2 comments/ 13270 views/ 0 favorites Cock-Sucker: Lost In France By: tristantrotsky Afternoon – four-nineteen pm, and it's tar-melting sultry-hot. Hitch-hiking down through France, the Loire valley, medieval hill-top towns, and beyond. My nineteenth summer, in distressed jeans, faded T-shirt and backpack, dark shoulder-length hair and shades, as much for cool as the bullying solar glare. After a chain of short-term and unsatisfactory thumb-trip lifts, when the truck-driver drops me off, I start sloping south along the slow black ribbon curve of road, more or less on impulse, thumb stuck out, until I get too bone-weary to walk. Squatting down on the verge beneath a shading overhang of trees, sun slow-spilling through to warm aching legs, where gaudy butterflies hug the shade beside a field that ticks with grasshoppers and flashes with red poppies, I wait for destiny to intercede. Normally, I love the road. It picks me up and takes me anyplace I please. After what seems like three-hundred cars go by I get picked up by a French guy in a moss-green motor-home, dropping my pack behind the contour-seat. He speaks good English, but lubricated by an attractive Gallic inflection. He must be around forty, and swarthily attractive. A big man, with a perpetual beard-shadow. Dark hair shot with a few strands of grey. He speaks to me in a charming and flirtatious way, perhaps sensing my orientation. That kind of telepathy we all understand. After a while he – Emile, suggests he's due for a rest-stop and pulls in at a Routier. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder, as we turn and walk across the car-park, not quite guiding, more steering me. He buys café-au-lait and croissants, acting impeccably in every way. I feel strongly drawn to him. To his sophistication, the aroma of expensive aftershave. I tell him about backpacking so far, the sporadic jaunts and long delays between pick-ups, how last night I'd been stranded and slept over in a derelict outhouse that smells of fungus and piss. Watching dawn come up through the space between the roof-beams. Back in the vehicle the conversation becomes more sexually charged, more explicit, as we accelerate back into traffic, and – sure, I'm getting teasingly aroused by his presence. His hand falls, as if by accident, onto my thigh, and I let him run his fingers down my leg. Smiling shyly up at him. Later he asks if I have a boyfriend, I tell him – truthfully, 'oui Monsieur'. I'm 'autostop-peuses' down to Barcelona to see Django. He asks 'are you saving yourself for him?', and I laugh noncommittally. He asks if I'm short of cash. 'Sure I am, why else would I be thumb-tripping?' That's when he invites me to go into the back of the motor-home where I can earn some train-fare. This time his hand falls into my groin more deliberately, to outline the shape of my genitals. I'm intrigued, of course I am. He's attractive. I'd probably have gone with him for the hell of it. The euro inducement just makes it more of a seductive proposition. So I nod, acting coy. 'Do you think this kind of stuff ever happened to Jack Kerouac when he was hitchhiking 'On The Road'?' I suggest. 'I'm sure 'Ti Jean' had his moments', as he pulls off the autoroute. Signs blur D923, Parc des Parelles, Crevant, then up through a small village. Cobbled streets with shuttered windows and inviting patisserie. Then further up through the tree-line to open countryside. Slowing into a dirt-track leading through a copse of cypresses, glimpsing the glittering arm of a wide slow river branching through tall reeds, where he pulls over and slows to a stop. My cool comes all undone. I'm a little scared now. But a little excited too as we climb over into the cramped back beneath the curved roof. I shrug my T-shirt up and off as Emile watches. He smiles thinly, 'and the rest'. I obey, dropping my pants and standing nervously naked for his inspection. He's sat on the bed and – me still standing, he draws me near, one hand on the curve of my bare bottom, the other toying roughly with my cock. Soon I'm erect, and whatever reticence I had dissolves. I'll not tell Django about this – or perhaps I will, to make him jealous? He undresses, lies back on the bed and indicates his mouth. He's hugely erect, intimidatingly so. I sit down beside him so I can encircle it with my fingers, its touch is warm, making slow jerky masturbatory movements up and down its full energy-charged length from base to tip. 'No, no, suck,' with obvious impatience. So I tense myself, go down on him. And soon I'm sucking tentatively on him as he murmurs something in French. At one point he runs his hands into my hair, firmly easing my head down, forcing more in until I gag, coming up retching and laughing. He watches my discomfort with an expression of amused impatience, then urges 'more'. I'm really scared now. But at the same time, the situation is oddly arousing. I smile, like I'm seeking his approval, and go back to sucking him, settling to the rhythm. After a while he pulls my head up and rolls me onto the bed beside him. I'm laughing, enjoying his attention. Then he flips me over and I realise what he wants. I begin to half-protest, 'wait', but already he's got me on my gut, forcing my legs apart brutally. His body-warmth covering me, I feel the hard pressure of his cock on the crease of my arse, dry-humping me not unpleasantly, lingering around the orifice at its lowest pass, then returning to slide up smoothly between my bottom-cheeks, relaxing my tension a little, then teasing around my hole, nudging a little – will he, won't he? Instead, he spears my ass with a moist finger. I grunt as I feel the finger replaced by a more hot insistent pressure. Before I have chance to protest 'I'm not that kind of a boy,' I am that kind of a boy. Ceasing to struggle as it's obvious I have no choice, relaxing as much as I can. He slides into me, and I squawk against my will, groaning, unprompted. It's like I'm being split apart as he forces its length inexorably in until I can feel his balls crushed up against me. I rear up, my own genitals bouncing and jiggling, painfully erect, almost at once I begin ejaculating. He laughs and begins fucking me hard. It seems to go on forever, until at last he cries out just once, there's an earthquake shaking and shivering inside me, and I feel him flooding me in one long shocking gasp of motion. My heart beating, pausing, beating, pausing. Now I'm trembling and quivering with after-shock reaction as he extracts. For a long while we lie together in a cooling sweat. As though hyper-sensitised by it I become aware of birds singing outside, the swishing whisper of foliage and the dozy drone of insects, I can hear the gurgling swirl of water around stones in the river, and even occasional traffic rasping by on the road we've left. And when he runs his fingers down my back to caress the smooth curves of my bottom, his touch is electric. I glance away sulkily, determined not to make it easy for him. Make him pay for his lack of consideration. I act petulant. He gets up and dresses without another word. I turn over and wipe myself, refusing to meet his eyes, reaching for my pants. Then he stands over me to cup my face in both hands. Draws my face up to meet his, and I grin stupidly. Nowhere to hide, no pretence. He says 'tres bon, good, bonne bouche', and then we're both laughing. Back in the front we're driving back through the village where he first brought us, and I feel warm all over again, if a little sore. He was rough, a little aggressive, but it had been great sex. We drive some more, but soon it becomes apparent that no, this is a different village, we aren't heading back towards the autoroute, we're travelling deeper into the countryside. He says 'relax'. We eat in a Bistro, he pays, I eat, then we reach a remote converted-farmhouse hidden in trees and he draws to a halt in its courtyard. I'm well-wary now. Miles from anywhere. But there's no choice. We go inside. A barely furnished suite, but there's obviously wealth here. What now? He expects I'm going to sleep with him. I feel trapped. A squirmy kind of unease. What can I do? Where could I go? Then – hey, what's one night? Can't afford a night's stop-over at a chamber d'hote, and the soles of my feet are sore from all that walking. He leads me through, shows me the shower cubicle. 'You're hot?' Sure I'm hot, grimed with dust, dryness and sweat. So he leaves me. I strip, my 'T'-shirt so sweat-moist it clings to me, and resists removal. I get into the shower. It feels good, standing in stilled time, just letting steamy-hot shower-spray soothe my face and shoulders, cleansing all the crud the musk and perspiration from my body, sluicing away all the badness from my life, and leaving me purified. Over the sound of running water it's as though I hear voices... no, must be mistaken. Radio perhaps? There's no-one else here. No-one within miles. Then the shower door opens and Emile's standing there, appraising me. Suddenly, stupidly embarrassed I'm instinctively covering my groin. Then smile, shrug, and force my hands away, let him watch. After what we've already done, it's too late for shyness now. He sits back on an ottoman, still dressed. At length I step out and he begins towelling me in a large fluffy bath-towel. My clothes are gone. My backpack's still in the motor-home. He shifts his attention more specifically, lower, towards my centre of gravity, in teasing circles across my stomach, down to where we both know he's going to end up. I'm erecting in anticipation, until his long fingers breathlessly encircle it possessively. He holds it firmly, and begins to wank me slowly, leisurely, in long moist strokes all the way from tip to root. I stand perfectly still, hands by my sides, almost fearful of his censure, and let him do what he wants to do. His experienced thumb teases around the underside rim of my glans, intensifying the sensation, pausing to squeeze the shaft gently, then his fist becomes a blur, until my balls are bouncing. My head goes back. It's like I have to give him a good show, so I begin breathing heavily. I'm scared of him. His other hand creeps around my waist, his index finger seeking out my anus and spearing it, sliding deep. My hips move uncontrollably under the double assault. 'You like this? I'm pleasing you?' I nod enthusiastically. If I want his co-operation in getting out of here later, I'm going to have to be nice to him now. And I begin spurting uncontrollably all across his gripping fingers. He continues to hold me. I'm still impaled on his finger. At length he wipes the cooling drool fastidiously with the towel, and says 'you want to fuck now?' I nod. 'I'm sorry about last time' I breathe heavily. 'You're so big. I'm not used to taking anyone as big as you are.' 'And it gets bigger the more you pleasure it.' 'I'll try harder this time.' 'Of course you will. Of course you will.' He leads me by the cock into the bedroom. There's homo-erotic prints on the wall. A mirror, so I can see myself, and him, as he undresses and lays on his back on the bed. I climb over him, crouching on all fours. He's already aroused. I straddle his thighs so my testicles brush up and down his length. I hold my cock and trace it down the length of his much larger penis, kissing his nipples and writhing my head down to his naval. I kiss the fat glans, tasting its salt rawness. Lick him down to his balls. Suck each one in turn into my mouth, one, then the other. And finally slide the full fat bulb of his cock into my mouth and suck it hard, feeling his body tense in reaction. My vocabulary reduces down to grunts. I strain to take as much of its length as I can manage, reasoning that if I don't he'll only force it anyway, sucking furiously with undisguised enthusiasm. I feel in control, and that in itself is a powerful aphrodisiac. His stomach undulating. He seems satisfied, and that satisfies me. If this is going to be a one-night stand, I'll make it a memorable one. At length, decisively I release it, and immediately turn around, arse in the air, 'baise moi, merci, fuck me now.' He's behind me, I feel it slithering deep. I'm mewling and groaning, it's like my guts are being forced apart, yet bracing myself, grating my teeth, my own cock standing out stupidly raw and quivering. He fucks me long and deep. Pausing with it fully inside me. I'm gasping, my cock swaying, slapping up against my gut, frozen in total erotic impalement. Absolutely possessed by him. Then he begins again, and immediately I start coming, ecstatically. Suddenly, he's drawing back out of me, pushing me around numb and confused. He's targeting for my face again. I'm mumbling 'no man, no, it's just been...,' trying to push him away, no longer in control. I hadn't anticipated this. I draw away. That's when, it's as though he's going to strike me across the face. I fall back, more in shock than anticipating pain. And he's on me, wrestling me back, our nude bodies entwined, genitals waving ludicrously, then he's sitting heavily on my chest, his weight constricting my breathing, his knees pinning my arms beneath me. He places one hand under my chin and tips my face up towards him, prises my stupefied mouth open and nudges it in, huge and fat, drooling pre-cum and foul with body-odours. I'm almost gagging, but he's ramming it in so hard I'm gurgling and retching, my lips closing around it automatically. No other choice. He's fucking impatiently, holding me by the hair. Blinded by tears and confusion, I suck it, until he floods me in white tides of spunk and seismic shocks like an earth-tremor at the back of my throat, holding my head so tight his fat balls are squashed up against my throat. Then he's pulsing intermittently. And as he draws back at length it seems to take an age to slop free. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, a froth of sperm and spit-bubbles drooling on my chin. I feel sundered, my anus and jaw both throbbing with erotic invasion, I'm sticky with semen and sweat, gasping like an asthmatic, yet absurdly I'm still erect. Defying gravity, as though my body is denying my distress and disgust. He sits there smirking down at me. Draws his fingers down my face to chuck my chin up to meet his eyes. 'You did well' he whispers, 'but don't attempt to deny me. I am stronger. My will is stronger. Do what I want at all times and we'll be good for each other.' He circles my cock lasciviously, smoothing spunk-trails around the corona of my glistening glans. 'Your body likes what we do. It cannot lie. Why argue with the body's wisdom? We will do this often. Yes?' I force a smile. He raises his finger moist with my emission, and runs it along my lower lip. I manage 'yes, yes we will'. Absurdly feeling the warmth of gratitude for this man's approval, and slide the spermy finger into my mouth to suck it clean. I almost said 'master'. We sleep together naked. I have a series of bizarre and disturbingly erotic dreams. I'm with my lover in Barcelona. We lie together in the delights of sixty-nine, so deliciously and lovingly entwined. His body so smooth, pliable and beautiful. Our bodies moving together in perfectly reciprocated pleasure, his taste a perfection to my tongue. But as I look up from our sweet embrace Emile is standing there watching us, sneering. I'm startled awake. It is half-dark. He is sleeping beside me. I could escape, or I could even kill him. But my attention is drawn inexorably to the brutally large curve that hangs within his thighs. The phallus that has raped and violated me. But I'm mesmerised by it. I lie still, listening to the scratching of the cicadas somewhere out there in the eerie blackness. I like the night. Things clarify in the night. My imagination flows, every idea is available to me at night. All my preconceptions of things go away. Sometimes you're looking for what you need in all the wrong places. Sometimes it can be closer than you dare. Or in your bed, beside you. I settle back and sleep again. This dream-time I'm crouching, giving head to my new lover, submissively, reverently, and as I look up it is Django who is standing there watching, also nude, his penis small and limp. His expression is one of loss and regret. He becomes more and more insubstantial, fading as I pay humiliating oral homage to my new master. When I next wake I find myself confused and alone. Self-consciously I rise and pace through to the kitchen. He's dressed. About to leave. He indicates coffee and croissants, that I'm to help myself. I'm suddenly overcome with shyness before his gaze. I say 'where are my clothes?' 'You've been travelling' he answers reassuringly, 'your clothes are dirty. You don't need them. I'll have them laundered. In the meantime I'll have you naked. That way I'll have constant access to what I need. You provide the hospitality of your body for my use. I provide you with the hospitality of my home. So are both our needs satisfied.' 'You can't hold me here against my will.' 'I know what is your will better than you do. You are my guest, my lover, my slave. You will choose to leave when I so decide.' 'What if I'm observed like this?' 'We are far from people. The occasional peasant field worker. But they are familiar with my 'guests'.' Emile leaves me, locking the door so I can't leave. I watch him take the motor-home and drive away. I explore. There's no phone, no way of reaching the outside world. Not even an address so I can ascertain where I am. And wherever that is, it's a long way from home. No-one knows where I am. Nobody's going to miss me, or even find my absence unusual. Not for a long while... His rooms are full of books, many on gay themes. DVD's too. I find a folder of colour photos of naked youths. I recognise the rooms. They've been taken here. The guys are all attractively young and erect, so I – obviously, must be the latest of many 'guests'. I imagine them here, with him, they are dark or blonde. Their bodies smooth and firm, moist with arousal, crouching over to take his erection. Their faces screwed into an agony of sensation as he slides into them. It's such an erotic image I feel both aroused, and oddly jealous too. Some of the later photos are even more hard-core. Pictures of youths in oral and anal penetration. Some are bound. Others are with two or more men. Suddenly I'm afraid. What began as a road-trip has become a hallucination, a magic realism head-trip into strange-land. What have I got myself into? This could be a sex-cult thing. How will it end? With a snuff movie? I re-enter the bedroom. Affixed to the bed-head I notice, there's a length of chain with handcuffs fixed to it. Their purpose obvious. I raid the wardrobe. There are clothes here. Briefs, silk shirts. I slide the shorts on. They fit tightly. I catch sight of the mirror. Shit, if he could see me like this! I become oddly aroused at the thought, the bulging expansion my genitals create making the appearance even more sexy. At that moment I'd have done anything for him. Then I think of the photos and videos. I have to get out of here before he comes back. I pull on one of his shirts and a pair of loose trousers too big for me. There's even some money in the jacket pocket. So – he's had his pleasure with me, it's only right he should pay, isn't it? Shoes next. The doors are all locked. The windows latched down hard. For a while I'm sat there in indecision. Am I being stupid? I've never been what you'd call promiscuous, but sure I've been with my share of guys, although it's always been in a warm, mutual, consensual way before, never as intense and scarily unsettling as this. He's going to come back any minute. We'll have some sex. Violent, forceful for sure, but very exciting sex. It's a fantasy situation. An erotic dream. The sex slave, the dominant master. The kind of thing you masturbate about. Shouldn't I take the experience all the way? Enjoy it? Suck it, take it anyway he wants? Then he'll take me back to the autoroute, sure he will... Or perhaps not. Cock-Sucker: Lost In France I heft up a chair and hurl it into the window. At first it just jars back. Strengthened glass. I ram it at the window harder, this time it shatters explosively. My head pumping now with fear and urgency. I pick my way out carefully, jumping down glancing to left and right. No-one. So I avoid the road in case he comes across me as he's returning. Running parallel to it, as fast as possible over the uneven terrain. It is sticky moist. I'm tired and thirsty. I run for as long as I can. Then force myself to keep walking fast until I must be miles from the house of captivity. At last I'm breathing more easily. Allowing myself a smile. I'm free. What a story I'll have to tell when I reach Barcelona. I slow down warily as it becomes apparent I'm approaching a village. I need to get directions. Hey, I'm thirsty too. So I enter cautiously. There's a Bar. Nothing much else. I go in and order a coke, then sit slaking on its coolness. A police car outside. Gendarmes. He strides in. Crosses to the Bar and talks for some time, glancing across at me. Then he approaches me, speaking in French. I shrug. He obviously speaks no English. Should I tell him about my captivity? Before any other guys can be kidnapped and abused? Perhaps he'll provide me with a lift back to the autoroute? I accompany him to the car, and climb inside. The Police Station I suppose. But no, he's accelerating away out of the village. I sink back into the upholstery. Close my eyes. Smiling. When I open my eyes I'm shocked and startled to find we're pulling back into the converted farmhouse within which I'd been help prisoner. I yell 'no', and move to open the door. But he's got his pistol out, trained it at me, shouting something in fast French I can't follow. And Emile's waiting at the door in a dressing gown. Sullenly I'm led across and shoved inside. They're talking in French, indicating me. I'm confused and afraid. At length the gendarme leaves. Emile faces me. 'I'm disappointed. You can't be trusted. You steal from me. You destroy my property.' I find myself mumbling 'I'm sorry.' 'The gendarme recognised you were wearing my clothes. That you are a foreign vagrant. You're now known to him as a criminal. You have no right to wear my clothes, do you?' I'm bowing my head, defeated, submissive, 'no.' 'So remove them.' I'm almost weeping with hopeless desperation. But do as he tells me, item by item. Pausing in just the brief silk shorts, turning to him with a forced smile that's intended to be conciliatory, pathetically ingratiating. Tugging them down slowly to expose my pubic hair. He watches without expression as my penis tumbles into view. Soon, I'm naked again. 'Are you going to behave? How can I trust you now, after what you've done? You cannot leave, you know that.' I nod. 'All you have to do is make a decision to make no more decisions. It will be the last decision you ever need to make. Yes?' I nod. 'Look me in the eye. You agree?' 'I agree.' 'Good, now, hush, come to the bedroom and put those pouting lips to more sensual use.' I pace reluctantly ahead of him, conscious of the movement of my genitals. He's bigger, stronger than me. I feel gauche and clumsy. What's he going to do? I'm tense with anticipation, sat on the bed, legs splayed for his attention, penis lazily half-aroused in the bizarreness of cool nakedness, ready for whatever he intends doing to me. He loosens the draw-cord of the dressing-gown so it gapes down the front. He wears nothing beneath. 'You know what you must do.' I know, it's flaccid, I can change that. I can see us in the mirror. See me sliding down to crouch beneath him, cupping his pendulous balls, nuzzling his glans, slipping it between my lips, between my teeth, into my mouth, I begin sucking gently, acclimatised to his need. Its growing firmness comes up hard against my palate. Responding to me promisingly. If I do well, make him come quickly, he might leave me alone. I'm sucking for my life now, sucking as though my life depends on it, as – in a sense, I feel that it does. I can't allow it to be un-mouthed until I've sucked it limp again. This is what I must do, this symbolic act of absolute surrender to the authority of his will, this primal act of submission of the weak to the stronger, to the dominant alpha male. Abasing myself. Apes do this, or something very like it, to establish status and hierarchy. The chimps do it to Tarzan, or was that just in some porno spoof Tarzan I read somewhere? Moments extend into minutes, he shows no reaction. My face impaled on him, I look up over the smooth plains of his stomach and chest, trying to meet his eyes, appealing for approval, but his expression is indecipherable. 'You may masturbate,' more an order. So I draw him closer into me with one hand, and begin wanking with the other. Slow at first. Until, almost despite myself, the double gratification has an arousing effect, and my actions become intense, more concentrated, more focused. I catch a sideways glance at us in the mirror, him standing there, allowing me to do it to him. And what I'm doing squatting there looks so pornographic. I must sound like something from a bad porno too. Hell, it is pornographic, incredibly crude and nasty, more dirty and debased than I could believe. Previously, the sex in my life had been many things, intimate, emotionally-charged, tender, affectionate, sometimes even playfully mischievous. But it had never been as raw, blatant and perverse as this. His hands resting on the back of my head – not so much exerting pressure, as ownership. Sex as both punishment, and reward. I'm throating it a little deeper than I should, my nose delving into his pubescence, as I've learned he prefers it, with a hot and animal urgency. Totally concentrated on him. My own arousal desperately fierce now, my fist riding my own length so that my hanging testicles bounce and jiggle. I can hold no more, and ludicrously begin pulsing before he does, groaning and gasping around my fleshy gag as I tremble and quiver into my own ejaculation across my legs and fingers, careful not to allow it to stain his carpet. He takes longer, much longer, making me work, my eyes closed in total erotic sensation as, at length, he begins twitching and the first jet hits the back of my throat. I burrow in closer and suck harder as he empties into me, spurt after spurt, rich and thick as though he's not come for a week (although I have good reason to know he has), hearing his heightened exhalation with relief, and some satisfaction, then sucking more gently in the soft afterglow of mutual orgasm as the slow ooze of his semen dilutes into my saliva, a million little micro-gay spermatozoa swimming into me, absorbing up through my mouth-tissue into my bloodstream. He begins drawing back, until I murmur 'wait, I want to do it some more' as though besotted, stupefied, 'please let me suck it some more'. He holds as though in indecision, shrugs, relents, relaxes and generously allows me my way. 'You have learned to love this thing, exactly as I said you would?' I nod my grateful agreement. If he wants to believe that, so much the better. But am I doing it for his benefit or mine? I'm no longer able to tell, no longer know or care. Already it's softening, losing some of its rigidity, becoming more slithery-malleable, the syrupy mix of sperm and saliva melting it, dissolving its angry power, stealing its virility. For a long deep richly satisfying moment I'm almost glad that I'm back here. I feel indulged, embraced within the security of his protection. A flood of unreasonable gratitude that he's allowing me to make amends by doing this to him. I'd tried to stand against him, tried to defy his will, and I'd failed, yet he's letting me off so lightly. Thank you, thank you. But he's moving around me, guiding my hands around my back as I concentrate on what I'm doing, keeping still, unsure if it's safe to un-mouth him or not. I feel the circlet of steel snap into place around my wrist. For a moment, there's panic. 'You know what I'm doing, don't you?' I'm unable to reply. So merely nod slightly, as far as I can. 'You must earn my trust.' Yes – I must earn his trust. That's what I must do. That's the only thing that matters. And so it goes on. Days on end. It's never clear where he goes during the long days, but now he locks me in the bedroom every time he leaves the house. Sometimes one wrist handcuffed to the bed-head restricting my movements even more. Often there's a TV on, sound-down, but it's in French. So instead I fritter time away by reading his books, some of which are in English. I skim 'The Legend Of Dick Hunter', the supposed autobiography of a porn star. Blessed with a monster unfeasibly large penis and an exhibitionist tendency. He was happy to whip it out for admiring attention at every possible opportunity, which made him the centre of attention from as early as he could remember. What he lacked in academic achievement he more than compensated for in inches where it counted. Groups of giggling girls in the refectory would make pointed comments about salami, jocks in the showers or the locker-room would sneak sideways glances and give long low whistles of appreciation. Throughout school and college he was never short of partners of all sexes curious to experience it. Later, furtive married gays would give him a dollar just to handle it, or masturbate him in parked cars or dark movie-houses. At first he enjoyed the celebrity, but then tired of being seen only as a walking schlong. He wearies of being treated as a freak, as cock-meat, as a sex object, and decided instead that if his unique 11" genital endowment was the object of such prurient interest he might as well turn it to his financial advantage. The gleam in the eye of all who beheld it told him all he needed to know... I mean – boy, did Sigmund Freud ever get it wrong when he formulated the idea of 'penis envy'. Women don't really care, it's purely a male thing. You want to see penis envy, see a bunch of guys together in the shower eyeing each other up, watching the one with the biggest cock. That's pure penis envy – even among supposedly heterosexual straight men – breeders, and Dick knew all about that. But even in porn, as a kind of 'Dirk Diggler' he was the victim of unscrupulous exploitation and downright fraudulent behaviour, complicated by excessive partying and indulgences. He fucked and was multiply fucked, sucked and was multiply sucked, and found himself screwed in just about every sense of the word... It was a picaresque and sexually explicit story whether true of not. Other books on his shelves were vintage erotica, and profusely illustrated, documenting a million variations on the lexicon of sexual moves, some as painful as they are pleasurable. Or I sample from his DVD collection. Despite my predicament it's undeniably arousing watching those interacting onscreen feral rutting bodies. I even develop favourites and watch them over and over again. Especially the three naked guys beside the L.A. swimming pool, working their way through every erotic permutation of positions, until I'm able to predict each thrust and grimace. The tanned guy with the buttock-tattoo who obviously enjoys his strutting moments of sexual power over the other two. The second guy who must work-out and operates like a well-muscled choreographed automaton, switching his impressive erection from mouth to anus, then back in one smooth flowing motion. Then there's the skinny third guy who is a little more docile and probably a tad too old for this kind of thing, he's enthusiastic, yet as the other two get lost in each other's eyes he's down there doing the dirty work to both of them. What must it be like to have a thick cock in each hand, powerful?... or intimidating? struggling to manoeuvre both dick-heads into his mouth at once – one cut, the other uncut. He looks up at the two guys who are ignoring him, with an ingratiating pathetic 'please-like-me' smile. He squints a kind of contrived comic cross-eyed expression into the camera as they jostle each other for access to his mouth, obviously his special trick, his trademark on-screen gimmick, but if that was him acting, there's nothing fake or phoney about his ravenous hunger as he sucks. And when it comes to the money-shot, he takes two simultaneous big loads to the face with a look of humble gratitude, as though he's receiving joyful sacrament. There are stories of early porn films using raw egg-white to simulate sperm, supplementing any visual inadequacy in the amount generated. These two have no such problem. They must have been saving it up for at least a week. And he takes it all. He had already come harmlessly, and self-induced across his own gut moments before, although the fact that he was lying on his back with at least eight inches of work-out guy into his rectum at the time must have provided considerable stimulation. In every aspect of life there is the lesser-loved, the under-appreciated, this is his role. I watch. Think of the sideways glance I took in the mirror of me servicing Emile. Yes, that was me. That same expression of intense focused concentration. That same facial distortion, mouth skewed out of shape by singular invasion. Yes, that's what it was like. Is that shudder of climax he feels the same as the one I feel with Emile? I watch the sequence over again, give each of them names, even imagine back-stories for each of them. 'Buttock-tattoo' might be 'Dick Hunter' from the autobiography, a man prodigiously gifted by nature in just one highly specific way, and he's exploiting that one great singular talent in the only arena it counts for anything. The one aspect of his life that has negotiable value. 'Work-out Guy' – Arnold, is hoping to make it on the Body-Building Circuit, and from there maybe into legit movies, who knows – he might get spotted on this DVD, hey, Hollywood casting-editors watch porn too, but first he needs the cash for expensive gym-membership fees. Finally, low-esteem 'Please-like-me' guy – Wilbur, is perhaps the most interesting. He needs cash for punitive alimony payments, and for the sleazy bars that figure high in his failed, lonely and desperately alcoholic life. But even if he wasn't getting paid for this, he'd be doing it anyway, somewhere else, in some motel with a one-night pick-up who would probably rob him in the morning. For him, this is the end of the line, for him, this is about as good as it's ever going to get. He needs the warmth of human contact, even when it is tainted by their disdain. My viewing, or reading, is interrupted at intervals by the necessity to manually relieve the arousal the extreme imagery stimulates, after which I lie languid for long periods of time. Until boredom forces me back to the book, or the screen, and the cycle begins again. Of course, this continued exposure to hard-core material is part of a subtle conditioning designed to persuade me that what is happening to me here, if not entirely normal, is at least by no means exceptional. That what we are doing is an aspect of a widespread underworld of erotic game-play. And almost despite myself, the process is exerting its effect. This is my new life. Everything else recedes until it seems unreal. At other times I gaze out of the window working out stupid escape strategies, conjuring scenarios then dismissing them. What if I manage to sneak pills from his cabinet in the bathroom, hoard them over a period, one by one, then administer them in one knock-out Mickey Finn, in a drink, knocking him out for long enough for me to get the keys and escape in the moss-green motor-home? Would that work? But how to gauge how many to give, without killing him? If I fake illness – or actually contrive an injury, he'll have to take me to hospital. What if I become more sexually demanding, tire him out, until he sleeps, then make a break? Or snap off a chair-leg, conceal it by the bed, and use it as a weapon against him when he's least expecting it? Knock him out with it. But I'm trembling even at the thought of it. You can't win with a losing hand. This isn't a story. If it was, I'd know what to do. Instead, I'm scared to do anything. Until he returns, we eat – his wine and his cuisine are exquisite, we discuss freedom and commitment, liberty and belongingness, books and movies, art and travel – he leads, I attempt to follow. 'This supposed boyfriend of yours in Barcelona, is he extravagantly well-hung?' 'Well' carefully considering my reply, 'he's bigger than I am, not as generously endowed as you.' His satisfied sneer suggests I've correctly flattered his vanity. Then he poses the question 'what is it you desire more than anything else?' 'Freedom.' 'Freedom is not a state in itself. Freedom is something that can only be defined by its opposite. Freedom from pain. Freedom from hunger. Freedom from responsibility. You already have those freedoms.' 'No, I mean freedom as in self-determination.' 'The appearance of choice is not always what it seems. It can lead to bad decisions, and worse outcomes. Sometimes freedom can mean deferring choice according to circumstances. That is an equally valid freedom. The freedom from choice...' and it goes on. Until he's fully established his intellectual superiority. He has an epicurean's taste, but a glutton's appetite for excess. With something of the night about him. Thought, and animal instinct, in one. 'The penis is an instrument designed purely and single-mindedly for pleasure' he lectures, enjoying the sound of his own eloquence. By now I'm naked, and aroused in anticipation of what's to come. He holds my cock, 'that's why all those super-sensitive nerve-endings cluster there making every slightest touch a joy. This is the frenulum, the underside of the penis where the folds of the glans and the head meet.' He uses his fingers to trace the geography of what he's describing. He rarely touches me in this way, now his lecture provides a context. His touch is firm and invasive. 'This spot – the frenulum, this spot here is particularly sensitive when the man is aroused, as bundles of nerve-endings meet here. And the perineum, the small area here, between the balls and the ass. The skin here is delicate, making it highly sensitive too. But stimulating the perineum can help a man hold off from ejaculating – a useful trick. As I said, an instrument designed purely and single-mindedly for pleasure. That's why it provides the addictive bonus of orgasm, a sensation that nature gifts us for no other purpose than delight. So we must do it again, and again. Self-induced it's richly satisfying, with a partner it's an interactive ecstasy. Aesthetically, of course, the cock is an absurd protuberance. A brutalist after-thought. A vestigial organ as though left over from some earlier more primordial animalistic stage of evolution. A blunt persistent reminder that no matter how high we aspire, it's always there, animal, physical, a beast of the senses, a vigorous squirming assertion of life at its most primal...' Then we have sex. We role-play. Sometimes he likes for me to ask permission for sex, to plead for the privilege of his penis, until he relents and allows me, and afterwards, with his semen on my face and coating my mouth, to look up and say 'merci monsieur.' I am to be polite and suitably grateful to him for granting me the pleasure of its inches. Other times I am to crouch completely passive, forbidden to react as he stands and smears his penis around my face, across my forehead, down the length of my nose, into each eye-socket in turn, through my hair, along my cheek-bones, and down across my chin and throat. He rubs it across my pursed lips, then poises its tip less than an inch from my mouth. I am the compliant robot reacting instantly and obediently to his single-word commands, 'open', 'suck', 'wait', 'open your mouth, let me see, good', 'now swallow'. I do as he tells me. Cock-Sucker: Lost In France He takes intimate photos of me sprawled naked across the bed, sometimes with my arms folded behind my back and strapped there so that when he chooses to penetrate me orally he has absolute control and I have none, in others I crouch bound and blindfolded as he takes me anally, I have no self-consciousness any longer, I no longer argue or attempt to oppose him, relinquishing all ability to resist as though my spirit is broken, and I'm totally without will. I'd tried to fight him, tried to escape, and failed. So whatever he desires, happens, in total obeisance. And he desires much. But there's nothing he can do to me that I cannot take. He masturbates me as I lie helplessly bound on the bed, so he can photograph the glistening sperm-trails that shoot across my stomach. Then he ejaculates across my face so he can photograph it trickling across my nose, forehead, and cheeks. I imagine those prints taking their place in his library alongside the others who preceded me here, and find myself wondering what became of them, did they survive? Are they out there now somewhere...? And who, in future days, will become aroused looking at the photos of my erotic enslavement, these images of my predicaments stirring his erection. Like I get hard reading the exploits of 'Dick Hunter', or watching the three guys at the poolside giving it to each other, someone is going to get turned on looking at these photos of me, it's the human response. Beyond morality or right or wrong, the body reacts to visual stimulation. Until it all ends, as abruptly as it began, one evening, when he returns. I'm in the bedroom. I can hear him moving around. Eventually he opens the door, throws a pile of clothes to me, 'put these on.' They're not mine. They're a size too small, but I force myself into them. Tight 'T'-shirt and denims. I follow him out. There's a sound, like the shower's in use, but no, must be mistaken. Must be the toilet. He leads me outside. The daylight blinding after being confined inside so long. We get into the motor-home, side by side, and pull out onto the road. It's a bizarre sensation. I don't know what to expect. Where's he taking me? Is this it? Back to the river, disposing of me into that fast-swirling current? Or some kind of hard-core bondage group-thing? Is he going to trade me to some other abusive guy? Is this the final reel of some snuff movie I've been playing my part in? I'm too scared to ask. As though by asking I'd be precipitating the situation. But no. It's nothing like that. After a long strange drive I recognise where we are. We're back on the autoroute verge. He slows to a stop and gestures me out. I can't believe what he's telling me. Or what's waiting out there? I slide the door and step out onto the grass. Cars and trucks hurtling by. The motor-home door slides back. Amputating me from him. It pulls away, and I watch it, not believing this is happening until I can no longer make out its shape vanishing into the traffic. And I'm lost in tides of conflicting emotion. Until now, a month later, it's all receded into something like a strange dream. It's obvious to me now. On that final day, the sounds I hear from the shower, that's my replacement. The new guy he's picked up out there somewhere. The clothes thrown in for me, they're his. Just as my clothes must have wound up being passed on to the guy who came before me. The voices I half-hear half-imagine when I first entered that place. Full circle. It's just that now I'm here, thumbing up and down this same strip of the autoroute, thumb stuck out, watching the cars flash past, every now and then getting shunted this way or that. But always returning to haunt this same stretch of highway. Hoping against hope I'll see that moss-green motor-home again, that it'll slope in to pick me up, and I'll find that place once more. Emile, the body I yearn for. Craving the aroma of his coffee, the aroma of the dark places of his body. I've taken my last decision. I need take no more. This broken addiction has left me with such a bleak desolation. I must reclaim what I've lost... BY TRISTAN TROTSKY