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Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 02: Ian

By: tristantrotsky



'MORE FROM THE LEGEND OF THE HOUSE OF SHAME'

To counter the fear I find myself thinking regretfully of Ian. Wondering, what if I've offended him? Would it really have hurt so much to have indulged him, just a little? And there's the teasing element of sneaking curiosity as I lie there, still tensed, toying with myself. Bluntly I find myself wondering how big his cock is? What would it have looked like? Would he have wanted to see mine... would he want to touch it... like I'm touching myself now? My toes curl and my skin goose-pimples at the very thought of his cool fingers on me. He was offering me friendship. Not coercion or force. Just the offer of companionship. And I'd rejected him. I'd acted like a dumb scared kid. I can't afford to lose friends here. And he seems OK. We're both victims of this system, after all. Perhaps we have that in common, at least? 

I greet the next day at the centre with a self-assurance I've seldom known before. After breakfast I determinedly go to seek Ian out, to make amends. It doesn't take me long. He's sitting by himself on a ledge in the corridor. He's essentially alone, just as I am. He needs a friend, just as I do. He smiles as I nervously approach, and sit beside him.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I shouldn't have reacted as I did. I was scared and confused, you understand? You took me by surprise. But I need a friend in this madhouse. I'll be less hasty next time."

He smiles broadly, unfolds his latest cartoon to show me, as though we're already complicit. In the sketch a Probation Officer is being mounted by a giant walking penis - captioned 'The Penisaurus'. We snigger, then he stands up and beckons, leading me off down the corridor. We reach a fire-door, and he leads me through, then down a long flight of concrete steps into some kind of basement. There's a droning of air-conditioning pipes, or something. Through another door, for which he has the key. Beyond, it was humid and warm. The lights he punches up are low-wattage dim, the walls whitewashed breeze-blocks. He bolts the door behind us.

"This is the laundry room" he confides. "A secret place. I come here when I want to be alone or hide out somewhere. This is a secret I only share with special people. I feel we're going to become special friends. And because you're my friend, you can come here too."

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I want to make it up to you, any way I can" I mumble. 

There are mounds of clothes everywhere, from where they come down shoots from the upper levels. The mounds make for comfortable reclining. We talk, increasingly freely. Grudgingly, cautiously at first, I tell him about the situation with Dean. About the first time he came into my bed. In a way, it was a relief to blurt it all out.

"You resisted him at first?" he says, wonderingly. "That was stupid. People like us - the Lost Boys, we're smaller and weaker. Natural prey. Sure, you always have a choice, to fight back. To walk the straight and narrow if you must, but why make it worse for yourself? When you first arrive here, what are your options, what do you do - stay celibate? Some try to. Deprived of convenient sexual partners, others just wank miserably by themselves. But think about it, why should they toss themselves off when there's someone here who can - with a bit of inducement, do it for them? It's only logical. They take what's available. And we are all that's available. So we accept the situation, and provide what they need. That's the way of things. You might try to walk that tightrope alone, and I kind-of respect that. But sooner or later you're going to realise, the logical way to survive here is to get yourself involved with someone. You're going to reach that decision eventually. So why not just accept it? Save yourself the pain and hurt. And everyone needs sex. It's a perfectly natural urge. A human need."

At first I'm a little awe-struck by how open and matter-of-fact he is, speaking about subjects more usually clouded in shame and evasion. "But isn't it degrading, humiliating? Isn't there a stigma to being called... y'know, a cock-sucker?"

"I guess 'cock-sucker' is usually used as a term of abuse. But I've a sneaking suspicion that's more a defensive macho thing they use to conceal their own deep secret desires either to blow or be blown themselves. But whatever, like other offensive non-pc terms - like Queer or Faggot, I think it's well-overdue to be reclaimed, and worn as a mark of pride, by those unashamed to be known as 'out' cock-suckers."

The mock seriousness of his speech has both of us sniggering. I've never heard anyone speak that way, or heard these things articulated with such clarity (although I would later learn that many of his phrases were mimicked from Bryan). 

"Yes, but are they all, y'know - like that, homo, gay?" 

"Obviously not. It'd be stupid to expect that. But hey, everyone likes sex. The only ones who don't are those planted in the bone-yard cemetery. You know how guys are, so full of raging testosterone they can't keep their hands off their cocks, or each other's. All guys are animals when it comes to sex. If you're not regularly milked it spills out anyway, while you sleep. This way, for them, they get their cock sucked every night by a hot young eager bitch. Excuse me, but I fail to see the downside of that. If it feels good, do it. When the need is on them they'll roger anything on two legs, and most things on four. Hell, it's just guys doing what guys have always done, which is to fuck whatever orifice is available. They'd fuck your nostrils if it was possible. I guess that at the dawn of time there were dinosaurs with sore arses after encounters with primitive humanoids. And in the future, when we first-contact with an alien species, they'll first fuck them, then eat them, hopefully in that order. It's the way we're hard-wired. Sex is voracious. Give it an inch, it'll take six - or eight if you're lucky! I've known some who've even used fruit! There was Groovy Glen who punched a hole clear through an orange and then slid it up and down his...you know, his wang, so it was dripping with juice."

"What did he do with the orange once he'd finished? Did he eat it?"

"Hell, fruit is too pricey to waste. Mind you, some guys here could make do with a tangerine, or... what's smaller than that?"

"A Satsuma. Nectarine. A grape...?" 

We both crack up in uncontrollably sniggery laughter.

Then he resumes. "This is an enclosed community. Things are different here. The rules are not the same as they are outside. What's normal here is not normal out there. What's acceptable here is not acceptable out there. And vice versa. Yes, vice, especially vice. We all have sexual needs. Sex is contagious. And a regular mouthful of spunk is no big deal. It makes you horny. It's arousing to do it, we get sexed-up too, a hard-on, a spunk-off. The close proximity to someone's orgasm ignites your own burn for orgasm. And when their cum happens in your mouth, that means your brain is closer to it than they are. Nothing weird about that. It's basic biology. It's an itch you have to scratch. If doing it is unnatural, how come it fits so snugly? If it's against nature, how come it works so beautifully? If it's bad, how come it feels so good? If it's a sin against nature, it's a very small sin. It hurts no-one and the only object is giving pleasure."

It's warm in here. I'm getting increasing turned on.

He pauses, then continues. "I'm a lusty boy. I need sex too. If things were otherwise, if the situation was reversed and I had that kind of respect, if I was in the dominant position, I'd certainly have some little sod sucking me off whether he wanted to or not, maybe two young guys taking turns to do me. And I'd make damn sure they did it good, and frequently. Sex is sex. And it's a powerful motivator. But it's only sex. It doesn't mean anything else. There are no other implications. It's a form of negotiable currency, it's barter, it establishes status and prestige. But for it to become a full-on Gay thing there has to be more than just orgasm, there has to be all that emotional stuff too."

Although Ian would have been incapable of expressing it that way, some time later Bryan would phrase the same idea differently, 'there's a billion years of genetic programming going into producing your pleasurable hard-on. We are the victims of our DNA. We're evolutionarily conditioned with the overwhelming urge to exchange bodily fluids. That's what it's all about. You can't deny it. Just enjoy it. A stiff cock has no conscience - it merely demands attention.' For Ian it was merely 'I have no choice, so I make the best of it.' His brazen candour disarmed me. There's something transgressive about saying the unsayable. It was so easy to get drawn into an exchange of intimacies. And tell him things I'd never have dreamed I'd be able to confide to anyone, and scarce dared admit even to myself.

"I've got something to confess, you were right. What you said yesterday, even talking like this has got me sexed-up too, just like you said." I stammered a little with the effort to stay calm, but I meet his eyes, caught up in a blood-rush from some uncharted part of my body. "I feel awkward saying this, I don't quite know how to say it, but there's something I'd like to get out and into the open, if you know what I mean? What you said yesterday about showing me, we could show each other, if you still want to." The words tumbling out before I lose my nerve. 

"Only if you really want to. I won't touch you if you don't want me to, but then again - I just might!"

"I was scared yesterday, but if it's alright, yes, we can do stuff, you know - together? I want to now, I really do." 

Pinch me, I must be dreaming, even doing this, fumbling nervously. Suddenly, we can't wait to be naked together, pulling each other's clothes off in delighted eagerness, giggling with unrestrained joy. I bend down to help tug his underpants off, his stiff olive-pale cock slapping abruptly up as he raises his leg to step out of them, and I try to trap it with my hand as he laughs and thrusts his hips forward for me. He looks so good, I can scarcely believe we're doing this. He's a throat-lumping sight, his hairlessly smooth chest targeted by the neat blemishes of his nipples, down to his stomach and the indentation of his navel, the plume of hair descending to his cock, smaller than Dean's, uncircumcised, but attractively tall and slender. 

Soon we're both naked. He's lean, but more wiry than skinny. We close in on each other, cocks meeting like duelling swords, a spark of energy arcing from one to the other, then we hug. So close I can see tiny beads of perspiration forming along his brow, crushing furiously aroused genitals together. As we draw apart, his attentions become more specific. His touch is warm, yet I shiver. His cool fingers, made of ice and fire, trail softly from the base of my penis to the tip, his touch as soft as breath, yet unleashing sensory explosions of startling intensity. Sending shockwaves down the length of my shaft, to explode in my balls then ricochet back up my bum-hole. Emboldened, he encircles my cock gently and squeezes, his fingers so soft, so right, it feels so good to be fondled, the way his fingertips send tingles all the way through me. 

I'm unused to my erection being the focus of attention. My state of arousal is more often the incidental result of my pleasuring someone else. So I'm still a little defensive, still warily shy of opening up as too enthusiastic, yet surrendering my cock for him to play with, permission not necessary. I can see the fine downy hair on his arm as it moves up, and down. And, with the last vestiges of that reserve hanging by a thread, I feel the need to respond, so I take his penis into my hand and begin to wank him slowly, easing his tight foreskin up and down, watching as my actions cause its glistening head to wink in and out of its hood. His breathing changes, quickens. 

I've always been jealously fascinated by foreskins, ever since I discovered there were guys that had them. Now we're standing here, doing it to each other, giggling and smiling infectiously. This time it's different, I don't feel pressured - no, our shared nudity just seems to be the natural thing to do. With Ian it is different. With him our all-too-willing flesh is something special because we want it consensually. We mutually caress each other into greater arousal.

"Lie back" he whispers. "Let me get close up and personal with this."

Releasing him reluctantly I do so, self-consciously wary of what to expect, but as I lie full-length on mounds of laundry he horizontals over me seeking out my ultrasensitive cock again, this time with fingers and tongue, teasing, licking and nuzzling his moistly pursed lips up and down the shaft, his tongue a flame on me, igniting little sensory triggers as it goes. The position means we are virtually head to groin, the clean fresh scent of his skin around me, bringing his not-so-privates swimming into sharp focus, offering it, his silky-smooth cock-head nudging its way affectionately into my face. What else can a poor boy do when confronted with so scrumptious a mouthful? What other choice is there? It would be impolite not to. We're lying together in the sixty-nine position - man's most delightful invention, my confidence growing as I reach forward to envelop him, although it needs no invitation. 

Instinct takes over, it seems to find its own way into my mouth of its own accord without encouragement, like it knows its way and makes itself at home there, fitting snugly as though it belongs. He tastes fresh, newly washed, unlike Dean's first acid-sour bouquet, and almost before I realise it I'm giving in to temptation and sucking him enthusiastically while simultaneously feeling his mouth finally closing over me with unbelievable ecstasies of erotic intimacy. Words are inadequate tools to convey the dizzying physicality of it, the sweetness sweeping through all my senses, even seeing it on a porn-site can't convey the intensity of doing it. I'm sucking his cock not because I have to, but because I want to. 

I'd never really given much thought to the male physique, but his body is a delight to me, so pale he's near-transparent. The smooth plain and undulations of his stomach as it goes taut, then softens, the curled indentation of his navel, the ripple of his chest with the prominent buds of his nipples targeting the precise areolas. I fondle it all affectionately, slowly, s-o-o-o-o-o slowly, my fingers moving up around the full round curves of his arse, down the valley between. Around his tight scrotum. Nuzzle into it, mmmmmmm. We roll over and over, affixed to each other by the ebb and flow between us, first with him on top so that I'm looking up between the smooth mounds of his bottom, his balls squashed across the bridge of my nose, one testicle nestling to either side. Then with me on top, both devouring each other. I guess, despite everything that's happened to me, I've never been sucked-off properly before, and for the first time realise just how amazing it can be. I want this to go on forever, but already I feel the tell-tale tingly tightening in my scrotum, the moist inferno of his mouth quickening the pulses, the sensations building at the base of my spine, the urgent need to warn him what is imminently about to happen. 

Unable to speak, my strangulated gurgles just seem to urge him on. Surely he must realise anyway, in the same way I detect the warning pulse when Dean is about to cum. I'm no longer in control of my cock, he is. So I relax, let nature take its course down there, while I concentrate on holding him, fingers splayed to cup his bum-cheeks, drawing him down into me, mewling with muted pleasure - ooooooooh!!, let it happen, until inevitably it hits me, taking me over the precipice, lights exploding blurring my vision with that sweet wonderful feeling, shocking in spasms through my body as we empty into each others mouths almost simultaneously - Oh Oh Oh Oh, unable to distinguish which sensation is wrenching through me more powerfully, him coming in my mouth, or me coming into his. Stars are bursting behind my eyes. Our bodies crushed tight together as though conjoined, as the pulses reduce into a cooling trembling stillness, shuddering with aftershock. 

Once you've done that to each other, there's no way of going back. Afterwards we lie together, totally relaxed, cooling like nude debauched wantons, giggling and smiling uncontrollably. I hadn't felt like laughing so freely, I hadn't been capable of laughing this way for a long long time. I can't believe what's just happened. I can't believe what we've done, or how sensational its release makes me feel.

"You're a talented cock-sucker" he tells me. "Now I understand why Dean is so pleased with you, with a technique like that you could earn yourself quite a reputation around here."

Is that a compliment? Is that really what a young guy wants to hear? But after what we've just done together, denial would be pointless, so I just smile bashfully. 

"When you sixty-nine, it's like a mutual thing, equal" he tells me, serious now. "You know what I mean? When you crouch down or kneel to suck someone off you're the submissive, they're the dominant, everyone knows that. But lying together to sixty-nine, neither is dominant or submissive, it's mutual, equal. I like that. That's good."

Yes, I think, but there's always one who sucks more and enjoys sucking, and the other who enjoys being sucked more. But after what we've just done together it's difficult to make such a distinction. He begins sketching in quick confident strokes on the back of the cartoon he'd showed me earlier. At last he passes it across to me. A giant penis is piloting an aeroplane. An arrow indicated 'Cock-pit'. I laugh. 

He indicates the room around us. "This can be our cock-pit, whenever you want it be."

I nod enthusiastically. 

Quickly he sketches in a voice balloon. It says 'yummy yummy 

yummy, I've got your sperm in my tummy,' and we both break out laughing again until it seems I'll never stop, or until my head falls off, whichever happens first...

You - the person reading this, you don't know me. You know nothing about me, other than the lying truths I'm writing here. This story is, or is not true. That's for you to decide. I'm an unreliable narrator, at best. But believe this, although I'll probably not lie to you, I'll definitely only tell you half the truth. This bit is true. The first bit. I'd never been with a girl, but I'd masturbated frantically and obsessively. I'd never really had friends, not what you'd call real friends. I'd always been the quiet kid. The misfit. Me, always the outsider looking in. The original 'Billy No-Mates', that's me. It must have been raining on the day I was born. We were always moving, a new flat, a new street, a new school, a new town. A new 'Dad'. Not that I was ever abused by any of them in any way. I was just an irritant, an awkward inconvenience, something that was 'in the way'. 

I'd never been allowed to stay in any one place long enough to get to know people, or make friends. Never staying in one place long enough to develop proper friendships. Although I've tried. I was a lonely kid. But I wasn't innocent. I'd played all the usual circle-jerk games with people I'd hoped would be my friends, and yes, I'd even sucked one or two cocks before all this began, playfully, experimentally. I was curious, I liked finding out about bodies, and I enjoyed the quick-fix artificial closeness it provides. Grasping at proxy-intimacy, when it was there, when it was available. But we never stay around long enough for such encounters to become more than just fragmentary incidents. 

Friendship was not something I knew much about. I was the lonely kid who never quite fitted in. Scared of intimacy that would only be betrayed, wary of showing need I knew would never be returned. But here, in this place of incarceration, I'm at the centre of a web of relationships. I've never felt so accepted before. Even though I have to suck cock to do it. But later that night - with Dean, after what I'd done with Ian, my enthusiastic cock-sucking is so spontaneous it even surprises him. When I first go down on him it is sweaty salt-moist with the urethral opening flaked with dried white sperm. A few deep passionate sucks and its baby-clean. He raises himself up on his elbows to look down and watch me work on his big cock. The last vestiges of my reluctance gone. 


Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 02: Ian



Now I was sucking them both off on a daily basis, for duty with Dean, and for pleasure with Ian. I get to know both their bodies as intimately as I know my own, probably more intimately than they know themselves. Ian smoothly pale, with almost translucent skin, near hairless - except where it counts. Thinly-veined, clean and fresh to the tongue. Dean more solid, with darker pigmentation - especially in the genital area, his skin glistening with powerful energies, and a rich bouquet of odours. He's always big, even when flaccid, when erect it merely assumes a vertical stance without becoming significantly bigger. Even their sperm tastes different. Ian's clear, thin, almost tasteless. Dean's richer, thicker, more copious, and pungently intoxicating. I get to know the way their bodies move when they cum, the way their bellies contracts, the way their balls retract in preparation for launching their creamy loads, every tremor and secret tremble of that most naked, most intimate, most vulnerable moment. There's nothing more to hold back. 

When you admit, give in to, accept your vulnerability, it can be a liberating thing. My fear had left me, and I feel oddly secure. I feel safe and stable. Almost for the first time in my miserable life I was confident with what I do. For once in my life, I knew I was in the right place. I've never been much good at anything, but by the reactions I'm provoking I know without doubt I'm good at this one sexual service.

I'd begun to associate the sex act with security. For as long as I'm useful to Dean, I'm protected from the victimisation that was endemic. The bad guys know us, and they leave us alone. So I had to satisfy him. It was as simple as that. There was never any element of threat or force, it wasn't necessary, it was merely a contract we both know and accept, one that is far from uncommon in the Hall. I'm sure there are many who would find the trade-off arrangement totally unacceptable. Indeed, they'd rather fight tooth and claw, or endure any amount of beatings, rather than submit to it. Me, I've learned you get nothing for nothing. You want protection, you must earn it. It might be less than ideal, but this way I earn my protection, even if others might consider it demeaning or repellent. 

Oddly the fact that I'm now considered Dean's 'property', and as such under his protection, provides a certain feeling of security. It's a binding agreement, a secret arrangement, a mutual bargain of shared intimacy. And this shalt be the whole of the law. I go to his bed, and I suck him off, meekly and totally obedient. If that's the price I must pay to survive, then I accept it fatalistically. Don't complain. Don't make a fuss. Don't attract unwanted attention. Get through this period of time as inconspicuously as possible. Stay invisible. Don't get noticed. Don't make things worse. Maintain a low profile. Don't drawn trouble towards yourself. Be nobody. Know nothing. Keep schtum. Don't rock the boat. These are the survival-rules you must abide by. Do this, and it'll work out tolerably OK. All I know is that if it had been presented to me as a binding legal contract - blow-job to be performed as and when required in return for protection, I'd sign it freely and without hesitation. And whatever, it works. 

Never, throughout my incarceration, was I assaulted or bullied. Not once. It bought me immunity. As Ian had told me, the authorities won't help, it's unrealistic to expect them to. Their only concern is with the maintenance of order and discipline. So the meeker jail-bait youths buy immunity from pressure by providing a sexual outlet for the more assertive. It's a kind of collusive coercion, a system that serves the dual purpose of reducing sexual tension by providing an escape valve, and lowering the perceived level of disruption. Even if the authorities know what's going on, they tolerate it, give it tacit approval as an effective instrument of control. I'm on my own. I can't expect help. 

Ian delights in telling me lurid stories, tales, things he's overheard, exaggerations maybe... about how one pretty effeminate guy he knew, called 'Frenchie', was particularly prized and had been 'head-hunted' by a powerful and ruthless guy as soon as he arrived, to become a virtual sex prisoner of his 'owner'. He'd been made to earn his 'protection' through constant abuse and was 'traded' as an object of barter in direct commercial transactions negotiated by his 'owner', in which he had no say at all. A good 'spunk-junky', Ian said, could be a profitable earner for an astute owner. Then there was supposedly another young guy owned by a syndicate of three 'Protectors' who devised and drew up a rota for him to attend to their sexual needs in strict order. He signed a contract of agreement.

"Did the rota involve all three guys each night, or three guys across three separate nights?"

Ian didn't know. But as I rapidly grew to appreciate, I was lucky with Dean. I was expected to suck him off with skill and enthusiasm, and swallow his emissions, but there was never any brutality or pain involved in the relationship, as there was in others. At any time I was free to stop, or to refuse - but then I'd lose his protection, and I feared there were other youths eager to replace me. We all have choices. So long as we can live with the consequences of those choices. I couldn't allow that to happen. Without him I'd be scared, miserable, withdrawn. With him there, I don't need to be strong. He's strong for me. All I have to do is ensure that it stays that way. But I was still unsure, still uncertain of my status. Instead of resenting it, each time I suck him off, I ruminate about it. Could I, should I have done it better, sucked slower and longer, or harder and faster, more devotedly. How long had it lasted? - it seemed like fifteen minutes, maybe less, should I make it last longer to extend his pleasure, or make him cum more quickly, more intensely? It was very important to make sure my mouth is somewhere he wants to put his cock into again, and again. A warm welcoming place in which, without hesitation, it feels welcome, whenever he feels the urge to spunk off. 

So, pragmatically, I seek him out and pleasure him whenever I can, and experience an increasingly sexual thrill as I do so. And that's how I begin 'paying my debt to society' through what Bryan would call my 'penis servitude', one blow-job at a time. I was locked up for nine long months, and at least once a day - often more, throughout that period I would suck cock. Oddly, those long months of enforced closeness constitute the longest associations - I'm wary to call them relationships never mind friendships, that I'd ever known. The longest period of what you might call stability in my confused and ever-changing life. I'd been so lonely. I'd been so alone. I'd felt so isolated I'd cried myself to sleep. Now I find I have an identity. A role. A... companion who I'm bonded to in a secret tryst so intense and intimate that it roars through me with a power that is scary. 

I become erect in anticipation of the evening's sex, sometimes hours before it happens. I can't believe these things are happening to me. Not me - the misfit, the loner. Yet here I am, breathlessly anticipating the hour, the moment, when I'll be naked, and scared and cold and apprehensive. I go to his bed and climb in beside him, without either of us speaking, but both of us sharing the experience of my surrender, my humiliation, my emotional storm. The absolute certainty that I'll squirm down to his groin, so fiercely aroused my head and my genitals aflame, seeking out his penis with trembling fingers as he merely lies there and allows me access to him. 

It is big, intimidatingly bigger than any cock I've ever known before, but if it's soft, I can make it bigger still. I know how. Bending my head in breathlessly, without hesitation, to feed it into my mouth. It responds almost immediately, expanding to fill my mouth, stiffening up against my palette, scarily activated in a way that determines there can be but one messy outcome. My bare legs writhing together as I concentrate on giving him pleasure, sucking slowly, sucking faster, extending it to maximise his pleasure, but not so long that he'll tire of it. But also - in a sickening disturbing way, giving me pleasure too. My own burning arousal refuses to be denied. I cup his balls and caress them gently, already moist with saliva and fat with sperms that will soon ejaculate into me. The moment I've been dreading, and yearning for all of the day, replaying it in my mind over and over again when I should have been thinking of other things. This precious time when he sunders my throat, and I suck meekly and submissively. 

No-one else does this to him. He probably assumes I do this to no-one else. I know every contour of his cock and balls, his every reaction as I suck, the familiar taste, the same warmth and aroma. The way his hips undulate when he orgasms. That he allows me to do this, that he wills it to happen, is his acknowledgement of the bond. I have to do it well. I have to suck him off properly, this is my opportunity to prove myself. Or I'll be alone and scared and vulnerable again. I'd be lonely and isolated. What I'd once thought of as debasement and humiliation, this shameful submission to vileness, this filth and squalor, is what I have to do. 

Of course, I was disturbed at what I'd become. By now it must be common knowledge that I'm a spunk-eater. They all must know, there's no possibility of such a thing remaining secret. There were even very pointed whispered jokes, in my presence, about 'Miss Goodhead, the boy from Cockermouth' or 'Invercockisucky'. Of course, I know what they mean. But oddly, it no longer bothers me. I even allow myself the indulgence of a secret smile. (Fortunately, it stays different with Ian. Our secretive antics stay secret. Of course, they all know that we're friends, they just don't know how friendly we get when we're alone together!) But with Dean it's also a source of pride because it's in this way that I survive. I accept and benefit from my position as Dean's protected property. It gives me an identity and status that I've never before known. His role is to provide the cock. My role is to be the cock-sucker. It's an exclusivity that defines us. I began to think 'what the hell'. It's a closed-community, there are regular medical check-ups, so there seems to be no fear of infection, of a sexually-transmitted nature or otherwise, so there's no reason not to.

"Do you like the taste of spunk?" Ian asks. 

I wrinkle my nose. "It's alright I guess, some I like more than others." Then "I kinda like the taste of yours," immediately regretting my honesty. As if maybe I've gone one admission too far. Said too much. 

He just laughs softly. "I'd kinda guessed that."

There aren't many things in the world I was good at. But I was good at this. On that very first night Dean had told me 'c'mon, suck it, don't pretend you don't know how to.' My orientation was obvious to him, even then. Perhaps I was a cock-sucker? Others seem to think so, what right have I to disagree? That's what I am, no two ways about it, no point in denying the obvious, no point in arguing the toss. I can't even protest that it's circumstances that have forced me into it, circumstances may have concentrated it, focussed it, made it more central to my life, but after all - the truth is, I have prior history. I'm guilty as charged. If this is what I do, then this is what I am. I am what I am, that's all there is to it. Spunk is my dietary requirement. 

And what would I be doing if I wasn't doing this? I'd be the shy timid friendless kid that no-one ever notices. Hopelessly fixated, mooning over boys who don't even know I exist. Lying awake at night inventing friendships, building impossible fantasy scenarios of relationships that would never happen, to fill this aching void. What kind of life is that? Better this. 

Unless that is the real truth, confess it, that I am that sad lonely kid, and what I'm describing here is one of those 'impossible fantasy scenarios.' You, reading this now, you'll never know. But wait, think this through, if this narrative is all nothing more than some sad masturbatory fantasy written furtively in the corner of the day-room, if it is just wish-fulfilment, why are there failed incidents that don't resolve into sex - the encounters with the priest, or the warden? Doesn't that argue for the reality of it all? Not quite. Maybe they're placed there deliberately as a way of retaining the edge of credibility? To bolster and reinforce that impression of reality. Again, you'll never know. But if this does not convince you, if it does not read as a true-life history, at least you must admit that it's the most beautifully beguiling of lies!

Days are still long and difficult. There's no drama. No tense and hazardous schemes devised to get out of this place. Not even any escape intrigue, no plotting devious plans involving disguises or falsified documents. No concealment in the laundry truck, or the grocer's delivery van. No hair-raising derring-do. None of the 'Count Of Monte Christo' heroic escapology, or 'Papillon' Devil's Island Alcatraz legends of relentless unquenchable drive for freedom against all odds. This is not that kind of narrative. I am not kind of guy. That's altogether too decisive, too assertive. That's not my style. There is no out. There is only within. And instead, I escape in other ways. I am able to cut myself off by reading, or watching TV in the evenings. 

I have psychiatric sessions with therapists or remedial interviews with social workers a couple of times a week. The analyst seems to sense my growing ease and confidence. I'm more self-assured and calm, answering their questions clearly and easily with none of my usual blustering and nerves, with a degree of articulacy I've seldom before achieved. The shrink seems impressed. I'd even stopped stammering and gnawing my nails. He sees it as a sign of rehabilitation, my coming to terms with my situation. Which - in a sense, is true. 

There's a Priest who comes in to offer spiritual counselling, but I decline to take advantage of what guidance he offers. I don't need that sanctimonious mumbo-jumbo crap. Sometimes we are allocated to be part of a group detailed to work in the grounds. I was quite content doing that, digging or raking leaves. Even the roughness and verbal crudity of the talk and horseplay no longer bothers me quite so much because I feel safe from their assaults. They strut and swear and shout. But I'm protected, after all. In one corner of the grounds, beyond the cultivated plots we work on, there's an overgrown tangle of trees and bushes that affords some degree of privacy, and there are outhouses, and the old potting shed musty and always dimly lit where I can hide away for twenty-minutes or so when I need to be alone. Sometimes, I go there with Ian, and we play-act games and fantasies. It was always gentle and consensual with Ian. I grow to enjoy his body and his closeness. Even when I'm alone I often find myself thinking of him, and the things we do together.

And Dean, I almost swagger. I even attempt to ape Dean's mannerisms to emphasise my acceptance of his 'ownership'. We never talk about it... or about anything. We never exchange words. He's always darkly intense, with a compelling strength. Something deep about him that, in itself, invests him with a certain authority. Since what Ian told me I was frightened, above all else, that Dean would tire of me, replace me with someone else - or perhaps even return to using Ian for his sexual relief. I've have first-hand evidence of just how good Ian can be with cock in his mouth. And without Dean's protection I'd be helpless and vulnerable all over again. The uncertainty keeps me on my toes, to use an anatomically incorrect metaphor. More specifically, I value every new opportunity to prove my worth, to show how compliant I can be, and I feast on his cock as though I enjoy each moment and every inch of it. With my physical reactions bearing out that I'm not entirely faking.

I reason that you have to satisfy your 'owner' and cater to his needs, otherwise he won't stay your owner for long, and he'll be taking those needs straight up the smooth bottom of the next boy. My only plan is to make it as obvious as humanly possible my enthusiasm for sucking his cock, my eagerness for it, and to fervently hope against hope that he stays satisfied with the way I do it to him. It gets so I experience panic attacks if I imagine an evening is going to pass without sex, if - for some reason he isn't there, in his bed, at lights-out, as I lie there in the twilight at my most vulnerable, then an incredible sensation of relieved peace and contentment when the waiting and the tension is over, he's there, and I finally manage to slide his erection safely into my mouth. The only doubt left in my mind concerns whether he is using me, or I am using him? Would the situation have persisted if I'd not ensured that it did? Probably not. So doesn't that mean mine is the greater need...?

My friendship with Ian becomes more intense. He's so sharp, funny and streetwise in ways that I've never been. He has an inner confidence I envy. Yet he's chosen me to be his friend. I sometimes find myself wondering why. I can't believe my luck. I trust him in ways I've never trusted anyone else in my life. He makes everything we do seem so cool and natural. As if, hey - everyone else is doing this thing, why shouldn't we enjoy it too? And I have no counter-argument to offer. Sometimes his cock tastes of dried come, and I wonder what else he's been doing. I'm almost scared to ask. The thought occurs to me that before our first time together he'd obviously sixty-nine'd with other guys. He'd known what to do, how to do it, he had experience. The thought brought a twinge of jealousy. Illogical of course, but nonetheless real. What we had, I thought, was special. We use the laundry room as a refuge, to be together whenever we want to. Which tends to be quite a lot. 

"How is it you have the key to this room?" I ask him, as we lounge together.

"I've been here longer than you. You won't remember. There was a Fitness Instructor who was quietly 'retired' for interfering with inmates. A Fitness Instructor who looked like a slug in a track-suit. Well, this is where he used to bring us for a little pervy 'interfering', or for what he preferred to call personal 'work-out' sessions. Not that I minded. He wasn't very demanding. He liked to stand at the foot of the stairs, and watch a nude boy descending the steps, so he could see the way his cock flipped from side-to-side. Usually he tended to want two of us together, and he'd watch us with a cheesy shit-kicking grin all over his stupid fat face. He got excited telling us how ancient athletes at the Olympic Games competed without clothes, or with their bodies glistening with olive oil, to honour the perfection of the human form. But it was with less aesthetic motives that he liked to watch our bits bounce as we did naked star-jumps, press-ups, or watching us bending over to touch our toes. He liked two boys wrestling as well. Naturally we were nude, as in his Classical ideals of physical health, although his idea of 'wrestling' involved all manner of unconventional genital holds, fondlings, suckings and penetrations which he would direct. 'Do this to him. Now let him do that to you. Now do it to each other at the same time'."

Ian assumed a ludicrously husky accent for his impersonation. "Sometimes, if we hadn't come off already through all this skin-to-skin contact, or sometimes even if we had, he'd finish things by tossing us off, one stiff dick in each hand. Purely as a therapeutic release of unhealthily repressed energies - he told us. Stuff like that. But everything's legal, so long as you don't get caught, right? We got privileges - such as use of this key, which I happened to hang onto when he left."




Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 02: Ian



Sometimes, with Ian, I think he makes things up, we talk in disgusted delight about how often we've done stuff, in intimate and amplified detail about the first time we did sex, and how big the other guy's were. But then again, I start into playing the game too, we get to out-grossing each other in playful competition, about how we felt with the sensation of first getting sperm in our mouths. Then he tells me how, before he came here, he used to sell blow-jobs, pick up nervous married men in city-centre bars and suck them off in parked cars or hotel rooms. I don't know if I believe him or not. 

I ask him "Why did you do that?"

He tells me "Because of the money, and because of the buzz. It's a weird buzz to live like that. After all, you were doing... what? Staying at home watching TV? I was out doing weird stuff and getting paid for it."

"So how did it end?" I'm almost scared to ask. "How did you end up in here?"

"I was living with an older guy. When he was charged with living off immoral earnings, I was deemed in need of spiritual guidance. That's why I have to endure sessions with the Priest. You should too, it's a good laugh. He has me repeating endless 'Hail Mary's' while he tosses me off into the chalice of communion wine, stirring it in with his finger..." 

We laugh together at the absurdly blasphemous image. Should I believe him... or not? I'm not sure. Although I do volunteer to talk with the Priest. My interest is seen as a positive step towards my rehabilitation. I fill in a form, and I'm allocated a time-slot. Wait outside the drab interview-room as my time approaches. He ushers me in. There's a faint smell of wood-polish from the desk he sits behind. A dance of dust-motes in the dry light. 

"You're not of the one true faith?"

"No, Father."

"You're not even a church-goer?"

"No, Father."

I note his white hair scraped back across his head, his air of bored detachment. He has a manilla folder of my case-notes, which he doesn't even glance at. And a black Bible with gold lettering. 

"No matter, all souls are of equal value in the eyes of the Lord."

"Thank you, Father."

A pause that fills the room with infinite disinterest. The skin on the back of his hand, as he absently riffles the maroon-edged pages of the Bible, is wax-white, almost transparent, so the pale blue blood-vessels beneath the surface show through like route-maps to nowhere. 

"Have you found time, during your term here, for reflection?"

"I have, Father."

"And do your regret the misdemeanours that brought you here? Do you repent your sins?"

"I do" - while thinking, 'sins? What sins? I did what I had to do out there as I do what I must in here. Moral considerations of sin and redemption don't come into it. During a distracting half-hour he sternly lectures me about the need for forgiveness, to forgive self, to fight the dark impulses and seek out the good in others, the value of repentance and salvation, to love others. Hey, isn't that what I'm already doing here? He makes no attempt to lay hands on me. Offers me no prayers and no 'Hail Marys'. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed about that. In fact he shows no sign of personal involvement whatsoever, as though he's going through a litany by rote, a routine he knows is futile, but is tasked with enduring anyway. 

To him, I'm just another in a long list of failures, damaged goods, another lost soul. In his eyes I'm no different to the rest. We are all feral, already damned beyond redemption, sunk in the debased bestial sins of the flesh with no hope of salvation. And he's too tired and disillusioned to care. Should I try and shock him out of his lethargy? Tell him - in the spirit of confession, that I'm physically involved with not one, but two of the other inmates? That we take carnal knowledge of each other? Would he care? 'Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, I have sinned like crazy, and loved every moment of it...' He's too old and defeated. He feels nothing. 

I swear I'll never become like that. I'll always strive to feel. Even if it's feeling bad things. Feeling pain. That's infinitely preferable to feeling nothing. If he thinks my soul is already consigned to hades, I've nothing to lose, but at least that proves I'm still alive. I might be a lot of things, but whatever I am has got to be better than what he has. In a way, it confirms to me that I'm OK as I am. I have my own life, my own form of strength. I have all I need. But the interview passes some time for us both, it wastes thirty-minutes, and that's all that matters in here. I agree to a follow-up session. And before I know it I'm standing outside the closing door, and it's over. 

What should I tell Ian? Should I fabricate something? That he got me naked and jerked me off until I was jetting blobby white gunk across the black-print pages of a prayer-book? In a way, that might've even been kinda creepy. Or that I crawled beneath the desk on hands and knees, put my head up his cassock (although he wasn't actually wearing one) and sucked him off as an act of contrition, and that he said 'Bless you my child' as I re-emerge? No. I just shrug it away. Nothing happened. No-one was saved.

"What about the Medic?" I ask Ian. "What about the Doctor, can he be trusted?" We are in our private cock-pit, lying side-by-side naked.

He snorts. "He's another creep. He took a photo of you, right, on your first day here? That's no part of regulations. He just likes to collect photos of nude boys for his own use. For his dirty jack-off collection of nude boys. He's another perv."

"He's a creep too? They can't all be creeps, there must be some of them on the level!"

He considers. "Maybe. But if you start out with the assumption that they are, you won't be disappointed."

"I came here today with the intention of sucking you off. Does that make me a creep too?"

He adopts a comically pained expression. "Yes, you creep. But I'm prepared to let you have your wicked way with my body." He lies back, presenting his stiff cock to me. "Take it..."

And I do.

On another occasion, "What is it you like best about me?" Ian probes. 

"I don't know." It's true that I'm determined to know every detail of his cock as well as I know my own. 

"Tell me - don't be shy."

"I guess - I guess, I like your foreskin. Putting my tongue up under the skin at the end of your cock. It's unfair. I wish I had skin there."

"Prepuce" he says. "That's the proper name for foreskin."

"Pree-pyuce?" I spell it out uncertainly. 

"Sure. There are roundheads, like you. And cavaliers - like me. We have no choice in the matter. But I prefer sucking roundheads. I do. They're cleaner, smoother."

"I know. I know all that. But I'd still like to have a foreskin on my cock. Do you think it'll ever grow back?"

"I've heard - I don't know."

"Heard what?"

"I'm not sure if it's true. But it's just a matter of practise, like wanking. Hold your cock - like this..." he holds the shaft of my cock tightly. "And pull the skin upwards - like this." It pulses in his fist. "Do it as often as you can, pulling the skin as you do it, and it will develop."

I look down at it protruding from his fist, and smile, "I'll do it."

"And I'll help" he says, gently biting the bulb projecting from the warm grip of his fingers, gnawing it with such gentle intensity. "Whenever you want."

"Like... now, please."

He begins to toss me off, pausing it intervals to dip his head and suck on it. I moan and arch my back appreciatively. 

"Personally, I like your cock exactly the way it is" he says, subjecting it to the closest scrutiny. Then, looking me straight in the eyes he crosses himself, and murmurs grace. "For the mouthful of spunk I'm about to receive, may the Lord make me truly grateful..." A pause, "... and I am, I truly am." He sinks it deep into the back of his throat, and begins sucking hard. Each time he does it to me is a master-class tutorial. Each time I learn teasing tricks and techniques I can put into practise on Dean... Later, after he's sucked me off, his adams apple bobbing as he swallows, I'm naturally ready to return the favour.

"Time I gave you some mouth-to-cock resuscitation" I purr, twisting round to reach him. 

Some time later, he smiles down at me as I gulp his load. Conceding "I've had worse orgasms. I doubt if I've bitten even halfway through my tongue."

We laugh, and lie together naked. I lie on my back, legs splayed, and begin pulling my cock as he'd indicated. He lies on his stomach between my legs, looking up to watch me in amusement. 

"I knew you'd be good" says Ian.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, some guys just take to cock-fun, and some never do, no matter what. Me, I just knew from the first time I saw you that you'd be a natural. I could sense it. I could smell it on you. Once you realise you've just got to go with it, let your body be your guide. Now, if they gave out PhD's in cock-sucking, you'd pass with flying colours."

I don't know how to respond. Is that a compliment? Eventually I manage "Do you think we're cock-obsessed?", raising myself up to meet his eyes. 

"No more than any other cock-obsessives in this place. Dean makes you suck him off every night. Sol does pretty much the same to me. Then I do it to you. And you do it to me. Who's to blame any of us? It only makes us more horny still..." He laughs. "We all do it. We're slaves to our hormones, we're cock-icidal maniacs driven by our needs."

"Cockoholic" I smirk, joining the game. 

"Cockapathic, yes maybe. But we have choices too. I have sex with Sol because I have to. I have sex with you because I like it. And you suck Dean because you have to. But do it with me because you want to. Right?"

"Right."

All next day, as I walk, I'm furtively fumbling down through my pocket to tug and stretch my non-existent foreskin.

Sometimes you can think much more than you want to think. Things in life get too complicated by other people's expectations and your own aspirations. Why you fall short of their expectations and your aspirations, your obligations to them and to yourself, and what is it you want anyway. The conflicts of responsibility and freedom, of conformity and impulses to disobedience, your failures and inadequacies, the things that made you the way you are, and the things that keep you doing it... it all gets so messed up in your head. It's so much easier to reduce all urgencies down to just one simple focus, and ignore everything else out of existence. That's what I'm doing. My one over-riding priority makes every other conundrum irrelevant. 

I think of all the heterosexual guys my age out there in the world thirsting for a sniff of cunt in the full knowledge that it will be eternally denied, or so rare and infrequent. How desperate and frustrated they must be. While I'm the same as them, yet getting all the sexual fulfilment I need. Boys lie. Boys exaggerate. They're sex-obsessed. All of them. They're made of spunk and hard-on's, it's hard-wired into their programming. They love the disgust and vileness of debauchery and abuse. They delight in whispering secret details of terrible deeds. I know. I've listened.

Ian told me of a time before I arrived here. He'd been assigned to work on the garden plots, and had gone to the potting sheds to pick up a trowel. Once inside the hazy shadows he senses movement, and going further, as his eyes adjust, he sees two boys. They are Lee and Adam. They weren't here as Young Offenders very long. They hold themselves apart from everyone else, locked into a special bond with each other. And Ian was startled to witness just how special that bond was. 

Lee is standing up against the bench with his trousers around his ankles, Adam is naked, squatting down to suck him off. Ian's abrupt appearance startles them, Adam coyly covers his groin with his hands and scuttles behind the bench giving every appearance of a scared rabbit, from where he peeps with wide frightened Bambi-eyes, while Lee hauls his pants up hastily, hesitates, summons up his courage, then comes forward.

"Please, you won't tell anyone what you've seen, will you?" he pleads. 

Ian shook his head. "Course not."

Lee seemed unconvinced, he retreats to where Adam is hiding and they begin to whisper together as Ian busies himself trying to find a trowel. 

Then Lee came forward again. "If you promise not to tell on us, Adam says he'll do to you what he was doing to me." He forced a smile of appeal. 

Well, Ian already had no intention of telling anyone, but why turn down the chance of a free blow-job? Why complicate it by telling him such activities were rife anyway, and no-one would give a damn about whatever they were doing to each other? Why spoil it? If they want secrecy, he was happy to collude with it for the price of the very attractive bribe they were offering. He nods sternly, as though grudgingly accepting the terms of the deal, and lowers his pants. Adam crawls out of hiding, sheepishly, shyly, a pretty effeminate boy with a rounded girlish bottom. He'd obviously not been sleeping well, his eyes dark-circled, this closeness with his 'friend' being his sole source of comfort. Ian never heard him utter a complete sentence of conversation, but he began fulfilling the terms of the deal without hesitation. 

He may have seemed reticent and quiet, but he took that cock into his mouth and sucked it sweetly. Ian tensed up, gripping the bench hard enough to leave indentations. And although Ian was soon pistoning between his pearly-white teeth, Adam's eyes were longingly fixed on Lee's face, and his focus never wavered, as though telepathing 'look, I'm doing this foul deed for you, only for you, and for no-one else.' By drawing Ian in, by making him complicit in the sex-play, they reasoned he would be less likely to sprag. But Lee, watching what was going on intently, soon became excited by the vision of his friend so compromised, his gaze fixed on Ian's blood-gorged penis diving in and out between those full lips. He no longer seemed to care. 

Emboldened, he slipped his pants aside sufficient to insert his hand and begin masturbating, moving in closer, leaning over to see better, his vigorous wrist-action soon causing his pants to fall all the way down. Adam was also erect and enthusiastically wanking a dwarfish nearly hair-free member. The collective three-way sound of laboured breathing, squelchy mouth-noises, and rhythmic rubbing goes on for some time until Ian ejaculates lustily into the hungry mouth. After a few calculated moments Adam dislodged the spent cock out of his mouth with a decisive thrust of his tongue, and leans back, insolently ejecting whiteness out between his teeth in a grimace of exaggerated distaste, allowing it to foam down his chin like toothpaste, no, like detergent froth, from where it dribbles in long strands down onto his perfectly hairless chest.

"I'm sorry" Lee apologised. "He's not used to having anyone else's spunk in his mouth. Only mine. He likes mine."

Adam nods enthusiastically, then doesn't even pause, he's barely wiped his mouth before instantly transferring his interrupted oral attentions back to his lover, re-mouthing it possessively, as though jealously intent on protectively concealing the precious erection from Ian's prying eyes. His adam's apple working as if it were a plunger on a pump. His bottom, his two perfectly rounded egg-shaped buttocks, making little fucking motions back and forth as he sucks, his little cock flipping as he did so.

"Thank you" said Lee over the crouching boy's head. "Remember your promise."

Ian nods, watches the continuing action for a moment, adjusts his clothes, picks up the trowel, and leaves them to their secret passions. He never did break the confidence by telling anyone what he'd seen, until he told me!

I listen to his tales avidly, and share such intimate confidences myself in sniggering trysts of erotic togetherness. I tell Ian eagerly in detail of one particular occasion, the time I'd been crouched on the bed between Dean's splayed legs sucking his cock. Then I notice that he's glancing across to the next bed, and - following his line of attention, I realise with a shock that we have an audience. The youth there - Hooch, is raised up on one elbow and he's watching with obscene delight, his covers thrown back, and even in the darkness I can tell that he's masturbating with his free hand. He's not only watching the activity, but he's aroused by it, and he's wanking off to what he can see. The rhythmic flap-flap-flap sound of his wrist-action carries over the silence of fitful breathing. 

Dean obligingly moves his leg aside, gifting Hooch an uninterrupted view of what exactly I'm doing in his groin. I close my eyes in humiliation and concentrate on the action I'm performing. Slithering my mouth around hot cock. Why shouldn't I? I'm good at it, aren't I? Me, who'd never been much good at anything in my whole damn life, Dean had chosen me, me, because I was good. Hooch is watching, he wants me too, he longs for my lips to close over that big purple helmet of his tool too. But no, Dean has chosen me, I belong to him, I'm his own personal cock-sucker because I'm good at it. I'm the best. Dean is stiff - because of me. Now Hooch is stiff because of me too. Two erections hot for me. Such erotic thoughts mingle in with the salty taste of pre-emission oozing from the fat horny cock in my mouth, it makes me burn with a mixture of lust and torment. 

My teeth hold a monster serpent only I can control, one that I have in my power, only I can steal its potency by drawing its venom into me. He's chosen me because I'm the best, I must demonstrate just how good I can be. A fire is burning in my thighs. I'll prove how good I am, to him, and to wanking stiff-cocked Hooch, I suck and moan, slurping hungrily, sliding up and down on it, making it more of a visual spectacle for Hooch's benefit. And he watches me perform with undisguised prurience. Part of my protection - of course, is the fact that others know the situation exists, hence the fact of Hooch watching me giving head works to my advantage. 

But it occurred to me, what would I do if Dean - as a friendly gesture, offers me to Hooch? What would I do? I'd have no real choice. I'd have to do it. Hey, I've already had sex with two of the people in this dorm, would it really make that much difference to do it with a third? I can't believe my mind is roving in this way. In a fantasy scenario in my head Dean smiles, instructs me lazily to go and see to Hooch's needs instead. I'd release Dean's erection with a show of reluctance, kissing it affectionately and giving it a long loving last deep suck, then shyly, my own cock bobbing and swaying, I'd do as I was told. Without a word I'd go across, and obediently go down on Hooch's young and excited cock, sucking it, aware of Dean watching, and doing it visually for his benefit, delighting in taking it deep. 

And when he's about to cum I'll suck it in so far my nose is buried in his pubic hair and Dean will know by Hooch's exquisite groans and gasps what is happening. I'd swallow and suck on for a few moments. Then, without a word, go back to Dean and continue where I'd left off, sucking him to slobbery climax too. The very thoughts I was thinking, the acts I was contemplating, leaves me feeling more totally debauched than I've ever felt in my life as the body-tingle tremors start and Dean begins ejaculating into my mouth. I close my eyes, deliberately allowing a milky-white blob of it to ooze from the corner of my mouth and trickle down the exposed shaft so there could be no possibility of Hooch not seeing, before delving my way down its length to hoover the escaping jism back into my mouth again. 

I can be a vulgar sod when I put my mind to it. Sometimes I disgust myself. My own genitals are crawling almost painfully with arousal. I cum spontaneously and helplessly, but neither my erection nor my giddy excitement refuses to subside although my gut is damp and messy with sperm and I suck his softening cock as though I'm greedy for more. Until he shoves my head away. I was aware, from the corner of my eye, of Hooch fumbling a handkerchief over his inflamed bell-end to smother his own emission. Why doesn't he have a boy? Surely there must be some lonely, scared and confused kid who would welcome the opportunity of sharing his bed, and his protection, rather than him jacking-off watching me. It seems ridiculous, and so unnecessary. I lick my lips obscenely, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my penis standing out firm and hard, and for the first time it makes me proud and not embarrassed. I can hardly suppress a smile. I stand there naked so both of them can see I'm still hard while they're both limp and slimy. I was still randy, in my way I've taken them on, and I've beaten both of them.