft, then lick up and down its full length, sinking low to suck each swollen testicle, rolling those tender ovoids into my mouth while I squeeze and wank his now-wet cock, raw and slimy with my saliva, I hear the catch in his breath and - not daring to leave it unsucked a moment longer than necessary, luxuriously sink my lips down over his dick-head again, biting and tonguing my way down, feeling the heat from the blood pumping through it up against my softly caressing lips, my own cock dipping, weaving and juddering. Then his back arches and he groans, I feel the tightening of his retracting testicles as he begins spouting, pulsing and spurting deep into me for long moments. Spurting. Spurting again. Then again. I can take no more and I'm coming too in great creaming jets leaping up splashing across stomach and legs like wild mercury. I've never known such a volcanically powerful orgasm wracking me from end to end, a totally stunning vortex of spasming energy that floods and kicks into my mouth while I'm twitching and spitting and gushing from my own thighs in wave after wave of jism. I'm gagging and moaning, choking and whimpering. It's swallow or drown. There are five-thousand taste-buds on the human tongue, his spunk doesn't miss a single one of mine. I continue to hold it between my smudged lips, feeling its tremors lessen. Until at long last I allow myself to release it. Only to suck it instantly back in again. Release it, kiss its messy tip, lick it, then suck it back in again. Hold it deep for a long moment. Then release it. There's another bead of goo oozing from its eye. Greedily I hood the glans with my lips, use my tongue to lavish it. Breathing heavy, until it slips free. He lies still, barely stirring, while I stay crouched an inch above him, teeth gummed together with the spunk that's dribbling and cooling down my chin, my breath visibly rippling wet strands of his pubic hair. Wracked by the aftermath of overwhelming emotional response, at that moment I've been reduced to a mindless thing, just gazing at his spent cock in awe for an eternal moment totally mesmerised. I've done it. I've sucked this brute dry. I've won. And I'd contentedly do it all over again. I know now that whatever he chooses to do to me, I can take it, and still want more. Already I'm about to slurp it back into my mouth... then the spell breaks in a mutual relaxation. "Fuck off now you dirty perv" he says, more kindly. "Thank you" I blurt stupidly and stand up, shakily nervous. "Thank you, that was amazing" I rasp hoarsely, realising stupidly I'm no longer lying. If he'd looked, which I don't think he did, he must see the glistening gloops of fresh spunk streaking my body. Outlined by faint moonlight through the window. What the hell. I pull the sheet back into place, and only then stagger back to my own bed. Someone sniggers in the darkness, but oddly I feel empowered by what I've done. And yes, the more who know, the greater my protection. I've earned it, and fall immediately into fulfilling sleep. Orgasm assures deep sleep better than any tablet. The long night that once held only crawling terrors, no longer threatens me. I'm safe. No card from my mother. I sit in a corner of the day-room, out of the way, and begin writing a long letter to her, explaining what's been going on here - an edited version of course, how I hope she's well and happy, and how I'm looking forward to getting out. Then I realise I don't have her new address. I check the two cards she's sent me, she says she's moved in with this sleazy new boyfriend, but there's no mention where that is. I look at the letter I've written, and it suddenly seems idiotic. I tear it up. I've still got blank sheets of paper. That writer-in-residence said about 'writing what you know', so I start writing this, for no particular reason. After some time I notice Ian hanging around, and he smiles at me, so I smile back. "What are you writing?" "Nothing, something, you know, just stuff." He starts reading. My first urge is to cover it up, but I fight the impulse. Let him read it. Let him know. "This is fucking good" he breathes. I wait another moment, then steel myself to ask "You know, when you do it, when Sol does it to you, when he puts it up you, do you get, y'know...?" "A cock-stand?" laughs Ian, "Why. Do you when you suck-off Dean?" "No, not really." Ian smiles teasingly. "I bet you do, it's impossible not to. I did when I sucked him off, you can't control it, it happens naturally and it feels good. And now - when Sol does it to me I'm so hard I go crazy with it." "Well, yes, I get a hard-on too, I guess. But you don't actually... you know?'" "Cum? Shoot off? That's the best part. That's the pay-off, the reward. That's when it's hard to concentrate on what you're doing, when you're spurting all over the place. Don't you think so?" I smile in shy complicity. "I thought maybe it was just me. It feels so strange." "Strange - hell no. It's just sex. It's a normal reaction. I mean, I'm stiff now just talking about this stuff. Want to see?" He turns towards me secretively and begins to carefully unfasten his fly. I look around wildly. As if at some prearranged signal the room has emptied, there's now just me and him, and he's about to unzip and expose himself to me. I panic. I'd actually been warming to him, enjoying the conversation. His easy and relaxed manner set me at ease. It was the first intimations of friendship I've experienced here. But this unexpected turn of events startled me, because no. I'm not like that. I do what I do because I have to. To survive. Not for any other reason. Not because I'm... like that, not because I'm pervy. In a confused blur I tear myself away, push past him, and almost run from the room. Are they all randy predators in here? Am I utterly trapped in a dissolute realm of sexual madness? But that night I can't even wait for Dean. I find myself fidgeting with restless impatience, already erect with thoughts of what I'm about to do, my fingers irresistibly drawn to my swollen cock, pulling tweaking and squeezing it, psyching myself up, until the moment the lights go down. I count to ten 'one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five-and-six-and-seven-and-eight-and-nine... and ten', now I'm out of my bed, naked, scuttling across the brief space to his bedside, wordlessly worming head and shoulders in and under the covers without waiting for an invitation, seeking his cock shamelessly. No words. No build-up. No preamble. He's lying on his back. I've found it. It's in my hand. Soft, but I can change that, drawing it up. I breathe hard into his groin and nose down to gulp as much of it into my throat as I possibly can, sucking so hard he grunts and doubles up, cradling my head in shocked and amused surprise, his stomach flexing with reaction. As his breathing returns to normal and he relaxes back, it swells to fill my mouth to capacity, and I suck more contentedly at him, wriggling my bottom so my own cock quivers and my balls jiggle with shared excitation. His cock now slippery with saliva so I can hear audible slurps escape as I work, surely others can hear it too? But I'm already lost in concentration. It's warm and getting warmer down there, so stifling I'm getting lightheaded, hanging onto his balls for stability, my other hand down between my own legs, coaxing and stimulating, the feelings racing through my body like some kind of new drug all the way from my head to the tip of my cock, his legs moving and his back arching in response to what I'm doing to him. I'm now tensed to swallow his spermy mouthful. Working purposefully towards that end. Imagining how comical my startled expression must have appeared that first time as it deluged my mouth and slithered down my reluctant throat. Now it's familiar enough for me to tell he's already close yet again, and the prospect doesn't bother me at all, let it come, I'm ready, I can take it... he gives one long low sigh as he empties into my mouth. I close my eyes and take it, until the pulses subside. With the blobby trickles of spunk coursing down my leg from my own ejaculation, the after-tingle pleasantly fading. Later, I'm lying back in my own bed with the taste of him in my mouth, I feel smug and pleased with myself. I've done it. I'm already thinking of the next time I'll do it. Maybe I'll take it slower next time. Make it last longer. Use my tongue more. I lie awake with my mind swirling around a dozen impossible things, unable to sleep, my body still hyper from the continuing dull ache in my groin. Crazy thoughts and ideas racing through my head. I can't be the only one here feeling this way. There must be others. Many others. Then follow insinuating thoughts of all the sperm that must be ejaculated within the confines of this building each lights-out. All the sweaty hands furtively jacking themselves off, or jacking each other off, in the warm secret darkness beneath the covers. All the deep moist blow-jobs, all the grunting ass-fucking, some of them sixty-nining, in all the dorms. I'm not alone, I'm part of a huge fetid wave of simultaneous orgasms of multiple hungry cocks, all reddened stiff with urgency, all bursting their pent-up sexual energies at once. It's an intoxicating thought, a huge tide of jism, of which mine - and Dean's, is but a part. If scientists could harness those hormonal energy-levels they could power a rocket-ship to the stars. Even those who try so desperately to stand out against the temptations of the groin, who strive to stay pure, are betrayed by their own body's lustier urges, as they succumb to the guilt-ridden wet-dreams in the night that they're unable to control. So why try? Why fight it? It's going to happen anyway. Then I begin thinking, the very stones that make up the walls of this place must be irradiated by generations of rampant testosterone from all those frantic bodies, from all that furious erotic activity, the warped wooden boards of the floor must be riddled with male hormones and impregnated by congealing body fluids. Sweat, saliva, careless arcs of sperm. For a moment I have this terrible vision of all those DNA-spores dribbling in long glutinous strands down through the gaps in flaking mortar and ill-fitting joists to drip-drip-drip through cobwebbed foundation buttresses and musty dry-rot earthworks, down past where rats scamper and wood-lice scuttle, down way beneath us into the deepest bowels of the hall, where it eventually accumulates in a spreading pool of proto-life-stuff, a seething primeval soup rich with nutrients where coiling spermatozoa interact and procreate in a copulatory double-helix dance of self-fertilisation, cells fusing and multiplying mutationally, generating hideous malformed half-embryo things that squirm and slither in their viscous womb-darkness, weeping and moaning from their half-mouths set into their half-faces. Things never born, incomplete, cursed to a kind of monstrous half-life, conceived from all that concentrated sexual-energy spurted thoughtlessly into limbo. The nightmare image spooks me, so that for weeks after I imagine strange scratching sounds coming from far beneath the floorboards in the deep stillness of night, and I hold my breath with a chill of unreasoned dread... (Part Two - 'Ian', will follow shortly)