2 comments/ 23550 views/ 2 favorites Cock-Sucker: The Dark Hunter Pt. 01 By: tristantrotsky Part One: My Wife's Out There Sucking Cock, So Why Shouldn't I? I'm going to stop sucking stranger's cocks. Next week. Or probably the week after. Maybe. I'd rather not talk of these things. But there's a need to confess, to seek absolution for my sins. Look at me. What do you see? Go on, admit it, to most people, I'm a respectable married man with a well-paid and highly responsible financial position in the city. But I also have a dark secret, a covert life of shame and humiliation to which I'm uncontrollably addicted. "Perverse and foolish, oft I've strayed..." Once a month, sometimes more frequently if my work has been particularly stressful or my home-life especially claustrophobic, the images start seeping into my mind. Bringing an almost unbearable hunger to my throat. As though every cell in my body is screaming, like a drug-addict in withdrawal, for the next fix. I'll fight the impulse, fight the relentless surging tides of darkness devouring me, stifling the faint murmurings of conscience, I fight so hard it physically hurts. No! No! No! No! I said I'd never do this again. It's wrong and vile. I promised myself I'd never do it again. Never. But god knows it's difficult. I'll weaken, I know I'll weaken, it's only a matter of time, I'm not strong enough to fight it, I'm too weak. It never goes away. And eventually there'll come that moment when I pick up my mobile with trembling fingers, to call that special number in Lambert Grove. Frey is my contact. It's probably not his real name, but he's been 'helping' me for a number of months now. At a prearranged time, as we have negotiated, I will drive to his apartment in a fug of nervous anticipation. I am forty-five. He's probably in his mid-thirties. He invites me in and we small-talk for a while. We drink, martinis probably. All the while, I'm aware of the red door leading off his apartment. For me, that door -- insignificant in every other sense, holds the same promise as Room 101 does for poor Winston Smith in Orwell's '1984'. A reluctance and a crawling fear of the moment I must pass through. Yet a dread offset by an equally burning desire. I pay him. "Do you have something for me?" I ask. He nods. "Something special. So if you're uncomfortable with any aspect of this, now's your last chance to say so, and back out. You only have to say no." Instead, I say "How do you want me?" And he explains. Sometimes I'm just naked, so hurriedly I undress -- usually erect already, in fact chances are I've been hard ever since the phone call, and usually even before, at just the thought of what I'm preparing to do. At times I'll be blindfold or handcuffed, or in a latex pouch. Or he'll attach a tether to my penis and scrotum and lead me by it into the adjoining room where a stranger awaits. Always different. And I do what I must do... This is how it began. I don't usually read the broadsheets far beyond the financial pages, and the local tabloid even less, but on this occasion a short piece snares my attention, concerning resident complaints about a public toilets on the outer perimeter of the city park frequented by Gays for 'cottaging'. The story sets off imaginings in strange ways I couldn't quite understand. It occurred to me that on the occasions I've taken my lunch-break away from the office, I'd find myself sitting in that very park, or when I take a brisk short-cut across the park, I must have passed that spot a number of times without once glancing in its direction. In that clean fresh air, with the business hub of the nation thrumming all around me, I'm so close to the heart of darkness, a subworld most people never even suspect exists. What would happen if I were to find myself there? Would I be set upon by ruffians who'd force me to endure humiliating deviant acts? And why do such vile images leave me breathless with nervous excitement? Sometimes the greatest mysteries are not space-time and destiny, but the unknown darkness that lies within your own deepest soul. It was a confusing time for me. My wife had just confessed -- well, more boasted to me about having a virile and demanding lover. Deal with it, she's been involved with a colleague for some time. It's only right I should know. They meet in hotel rooms, or sometimes they have torrid sex in his car during lunch. As far as she's concerned the comfortable social and financial stability of our domestic arrangement will continue, as will her affair. She's not prepared to lose the benefits of either. What was I to do? How was I supposed to react? I know all the Soap Opera responses, rage, anger, jealousy, anaesthetising the pain with alcohol. Yet oddly, my reaction is less of shock or upset, as it is of a curious sense of relief. A responsibility of pretence has been removed. In a strange dislocated sense of timelessness, I feel liberated, as if some kind of repressive clamps on my emotions have eased, and then dissolved away. It's time to let it go, let it all fall away. The parameters of my life have been altered. She'd made the choice. A choice that also releases me. So am I mourning my cuckolded marriage? No, not quite. The pretence of marriage has provided a structure that's regulated my life for those decades. Now that structure is no longer there. My life is adrift, it's become empty and pointless. She was indulging her carnal needs, now I feel justified in pursuing previously suppressed elements of my own personality. If it's a point of view forced on me by strange circumstances, that doesn't make it any the less true. If you feel yourself floating, dissociated, that's just exactly what you are. So take yourself off. Let the tide surge around you a little. But how? Regret and remorse for things you've done eats into your soul. Regret and remorse for things you haven't done is even more terrible. For desires that remain unexpressed, for lost opportunities and failure of nerve. Nothing but wasted time. And all you have left is a void of loss. I've accumulated a backlog of conscientious service that legitimises an easing off, which allows me to spend a long reflective time gazing out of the office windows without really seeing anything at all. Extending out-of-office time so I'm sitting on an embankment bench in the tepid sunshine watching the river flow. I browse contact ads without any intention of responding. 'Men seeking Men.' They entice with '40-plus seeking friendship, maybe leading to more.' Which is specifically what I don't want. I don't need emotional entanglement. I don't want to be drawn into new moral commitments to lonely and needful companions. I don't want attachments. I crave only rawness and immediacy without consequence. I spend forever sitting alone mesmerised by gay internet porn-sites. There are hundreds, no -- thousands of guys out there indulging in nude consensual guilt-free sex, and all I do is sit here and get off on watching them. Things are different, issues simpler in porn-land. None of this real-world anguished soul-searching, no possibility of disgusted rejection, none of that what-will-he-think-of-me? will he despise me afterwards? Just an exchange of longing looks, and they're deep into each other's pants, bodies coiling together without a moment's hesitation, splashing their casual freedom around like cheap after-shave, along with enough sperm to keep a fertility clinic stocked from here to Doomsday. I watch two attractive young studs climb a five-barred gate into a field of golden grain, they're long-haired, maybe it's a 1970's thing? They ford their way through to the centre of the field where they crush out a corn-circle, into which they tumble and playfully tussle, until the tussling becomes more pointedly physical. Hawkwind T-shirts are hauled up and off, stone-washed pre-faded denims drop. No underwear to impede their progress or hamper their access. They've obviously come with the intention of 'coming' in mind ('coming' in mind is the only place it happens with me!), and their impatience is a virtue. Hypnotised, I watch as their impressively perky cocks bounce into view, spring-loaded at forty-five degrees. The goods on display, in all their glory, ready for each other's fingers, eager mouths and then bottoms. As I watch, one of them plucks an ear of corn and trickles it across his friend's balls, then up and down the not-inconsiderable length of his shaft. It moves lazily, appreciatively, as the ear of corn is replaced by fingers. Then by teasing tongue. I ache with yearning as inch by wondrous inch slips between devouring cock-hungry lips. Not sure who I most envy, the guy getting sucked or the one doing the sucking. Both, if that were possible. The cameraman must be giving them explicit directions because they move from position to position un-selfconsciously, as if smoothly intuitively coordinated, sharing their intimate attentions on a mutually equal-opportunities basis, doing everything to each other, two clean nude bodies fused together by sexual magnetism rolling over and over in the hay, a pleasing blur of rounded bottoms and jiggling testicles as they affectionately fish-tail into each other, while eerily traffic can clearly be seen moving up and down the road they've just left, beneath a cloudless blue sky. Eventually, relaxing in a post-coital sixty-nine, they're mock-shocked by the sudden arrival of the Farmer, pitchfork brandished with all the comic-menace of a silent-movie villain. "How are you going to compensate me for the damage you've done to my crop?" he demands. But given the nature of the material, I guess the answer is never really in much doubt. Surprise and outrage rapidly passes as his pants slide down. They are admirably well-hung, as we've had every opportunity to see, but he's even bigger, more generously endowed. And, their eyes are bugging out of their heads so wide it's as though they can't believe their good fortune, the two younger guys set about pleasuring what's revealed to them, working together. One slurp-slurp gobble-gobbles, then the other. It ends with them side-by-side on all fours with the farmer alternating his penetrative attentions between the two puckered orifices so delightfully presented to him, with grunts and moans of delighted pleasure from all three. You can tell. Long-time porn connoisseurs like myself can tell. Those on-screen who are into doing it, and those who aren't. Those who are just thinking of the cheque at the end of the shoot. Who do as little, make as little contact as they can get away with. And those who are doing it and loving doing it. Who take the opportunity to gorge themselves on fresh cock in the most uninhibited totally self-indulgent way. These two young guys are not faking. They love cock, love sucking it slutty-throat-deep for their own gluttonous needs. Watch them, just watch. Their mutual appetite for each other's bodies just breaks your heart with lustful envy. I can't help but wonder, were they fuck-buddies who were doing it to each other anyway, and decided to make some pocket-money by doing it on camcorder? Or were they strangers brought together by the website especially for the shoot? If so the pairing is perfectly-suited. The bucolic outdoor setting with the drowsy drone of distant traffic adding to its feel of timeless escapist freedom. I could never be that free. That's my curse. Instead, I watch them doing things I only fantasise about doing, things I masturbate about doing, with that familiar unpleasant canting in my gut, me, the lonely voyeur, the outsider, angry at my exclusion from it all, bitter and jealous of their easy promiscuity. Yet fearful of human involvement. Unable to open up, incapable of revealing my inner self. Until, what terrible compulsion drew me that day, to that place? Was it accidental? No. Absolutely not. So okay -- maybe, sort of. Yes, but not deliberately. Instead, I'd kind of stumbled into it all, as you do. Although I resisted the impulse for almost a week I eventually found myself leaving the main Park pathway, off through the sheltering arch of scrubby trees, and entering the toilet. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, or temporary madness. It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life. I wanted to do it so urgently. I didn't want to do it with a horrified dread. I did. And I didn't. Nothing I've ever experienced filled me such dreadful terror or longing, such fear and yearning. Maybe it was a kind of storming mental-breakdown. After all, my life is coming adrift. Normality, or what has previously passed as normality for so long, is in flux. More likely it was something resembling the vast subterranean pressures that build for a thousand years beneath the sleeping supposedly-extinct peak that suddenly, unexpectedly erupts with the devastating volcanic power to transfigure everything. Whatever... the toilets are empty. Unsure if that pleased or disappoints me. A faint musk in a hazy twilight, the smell of the forbidden, the buzzing of a fly trapped up against a cobwebbed high vent. I hang around long enough to take note of the lurid graffiti on the walls of the cubicles which only serve to fuel my fantasies. Anonymous writers boasting of nine-inch erections and sucking-offs in this cubicle, there's a glory-hole circled in coarse invitations, others offering their anus to anyone who wants it, some claiming unbelievable prowess in being fucked by groups of strangers one after another. It's a place haunted with possibilities. Eavesdropping on the ghost voices of imagined encounters whispering in every cubicle. All the dark sounds of sinful man-sex, moaning, groaning, gasping for breath in that special throaty way. My reactions confused by weird revulsions, yet my own tumescence burning in my pants so persistently I can't resists adding my own legend, 'Mouth Needs Fucking, All Comers Welcome.' Why is it those words flow so easily? Why that need? It comes without thinking, scribbled feverishly almost before I realise it. Reading the words back as if someone else has scrawled them. Not me. Until realising what I've done fills my gut with quick-churning terror. I fled, and stayed away as long as I dared, only calling in one night on my way home, telling myself I urgently need to urinate. A pretext? Fooling myself? Again it was unoccupied. I move to the urinal. It was then that I hear approaching footfall. A skinhead guy, some ten years younger than me, probably mid-thirties, enters and stands beside me, unzips and slips his cock out, but just stands there. I turn, and he smiles at me, my attention drops irresistibly to his groin, and my flesh crawls. My blood pressure heightens, my throat dry. He has a huge boner aiming up at me, thick and brown with a plum-coloured glistening head. Desirable beyond words. He grins guilessly as I feast on its ugly animal beauty, throat dry, I half turn, my own penis stirring, my fingers poised to reach for him when I freeze. Thoughts of queer-bashing and violence erupt into my head. Suddenly I zip up and nearly stumble in my haste to get out of there, out into the night. I'd escaped. No-one saw me. Something like that has the potential to utterly destroy my ordered life. A moment of insanity, nothing more. Something that will never occur again. Not ever. Yet all night the vision of that cock haunts and taunts me, I masturbate furiously with the thought of it lodged in my mouth, of me crouched there before him as he ejaculates into my throat, gagging on it. I groan in an ecstasy of fear and desire, terror and yearning. Could I have done that? Should I? The warp and weft of my world had been snagged, worried at and worked loose. The raw threads of my safe and secure life lie frayed and ragged. Drawn by an urgency I couldn't control I found myself drawn back the following day hoping to find my erotic gay skinhead, but there was only a middle-aged gent smartly dressed -- if slightly down at heel. As though he's seen better days. He's standing at the urinal. Steeling myself I cross to his side and extract my penis, expecting nothing. Tension is almost tangible, but curiously I become conscious that his eyes are directed over the ceramic partition and down at my fly. My first reaction is to conceal myself, but I fight the urge, and instead lean back a little so he can get a better view. "You're a fine gentleman" he says huskily. "Thanks" I say, attempting to sound flirty. It must have worked, a moment later I feel his cool fingers closing around me. Rough worn fingers. I catch my breath fiercely as he squeezes, but let him have his way with me. I was caught in a crossfire of ecstatic dread, an urge to pull away and run -- but I know that if I don't go through with this I'll spend another long night of tormented remorse. I'd passed the point of no return. So I force my hand towards his fly and touch warm soft flesh. He's smaller than I expected, smaller than I hoped, and has a loose foreskin. It isn't properly stiff either, but emboldened by my daring I begin to wank him as he does the same to me. He's fumbling for my balls, pulling them out, while squeezing and rubbing up and down my shaft as I feel him up, his small cock swelling and stiffening. Then, just as I am building, he groans and dribbles a long strand of spunk into the urinal. Instantly he releases me and zips himself up. He muttered "ta" and vanished. I was left stupidly with an unrelieved hard-on and a bubble of his sperm on my fingers. I get my handkerchief out to wipe myself dry, but inquisitively raise my hand first to examine the gooey substance smeared across my fingers. I glance one way and the other, then lick it tentatively. It is salty, sticky, and quickly, guiltily I wipe the rest on my hanky, stuff my achingly hard penis away, and hurriedly leave, my heart pounding in my chest. A weird fug of emotions raging inside me, excitement at what I've dared to do, disappointment it hadn't gone further. The following day I fight the impulse to return, and instead sit on a bench on the nearby path while terrible images burn in my head. I was so preoccupied with my own imaginings I never saw him approaching. "Hello my friend, it is you, isn't it?" I look up, it was the man I'd tossed off. I feel a little scared and panicky -- deny it, deny it, say he's mistaken, get the hell out of it. He's only a sad and lonely old queer. The kind of loser I'd not normally consider frittering my precious time on, I have more significant obligations to financial power-brokers and big city financiers. But now he represents something else, a tenuous connection to another world, one that exists all around me, but which I'd previously only ever dreamed about. Can it be that he was that sad newsagent who'd once come into my office with a loan application, and I'd turned him down? Leading to his bankruptcy. I suspect it is. Only he doesn't recognise me from that time. They never see beyond the desk, the disappointment. I'd been instrumental in destroying his life. And instead I find myself smiling up at him, despite myself. "You're a sweet guy" he persists. "And so nicely hung. Are you in the mood for more cock-fun today? It's alright if you say no. I'm used to rejection." But of course, I nod. He leads the way in the opposite direction. "We used to go there a lot, but the police became troublesome, so now we use somewhere else." He leads the way downstairs into an underground toilet at the centre of the park. As though descending into some underworld of sin, into Hades itself. As though we've been cast out into the eternal damnation of that circle of hell set aside for pederasts and sodomites. Footsteps echo on the cold concrete steps and the continual drip of water makes it sound empty and clinical. He fusses around me attentively, unpleasantly, his breath tainted with alcohol, his hand strays to my crotch, squeezing me through the material of my pants, giggling as excitedly as a schoolgirl at the state of my hard-on, then hustles me into a cubicle. Cock-Sucker: The Dark Hunter Pt. 01 I'm sick to my gut, but determined to make it better this time so as he fumbles at the lock I slump down onto the pedestal, haul my stiff cock out and idly masturbate slowly. As he turns, his eyes nearly burst out of his head at what he's seeing, and he's tugging at his zip irritably. "This time, I need it in my mouth." My words come surprisingly easily. He nearly trips on his tangled pants in his haste as they're caught up around his white flabby knees, a crinkly crust of dried emission on the inside of his y-fronts, and I suppress an urge to laugh at his absurdity, but that stubby cock is out and as erect as it will ever be, swaying towards me. For a second my resolve breaks. I think of it stuck up some grubby anus, wonder when he'd last washed it... then it's already too late. He's coming at me with a haste like he can't believe his luck. He has it bunched in his fist so he can push it into my face, but its diminutive size means that not much of it protrudes from his sweaty fingers, the foreskin pulled painfully back so the damply glistening head slots awkwardly into my mouth like the tip of a thumb. I want to do it properly, as in the descriptions I've pored over secretively in magazines, like in the porn websites I've studied and returned to time and time again, coaxing and teasing it, licking and taking it deep, but I can barely do it justice, I suck and tongue on it as best I can, its bitter salty taste communicating to me some urgency and hunger for it, but he's juggling up and down, grunting and panting like he's on heat, it slithers and nudges against my lips frustratingly, his bunched fingers banging my nose and chin alternately as he thrusts. His noise is disgusting, panting and sobbing. Surely someone will hear. I scream silently for him to shut up, shut up, be quiet. Then, too soon, before I've even got my first real taste, he moans as though he's in pain, something that sounds like a groan and a word, all threaded through and underlined with pain, like something is busting up inside him, his entire body jerks like an epileptic fit, like he's having a seizure, and he begins dribbling sperm, pulling back so I get it over my lips and chin, moaning with that unique sound only a man can make when he's releasing himself into another receptive human. Almost before I realise what's happening, he's backing away, stuffing the deflating slimy thing back into his fly with indecent haste as I sit there dazed and disappointed with his seed on my face. He turns and scurried out of the cubicle without a word, but colliding with a newcomer as he does so. He mutters apologies profusely, and he's gone, my eyes refocusing on the erotic skinhead -- who stands there in a swaggering pose against the door-jamb. "You got any of that for me?" There's no point in acting coy, the proof of my submission is still smearing my chin. "All comers welcome" I whisper hoarsely, in a voice quite unlike my own, my gut full of quicksilver, or lead. "You won't regret it" says the skin, coming inside, closing and bolting the door with an aggressive finality that makes me flinch. He unfastens his thick studded belt with a flamboyant gesture and shoves his pants to his knees. Shuffles to me, and without a moment's hesitation places both hands on the back of my head. Obediently I reach out and slip my fingers into the lining of his grubby y-fronts and draw them down, first a tangle of dark wiry pubic hair, then the shorts snag on his stiffness, and I tug them down. They come free and a magnificent cock swings up at me quivering fat and engorged with blood, satin-smooth and circumcised. But he allows me no pause to admire it, one experienced hand circles around the back of my head, like he's moulding me, shoving my head in at it with slight insistent pressure, skewing my face awkwardly in at his gut, propelling me submissively forward onto it. The other hand comes down to lever my jaw open while levelling it in at me crudely, but the action only stabs the moist tip in at my eye, down my nose, smearing it across my cheek as I try to reach it. The fat hairy balls are swinging somewhere around my chin as he's shoving me brutally down until the cock-head finally slips between my lips and teeth, then jams forward violently to lodge in the back of my throat. Immediately I retch and choke, my eyes filling with involuntary tears as my mouth closes automatically up around it. "Lemme, lemme do it" I mewl desperately. He relinquishes his hold on my head slightly, relaxing back a little, so the pressure is relieved. Reluctantly as though he suspects I'll squirm away. Yet he retains confident control. I feel a surge of gratitude for that slight concession, and lunge forward, tunnelling my head in and around to swallow it. Although I catch it at an angle, trapping the shaft between my lips, the strength of my suction draws it into fill my mouth, with a syrupy slurping sound. Greedy for it to an obscene degree. His swollen ball-sac moves with the force of my action. I can tell by his sharp intake of breath, feel his whole body tense in reaction, and hear him swearing low beneath his breath. I have it, I'm not about to surrender my prize now, I hold it and suck so hard I nearly dislodge it, I can feel its solid blunt snout up against the back of my throat, my eyes closing in sheer animal gluttony. It tastes sour, dirty, of sweat and body-juices, but soon it tastes just of raw flesh as I suck and swallow. I've got the taste of cock, and I want it all, paying obeisance to its need, totally acquiescent to the will of such a dominant mouth-fucker. To the single-minded animalistic sexual lust he's focusing on me, and I want to be used in that way. Being so ruthlessly used makes me feel sluttish and debased, my hands go up to him, one around the strong muscular buttocks, covetously tracing the cleavage down towards the anus, the other coming up between us to squeeze the pendulous weight of his balls. And deliciously, exuberantly I suck on the fat juicy prize filling my ravenous and sperm-soiled mouth. I luxuriate in its heady erotic heat and its foul pulsing fullness. I suck my lips tight in around it so I can feel the crude animal bulbous glans up against the roof of my mouth, tracing the zigzag track of the sperm-duct and the blue veins along its underside with my gloating tongue. I suck so hard I hear him groan and the sound intoxicates me, the fact that my filthy mouth is doing that to him, I love the feel of it tightening up around my lips as he fucks and I tongue. It was stirring and fattening. I hear him gasp, and he lapses back further, me fiercely following it, determined not to lose a moment of it. I'm grunting and snuffling with effort, emitting loud slurpy suction noises -- glock-glock-glock-glock, my body writhing round to follow him. He's stiff and achingly hard. Pulsing hot rammed into my head. Down my throat so I'm sobbing and blubbing in my eagerness to keep it all in my mouth. He's laughing a dirty laugh, swearing and groaning as I feast. Grunting like a swear-word they haven't invented yet. As he moves around, angling my head to take him deeper still, spit drooling down my chin, matting the hair on his massive round sperm-filled balls. I hold its root possessively with my teeth, careful not to bite down too hard, and tongue-lash it as close to the sensitive underside of the glans as I can. I feel his arse tense, using my hold on it to draw him tighter into me, yet he squirms a little, a loud vulgar slurp escapes my lips and a dribble of saliva trickles down my chin, but I hold onto his balls tightly and refuse to allow a centimetre of my phallic prize to escape, and in response he lunges, rasping it in across the roof of my mouth and chokingly into my maw. My eyes close in an agony of disgustingly sensual ecstasy, I've never felt so sated in my life, my own groin iron-hard and achingly near explosion. I'm moaning and panting around my fleshy gag and suck like a drowning man, as if my life depends on it. And it does. "Look out" he warns hoarsely, giving me a chance to avoid what's coming. Then it jerks and quivers like a trapped animal, it expands and rams into me, and suddenly he begins spurting long gooey strands of spunk, it keeps coming, making him laugh even more as I gag on him, moaning and sobbing in muffled ecstasy. I'm inundated with spunk, spurting and filling my mouth, dazzlingly near-drowning me, I try to yell but only succeed in gurgling obscenely, oggle-gloggle-oggle-gloggle. I let go of him and clutch at my own penis, attempting to staunch it, but by now it's too late and I'm coming across my own pants. He holds my head tightly and refuses to release it as he gushes into me and I slobber and groan and whimper with spittle and semen vomiting out of my mouth around the twitching and pulsing organ. I feel I'm on fire, unable to catch my breath, but at the same time I'm breathing a gale, racked with a near-blazing passion I've never before experienced. It was gloriously foul, disgustingly raw. Then it becomes quiescent and he withdraws casually, slopping from my lips and leaving it to hang there slimy with sperms and saliva, red and swollen. I slouch up unsteadily, still slightly drunk on the emotional force of what's occurred. I wipe my face self-consciously with the back of my hand. My underpants feel sticky and uncomfortably moist. My mouth tastes foul and my lower lip is numb, yet it all merely gives me a curious sensation of elation. I've done it! I've had a strange cock in my mouth! He's spunked-off down my throat like I was some filthy whore in a porno novel. Me, I've done it. I was a cock-sucker, and it feels incredibly wonderful. I lurch tipsily, and he steadies me, looking me full in the eyes. Me, the older, respectable businessman. And him, a guy whose name I don't even know. I feel suddenly embarrassed, pictures flashing in my head of how I must have appeared to him, his thick cock wedged between my lips, my head guzzling in his thighs as he comes, as he ejaculates. My hair is thinning at the crown. From that angle, looking down, he must have noticed. But I can still taste his spunk, and almost with pride I force myself to smile at him. "You've got a lovely body" I venture. He laughs low. "You do this kind of thing often then?" "Oh yeah, all the time' I lie, forcing my tone to sound ironic. "I love sucking cock, must've sucked hundreds, can't get enough." Pause. "Actually no, to be honest. No." "Pity. You're a natural, you foul-mouthed pervert" he says, not unkindly, a leer slanted across his face. And I feel oddly pleased, almost proud at such praise. "Thank you" I nod stupidly. He flips it away and zips up, and I'm afraid he's going to go, and walk out of my life forever. I tongue a stray pubic hair out of my mouth as I pluck up courage for what comes next. "Do you... maybe want to go somewhere? For a coffee perhaps?" Again he smiles in a playfully teasing way. "Why? Did I leave a bad taste in your mouth? You wanna get rid of that taste already?" It's my turn to colour, and look away. "No... er, no, nothing like that. I just thought, y'know, we could talk. That's all." "Sure, why not. You're paying..." End Of Part One: Stay Tuned For Part Two... Cock-Sucker: The Dark Hunter Pt. 02 Part Two: Deeper Into Darkness With a feeling of some relief I follow him, in silence. I shouldn't be doing this. I should get as far away as possible. What do we have remotely in common? What will we find to talk about? Frey. His name is Frey Tyghi. What sort of name is that -- Polish? Across from the park there's what I call a Costa-plenty-bucks. He finds an alcove, I get coffee and, after a moment's hesitation, chocolate muffins too. I sit across from him. Watch him drink. Something of my initial euphoria has died away. I've become a little more wary. But as he commences nibbling around the edges of the muffin my attention strays to his groin, where I can clearly detect the outline of the genital-bulge in his Levis. Whatever we have to say to each other will never stray far beyond that. "You OK?" he asks. "Never better" I smile. "Yet even to say that seems strange, I don't really understand what's just occurred between us. It's totally out of character. But whatever it was, it was good." "Let's get this straight. Let's lay out some ground-rules. I don't know you. We just met, in a manner of speaking. But I can tell stuff about you. Let me guess, you have a tendency to overthink things -- right? To ask questions that don't have answers. You shouldn't do that. You should just do what feels right. Don't get into a guilt trip. Don't question it. Just enjoy it." "You're right. Of course you're right." With the first gulp of cappuccino the spunk-taste is gone. I can scarcely believe I'm sitting here, talking to a man I've just sucked-off! That his sperms, even now, are swimming inside me. It's like some crazy fantasy. Bring it down, reason this through. "I don't even know if I'm... y'know, of that nature. I've never been close enough to find out. I've never dared admit or talk about it with anyone else. Not ever. I don't know why I'm telling you, except for... what just transpired between us." "That's fine" he concedes. "You can talk to me all you want. Just keep your voice down, we don't want everyone to hear." I lean forward, lower my voice conspiratorially. And it all splurges out. "No, in the real world, I never had the courage to follow up on my secret desires. Afraid to do something, and just as afraid of doing nothing. Until here I am, old enough to be into mid-life crisis, and most of my sex-life is imaginary. Going over-and-over the same half-dozen incidents when I dared be true to my own nature. Until now." There's something disturbingly Freudian about the whole oral-fixation thing. Starting out with the nipple, fairly obviously. Then sucking your thumb. Then the drooping cigarette stylishly set in the corner of the pouting mouth. Then chewing the shaft of your biro as you agonize over the next word in the document you're attempting to write. And sucking cock. It's a disturbing chain of connections. But beyond my rational control. "Look, you don't have to explain. There's nothing to explain. People do what feels good for all manner of reasons." He drains the coffee and eyes me critically. "There's a lot of hypocrisy about gay and straight sex. You've been open with me, it's only fair I respond in kind. I'm a more or less normal guy with all the usual aspects and diversities to my personality. I enjoy all kinds of books, music, movies, good conversation and wine. I don't see my appetite for sex with guys as anything exceptional. Homosexual -- yes, but homo sapien too. Lots of so-called straights claim to be shocked and repelled by Gay sex, but when it comes right down to the moment of choice, there's not many so-called 'straights' who in private won't let a gay guy suck their cock. And judging by internet exchanges, a whole heap of bi-curious who want to get a taste too." "A lot of it is social stigma" he continues. "Embracing your sexuality is not just an option or an alternate orientation. It's like they used to say in the sixties, it's expanding your consciousness to new possibilities. It's contrary to the whole social conditioning that's been drip-drip-dripped into your skull every moment since birth. You've been relentlessly indoctrinated. Boys do this. Males do not do that. Men do this. Sexually, men give, they don't receive. You do not submit to other men. You compete for status. The worst thing you can do is assume the effeminate role. It's a conditioned gender role thing. These are expectations, you are repeatedly told, that cannot be refitted." "But human sexuality doesn't work that way. It can't be shoved into neat compartments. Sometimes your need may be to be assertive, at other times passive, sometimes submissive, or dominant. To repress any aspect of self is unhealthy. Your needs will seek expression, they will not be denied. It is never easy to kick against that accumulative guilt-trip, those repressive restrictions. But what you have to understand is these are social not genetic imperatives. Darwin shows that evolution favours diversity, not conformity. You've got to be true to the way you're wired." He looks at me with an intensity that's unsettling. "Listen. So when you do crouch nude to orally pleasure your lover's penis you are not only performing a simple sex-act, you're liberating yourself from generations of gender programming. Opening up your horizons of sensual potential from the single, to the multi-dimensional. Rejecting the habits of caution. You don't need to be camp and flouncy, unless that's what you want to be. Alexander the Great had a male lover, and he conquered half the known world." "I suppose I can imagine, as you were growing up, there must have been moments of doubt. The 'what will they think if they know? -- family, friends, colleagues, how will they react to knowing that you're a sissy who likes boys? And how will it impact on your self-image, even to accept that knowledge about yourself. How will you feel about yourself inside? But believe me, it's worth it. Just be true to yourself, your true expanded self. Once you get to that point, once you're capable of ignoring social gender expectations, putting preconditioned roles to one side, and accept yourself for what you are, and just begin to enjoy your sexuality, you'll wonder why you were so confused and guilt-ridden." "You're probably right. But I fear it's too late for me. I can never be like that. I'm from a different time, a different mind-set. It's as though I deserve to be punished for the dirty things I crave..." "For me, I've always felt this way, I can't recall a time when I didn't feel this way." He's a smooth talker. How can he be saying these thinks with such a casual ease? But he continues, even more explicitly. "I've had quite a few serious partners and as many casual affairs, and I've enjoyed open and satisfying sex with them all. For example, Neil was married. I worked with him in a bakery. When I first told him I was gay he went through all the usual protestations of it being unnatural and how he found it physically repugnant. I made no big deal about it and we went on to talk of other things. It was some two weeks later, we were on night shift together. We were both tired. During a lull in the work we began to talk about sex..." By now I'm getting a little nervous we'll be overheard, but more scared that he's not going to continue his tale. I lean in close to hear it all. "He'd say "What is it you do exactly?" "He was mid-thirties, wellbuilt and dark, but also a little reserved. He seems nervous and I found that both funny and also attractive. I told him I like doing oral. He looks away embarrassed." "What's it like doing that to another man?" "I tell him it's wonderful. He confessed his wife would never do oral, their sex-life was dull, and infrequent anyway. You can probably guess the rest. Some time later he deliberately returns to the subject. Who do I do it with, a regular boyfriend? I tell him I do it with whoever I fancy and with whoever turns me on." "When he blusters "Yeah, but you wouldn't do it just... like, to anyone, say someone like me?" So intense and so obviously scared that I almost laugh out loud." "I pity his desperation. His fear makes me all the more fascinated to see how far he'll take it." "I say "Come into the car-park"." "It was dark and cool out there. We get into his car and he's so wired with apprehension he just sits there stupidly frozen. So I unzip him and he lets me get his cock out. He's big, circumcised and already erect, aroused by the thought of what we've discussed. It looks so appealing." "You've got a perfectly delightful cock" I tell him, cradling it. "I can't imagine why your wife wouldn't want to suck it." "It takes him a moment to work out what I mean, so a rephrase it. "I'd love to suck it, if that's alright?" "Grimly, he nods. So I go down and suck him, and as I do it I ease his trousers down to his knees so I can caress his balls, taking him as deep into my throat as I can and sucking hard. He's sitting ramrod straight, holding my head and going "Oh shit, Oh shit." It was like he was terrified to admit, and was fighting to deny the pleasure flooding through him emanating from that part of him embedded solidly in my mouth. His voice betrayed a hysterical edge as he wheezed "Look out, I can't hold it" and as he begins ejaculating into my mouth he's sobbing "Oh god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." "He was wracked with guilt and shame. "Don't tell anyone will you, promise you won't tell anyone." "Personally I figured it was no big deal. I felt sorry for him. He had a beautiful cock, and I enjoyed sucking it. I got off on his arousal and his pleasure. But he was ashamed and terrified of discovery. Nevertheless, before I quit the bakery and move on, we did it twice more, and each time at his instigation, although I was never slow to pick up on his nervous hints, and respond." "That's what I mean about straight hypocrisy. He enjoyed me going down on him, but he daren't admit it to anyone. We both enjoyed it, but I was the only one honest enough to accept it. I've always found it that way. I'm comfortable with that. You can't reduce desire down to percentages or decimal points. It exists in its own continuum, beyond good and evil. It knows nothing about, and cares even less about conventional morality. It's happy to do what feels good. That's enough. So, as far as I'm concerned, it's the same with me and you, we owe each other nothing. You owe me nothing. I owe you nothing. But if you like, you can come back with me? I gotta place to go." As if I'm looking alarmed he adds "No strings, no expectations. OK?" I move my head, kind of in and out, not yes, not no. I have time. I can make time. I can find excuses. So I nod. We must make a strangely mismatched pair as we walk together. I don't know where his easy relaxed slouch of a walk is leading me, but oddly I feel entirely unthreatened. We barely exchange a word. I look around me, recognising the area. A kind of student bed-sitterland. Run-down in a vaguely dreamy, bohemian disreputable way. A warm autumn breeze shuffling the trees. At the end of a tree-shaded cul-de-sac a row of boarded-up houses are sited behind high walls in their own ground. He leads me confidently through black wrought-iron gates, across a leaf-moist gravel drive shrouded in bushes, and around to a side-entrance where a couple of black wheelie-bins stand guard, pizza boxes grinning from their open mouths. He hunches over the lock, and eases the door open. "There are 'For Sale' signs outside" I venture. "What is this place, some kind of squat?" "Do you have any moral objections to squatting?" he taunts back. Moral objections? -- after the sex act I'd just performed on him, in the light of whatever reason I was here with him, surely I've got no right to take a moral stance on anything. I shrug, following him up the stairs. "In a sense it is a squat" he concedes."In another it isn't. This is a magical place where things are allowed to happen that don't happen anywhere else. Certain arrangements have been put in place to ensure that situation continues." Before I'm able to ask what the hell that means we're moving across the landing, and into his room. Are there other residents in the house? I don't get to find out, not then. Not properly. Although it was by now mid-afternoon the long drapes are drawn, and he thumbs up the dimmer-switch rather than open them. Leaving the room still claustrophobically dark. I'd expected a scruffy, down-at-heel smell, but there's no smell in the room, the only odour present, I guess, is the man-fragrance of Frey himself. Shelves of books and masses of CD's, piles of magazines stacked on the floor, reproduction-posters blue-tacked to the wall, racy Tom Of Norway and Robert Mapplethorpe images. He indicates an easy chair, and I sink down deep into its upholstery. He stays standing, stalking up and down the carpet like some kind of caged animal. The analogy appeals to me. He has animalistic aspects. He can be dangerous. He has the potential to wreak devastation on my neatly ordered life. Yet I'm irresistibly drawn. He embodies something I need in my sad inadequate life. What exactly does he intend by bringing me here? Is he anticipating more sex? If so, I'm certainly not averse to the prospect. Maybe I'll get lucky? Maybe he'll give me an opening? Will I get to see him stripped to the buff this time? Doing it in a more leisurely way, after the cramped urgency of our first encounter, I'd enjoy that. I wait in a fug of uncertainty. My eyes rove the limits of the room, the dim light illuminating the spines of books on his shelves, checking out the titles, "The Swimming Pool Library" by Alan Hollinghurst, yet, I've read that, "The Motion Of Light On Water" by Samuel Delany, others that are more unfamiliar. "The Man With Night-Sweats" by poet Thom Gunn? Books by Rimbaud, Jean Cocteau, Genet, Baudelaire, Marcel Proust. The only jarring aspect of the room is the red door. Faded, and a little paint-worn, but leading off from the main space, into... what? A bedroom? An annexe? And why that out-of-context colour? Its significance plays teasing tricks around the edge of my mind. After pacing up and down once or twice, moving with an easy grace, he sits opposite me with a serious intensity. "It's not safe, you know" he begins. "Not safe at all, what you're doing. What we did today. There's too much risk. Not only from nasty infections picked up off random strangers, but queer-bashing violence and police harassment too. You've got too much to lose." I don't need this. Lecturing advice on social responsibility, on what I already know, from a young guy old enough to be my own kid is the last thing I needed. "You've got a respectable career, a marriage you can't afford to jeopardise -- financially or psychologically, a life you're putting at risk." I simply returned his stare. "So?" "So I've got a proposal to put to you. A proposition if you like. If you'd care to listen..." I listen... and my life begins anew. The psychology of it all is so obvious it's embarrassing. My life consists of making hard decisions, taking responsibility for other's lives, sometimes being instrumental in laying personnel off, downsizing. Or refusing lifeline loans to people who need it, like that desperate newsagent. I'd wrecked his life. It had to be done, but somewhere deep inside me, there's guilt. And the psychological need for retribution, for punishment. In situations where I'm taking responsibility, to achieve balance, there must also be a corresponding surrender of responsibility. That's why High Court Judges and Cabinet Ministers seek out dominatrix-sex with hookers. It's the same need. It's well-documented, profiled and analysed. And even further, there's more. There is what people term success and failure in life. There's achievement, and there's loss. I've been to all those places. But when it all comes down to dust, when all hopes and dreams fall away, when it's all been seen and done and found false, there's only physical sensation left. The only thing we can ever be totally certain of. The only reality left. But even such a degree of self-awareness does nothing to reduce the longing, or lessen the burning need. I'm incapable of resisting the lure of darkness. The gods are angry, and must be satisfied. It's some deep self-destructive thing that emerges from within me, blasphemous thought-streams that bring an almost unbearable hunger to my throat, until every cell in my body is screaming, like a drug-addict in withdrawal, for the next fix. The images start seeping into my mind, haunting, tormenting, painful, unbidden, I fight them, but they keep coming. The slightly-built freckled boy in the high school showers who reaches out timidly and takes hold of my penis. Something so unexpected, so startling, I look around, meet his eyes, and instinctively push his hand away. Only to immediately regret it. I remember the hurt expression in his eyes, the semi-hard shape of his own cock. Why did I push his hand away? Why didn't I reciprocate without nambly-pamby hesitation? until our grubby teenage hands became a blur of mutual masturbation? Why -- because I was scared. I've been scared all my life. Afterwards I was too nervous and too shy to approach him, although I thought about it. But I feel his fingers on me now. And there are sequences from porn-sites that replay over and over again in my head. Passages from erotic books. I fight the impulse, stifle the faint murmurings of conscience, fight so hard it physically hurts. No! No! No! No! I said I'd never do this again. But the id is an untamed savage. There's something stuck down deep inside my head and I can't get it out. Something nasty. Science hasn't yet devised a machine that can reach into the brain, find the badness that shouldn't be in there, and rip it out by the roots. So it needs to be periodically purged. It needs the poisonous urges to be drawn. I need my occasional trips to Vulgaria. Otherwise I become remote and withdrawn, as though nursing a form of caged anger, instead of letting that true emotion out, to express itself. If you feed a desire for long enough with the fuel of longing, and hold it under pressure, one day it will erupt and destroy you. I wish I could be as guilt-free as Frey, but I'm not. That is to want something it's impossible for me to have. I'm from a different age, another place, a separate mindset. Perhaps it's that very danger, the precariousness that makes it so addictive. Gambling all on that one moment of ecstatic release. Using sex to drown out the shame I feel. And feeling worse because I know I shouldn't feel shame, so abusing sex more... Now, today, Frey invites me in and we smalltalk for a while. We drink, martinis probably. I pay him. I ask "Do you have something for me?" He nods. "Something special." I say "How do you want me?" And before he explains he says "Once in the room, do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. There is no other god than pleasure and the gratification of the senses. You want this? You absolutely want this?" I confirm "Yes, I want it." "You surrender all rights to me, without redress?" "I do." I never know what to expect. Until he specifies. Sometimes I'm to be just naked, so hurriedly I undress -- usually erect already, in fact chances are I've had a lazy lob on ever since the phone call, and usually even before at just the thought of what I'm preparing to do. Full nakedness for me is embarrassing, because -- to be honest, I'm not well-endowed, and I'm also self-conscious about my over-fleshy gut-line being seen. I'm no-one's idea of the body-perfect sex-slave. I have no illusion about being desired for myself. Not like they might desire the smooth nude bodies of the young hitchhiker guys on the website clip. But I can be used. And my embarrassment, the humiliation, is part of the experience. Cock-Sucker: The Dark Hunter Pt. 02 At other times I'm handcuffed, or in a latex pouch. Or Frey will attach a tether to my penis and scrotum and lead me by it into the adjoining room where a stranger awaits, he hands the leash over, granting him permission to do what he wants to me, and he leaves us. Always different. And I do what I must do. Once we pass through the red door, once we enter the precious twilight of the 'room' all behavioural norms are suspended, and I become totally subservient. I divest myself of my everyday personality along with my clothes. Once I cross that threshold I become property, once in that room I've stepped into another dimension of time and space where different rules apply, and I have no will of my own. I become a thing, absolutely servile to the wishes of whoever I find in there. There is leather. There is a musky aroma, the unmistakeable smell of old stale come. There is sparseness. Is the room getting smaller, or is it just me? I brace myself, trying not to breath. The walls close in on me, intent on teaching me, ready to squeeze all the sin out of me. There are manacles and some scary-looking sex-aids hung on the wall, including strap-ons, powerful vibrators, and things I can't identify. One wall is mirror-panelled -- possibly with two-way glass, so that the 'victim', and maybe others, can watch you being debauched. There's an adjustable frame with worn leather straps for securing spread wrists and ankles, and a swivel-pivot so different orifices and organs can be brought into play. Low-set stocks that affix the head down at waist-level. There's also tri-pod video equipment, pvc sheeting, a black vinyl couch, and a suspiciously stained mattress. Sometimes the guy I must serve is Frey, and the familiarity of doing it to him is always gratifying. I've grown to know his forceful cock and enjoy his demanding responses. With my mouth oozing his jism I look up at him and do the Oliver Twist thing, "please sir, may I have some more?" Once the guy I was ushered in to serve was naked, but hooded with only eye-slits to observe me, as I grovel to blow him, I wonder at the anonymity he's protecting, is he someone I'd recognise -- a politician or TV celebrity? A big slimy hooded cock, and I was tersely instructed not to allow it to slip out of my mouth without permission, and that permission is a long time coming, who was it filling my mouth? As it ends I prostrate myself and fawn "Will there be anything else, sir?" and if not, "Thank you for using me." Thank you for the fresh semen I now carry within my body! On one extreme occasion it was me who was blindfolded and led in to serve two men. I feel their presence. Hear the slap of their bare feet on the floor as they pose me ready. On my knees, and they take turns to use me, and I suck them both. First one of them holds my head while the other fucks deep into my windpipe mercilessly, then they switch places, talking to each other over my head, saying foul disgusting and demeaning things. "Watch that cock-sucker go, all the way in, half the way out, all the way in, to the balls, c'mon it's your turn, let me see you choke him..." They laugh coarsely as I meekly crouch. I've never felt so helpless, scared, intoxicated, or so dominated. For a moment, and a moment only they pause, yet I can feel their heavy heat quivering a breath from my mouth, the weighty firmness of one cock resting casually on my nose, leaking a trickle of sticky pre-come, the other tracing impatient saliva-wet nudges along my cheek. "You ready for more, wretch?" I manage to gasp "Yes, yes please." They laugh and begin again, their sweating hairy masculinity pounding into me. I've never felt so punished for the vileness of my needs, yet the more it goes on the more crazy with uncontrollable lust I become. I've already come once, and I'm about to come again. When the first one ejaculates in my mouth it seems to set the second one off, and I get flooded with it, swallowing, gasping, slurping, moaning. They feed their messy cocks back into my mouth so I can suck and lick them clean. I'm helplessly drunk on excess. Afterwards I'm trembling and sobbing for a half-hour as the sensations work their way out. Frey allows me time to recover. Yet I emerge with my demons temporarily purged. The experience keeps me on an erotic high for days after, as I replay each disgusting detail of it in my head over and over again... My wife is out there somewhere, being shagged by a man, and -- what-do-you-know? here I am doing pretty much the same! Although I'm a better cock-sucker than she's ever been, and what does that say about me? Unless she's a lot more enthusiastic about going down on her new guy. The great lie of life is that people pretend to know each other. The truth is that no-one really does. The truth is we barely know ourselves. We are just frightened animals lost in our own immensity. It's easier to be frightened of our feelings, easier to deny them, than face up, and admit to the power of the forces that prompt them. There's so much pain in the world. So much unfulfilled longing, caged in and repressed by fear. A constant craving for forbidden sensuality. A raging calm of yearnings that will never be satisfied because of the shame of being caught out. For weaknesses exposed to the harsh condemning gaze of others. Stay buttoned-up. Don't show weakness. Don't admit those secret feelings, even to yourself. Deny the ache. After each encounter, for days I'm overcome with hideous tides of guilt, consumed by self-recrimination. I feel dirty and ashamed of my need. Guilt at the vileness I've brought upon myself. I swear 'never again' with a new sense of resolve, pledge that this was the absolute final last time with self-righteous determination. Until that resolve erodes, subverted by the daydream images and night-time fantasies that sneak unbidden and uninvited into my mind when I least expect. Like a junkie or an alcoholic, drawn back inexorably by the lure of that immaculate fix, that sublime high. Drawn to the dark-side, the lust, desire, obsession growing in me, like checking the back of my hand for the first signs of werewolf hair-growth. Putting off that moment. Fighting the baseness that haunts and provokes me. But even as I'm swearing "Never again" my loins are stirring at the memory, and the anticipation, I'm helpless to stop the lazy erection happening as I replay each detail of the most recent incident, the nakedness, the arousal, the raw feel of bodies, the taste and texture of spunk as it uncontrollably jets onto my tongue as I gag it back. And I know that sooner or later -- usually sooner, I'll try to steady the pounding of my heart even though my body's out of control, I'll reach for the phone to arrange a session, and it will all begin all over again. The house has many other rooms, other chambers, other universes, in which deviant things also happen. I know that now. I've never seen the other visitors, but I know they're there. Of course, cars don't bring them here directly, but I've noticed BMW's, Mercedes and Rolls slow-cruising the streets nearby, drop-off points, pick-up points, multi-story blocks occupied for an hour, two hours, perhaps a little more. For as long as they can afford to absent themselves from the office, from life-commitments. I've heard the creaking of floorboards beyond closed doors. I've heard muted sounds seeping through the walls, imprecise, but suggestive of all manner of strangenesses. We all play games of implied threat. I don't know, but I can guess. Frey is an improviser, a fixer. He has a contact-book, a data-file. Dominants pay him to dominate. Submissives -- like me, pay him to be dominated. All he has to do is match up need-to-need. There's no way he can lose. I suspect he also has voyeurs with hidden prying eyes who pay to watch from concealed view-points, and that there is film and digitals for later profitable access. So the arrangement is structured around shared liabilities, risks, and self-interested trust locked into our mutual shame. Should there be one betrayal, all our lives collapse. Such interdependence intensifies and adrenalises each encounter. He has photos of me with anonymous naked men, polaroids of me crouching before nude men in compromising positions, he's shown them to me, I know he has them -- he says he has, or will, video me. That if ever I try to break free of him he'll use them to destroy me. It's part of the game. I think. Guilty consciences blackmail easily. So far I've never been able to resist the lure of depravity for long enough for it to be necessary. But he says he will up the stakes... I confess, I'm a respectable married man with a dark secret. And I know that even as I write these words, before today is out, I'm going to reach for my mobile, my palms moist with nervous sweat, my throat dry so that my voice is husky with tension, and I'll place that call. There's nothing I can do to stop myself... I'm going to stop sucking stranger's cocks. Next week. Or probably the week after. Maybe. But not today.