1 comments/ 7308 views/ 2 favorites Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 03: Wolfie By: tristantrotsky Things in the House of Shame get stranger and more extreme. But there's change here, as well as continuity. My first terror came when - after three months, Dean was paroled, and I was suddenly alone. There was no warning, no advance intimation, I just entered the dorm, and his bed was stripped, his things were gone, the sheets neatly folded and placed on the foot of the mattress. His bed remained unoccupied. The bed in which we'd done so much stuff, it now stayed empty. Hooch left around the same time. His place taken by Ben, an inarticulate youngster who had an arson problem. Troubled, and seriously disturbed, he cries himself to sleep most nights. Turned on more by the prospect of igniting fires than he is by blow-jobs, we share little common interest, and we scarcely communicate. He was more in need of a protector than I was. It was my worst nightmare. It wasn't that I missed Dean. Not in any real sense. It's not as though we'd ever shared any kind of relationship. Throughout the months we'd not exchanged more than half a dozen words. The only way we ever communicated was around the magic wand six inches below his navel. But by now I was totally conditioned to being 'owned'. That shifty-looking creep on the stair had said 'hey, leave him alone. He belongs to Dean.' And I did. With Dean, I was property. And - as property, well - guys usually have a vested interest in keeping their possessions safe. If what they've got is useful to them, they make sure it stays undamaged. Without Dean I lack that assurance, I feel scared, vulnerable, exposed. My recently acquired self-assurance evaporates like morning mist. What if I get stopped by those three yobs on the stairs now, by those three aggressive retards in an arrogant mood and this time they know I have no protector? What about the victim guy in the showers... will that be me tomorrow, or the day after? In this overheated sexually-repressed confinement there's always the threat of being abused at best, gang-raped at worst. While I lie awake at night turning over in my head the prospect of being taken by four guys, it might seem quite tantalising and even arousing. But in the hard light of day I realise no, I need protection. The answer is obvious. Staring me in the face. The best way to get over somebody, is to get underneath someone new. I need a replacement for Dean. I need a new protector. It's a matter of some urgency to me. I give the matter considerable feverish thought - who would want me? What do I have to offer? I spend some time eyeing up possible contenders, appraising their strengths and availability. Then, in a kind of desperation I make myself available to three guys in the space of a single day, in the hope of bonding. It was difficult for me to open up in this way. But I felt I had no alternative, and they were happy to have me 'audition' on a one-off basis, and I was pathetically desperate to please them. Plucking up courage, I approach the first one in the bathroom, operating what Ian had confided to me as the 'code'. "I'm alone" I mumble, my guts all a mess. "Will you be my friend?" "What do I get from this?" he grins. "Whatever you've got in mind" I trace my lower lip with my finger in what's intended to be suggestive invitation. "Show me" he leers. "Don't worry, the pleasure's all mine." And we pad back to his dorm. Nervous, but reconciled to what I must do. Fortunately there's no-one there, he sits on the edge of the bed, unzips and pulls it out. Flexing it proudly, brandishing it for my appraisal. Not that he has much to brag about. It's disappointingly smaller than I've grown used to - hell, I'm getting to be a size-snob already! Before I have chance to back out I go down on him, crouching between his knees on the floor to mouth it, but after what I've done with Dean, it presents me with little challenge. Most of it fits snugly into my mouth without causing any hint of gag-reaction. I almost feel more sorry for him than for me. It's oddly unexciting, I suck and suck, but it doesn't even take much mouth-action to bring him off. All too soon he's tensing, gives a little whimper, and I taste the first spurt of his spunk. Once he's come I wait patiently for the spasms to finish, with it resting in my mouth as it pulses to a slow ooze, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. When all signs of ejaculation have ceased I retain it for long enough to satisfy the demands of politeness and etiquette before unmouthing it. Then draw back, looking up at him. He sniffs. Says "Sorry, but actually, I already have a 'friend' who does that for me. But if ever that doesn't work out, I'll bear you in mind." Sulkily I wonder why he couldn't have said that before I blew him. But then again, I was relieved in a sense, I couldn't have gone with him regularly, his cock was too small, it's necessary to respect, even be a little in awe of your 'protector'. If you're with a guy, you should be just a little scared of his cock, scared - but in a good way, scared, but in that white-knuckle thrill kind of scared that gets you all psyched up, as it had been with Dean. When I'd been mouth-fucked by Dean, there was no mistaking that I knew I'd been had. And that - undeniably, involves size, which this guy just didn't have. In all the Gay-porn I've read, and I've read a lot, it always amuses me the way they always quote the exact penis-dimensions of every sex-encounter clear down to the eighth-of-an-inch. In reality, while it's happening, you're too caught up in it to measure. You're aware this cock is bigger than that one, this one is thicker than that one. But the only one I've ever actually measured is my own. And Ian's. We've done that quite a lot. Later I was delegated to help work in the vegetable garden again, where there's a tall Trustee in charge. As a Trustee he has his own room. I eye him up. Yes, he might fit the bill. Dark in an aloof attractive kind of way. Once I'd whispered my availability and willingness, he consents to take me across the grounds and into the potting shed. Into the musky aroma of moist soil, growing things, and fibrous compost. He acts off-hand, almost irritable, as though he's inconveniencing himself by doing me a favour. He watches impatiently as I strip - it was chilly and I'd purposefully not worn underwear in preparation for this. Soon I'm standing naked and smiling before him, eyes big with a 'please don't hurt me' pleading expression. His detached manner is disturbing, but if I'm wary and uncertain, my cock certainly isn't, it protrudes proudly erect. Let him look, I'm gullibly proud to prove my state of anticipatory arousal is genuine, let him see what's on offer. He nonchalantly drops his own pants, generously gifting me the opportunity of demonstrating my oral expertise. "There, and watch what you're doing with your teeth, if you know what's good for you." Although it's limp, he's obviously well-hung, that already impresses me. Wide-eyed, my heart turning somersaults in my throat at the prospect of sucking it, at the enormity of what I have to do, I kneel before him, so it's erecting less than an inch from my nose. Close my eyes in not-so fake-bliss, and take it in my mouth, devouring it greedily. Make approving appreciative noises as I suck him, slobbering greedily to show how much I'm getting off on doing it, how much I'd like to do it again, how well I'll do it anytime he wants, if only he'll let me...please? Since going with Ian I'd become increasingly intrigued by foreskins, and this one would provide me with ample opportunity for experiment... if only he'll like me. My own cock is bobbing and tingling enthusiastically as I work on his big hard-on, my balls squirming between my legs in a pleasurable way. It's obvious I'm not going to last out. I can feel it building. I give it to my sensations, nuzzling deep into his cock and moaning as I begin pumping spunk out into a white fountain across the floor. Yet he keeps glancing guiltily towards the doors, as though expecting at any moment someone else to blunder in and catch us at it. "Hurry up. I haven't got long. I've got to get back." His voice, from somewhere above me. "I'm sorry, I'm doing my best" I mumble. Using every trick I know to work him until he erupts in long gooey white jets. The disgustingly strangulated noises he's making as he orgasms into my mouth seem to indicate I've performed well. I gulp and swallow, draw back, then tongue his moist shaft clean of every trace, up around the rim of the glans, holding it this way and that, carefully licking an ooze of his spunk that dribbles from my lower lip afterwards as though savouring the taste of each pearly sperm-drop, smiling up at him, seeking signs of favour. There's dirt on my bare knees where I'd crouched, and glistening spurt-pools of semen where I've also cum onto the floor. I wait meekly for his verdict, I've done the best I can, I can do no more. "Was that alright?" I venture at last. "Did you like it?" "Certainly seems as though you liked it" he retorts. How do I respond to that? 'Yes sir, thank you sir'? But before I can speak, as he readjusts his pants he simply points to my ejaculate. "Clean up your mess." Then he brusquely instructs me to return to the garden-work. No comment about the intimacy, no hint of a repeat-bout. I can't understand why he's rejecting me, or what I've done wrong. Perhaps I'd been a little too demonstrative for his taste, too much of a gobble-slut? With low expectations and a bleak sense of fatalism, the third guy I approach with the 'code' merely hustles me into the nearest toilet cubicle. I sit on the pedestal as he stands over me, leering critically down at me as I unzip his pants, pull it out and begin sucking him off. This is the third cock I've had in my mouth today, that's a scary thought. Already I'm feeling spunk-drunk. "Nothing too fancy, none of that in-and-out stuff, and get ready, I get the feeling I'm not going to last long." He laughs tauntingly at my cramped discomfort. But - judging by the explicit graffiti I can see out of the corner of my eye, and the crude illustrations on the wall, I'm far from the only boy to find myself squatting in this position, with the strong whiff of disinfectant, the drip-drip-drip of cisterns, and a cigarette-butt floating in the toilet-bowl. I sense from the start it's not going to work out, but by then his big wedge-shaped bell-end is already nudging its insistent way past my epiglottis, and it's too late to stop, stopping is no longer an option. So I simply continue working him until he cums, hoping against hope my diligent efforts will be rewarded. As he wipes my saliva off his dangling cock with sheets of toilet-paper he looks me straight in the eyes and sneers "Naw" with mocking derision. My eyes fall, shame-faced, humiliated and depressed by my failure. Despite my best efforts, none of the three were prepared to make it a regular thing. Until Ian intervenes. Since Hooch left he's now with a guy called Bryan. A Trustee with his own room and a highly suckable cock. He's doing fine. Naturally, I confide in Ian. I tell him everything. Of my fears that the bad guys might be out there now, already targeting me. Ian reluctantly admits he knows of this guy called 'Wolfie' who might be interested in using me. He's not sure if he's right for me, but he can arrange it... if I'm up for it? I am up for it. Tell me more! Wolfie is in another dorm but that doesn't matter. At night - so Ian insists, there's already a great deal of furtive movement going on between rooms. So at lights-out I go slinking nude down the corridor to find his bed. It's the hardest walk I ever take. I can scarcely believe what's happening, I'm feeling buzzed-up, light-headed, as though high on something, as though I've inhaled some exotic narcotic, my throat dry with disturbing anticipations. Is this what I've become? Is this the level I've sunk to? A pre-owned cock-sucker, well-used, high sperm-consumption, seeking new position? But what viable alternative is open to me, one that doesn't involve swallowing a stranger's semen? In a word - none, not one that I can think of. Ian, of course, was perfectly correct, there is a traffic of enticing sleepwalking nudes in the night. I pass two other naked youths stealthily scurrying towards secret sexual assignations, one smiles self-consciously, the other appraising my body with undisguised interest - as though he'd like to tarry and indulge in some mutual fondling, as we pass each other through the ribbons of moonlight cast by the window, and yes, I could be tempted, I couldn't help but notice the sway of his cute cock, and I could easily be induced to entertain it. But time is tight. I walk, my jiggling balls tap-tapping on my inside leg in a not unpleasing way. Entering the dorm there's a creepy feeling of trespassing into foreign territory. A floorboard creaks beneath the tread of my bare feet. In the first bed I mistakenly approach, two sleeping boys are contentedly entwined, as though they've tired each other sixty-nining. Glancing reluctantly away, there's movement at the next bed, someone furtively sliding away, and I can see the guy left in the bed, with a tousled basin-cut fringe, and he's holding the covers back in impatient invitation. Nervously I approach him. "Wolfie, will you be my friend...?" I begin the code. "Ian told me you were coming" he cuts me off crudely. "He said you'd give me good head. He says you're a natural cock-sucker, so don't just stand there with it all hung out, shut up, get in here, fill your face with dick, before the night's through, I'm gonna do plenty bad things to you." My throat is dry. This is a mistake. Get the hell out of here while there's still chance. He's a scary looking guy, as though he's quite capable of taking care of himself. I'm as nervously paralysed as I was my first time approaching Dean, but steel myself as I had then. I gaze at his groin in an agony of anticipation, and feel my resistance melting. Although it's bunched in his fist, the better to aim it up at me, a good half of his cock-length still protrudes from his grip. It's big, the staff of life, a thing so ugly, yet so mesmerising. A brutal thing that's not quite human, which has more right to belong on some bestial animal, something altogether more primitive, more base, more primal by far. The air is chill, but I'm perspiring. The situation is so blatant, so raw. This is what I must do, or back out... now, retreat. So do it. Don't hesitate. Do it! I'm already exhaling in awe, unconsciously opening my mouth into a wide preparatory 'O' of rehearsal, my salivatory glands working overtime. I'm drawn towards it like a doomed meteorite is drawn down to the Earth, drawn as if by a fish-hook embedded in my mind. Whatever my earlier reservations, I'm unable to help myself. My legs have turned water-weak, all strength in them has dissolved, and they're no longer capable of supporting me. My own cock twitches like an antennae, guiding me. I sink down into his bed, and my head goes down willingly onto his big cockhead, straining my lips around its blood-swollen helmet, slurping my way down its length until he releases it and allows me my way, the heat of it burning up through the roof of my mouth. The light is low, it's an alien and unreal atmosphere, are there other eyes in the night-dorm watching? Are they making judgements? Do they despise me? Despise what I'm doing? What the hell. Sod them all, I gorge myself shamelessly, a rich toxic slurping sound escaping as I do so. Once begun, it's impossible to stop. He grunts, moves his hips in reaction to the power of my slavish gobbling, and splays his legs a little more to grant me greater access, then - I swear, he chuckles low in mocking appreciation of my complete subservience. I crouch between his legs, and suck, up and down, up and down, deeper, harder, sucking the heat of the slimy monster for what seems like forever. By then I'm more than ready for whatever he's got to give me, feeling his fat balls in their protective sac, estimating the volume of rich masculine juice they're about to empty into me. Urging it on. It's intoxicating. The more I suck it, the more I want to suck it. I want more, purring and mewling around my thick gag. And all too soon I get it, it kicks and jerks, then floods me as I moan helplessly, gulp and swallow, then gulp and swallow again, my cheeks filling out as I try to keep up with the relentless flow. Coddling his balls, milking them. Sucking slower as it subsides, and keep sucking as though unable to break free. As though I'm afraid to let it go. He looks down at me and scoffs, "You filthy slut." Which I take to mean his approval. Once I've swallowed his sperm there's nothing left to lose, nothing to hide, no pride, no pretence, it's as though all restraint has gone. By then I've totally lost it. What else can he do? We both understand the situation, we both accept my complete submission. So it stays in my mouth, I expect it to soften, and - although it loses some of its rigidity, after a short while it flexes and refirms. He indicates for me to lie on my back, which I'm a little self-conscious of doing as it lays bare my own state of drooling arousal. Not that he notices. Instead he straddles me, sits on my chest and casually sticks his cock back in my mouth, after a leisurely suck he pulls it out and rubs it messily along my nose leaving a slime trail, presses the wet glans into each eye-socket, then slaps it across my face, smears it across my forehead and then plops it down back into my receptive mouth. This time he shoves his hips forward so it slides deep into my throat causing me to retch, he laughs at my discomfort. At the same moment my thighs writhe in reaction and I cum in spurts up my stomach. Although I'm moaning and breathing more heavily around the cock filling my mouth, he hardly seems to notice to my own ejaculation. Instead, he plays around some more, in, out, back and forth, his swaying balls surging with fresh loads of semen, until after a while he begins to fuck my face more intensely, his hands coming down to grip my head inescapably. When he ejaculates this time half of it hits my mouth, other jets shoot across my face, nose and up into my hair. Gasping breathlessly I resist the urge to wipe. He wants it on my face, it stays of my face until he decides otherwise. It's his decision, not mine. I'm here to be used. I concentrate on sucking the spunk-messy cock. Once in his bed I'm not allowed to leave. After a while we must have drifted off into a kind of sated sleep. I have a series of disturbingly erotic dreams. A line of nude guys - Dean, Ian, the trustee from the potting shed, the other two 'auditions', others I don't remember, all the cocks I've ever sucked in my life, here in the Big House, and the years before. Is it really so many? And I must work my way along the row of very stiff erections towards Wolfie, who waits like some kind of prize or reward at the end of the line. They're all big and hard, masturbating in their impatience for me to reach them. At first it seems we're on a beach. I can feel the sun and the warm breeze on my bare body and hear the low murmur of waves. But then, as I draw back from Dean's pulsing ejaculating cock gushing sperm as rich and creamy as a full milkshake, struggling to gulp it all as it slops from my mouth and down my chin, I realise no, we're on-stage in a plush Parisian or maybe New Orleans cat-house. My cock-sucking marathon is the evening's entertainment. But as I crawl towards the next cock my own genitals are shrinking, I'm losing my body hair, reverting to what I'd resembled as a kid, regressing. There's an audience watching us, pointing, mocking and jeering at my cock, which is now so small I'm ashamed. But I can't hide, they can all see my humiliation. The other stiff drooling cocks awaiting my attention are all so much bigger and more challenging, and getting bigger as I struggle to mouth them, working my way along the row one by one. But with a sense of increasing urgency I know it's vitally important that I suck them all off and reach Wolfie. Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 03: Wolfie But now the dream is changing again, I'm crouching on the worn carpet in the flat I once lived in with one of my mother's creepy boyfriend. I can hear the street-traffic moving outside. He sits in the threadbare armchair, trousers around his ankles. He smells of stale tobacco and alcohol. He leans forward to wipe a blob of sperm from my chin with the corner of an off-white handkerchief as he hisses, "Don't tell your mother about this, this is our little secret, don't tell and I'll give you a shiny shilling, how about that?" Then I wake and feel the insistent heat of Wolfie's bulbous cockhead nudging my lips again. Is this part of the dream, or is it real? It's real. Some time has passed. Hours probably. It's still dark, darker. His knee is up against my chest. His hand resting on the back of my head. My breath is warm in his groin. I daren't move. Instead, I lick my lips and try to taste what's around me. The moist salty darkness. His dried sperm on my face, mine on my stomach. A dampness of sweat and spit. The silence above and around. My mouth opens and his slimy cock slides back in, familiar now, slippery-sheened with my own saliva. It lodges there. I suck at it. I tease it with my tongue. There's the sound of breathing coming from other beds and I wriggle myself around, trying to curl into a more comfortable position. Settling in. This time the sucking goes on at a more leisurely pace, and it lasts a long while, maybe half an hour, before he comes. He's ejaculated into me three times now, each time more copious than the last, leaving a persistent aftertaste that lingers all day as a genetic marker establishing his ownership, his erection never subsides for a moment, never loses its rock-hard rigidity. My own cock trembling its own messy pulsating climaxes matching his in each exaggerated posture. The night extends. I drift off again, until first dawn-light. It's a case of 'wake up and smell the pheromones'. Even the sheets have a stale funk of sweat and sex, like I'm inhaling a narcotic mist. I'm rising light-headed, my blink-eyes glazed from sperm-intoxication, sticky with perspiration and semen - his and mine. I ache, I've got a crick in my neck from the different positions he's contrived for me to accommodate him. As my bare feet contact the floor, I have trouble maintaining my balance. As I make to go, unsure of my status, I turn back. Will he reject me like the others? Has all this been for nothing? He lies on the rumpled bed, the creased sheet covering his lower body. I hesitate. "Is it alright if I... do you want me to come back tonight to do it some more?" He knuckles his eyes blearily, raises himself up on one elbow, and says nothing for a long heart-stopping moment. "You wanna come back tonight to do it some more?" "Yes, I do, if it's alright, please" I mutter stupidly. He draws the sheet back, revealing his heavy cock slumped across his thigh. His wiry pubic hair still matted with my saliva. I swear that if for one moment it just twitches, if it so much as stirs, I'll be down on it again in a flash. "You really want to?" My attention is fixed on it, licking my lips unconsciously, feeling my own body involuntarily reacting even as I watch, my down-hung cock beginning to flesh out with an increase in blood pressure, swelling, if not yet rising. "Yes, very much so, more than anything, please'" He laughs low in his throat. "OK, who am I to deny your grubby little pleasures? I grant you your wish. You get to suck it another day." I exhale a big sigh of relief. "Thank you," and turn away quickly, hoping he won't detect my slight tumescence - my cock has no shame, but his mocking expression tells me he has. Nevertheless, moving away like a brain-dead robot, heavy-limbed, nothing else matters, I've earned my status, I've acquired my new protector, and he's recruited a highly biddable, malleable, and conveniently complaint oral repository for his regular spunk emissions. That's all that is important. Mission accomplished. I find myself pathetically content. Already, I'm looking forward to tonight. As it happens, I don't have to wait that long. I breeze around all morning as though I've grown wings, constantly running my tongue around the inside of my mouth, seeking out traces of the musky flavour of his seed that still lingers there, its scent in my sinuses. Just to prove to myself that what happened, really happened. Yes, I've got myself a well-hung new protector. Everything's going to work out fine. Mid-point in the afternoon I'm approached by 'Dread', a guy from Wolfie's dorm. Perhaps he's mixed-race? He has his hair in tight corn-row braids. I think I recognise him as the guy leaving Wolfie's bed the previous night, moments before I arrived. He says "Hey, Wolfie wants you. Now. In the dorm." I nod, and follow him with a chill of nervous anticipation, up the creaky wooden stairs and along the corridor. Willingly, knowing what I'm about to do. Not brave, but resolute. If last night was the rehearsal, the run-through, the audition, this is the verdict. I've never passed an exam in my life. This is like waiting for the most important exam results in my life. Dread stays at the door, keeping guard, as I go on in. Wolfie sits on the bed masturbating, pants around his ankles, each long slow upward wank-stroke of his fist hefting the huge ball-sack hung between his parted legs up and down. He looks up at me. "You want to do this? You're cool with it?" Too late, I'm already doing it. Even as I nod, "Yes" I'm crouching down in front of him, between his splayed legs. I pause only to tug my own pants down - I've long since dispensed with the encumbrance of underwear, and extract my handkerchief to lay it ready before I begin sucking him. It's daylight this time. The closer I get, the more I can see everything more clearly now. And it's more fiercely impressive than ever. Big. Firm. A slight muskiness. I feel daring. I feel sexy. Horny too. In awe of it, even as the fat smooth head slips into the embrace of my warm wet lips, past my teeth, its blood-engorged size distorting the shape of my mouth, bulging out my cheek, until it lodges at the back of my throat, gagging slightly as its strong taste floods me. Determined it's going to stay there, I glance up at him. Sucking air through his teeth he says "You swallow this and it's a binding contract, understand? Spit it out, you walk away, and none of this ever happened. It's your choice. Understand?" Afraid of unmouthing him I just nod as best as I can, my lips forming a perfect seal around it, and begin working on it, using all the skill and technique I'm capable of mustering. Squeezy-suction tricks I've learned from Ian, busy tongue-things I used to do with Dean, which he always liked, never allowing it to leave the hungry clasp of my mouth for a split-second. He holds out and lets me do it, for a very long time, with remarkable stamina. While, caught up in the urgent intensity I'm so hard I'm permanently on the brink, trying to hold back, but it's impossible. Trembling, fumbling too late for the handkerchief, moaning, using it to catch my own spontaneous emission as I begin spurting off. Some time later, when he eventually cums in pulsating waves of warm jets, I meet his eyes deliberately, holding the rich spunk in my mouth, making sure so he can see as I swallow it all. So he can be in no doubt at all of my intention. I hold his cock in my mouth as long as I can, releasing it only reluctantly. Even so, it's still horizontal, still pointing directly at my brain, slippery-dripping with my saliva. My eyes fixated on it. Of course, I'm faking this adoration for his benefit, aren't I? Sure I am, but if that's the case why am I still sprawled between his legs, lapping, licking, sucking, kissing and tonguing it long after it's strictly necessary, and why is my own erection, even though webbed with strands of drying jism, still firm as though saluting my total submission to the alpha male? At this moment, strung out in blurry post-orgasmic afterglow, this is what I want more than anything else in the world. And over the coming weeks I'm going to get to know every aspect and pulse of this cock, every vein and throb, better than he knows it, better than I know my own... "That's it. You can go, but don't stray too far, I might need you again later" he says gruffly. "Thank you, I do hope so, Wolfie" I reply, wiping my mouth in my most vulgar tarty way. He laughs. On the way out I pass Dread with a haughty smile. Oddly defiantly proud. I've passed the test. He's accepted me. He wants me to do dirty business to him. I've got a new protector, and he's as mean as a junkyard dog. So all you bad guys out there, you can just go fuck yourselves. You mess with me, you mess with Wolfie, and believe me, you don't want that. In my head I'm chanting, almost like a mantra, saying 'yes, I'm Wolfie's cock-sucker now, that's what I am. I put his cock in my mouth and I suck it until the spunk comes, that's what I do. He spunks off in my mouth and I swallow it, that's what I do. That's what a cock-sucker does. That's what I am. That's what I do. I'm a cock-sucker. I'm Wolfie's cock-sucker. That's what I am. And I'm good at it. It makes me hard, which means I like doing it. Doing it makes me cum, which means I like having his cock in my mouth. I enjoy sucking his cock. I like swallowing his spunk. It makes me hard and makes me cum. I sucked Dean off. I suck Ian off. Now I suck Wolfie's cock. I'm a cock-sucker. That's what I do. I suck cock. Wolfie's cock. I'm a dirty spunk-swallowing cock-sucker with his warm spunk in my gut, yummy-yum. I'm a wholly-owned subsidiary of Wolfie.' "You've had other boys doing this?" I venture to him one night, after I've swallowed his cum and am still busy sucking and licking his softening man-meat. Making long mouth-strokes with my cat-rough tongue. "Sure. I had a regular cock-sucker for nearly four months. He was pretty damn good, until he got paroled. Since then I've tried out a few, but they didn't quite measure up. The selfish brats choke on my spunk then act like I should be grateful to them for sucking me off, can you imagine? Me - grateful to them! Remind me - who is it doing who the favour here? Who - I ask you? Then Ian suggested you. Said you were a dirty cum-sucking slut who loves cock. That you've been broken in, were experienced, and would appreciate the opportunity of sucking me off. I guess he wasn't wrong." "I know how fortunate I am to be here doing this, Wolfie" I whisper hoarsely. "I won't let you down, ever. I shan't make that mistake." Telling him what he wants to hear, sure, but not entirely untrue either. No-one messes with Wolfie. You need a protector? He's the best there is. Because of him, the bad guys know me, yeah, and they leave me alone. That's all I need to know. I go back to contentedly sucking his soft cock, detecting the first tremors of it stiffening again. Good. Sometimes, my life is so eerie. There are times when I stand in the sidelines watching my own life with a sense of amused detachment, as though it's a movie or an absurdist black comedy. It's a game I don't mind playing, so long as it keeps me distracted from the things I'm actually doing. And as for Wolfie, it was some time later that I rationalised it. I now realise it's absolutely possible to like the organ, to be enamoured by the cock you're eagerly sucking, yet dislike the man. To separate the two, as though they're independent species. I might be infatuated with his penis - a magnificent beast with amazing recuperative powers, a masterpiece of obscene cock-meat, but I never much liked him from the offset, he has a sneery attitude that revels in his power over me. Within a week it became apparent that he's a different proposition to Dean - Dean was happy to lie back and let me do the work. Wolfie enjoys forcing me to extremes, but by then I was too broken to consider backing out of the arrangement. I now appreciate exactly why Ian had been dubious about hooking us up. Me? I felt I had little cause for complaint. He was uncouth, but I'd got the protection I so desperately yearn for. I can deal with it. During those regular trips - nights and mornings, to and from his room, I grow to recognise the other transient figures in the corridors, becoming familiar with their furtive bodies and sweetly nodding genitalia, their nudity moonlight-whitened to a silvery alluring sheen, as they, presumably, grow to know mine. There are a couple I'd have quite happily tarried with and exchanged bodily fluids, but we have more urgent encounters to fulfil, other erections awaiting our intimate ministrations. So we smile shyly with long lingering gazes, and pass on. For the three bleakest months of December, January and February, rain falls in relentless deluge, making it impossible to escape into the vegetable garden. Instead there's always the gym, and I was occasionally assigned to work in the kitchen - something which came near to putting me off the thought of ever eating here again. I was preparing vegetables, clearing up and washing implements and utensils after they'd been used. It was boring, humid with steam and oven-heat, but not particularly demanding. There were two trusties in charge, and a younger guy - Phil, who assists them. They call him 'Chuckler', with some irony. At intervals, during break-times, they take him into the store-room where there are racked shelves lined with cans of beans, drums of coffee, packs of breakfast cereals, loaves of bread and sacks of potatoes, shutting the door behind them. Some time later they emerge looking pleased, but with young Chuckler showing evidence of tears. What they're doing to him in there I can only imagine. Is he being forced to suck them off? Or something worse? I never ask, and never find out. Whatever it is, none of them wash their hands afterwards, which worries me. Because I'm very particular about what I put in my mouth - at least, I am when it comes to food. I smile at Phil encouragingly, to show my support, but he doesn't seem inclined to respond. I imagine him down on his knees as they take turns shoving their stiff cocks into his mouth. I suppose I could have volunteered to help him, offered to go into the storeroom with them in his stead, just once, to save him from whatever indignity he's being subjected to. The thought of me down on my knees as they take turns in my mouth is amusing, and not without its elements of stimulation. But I don't. While the two trusties leave me alone to get on with my tasks, apart from making stupid joking innuendos. They know I'm 'protected'. We also endure long remedial courses, although my mind is usually elsewhere, my concentration drifting into vivid daydream, thinking impure thoughts. Always my problem, my benign disease. I've never been very sociable, and despite my best resolve I stay introverted, living in my head. Seldom in the real world. Even here - in the Big House, I'm living a weird blend of the two. On the tantalising borderline of fantasy where a sense of surreality holds sway and I frolic with mind-creatures. The other - more physical escape I get, is the pleasures I take in the laundry room with Ian. And even that assumes a dreamlike quality, a suspension of time. Perhaps this is the fantasy I'm writing now, in preference to the sad shabby reality. I'm an unreliable narrator. 'Write what you know' the writer-in-residence had said, and all I know is fantasy and daydreams. And perhaps that's the saddest thing of all. That none of the sexual content of this story is true, and that my life is so stiflingly dull here that I'm forced to concoct such extremes of pain and fulfilment to give it meaning? If real life doesn't match up to your fantasy, live the fantasy, until that fantasy becomes your life. There's a small what-passes-for a library. Little more than a tall unit of dog-eared and faded books. Intimidatingly dour hardbacks at the top. Rows of yellowing thumbed paperbacks below them - horror, SF, crime-detection, westerns. Then, on the lowest shelf of all, there's a stack of ageing comic-books, but most of them are American Super-hero titles, something that's never really interested me. So I begin reading quite a few of novels, something I've seldom done before. Perhaps it's because of the pressing need for some kind of escapism, into the alternate worlds of fiction. Perhaps that's where I began formulating the ideas about having crossed over into this 'parallel reality'? But there are also publications of a more dubious nature circulating, and inevitably I wind up engrossed in them too. Nastily-printed underground porn-novels. One that particularly appealed to me was 'Maximo Urge's probably pseudonymously-written 'The Random Rod', a kind of Victorian pastiche of Charles Dickens, Henry Fielding, and the Marquis de Sade, in which the impoverished peasant farmer of a large country estate falls behind on the rent for his hovel, and offers the sexual services of his slow-witted but enviably well-endowed late-teenage son - Roderick Random, in lieu of payment. After being debauched by Squire Fleshpole, his disreputable family and staff, Roderick escapes from the great Country House, into a sexual odyssey of strange adventures. It's around this point that the novel takes a stranger turn. From a kind of debauched Henry Fielding, into a darker more-Gothic realm, with De Sade overtones. This scene leads them to yet further satanic debauchery. Roderick soon loses the will to escape, forgets everything else, and obediently accepts his new submissive sex-slave role. With so much rollicking dirty-minded fun, I enjoy the fantastic tale immensely. Every character and plot-motivation revolves around sex. Every crisis is precipitated by a sex-act, and its solution provided by yet another. It is relentlessly single-minded. But then, as all pornography is priapically cock-centric, obsessively concerned with erections, penetrations and ejaculations, gay porn must be its purest distillation. Because it consists of nothing else. Wouldn't it be wonderful to write something like 'The Random Rod' myself, made up of breezy action with the barest smattering of sense and substance? Both comic and erotically stimulating by turn, a story that both has the physical effect of inducing arousal in the reader, while being amusing, literate and readable too. Perhaps that's precisely what I'm attempting to do here, with this rambling narrative? The scurrilous novel also makes me identify with its innocently picaresque hero - after all, are my own present circumstances that much different to his? Both of us compelled by nature or circumstance to kneel at the altar of what Bryan would term the twin deities 'Baylock & Testiclees'? Perhaps my situation is not as unique as I'd imagined? And throughout history, and literature, there are youths doing pretty much what I'm doing? The thought conjures up suggestive images in my mind. Sometimes Wolfie sends a message out to me during the day - delivered by some bratty kid with much sniggery knowing innuendo. "There's something Wolfie wants you to do, now" or "Wolfie's got a position for you." And I breathlessly scurry obediently to wherever he is, anxious not to keep him waiting, and we use some quiet corner while a leering friend - usually Dread, keeps watch, or we go into a dusty store-room, or find somewhere secluded in the grounds, or I follow him into a toilet cubicle to suck him off without hesitation. Even when others watch us enter the cubicle, knowing full well what I'm about to be subjected to. For Wolfie, my discomfort is part of his pleasure. He's always rock-hard, I'm always ready. And again, it all happens without a word spoken. Once together, without being told, I crouch straightaway, unzip him, extract it carefully and do what I have to do. He looks down at me with such a leering unpleasantly possessive 'I've got you exactly where I want you' look as I suck him. I hate that smug self-satisfied expression. But I'm able to detach him from what I'm doing, separate the face from the cock, they are separate entities, he's somewhere up there, I'm down here dealing with this monster, as I wipe it clean, fold it back in and zip him up. Then wait until he might nod, or say "OK" - the only verbal transaction, which means I'm free to go back to whatever I'd been doing. Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 03: Wolfie My own participatory arousal means that, depending on the circumstances, I might stuff a handkerchief down the front of my pants in preparation for my own climax, have you ever tried to stop it? You can't, it's impossible, or - if we are sufficiently private, release and relieve my own burning erection. To avoid the crusty white stains on the inside of my pants. I become paranoid about spunk-stains on my clothes - my spunk or his, betraying what we're doing. I check out my clothes self-consciously, rubbing out suspicious spots and white flecks that others might pick up on. While his unpredictably regular demands makes this the most intensely sexualised period of my life. Especially that first month. Especially the first two weeks of that first month. It's like I've lost all sense of separate personality. As though I've no identity, no soul, no independent being of any kind other than this sexual role that consumes me from first waking at dawn with a fierce Morning Glory. During the day I never know when the word will come, or how frequently, so I'm permanently psyched-up, on edge, in sexed-up readiness for his call. Just because it's already happened today doesn't mean it won't come again later, and I have to be ready even in moments when I least expect it. That awareness is always there gnawing away at the back of my mind, inducing persistent sluggish erections that just won't subside. But maybe what's worse than this one-track mind is that far from objecting to my servitude, I feel secure and safe. If I get agitated when I get the call from him, I'm more fretful when I don't. The first time he doesn't summon me during the day I'm in a nervous agony of uncertainty. What does it mean if an entire day goes by without him face-fucking me, does that mean he's tiring of me? Is he bored with me already? Does that mean he's about to dump me in favour of some new cock-sucking kid, some fresh pliable new meat? Is he fucking some new boy's mouth... even now as I'm sat here worrying? Has he found someone else who does it better than me, or different, or does something else, something I don't do? What will my life be like if he has, and he leaves me in the same terrible vulnerable void I'd experienced when Dean left? Where is he? What's he doing? Why hasn't he called for me? I keep glancing down at my watch. It's getting late, and he hasn't called for me yet. What should I do? Hang out around the places we do it and hope he'll notice me, as an indication that I'm ready? Find Dread and send a message to Wolfie that I'm available? Try to find Wolfie and ask him if I can do it... like that first time I steeled myself and went to Dean's bed? Or will he be offended? I'm getting jittery. There's an unmistakeable stirring in my pants at the very thought of it. Perhaps I'm already into a cock-junkie's withdrawal? I want to do it to him, I need to. That evening in the dorm, when he makes it obvious he expects me to blow him I'm so relieved that I go at it with ravenous enthusiasm. It's such a relief when all those doubts are washed away with another mouthful of his spunk. I'm pathetically grateful. Afterwards he looks down at me. "You really love doing that thing, don't you?" I smile up at him, my mouth messy with his sperm. "I suppose I must do." Am I playing a part? Telling him what he wants to hear? Or is there truth there I daren't even admit to myself? Words can deceive, your mind can play tricks on you, but your body never lies. He laughs low in his throat, a sound something like a snort of derision, and stretches his legs. "You used to do it for Dean? You used to go down on him?" It's the first time he's properly spoken to me. I nod, affecting coyness, looking away shyly. Why deny it, he obviously knows anyway. "Who's best, who do you like to suck the most, him or me?" I pause, as though hesitant. "It was fine with Dean, he was nice. I did it to him pretty much every night, and doing it always got me hard. But to be honest, it's better with you. I like sucking your cock more. I get hard just thinking about doing it to you. Your cock is bigger." I respond eagerly, blurting it out. No guy can resist that. Am I talking too much? He doesn't need my mouth for that purpose. My mouth is not for speaking. Then, recalling my earlier fears, "If there's something else you want me to do, y'know, something else, anything, that's fine. I'm up for it, I'm ready for whatever you want to do." I don't really know what I'm offering, or what I'm suggesting, but just feel some gesture is necessary if I'm going to hold his interest, and maintain his protection. So, although there's no fundamental change, it does mean that me sucking him off, having me at his sexual beck and call is no longer a novelty. It's a wake-up. I'm going to have to up the stakes. On one occasion I'm in his dorm submissively crouching to suck Wolfie as Dread keeps watch, and Dread hisses "Hey Wolfie, can I have a turn? I'm busting my nuts here." Wolfie grunts, "OK, but hurry up, I've not cum yet." And they change positions. Wolfie pulls his jeans up and takes his position at the door, while Dread crosses to the bed, drops his pants and sits in front of me. I'm befuddled. What else can I do? This is more or less the scene I'd once scarily envisaged with me, Dean and Hooch. Me doing two cocks, one after the other. But haven't I more or less offered to do whatever Wolfie wants me to do? Now he wants this. Dread has watched me sucking Wolfie off on a number of occasions, he knows what I do. It's not as though I can pretend otherwise. But I've never had this cock in my mouth. I've never tasted this one before. And it does feel a little odd to be crouched ready, in full expectation. From the door Wolfie keeps glancing across, watching me, waiting, seeing how I'll react. I can't hesitate. But now I'm about to do it, it's not so scary. It's just a done deal. My permission or consent is not required. I have no choice. His olive skin is smooth and athletic. He's uncut, and big. Long, but not as thick as Wolfie. I reach up to hold it, smooth the foreskin back, carefully exposing the glans, feeling the latent power lurking within, it swells and moves in response to my touch, I lick the tip warily, experimentally, and hear him gasp somewhere above me, then I take it into my mouth. It tastes of sweat, and possibly dried spunk. I'm flustered, but can't deny I'm excited by it too. There's a fine sheen of perspiration on his gut, his legs twitching with excited tension. His tongue is hung out and he's panting like a dog. As I begin applying suction he goes into moaning and gasping so loud that Wolfie laughs "Hey, shut the fuck up, you wanna alert the whole place to what you're doing?" Dread lies back on the bed, totally splayed out, drawing me up to follow him, with me facially affixed to his crotch going suck-suck-suckity-suck-suck, he puts his hands over his eyes, then pulls the pillow over his face, stifling his animal exhalations as best he can, as his pleasure escalates. In truth, his nervous excitation is not exactly unpleasing. The fact that I'm supposedly the victim, the submissive, the subservient partner, yet I'm the one provoking such extreme reactions in him. I'd assumed he was used to being blown, maybe he's not used to being blown by a mouth as skilled as mine? Some may consider what I do 'bad', but I sure am good at doing it. He's flexing the muscles of his stomach as my sucking makes thrilling slippery sounds up and down his cock, he's moaning way down in his soundbox, the cords on his neck standing out stiff and hard like ropes. Then he's twitching and jerking like he's undergoing some terrible electro-convulsive therapy, until he suddenly gloops slick pearly liquid into my throat with a jubilant whoop of joy. I gag back on it as it spurts into my mouth, once, twice, three times, then again. As it gives one final shudder and ooze of spunk, he slides his wet cock free and moves aside so I can finish Wolfie. They're bantering over my head. "I'm not sure I wanna stick my dick back in there now you've messed it all up," leers Wolfie. "I do have certain standards, you know." "It's alright, he's swallowed it all like a good little cum-slut, haven't you, boy? Open your mouth, show Wolfie... see, it's all gone." I wait, crouching there, until Wolfie decides to allow me to suck him to completion. He shrugs, as though generously conceding 'what the hell?' And I move in to get his cock back in my mouth again. On another occasion Dread approaches me and says "Wolfie says to follow me." So I follow him. He takes me into the toilets, down towards the cubicle at the farthest end called 'Frenchie's Hole'. It's the one known to be used for sexual assignations, not all of them consensual. I'd seen boys dragged in there unwillingly, and come out some time later sobbing. I was expecting Wolfie, but as Dread hustles me in and shoots the bolt it's obvious he's not about to show. Dread pulls his denims down. His big cock horizontals, aimed at my face, serpent-hooded, bobbing menacingly before me. I eye it suspiciously, caught between lust and reason. "Are you sure Wolfie knows about this?" "Course he does. You calling me a liar, boy? You want me to go tell him you refused?" "No, I'm not saying that... no." "So what you waiting for? Just get nasty with it." I crouch down to suck him off, holding it at the base, angling it into my mouth, still uncertain, my thoughts conflicted. He'd obviously liked what I'd done to him before, now he wants more. I'm hoping he's going to keep it quiet, so as not to make things too obvious to anyone outside, but as soon as it slips in between my pursed lips he goes into moans and grunts so loud everyone must hear it. "Fuck... that feels good. Shit... suck that thing." I feel my face colouring, flushing, I try my best to make him cum quickly by sucking harder but he just keeps going, pushing it deeper into my maw. I put my hands up around the bare curves of his ass and hold him to me, feeling his muscles quivering. Despite my misgivings the oddness is affecting me, so much that I have to release my own erection and wank it rhythmically, which makes him laugh all the more. "You dirty whore you just love getting face-fucked, don't you?" I guess I must, my reply is only a muffled 'mmmmm-mmmm' as I pump out my spunk onto the damp toilet floor, moaning and gurgling out my agonised ecstasy around his choking velvety cock. I can tell he's trying hard to hold back, to delay cumming, but the way I'm working him it's impossible, until finally when his convulsive orgasm starts, his triumphal roar must be audible to everyone. His throbbing excitement persists as I gulp and swallow he looks down at me with a sneer of satisfaction, pulls back playfully, indicates the last belch of sperm oozing from its red eye, its pearly whiteness standing out in sharp contrast against his darker skin pigmentation, I dutifully lean in to lap it clean. Its consistency is blandly tasteless. Unlike Dean, or Wolfie, or even Ian. But the action of my lips around his moist glans makes a juicy slurping sound. Make it good, keep him happy. "I don't recall telling you to stop sucking it" he sniggers. So I resign myself to keep working it, although now, as we've both come, it hardly matters any more, so I suck on the bulb of its softening afterglow. "You really enjoy sucking on cocks?" he says, more conversationally now. "Some more than others" I say, allowing myself the dignity of preference. Not stating an opinion about the one I'm tonguing now. Eventually I'm allowed to slink red-faced and confused out of the cubicle, Dread swaggering after me, zipping up his pants, watched by a couple of snickering kids. Will they tell what they've seen...? Will word get back to Wolfie about this? Does he know already, or does he know nothing about this...? Later still I'm with Ian and tell him all about it. Ian finds the situation amusing. Yes, Wolfie and Dread have always been close friends. When no-one else is available it's assumed they toss each other off - which is obviously what they were doing that first night, before my arrival in the Dorm, that's why Wolfie was already hard and sexed-up. They'd also intimidated other younger guys and used them sexually, against their will. The fact that I'm now providing that outlet freely is saving some other poor kid from stress and humiliation. But now there are two aspects. If Wolfie knows and has given Dread the go-ahead to use me, then my reluctance to comply would be bad, and anyway, what's another blow-job? No big deal. He's shared me once, no doubt he'll share me again. That's part of the deal. And by the same token, you can't blame Dread for trying it on, and getting a freebie. But you don't want to get tangled up in politics between them. If Wolfie doesn't know, and later finds out I've been giving Dread head too without his knowledge, he might dump me. Another part of the 'Protector' deal is the exclusivity. As it is, Dread only tries it on with me once again. He leads me into a sheltering copse of trees in the grounds, and drops his pants. He's fully already erect this time, in impressive anticipation of what I'm about to do to him. Dubiously, I go down on my knees in the moist grass to suck him as before. I look up at him indecisively, then get it in my mouth. There are rustling sounds in the foliage, as though someone is approaching, but is probably just the breeze stirring the leaves. His hands are resting on the back of my head as his hips begin to make slight fucking motions into the back of my throat. I break off halfway through, draw back so I'm holding its slippery dribbling bulb an inch clear of my mouth. "Are you sure Wolfie knows about this?" His hands impatiently increase pressure on the back on my head, attempting to force me back onto it. I resist. "What's it matter to you? C'mon, don't stop, get it back in your fuckin' mouth. I know what you fairy-queers are like. You can't tell me you've not been sucking other guys. And it gives you a hard-on too, which proves you like doing it. You can't say different." It goes back into my mouth for a single determined suck that makes him grunt and squirm in response, then I draw back again. "No, that's not true. I do it for Wolfie. I do it for him." Having made my point I resume sucking him meekly and docile. If there is someone hiding out there watching this, Dread's so much on a blissed-out sexual high he'll certainly not notice, and from where I'm kneeling all I can see is his stomach and groin, except when he wriggles and I catch a fleeting glimpse beyond. If there's a secret voyeur watcher, and he tells Wolfie...? I imagine Wolfie in a nightmare scenario telling me 'you were observed sucking Dread's cock' and I'm stammering 'but he told me you knew and you'd said it was alright!' and he says 'No, you're lying, you're just so spunk-greedy you couldn't resist sucking his cock, that's all. Well, you want to suck Dread off you can suck him off as much as you like. But as far as you and me are concerned, it's finished. I've already got a new cock-sucker, one I can trust' and in my scary fantasy I'll be sweating and pleading with him 'No, he deceived me, I was doing it for you, honest! It's your cock I want to suck, please give me another chance to go on sucking it, please!' Dread is fine, he's got a nice cock, I've no real objections to sucking it, other than that I need Wolfie to be my protector. I can't afford to lose that. Dread comes nowhere near close when it comes to protection. In fact, although - so far as I know, there's no actual penetrative sex involved, as Wolfie's friend and known-accomplice, Dread also benefits from Wolfie's protection too. So I can't risk losing Wolfie, I can't. And all the while I continue mouthing Dread throat-deep until he comes in his usual noisy messy climax. By then it no longer matters and I'm caught up in the heat of it. I can feel his balls pulsing tight up against my throat as he empties into me. Not entirely unpleasantly. The more I get used to his cock, the better it becomes. But it never happens again after that, so the conundrum is resolved. Once or twice, as I'm being hustled off for yet another session with Wolfie, I catch Dread watching enviously from the corner of my eye. As though he's weighing up the odds of trying me again. But thinks better of it at the last moment, for fear of offending Wolfie. And I try various ways to make my sucking Wolfie better, more enthusiastically and inventively, just to make sure he's never tempted to dump me. Meanwhile I also mention to Ian the disturbing dream about being used by my mother's creepy boyfriend. "Was that real, did that actually happen? Is that the reason why I am the way I am?" Again Ian proves wise counsel. "The mind can do weird stuff. It can blank out memories. It can self-censor. So it might just be that you were abused by this creep, and it left a legacy of buried memories. But there are other explanations too. You are the way you are because you were born this way. We're all different. We all have tastes and preferences. We ain't nothing but mammals, you see what they get up to on the TV wild-life documentaries. They eat and shag each other. That's all they do. This is a highly sexualised situation. Sometimes things you fantasise about, things you might once have desired - even subconsciously, can seem real. You've got to be careful. It was a dream. Just a dream. Maybe a wish-fulfilment erotic dream. Something you subconsciously wanted to do, but never did. Who knows? In which case, nevertheless, it was a dream. Nothing more. Probably." Yes. That makes sense. So throw out those dreams and dream them no more. Sometimes I don't always trust Ian. There's something about him I can never quite fathom, something impish and mischievous. As though he's born to be wicked, but is being good for as long as it proves to be useful, for as long as it amuses him, while he carries that wickedness around within him transmuted into a sort of teasing gaiety. He's a bad boy, others know it, and he knows it. And as he's being good, that badness is mounting inside him. He's the closest thing I've ever had to an actual friend, but I don't always trust him. He's manipulated me, although I'm happy to be manipulated. "You've never actually been forced to do anything against your will, have you?" he persists. I think of that first night with Dean. Not forced, not exactly. Forcefully persuaded, perhaps? But then again, not much force was necessary, I was only too easily persuaded. But it was Ian who made my decision easier. He has a silver tongue - in every sense of the word, either using it to run rings around the head of my penis, or using it to run rings around my thinking, making all this perversity seems reasonable and perfectly normal. And wasn't it he who'd fixed me up with Wolfie? He was match-maker. So, "No, I've never actually been forced." And the armchair? I can clearly recall the stains. Perhaps I now know how those stains got there? Or is this just some kind of confusion of dream-memories? "I hate it when women say 'willie'" Ian says, on another occasion. "It's a demeaning way to make it sound silly, inconsequential." "So what do you prefer? Male Member. Private Parts. Penis?" "Penis is too clinical, like a textbook." "Cock. Dick. Todger. Prick?" I offer. "Sure, Pizzle, Knob, Pecker, Phallus, Dong, Prong, Schlong, Tool, Tackle, Meat-Sword." "Meat-&-Two-Veg?" "No, reminds me of dull suburban Sunday lunch." "John Thomas?" "No, too DH Lawrence." We start laughing. He says "What about Pecker, Chopper, Tool, Wiener, Joy-stick, Crown Jewels?" "Mayonaise dispenser." "Spunk-spurter." "Boner, Shaft, Dangly bits?" I suggest.