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Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 01

By: tristantrotsky



Part 1: In which I aquire a manager to pimp my sexual prowess...

I'm not going to pretend things to you. I'm not going to lie. My life is out of control. I've had a lot of guys. A lot of guys have had me. Maybe it's my naughty streak, my devilish grin. As a serial slut I've probably had more men than is humanly healthy. And done things, far too many things and too often, than I should not have done. But it's what I do. I know no other way to live. And, largely, I live well. Sucking cock is a career, and a vocation I'm more than qualified for. I do it well, and... yes, I get job satisfaction from it. When I suck a guy off he knows he's being sucked off by a specialist. I've got the experience, and the inclination – the obsession if you like. I'm more homo than sapien. Cocks are the focus of my life. Sucking them is my art. Norman Bates' mother – in the classic movie 'Psycho', harangues her son about 'young men with cheap erotic minds'. That's me.

Since I was younger I was very hard to please, and never knew wrong from right. I was never 'one of the guys', never 'one of the boys'. Always the quiet outsider, the uncommunicative misfit with diminished social skills, the 'black-sheep-boy' who never quite fits in. So I use sex to buy acceptance. On my knees with a cock in my mouth I find belonging, tenderness, surrogate friendship. That's when I first discover I have this hidden evil inner-twin who lives in the dark places of my mind. A presence in my head who takes over my actions and makes me do things, taking me beyond fear or self-respect. As though I'm possessed. This alternate persona. This secret identity. The other bolder, louder, more daring self who is usually skulking around in the deepest recesses of my psyche. He will emerge and take over at moments of stress. He can do all the things I'm too scared to do. It's not me, it's the freak in my head. All that's necessary is for me to switch him on, stand back, and allow him to take control of the situation while I merely watch from inside my head, and marvel at our exploits.

That's when I became the kid who takes candy from strangers, a guy gave me a couple of euros to suck him off in the park. It was so easy, and I realise there's more to this than I'd assumed. I'm a poor boy, so I begin doing it for small change, or just for the hell of it if I like the guy. Although liking the guy is by no means a prerequisite to sucking him off. I was promiscuous through my late-teens, with many lovers, affairs and random encounters. I even get myself an agent. After sex with one guy who pays me a few euros, he takes me to a nearby pavement café, buys me a pernod, and tells me he operates a stable of pretty-boy 'escorts', and with a talent such as mine, hey, I'm so good I'd be a natural. I'm flattered, and more than a little intrigued. No-one has ever complimented me like that before, and hell, I'm already doing it for spare change, what have I got to lose? His name, he says, is Luis.

He asks 'are you queer?'

'I'm not sure. Does it matter?' I reply honestly, 'I'm just so horny all the time I can't think straight'. Unaware of the unconscious pun.

'That's OK, at your age that's perfectly normal.' Luis has a relaxed persuasive easy manner although, as I'm soon to discover, he has a tetchy hectoring side too. He's maybe mid-forties, thinning slightly at the temples, and conscious of it. He wears a trilby and a long coat as though he imagines he's a character from an old pulp novel. He gets me a few 'dates' which go well, and soon I'm so popular and in demand I'm doing it most nights, and sometimes he's setting up one-off lunch-time or afternoon hour-long-stands too.

I know the theory. Avoid the pervs, weirdos and those on power-trips who like to beat on you. Make the punter come early and quick, using fingers as much, and mouth as little as possible. I know all that. But I'm not attuned to rip-off. Usually they're men in the city on business, away from wives or partners and up for a little irresponsible dirty-sex fun, which I'm eminently qualified to supply. In fact, it's the only thing I'm really good at. Mostly, they're sad individuals more nervous of it than I am. Most likely they charge for me on their expenses invoices to the company, as 'corporate entertainment'. One even chortles as he tells me he's paid my bill by charging it to the company as a legal expense, all he has to do is invent a phony case number on a blank invoice copy, and none of his auditors know the difference. This is purely a business a transaction. Feelings don't come into it.

Yet, illogically, I want to put them at their ease, I want them to like me, I need their approval, the trust that they find me truly entertaining! If they consider me a good experience, they'll come back for more. And they do. Oh yes, I'm the original 'tart with the heart'. There's one German businessman who asks for me repeatedly. He favours arse-to-mouth, switching repeatedly from one orifice to the other, which I'm not too keen on, but do it because that's what he wants. He talks dirty as I blow him, calling me all the most disgusting names he can think of, and I just suck him all the harder.

I visit another client in a huge business office-block, as pre-arranged I bluff my way through reception on the pretext of delivering a package, then once inside he closes the suite door so I can suck him off as he sits on his swivel chair beside his desk. He even takes a phone call as I work on him, although his voice is a little unsteady. Afterwards, as he zips up, I thank him politely, and leave. Another 'trick' likes to game-play that I'm the hotel bellboy he's seducing.

I say 'will there be anything more, sir?'

And he says 'well, I have this swelling that needs relieving' as he opens his dressing gown.

'Oh sir, may I? Will I get a tip?' as I fall into a crouch between his legs.

'You'll get more than the tip, do it right and you'll get every inch of it...' By the time I leave his room, I'm licking my lips and his swelling is well-drained.

Luis drives me to each 'appointment', mostly in Hotels or Motels, sometimes to offices or occasionally private apartments or flats, then he waits to pick me up afterwards. To me, this provides a kind of reassuring back-up security, if things turn weird. But for him it might just be to ensure I don't duck out of a fulfilling the contract. As I climb back into his car he gives me a mint to refresh my spermy breath, and a wet-wipe for stains, not for my benefit, but for the next client he's already taking me to. As he drives he insists on me telling him in detail about what just occurred. What service did the client require, oral, anal, both? Did he ejaculate in your mouth? Was he well-hung? What positions did he insist on, anything kinky, was there spanking, did he feel you up, toss you off? Did you enjoy it, were you turned on, did you come? Maybe it was to itemise the services for costing purposes, or maybe a way of desensitising me about what I was doing, talking about it makes me less self-conscious about what I'm doing, or maybe he just gets off on me describing the sex-action?

Whatever, I never see the cash, Luis handles the financial side, and gives me a 'wage'. If we stop at a Bistro for coffee or something he always deducts it from my allowance. But largely, I'm fine with the arrangement. From my point of view, I'm making more money than ever. Then, at Luis' instigation, I flat-share with two of his other boys, Jean and Willie. He sometimes sends clients round who have no other place to do it. They then select which of us to take into the bedroom. Naturally I'm the new kid, a novelty, so you can imagine the flouncing bitch-calling cat-fight jealously when I get selected by three gentlemen consecutively. For me, it just flatters my vanity, I'm popular, I'm desired.

Sometimes I like to think of myself as a gigolo, but at other times I know the truth, I'm just a strumpet. We also double-date, which involves two older guys using two escorts, which leaves me feeling a little cheated.

Luis drops us off, instructing us 'just do as you're told OK? Refuse nothing. Just let it wash over you. At the end we'll have a handsome pay-check and you get a good time!'

Two arrogantly unpleasant Belgians with gelled slicked-back hair, take us out for a meal. When I pick unenthusiastically at my salad in the Bistro my 'date' guffaws, 'he needs some solid meat down his throat' with embarrassing innuendo, while groping my groin in a proprietal manner under the table, establishing his territorial right, 'hey, the himbo's already primed to go' – I'm ashamed to say he was right, despite my misgivings, anticipations of what the night ahead held had got me aroused, and he squeezes my balls so tight it makes me wince. Much to the amusement of both.

The other 'escort' – Jean, dark, surly, and maybe a year older than me, joins in the laughter too, a little uncertainly, as colour sweeps into my cheeks.

'You're a bad boy? You like it rough? Don't worry' resumes the smart well-dressed Belgian, 'we will not harm you, at least no more than that. But you will do exactly as we command, yes?' He allows no possibility of negotiation. He's a control-freak, and he's chosen me to be his target. Already I'm nervous, but in a good way. Then, treating us perfunctorily, back in their dipped-lit penthouse hotel suite with sparkling night city-views, with wine and coke, Jean and I are instructed to get naked. I never wear underclothes, it needlessly slows things (although some guys do like to peel a thong off a willing nubile youth). The heating is up, it's warm, the carpet rich and soft on my bare toes, but a goose-bump chill courses through me. I'm self-consciously erect, Jean isn't. Why is it always me that's dumbly obvious? Why can't I be the cool laid-back one? Why do my trigger-happy physical reactions always let me down? Sometimes my unruly cock speaks a language I don't always understand.

Their suit-jackets come off. 'Want some wine?' he invites, and when I nod he drops his pants. The revealed cock is only semi-hard, but admirably well-endowed, with its size and weight causing it to arc heavily below the horizontal. It's a weird sensation the first time you see a stranger's cock and know with absolute certainty it's going to be ejaculating in your mouth in a matter of short minutes. A mix of curiosity with decadent wantonness, the thrill of nastiness about it, the perverse anticipation, and acceptance – not only that I'm going to do this, but that I'm getting paid for doing it. A sense of the dangerous too, an edgy kind of transgressive danger. A walking on the wild side dangerous. I hate, and love this feeling.

Yet he just dips it in the wine-flute, 'you want some wine? So put your pretty whore-tongue to use and lap it off there'. Again, there's laughter. Naturally I just squat right down, legs splayed, and suck the plumply swollen corona-head right in, that's what I'm here to do, right? That's what I'm being paid for. This is the moment the whole evening has been building towards. And this is where I get to come into my own, I might be useless at using my mouth for witty conversation and repartee, but I'm confident in my ability to use it to suck cock. I feel it pulse and throb as I provoke a rush of blood fattening it out, the electric jolt of an answering arousal roaring through my body so I'm trembling and almost on the point of coming myself.

But abruptly and unexpectedly he slaps my face stingingly and pulls back, making a juicy 'plop' as it jerks out. 'How dare you, did I tell you to do that?'

'No monsieur' I whimper, confused.

'How dare you use me for your own dirty pleasure. Have patience boy. Don't be greedy. Everything comes to he who waits. And there will be plenty of come for you'. He dips it back in the wine and repeats the game a couple more times for his amusement and my debasement, to demonstrate his absolute control. This time I do precisely as instructed, using only my tongue on his wine-moist cock, lapping its length, curling around the crown, slithering underside to tease around the inverted 'v'-valley where they connect. The other Belgian obviously considers it very funny because it cracks him up laughing. Even Jean is smirking.

Until the effect of my tongue seriously inflates and stiffens his heavy erection, by now Jean and his night-partner are both nude, and the cock-sucking begins in a more earnest mockingly competitive way. 'You're a dirty cock-sucker boy' he demands.

'Yes, I am, I'm a dirty cocksucker, monsieur.'

'Due to your insolently presumptive behaviour earlier I don't think you've earned the reward of sucking me off. So tell me. Whose cocksucker are you boy?'

'I'm your cocksucker tonight, monsieur, if it pleases you.'

'I'm not sure I'll allow you the privilege. You crave to suck me off?'

'Yes, I want to, monsieur.' All this while, as I go through the role-play game, it's quivering with charged sexual energy an inch from nose, my attention totally focused on a drooling bead of moisture that might be wine, saliva, or most likely its own juice, and I'm wishing he'd just quit playing games and stick it in my mouth.

He glances across at his companion, 'this bitch needs cock, he's begging for it. Who am I to deprive him?' then down at me 'OK slut, now's your opportunity to show me just how much you want to gobble that cock-meat.' Standing, hips thrust forward, with his cock-head in my mouth, rather than pulling back he pushes it deeper down into my hospitable oesophagus, where it stays, trying to make me gag. 'No hands now, hands clasped behind your perky butt, just mouth, don't worry about breathing, just inhale cock, that's all, just use that sexy well-fucked mouth.' I have absolutely no control, instead, his hands are holding my head so he can fuck as deep as he pleases, while me, still testing out my own limits, am reconciled to letting him.

'There's a good little whore' he laughs, moving backwards a pace, then another, so I'm forced to slither forward to ensure it stays in my mouth. I hear Jean making slurpy squelchy sounds, little distressed sobs and moist coughs, while his guy is grunting, and it sounds incredibly dirty, glancing across as much as I can, I see that his Belgian is seated, and I see the rearing cock feeding into Jean's mouth as he hunches between his legs. It looks so horny I redouble my efforts to take mine deeper and suck more enthusiastically, making little gurgling glutton-noises in my throat, saliva dribbling my chin, my eyes ripply with moisture. The two Belgians are urging us on in the crudest most vulgar terms. They might have money and commercial success, but no culture.

I close my eyes the better to concentrate on what I'm doing. He slows his assault a little, leaves it in, allowing me to work on it, which I do enthusiastically, sucking lustfully. Then, I sense he's on the brink of coming, probably before he does, all too soon I feel his big swollen balls drawing up tight in impending climax, the little pulsations that start at the base of his cock, and the thick vein on its underside throbbing as the semen speeds up his shaft to spunk off with full force into my waiting mouth.

'Bon appétit, slut' he leers. Even if I'd intended drawing away, which I don't, his firm grip on my head keeps his eruption locked in my mouth. 'Wait, I'm not done yet' he cautions as another wave bursts in my mouth. But that's fine, I know what I'm doing. I'm shameless. Even though I have no respect for him. I realise later he'd have preferred it if I'd choked or showed signs of distress when he came, because he seems disappointed when I take all he can give so easily. Sometimes, the more you fight, the more they enjoy it.

Still, I must look foxily enticing, squatting nude at his feet, smiling up at him as great gobs of his pearly seed spill in rivulets down my chin. 'You like that, slut?' he leers.

'Yes I do monsieur, very much, thank you monsieur' I simper, licking my lips, then licking and sucking his inflamed glans appreciatively, taking it back deep into my mouth.

'Well enjoy it, 'cos that's all you're good for.' I can hear Jean making strangulated noises as his Belgian grunts out his ejaculation. He laughs, reaches for a silk dressing gown, and settles back on the couch, obviously drained.

But they're not done yet. After this first bout they insist on Jean and me performing for their amusement, which means us sixty-nining and stuff as they watch and wait to re-stiffen their resolve, for their vigour to refirm. They've obviously done this kind of thing dozens of times before with rent-boys, because they know exactly what they want, and how to direct us. It's pretty new to me, well no, that's not true, I've done this before, just not as part of a commercial package. Not that we need encouraging.

After we've jacked each other awhile, I squirm down to lie sprawled on my back, Jean positions over my head, we're both still hard. I've seen him naked before, but we've never had sex together. I admit I've wanted to get closer to him, and this provides the excuse to satisfy curiosity. He leans over me in a quite matter-of-fact way, I reach up to guide him in, and once located he sinks it deep into my throat, then goes down to trap me in his mouth, and we indulge to full mutual satisfaction. His body is warm and comfortably enveloping, his balls alternately flopping in my eye-sockets or pleasantly squashing across my forehead as he rocks his hips. It's forced a little too deep into my gullet for comfort, my nose buried in pubic hair, but that only adds to the edgy sense that I'm not in control, he is, and beyond him, the two Belgians I can no longer see because of the pressing weight of his body. I am just there to be used. And my throat soon accustoms to the fullness and heat of his shaft.

At the last minute, to make it visual for them, Jean slides it out, poised about two inches above my open mouth and splatters blobby strands of cream all over my face, so that once he's done I can simply raise my head a little to draw its messy tip back in and suck more gently as he just wanks me, fastidiously avoiding further facial contact, so I come in wonderful warm tingling contractions spitting long drooling spurts all the way up my stomach. He milks me efficiently, I feel his fingers squeezing the final bubbles out while arcing it in a wiper motion to spread the gooey-daubs, to ironic applause, as I still contentedly mouth him.

An abrupt handclap signals the next phase, the KY-jelly comes out, and we assume new positions, side-by-side on the bed on all fours, bums poised, raised and ready. I'm not even allowed time to wipe face or gut. They inevitably suggest switching partners, our compliance taken for granted. As they manoeuvre us, I smile up at Jean's guy appealingly, he ignores it, he's not interested in my face. He has a longer thinner cock, so when he noses his swollen lubricated member into me it slides in smoothly all the way, showing no compassion or consideration. I relax my sphincter-muscles as he begins humping me, alternating between short fast thrusts, where he withdraws until only the engorged tip remains in my ass, then slowing to take some deeper long strokes, sliding forward until his groin is pressed tightly against me, slipping still deeper so we merge and his buried cock becomes a part of me. As though his dick has found its home in total sexual union.

Wordlessly, he takes his time, with admirable self-control and I enjoy the sensation of being used for his pleasure, my own hypersensitive cock dancing slap-slap-slappity-slap up against my gut as he fucks me, every thrust into my quivering bottom causing new overwhelming waves of sensations. Every thrust has me gasping for breath. Until his hips buck, and my rectum trembles receptively as he's shooting off deeper inside me than just about any man has ever before, I'm feeling the soft warm gush inside, the sudden moistness. While from the other side of the bed I can hear their perspiration-sheened bodies squeaking together, but from Jean's whimpering moans I get the impression he's enjoying it less. Although he might be employing a little theatrics to flatter the Belgian's vanity? I'm not sure. Maybe I should pretend a little distress to gratify the male need to dominate too?


Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 01



I'm taking note, learning. The client doesn't necessarily want you to enjoy it. Some want that 'oh it's huge, it's much too big to go into my tight little bottom, that's gonna hurt when it goes into me, be gentle, ooooh-ow-ow, it's soooo big!' stuff. Keep the customer well-satisfied, and it could prove more financially rewarding. At the time, I confess, I'm pretty-much too turned on by being with three horny naked guys, I take orders well and they're nice big cocks. But I'm still sticky with drying sperm as we're paid off and put in the cab home. Although I attempt to catch Jean's eye, we travel across the city in a brooding silence. And I get to thinking, well, I was contracted for one, but wound up being vandalised by three cocks. Is that fair?

Not that we ever directly see the financial rewards of our sexual efforts, that goes direct to Luis who organises and sets up the 'dates', and who, once he's deducted our rent and living expenses, gives us some spending money for ourselves. I suspect he creams off most of the profit! And more, I suspect, although I'm taking the majority of the client-traffic, he's paying them more, as they've been with him longer. But no, on this occasion, the sweetest part of the evening was undoubtedly the mutual intimacy I'd indulged in with Jean. But if I'd imagined it signified the start of a closer relationship with him I was mistaken.

I'd have readily repeated the sixty-nining whenever he wanted it, in fact I'd be happy to do it, if only he'd show the slightest inclination. In fact, I'd have sucked him off even if he's not minded to reciprocate, just to get another taste of him. But it seems he'd been doing it strictly as part of the client's instructions. Now he resumed his close bond with Willie, excluding me as still the outsider. During the night I hear them having sex with each other, or I hear their delighted giggling as they shower together. Leaving me feeling excluded and resented.

Also Luis comes round every now and then, when the mood takes him, expecting a freebie – his 'commission' he says, and because of the situation, frequently he doesn't even bother taking me into the bedroom. Hey, we're all in this together, guys, so I squat to blow him while Jean and Willie merely carry on a three-way conversation over my head about the most recent clients or about upcoming commissions as I work on him, they might ignore what I'm doing, or watch with idle amusement, offering helpful suggestions on technique.

'It's obvious you need more practice taking cock deep down inside your throat. Come on, see if you can breathe around that cock. A skilled sucker holds cock deep down in his throat and licks the guy's balls while breathing only through the nose. You gotta learn to enjoy that choking feelings of not being able to breathe. Now, do it some more', while massaging my adam's apple to lubricate and ease it deeper.

I suspect it was, for Luis, part of my acclimatisation programme, getting me used to accepting sex at any time under any circumstances without question. 'The truth about blow-jobs' he lectures, 'pay attention now' although it's difficult to pay attention when his raging cock-head is nudging your epiglottis. 'Two major fallacies about ending a blow-job. Once he's come, he doesn't care what happens to the sperm. Wrong. The follow-through is important if you want him to come back and pay for it again. That's his gift to you. Spitting it out is rejecting that gift. Spunk-dodgers are bad news. You swallow. Always, unless he specifically tells you he wants it on your face or up your ass, you swallow, right? Second, once he's come, it's over, disengage, NEXT! Wrong. At the point of ejaculation and immediately afterwards the tip of the cock is at its most sensitive, you've got to use your tongue on it throughout. And keep sucking, once its subsided do it slower, more gently, but keep sucking until HE decides its over, not you, and not before... right? Now – I'm about to come, I'm getting close... feel it? you should, demonstrate what I've just told you, show me...'

Although it's no big deal, I've no real objection to doing it, it's just his presumption that rankles me. 'A kiss, on the cock, might be quite Continental' he croons, 'but diamonds are what it's all about, remember that!' He instructs me to always politely say 'thank you' to the gentlemen' I've just sucked off, which is a lesson I take to heart, and still do today. He talks of getting a video-camera and shooting some porn footage of the three of us together, I guess I'd be on the sticky end of their cocks, but I'm quite intrigued by the idea, quite up for it. I was willing and ready to participate, quite turned on by the thought of anonymous males out there secretively jacking-off to images of me doing my thing on-screen, but he never actually gets around to doing it.

He does, however, arrange a photographic session for us at a quite up-market Left Bank fashion studio, with a lighting man and a rather camp make-up artist as well as a professional photographer. Afterwards we each received portfolios which Luis can then use to tempt potential clients. Jean and Willie are first. They strip off and pose for a series of shots. Nothing kinky, just full nude body-studies. Willie can't get an erection until the make-up man fusses around him with a soft cosmetic brush which produces enough of the desired effect for the required photos. When it's my turn I naturally have no such problem, I enjoy preening and striking increasingly provocative poses.

When we're done I begin to dress but Luis indicates 'no', after a hurried conversation with the photographer, during which they take long critical glances at me, Luis returns his attention to me, 'you sort out the payment in kind, be nice to him, do what he tells you to do, we'll wait for you in the brasserie across the road'. Then Luis, with Jean and Willie in tow, leave me there. A little confused, and still naked, I stand there until it becomes obvious how Luis can afford to use such an expensive studio. I am being traded.

The photographer eases his ice-blue skin-tight corduroys down, stands in front of me and indicates what's required. Resigned to the inevitable I squat down and suck his cock, after a few moments, once it's sheened in my saliva he indicates he wants me doggy-style, so I crouch down and he enters me from behind. After he's done and extracts his wilting cock from my bottom I make to stand but he waves his finger 'non' – the only word addressed to me throughout, and the lighting man moves in to replace him. Is this part of the deal? Has Luis agreed to this? Already it's too late to protest as a second cock forces its way up my sperm-lubricated anus. As he thrusts and grunts I can hear the make-up man in a phone conversation, obviously with his boyfriend about the situation. He's flouncing and bitching. I can imagine the boyfriend's voice on the other end of the line, 'don't you dare go near that dirty little strumpet'.

At last the lighting man withdraws and wipes himself with a tissue, as the make-up man watches me, caught up in indecision, licking his lips nervously. Is it time for me to get up yet? I feel a little self-conscious as I wait. Will he? Won't he? In my experience, no-one – straight or Gay, married or in Civil Partnership, will resist temptation if he's sure he can get away with it, no-one passes up the chance of a no-strings free shag. Then deny it later. And I must look enticing, down on all fours, legs slightly invitingly apart, bottom raised, my ripe aroused genitals hanging, swaying slightly.

Predictably, at last he arrives at his decision, determinedly undressing and moving towards me. I can tell immediately why his boyfriend is so jealously concerned. Despite his effeminate demeanour it's a big beautiful penis, as I have every opportunity to appreciate. Having committed himself to doing it, he seems determined to extract full value from what's on offer. Doing stuff he's too caring and considerate to do to his boyfriend. He rubs its fat crown around my face leaving a glistening trail over my forehead and nose, shoves it straight between my lips and in, pulls out and forces first one testicle then the other into my mouth, allowing a long moment for me to suck on each, then slithers his cock back in all the way into my throat until I'm making muffled gurgling choking sounds. He rocks it in and out as I make burbling noises, then abruptly pulls out, moves around and slips it up my back-passage, I brace myself to accept it

The photographer and lighting guy stand watching, amused, sipping cappuccinos as he thoroughly fucks me, reaching around beneath my arched stomach to fumble roughly at my own dancing cock and balls, squeezing a little too hard, yet easing pleasurable responses until I spunk off in multiple tingly waves of sensation. Finally it was over, I'm allowed to stand, a little unsteadily, get dressed, and without a word being exchanged, descend to street level. Walking awkwardly across the road, conscious of three loads of semen seeping from my sensitised bum-hole, to find the others there waiting impatiently in the brasserie.

'What the hell took you so long' complains Luis, 'do you think we've nothing better to do than hang around here while you waste our time with your own pleasure? All you ever think of is yourself.' I was a little indignant, but hang my head and say nothing. 'C'mon, you've got a client waiting to be serviced' he adds....

My adventures are obviously far from over. There will be more. Much much more to come...



Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 02



Part 2: In which I consider leaving Luis and going solo...

As I told you last time, I'd acquired a manager to market my sexual expertise. Then there was a week when Luis leased me out, or maybe traded me -- I never learned the full details, to a massage parlour called 'Le Homme Libre'. When I protest I know nothing about giving a massage he laughs. The clients are business-men who need a little stress-relief -- y'know, stress is just so... stressful, so they need relaxation, usually of the erotic kind, nothing I'm not familiar with. It's a sleazy place up a flight of narrow stairs. A couple of cubicles, a cramped sauna and shower-room, an extractor-fan that rattles mournfully as the wind blows, and three other young guys who work there on different shift patterns, from what information I can gather.

There's some raucous joshing. I get undressed. We wear only short white towels which allow the client's access, free rein, should they choose, and are easily removable as required. I quickly learn that mine spends more time on the floor than it does around my waist! We purge and lubricate, and while doing it I catch a glimpse of another of the youths doing the same. And he's huge. I've seen big cocks. This is bigger than anything I've ever seen before. It was mesmerising, I can scarcely believe my eyes, although I see only the briefest glimpse. Business is slow at first. A couple of guys arrive and are taken into curtained-off cubicles. I sit and read a magazine.

Then the next customer, dressed only in a towel, is assigned to me. We enter the tiled cubicle. There's a wall-mirror and a low couch. He lies face down. I smile, squeeze oils on his back and do the best I can at massaging him. Inevitably he rolls over and I start on his chest, then lower, to his paunchy stomach.

I hesitate, ask 'you want extras?' as I've been told to.

He says 'yes,' so I unfasten the towel. He's genitally unimpressive. I dribble a little oil over it, and begin concentrating my attentions on his stiffening cock. It doesn't seem to take him long as I flex up and down its slippery-glistening length with one hand and coddle his drooping ball-sack with the other, rolling it with the palm of my hand. He merely lies there, his hands behind his head, watching. I'm not sure how to finish him. Wiping it with a towel seems a little unkind, and there's laundry bills. I can't just allow it to shoot off. So I duck my head down towards his groin, hesitate, look up to catch his eye. He gulps and nods. My lips close in around the ridged bulb of his cock, and with only the slightest lapping flick of my tongue he begins to come. After all, I can always spit it out later. If I decide to. I don't. I keep his stubby erection in my mouth for what I consider a tactful period, then release and towel it dry. He seems embarrassed now it's over, clutches for the towel, and smiles at me nervously. But he leaves a tip before he goes.

I say 'thank you, sir, come again,' emphasising the word 'come.'

There's another wait between clients. I sit and talk to the masseur I'd noticed earlier. He says his name is René 'The Log'. He brings me a coffee in a Styrofoam cup and says 'drink this, it'll wash the dirty old-man spunk-taste away.' I laugh, it seems to be the expected response. But how does he know? is there CCTV, a camera hidden behind the mirrors? Or is he just surmising from what he knows about the clientele? Judging by the gutteral sounds I hear from behind the curtains of the other cubicles, they all seem to be doing pretty much the same. He seems happy to chat. He tells me some of the 'visitors' like their boys pubically shaved, so that the 'dirty buggers' can pretend they're with pre-pubertal Twinks. He laughs. I laugh too, although I'm more intrigued to see what I know is lurking beneath his towel. Is that monster shaved?

Soon there's another client. He takes me into the cubicle and even before I've begun the massage, his hand goes up my towel to squeeze and explore what he finds there. I smile encouragingly and part my legs. My towel comes adrift, so does his, and all pretence of massage ceases.

'You ready boy?' he demands.

'Yes sir' I say, although my state of arousal surely says as much.

'Then show me what you can do with that pretty mouth.' He sits on the edge of the couch as I crouch to suck him, slathering my mouth up and down his bloated length, suck-suck-suckity-suck, giving attention to the tip, then the shaft. He squirms in the way that some guys squirm when they're getting sucked, indicating he's not quite as in control as he pretends to be, but guiding my rhythm, pumping up to meet me as I take it deep, moaning on every stroke. For me, I've been here before, there's not a lot he can do to me that others have not already done.

He lets this go on for some time then pulls me up, turns me around and bends me over the couch, forcing my legs apart with his knee so that he can slide up into me. I stoop, to be conquered. I must be getting used to it, it goes in so easily. We can see what's happening in the mirrors, and once the fucking begins the sight of my erection flipping up and down to the rhythm of his thrusts is a turn-on, and I grunt and ejaculate in long milky-white streams, which amuses him. He smacks my bare bottom, squeezes my spermy cock. Then slows a little, pauses, then begins again, slows, then restarts, stringing out the process as long as he can, until he's spurting warmly deep up inside of me. At length he slowly extracts and gestures me to lick and suck him clean. Again, once I've done, as I'm wiping him and myself, and mopping my sticky spunk-smears off the couch, I thank him. Although this time there's no tip.

There are other clients. Some of them simply go into the sauna where I'm certain they're shagging each other, which seems a little unfair, after all -- that's the service we're here to provide! The pace speeds up around lunchtime, then as the first day becomes the second, then the third, and I become increasingly used to the routine, and their expectations. I sit and wait, with the disturbing awareness that the next stranger to come through the door, whoever he is, whatever he's like, within moments I'll be on my knees sucking him off. And most cocks are not as aesthetically beautiful as porn would lead you to believe. In fact there are tiny pathetic ones, and downright ugly ones too. No-one really wants a massage. So I start from that premise. Focus on servicing the cock, ignore the often-unpleasant guy who owns it.

'The Log' seems particularly friendly, and its good to talk. He's blonde, with a wide easy face and generous mouth. We exchange increasingly frank intimacies. He says 'all these guys, we wouldn't be doing this if we weren't getting paid for it.'

'No' I agree, 'not all of them.'

He picks up on my words, 'but some of them, you mean?'

Why lie, what's the point, 'well, I was going with guys before just for the hell of it, or for small-change, until Luis suggested I could put my talent to work. Career-Opportunity, cock-sucking for fun and profit! So that's what I'm doing.'

He looks at me intensely, 'yes, I guess so. For me, with my particular talent' -- he indicates his groin, 'I've always been targeted by guys. It's what everyone wants, isn't it? a big cock. But I tell you it's as much a curse as it is a blessing. That's all anyone sees. That's the only way they can think of me. 'The Log'. The guy with the big cock. They've always been coming around me wanting to see it, to touch it, to suck it, to get fucked by it. They never see me as a person. I've got regulars who come here just so I can fuck them, having a big cock up their arse reminds them of how it felt the first time, when they were at boarding school or something, and it felt so big it hurt. That's what they want to experience. They never think that just maybe there's a thinking human being behind the cock-meat.'

He smiles bashfully after his tirade. I smile back. But all the time I'm thinking of what lies beneath his towel. It's impossible not to. Think of all the things men strive for most in the world, wealth, prestige, power, cars, mansions, women, social status -- they'd trade it all for that one thing he has, a big cock. Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of two business men. One selects me and we enter the nearest cubicle, pulling the curtain behind us, the other seems uninclined to indulge, and sits reading a financial magazine. Soon, he's undressed, reclining on his back on the couch as I stimulate him erect, my towel is yanked away and I lean over naked to suck him, doing my best to please. Taking him deep in my mouth and working it efficiently, while fixing the image of René in my mind.

It goes on for some time, until the man outside the cubicle gets impatient, and says 'hurry up, we gotta get back to the office'. When there's no response he pulls the curtain aside and walks in on us. Ignoring me crouching over his friend's groin, head bobbing making slurpy squelching sounds.

He starts saying 'y'now that Nin & Miller file, I've been thinking...' and they start discussing the assignment awaiting them in their office. The guy I'm sucking raises himself up on his elbows and begins trading figures and equations, as I continue to mouth him. Eventually he reaches down, unnecessarily, to hold my head in place as he wiggles his hips, flexes and squirms, and starts erupting thick spunk into my mouth. As I make throaty choking noises, it's as though his colleague notices me for the first time.

He looks down, 'this boy's good?'

He smirks, 'you know something? You wanna get your cock sucked real good, cheap and no-strings? Trust me on this. I'll tell you, truth is, forget about the chicks and the cash-pussies, find yourself a gay-boy. They enjoy doing it, it's in their nature, queer-boy spunk-monkeys love dick, can't get enough. They're all salacious cum-sluts, they're hard-wired that way, they suck you off and they're grateful to you for it...'

Although I'm in no position to argue back, I feel a sense of resentment welling at his presumptions, even as I gulp back his spicy sperm-load. But then he says, 'just check out this boy's tackle, it tells you all you need to know.' And sure, as I release the cock and step back they can both see that, not only am I achingly stiff, but I'm dripping pearly pre-com like a leaky tap. There's no way I can argue back, even if I'd intended to. Laughing, he dries off, dresses, and they leave. I feel oddly confused, not only by his hurtful accusations, but by the betrayal of my own body which seems determined to confirm everything he'd said. Perhaps he's right, it is in my nature...?

My fascination with René -- or at least that one particular aspect of René only intensifies, it draws me like a homing beacon. I take every opportunity of letting him see me naked, hoping he'll pick up on the casual nudity and respond in kind. He doesn't. His towel remains firmly in place. I even sit beside him, talking as I toy absently with my cock, pulling it this way and that, stretching it, drawing attention to it. I can see one of the other masseur-boys watching, smiling with obvious approval. But René seems immune to my overtures.

It's the third day. Word seems to have got around about the compliant new whore, I've been kept busy. Then, towards the end of late afternoon, I'm called through to the office. The sleazy boss is there with one of the clients. There's a fan whispering on his desk.

He looks up as I enter. 'Did you commit an act of fellatio on this gentlemen?'

I'm confused, what am I supposed to answer? I just say 'what?'

'This gentleman, did you suck him off?'

I nod, 'yes, I did.'

'And did he ask you to?'

I glance down embarrassed, 'no, I just assumed.'

'Oh, assumed did you? You just assumed, so you went right ahead and took your dirty pleasure without even asking. Is that so?'

I shuffle uncomfortably, 'I guess so, I'm sorry.'

'You should be sorry. This gentleman is now entitled to the refund he's demanding, because you can't control your dirty mouth.'

Again I apologise, 'I'm sorry.' Although I don't recall him protesting too much or fighting me off as I was gobbling him.

'Apologise to the gentleman.'

I humbly apologise as he smirks, 'don't be too hard on the boy, he was understandably overwhelmed by his natural desires. You know how weak these cock-hungry young sluts can be, when faced with the temptation of so attractive a package.'

'Get the hell out of here.'

Glumly I retreat back up the stairs to the rooms above. René is waiting, in his towel. He sits beside me. 'I heard what happened' he said, 'and I think it's damned disgusting the way you were treated. It's obvious that guy was just a cheapskate, wriggling out of paying his bill. The evil bastard. He had no right speaking to you like that.'

I smile at him, grateful for his sympathy. He leans across and puts his hand on my shoulder supportively, 'you know, me and you, we're alike. We're both exploited here. We don't need this. We can do better. We should get the hell out here and set up on our own. We don't need the pimps and the bullies. We can do it together, just me and you. Me with my... my special talent, and you with yours. What do you think?'

I was overjoyed, and could feel his masculine presence so close, so close it was setting off reactions. It seems the most natural thing in the world to respond to his attention, a waste of sin not to, so I slide my hand up his towel and wrap my fingers around his cock. And what a handful, my fingers barely meet around the thickness of its girth, I'm thrilled by the heavy heat of its weighty firmness.

For a second he doesn't react. Then abruptly he stands up, as he does so the towel becomes trapped and comes loose, and as he stands over me his cock swings loose inches from my face, and it is magnificent. A thing of terrible beauty. I can't believe how amazing it is. Just seeing it makes my heart jump, and so does my cock. My mouth gapes in stunned shock and awe. I had mistaken his intention -- as invitation, as a come-on. So, almost despite myself my head goes in and my lips slip over the lower part of his bulbous cock-head, inching up to take more, too much to take in at one eager gulp, I'll have to work it in gradually, slowly...

But he's shoving my head away -- 'No, no, what do you think you're doing? You're just like the rest. You're just like the others. You don't see me as a person, you just see me as so much cock-meat, don't you, don't you? I was wrong. I was mistaken. I thought you were different. I was wrong, so very wrong.'

He scoops up his discarded towel and storms out. I can see one of the other masseur guys watching proceedings from the corner, laughing to himself. I was confused. I was hurt. I'd messed up. I'd blown my big chance. My own lustful desires had betrayed me so that I'd lost out the opportunity of gaining a real friend. What I'd always wanted. What I'd always needed. But I was bad. I was corrupt. I was flawed. My own evil side had intervened and destroyed what I'd wanted most. Sometimes the depths of my stupidity can be truly tragic. All the cock I've had today, but I wanted more. I wanted his. And I couldn't wait, couldn't bide my time, couldn't wait until the right moment. But I'm not to blame. It's not me. It's my cock. It gets stiff, and it takes over. I can't argue with what it's telling me. I have no control. It floods my bloodstream with raging hormones. I can't fight it. It blinds me, beffudles my reason and rational senses, I can think of nothing else. I'm doomed to always follow its primal impulses. But it's not me that's to blame. It's what's between my legs, always aroused, persistent, compulsive, single-minded, irresistible. A raging one-eyed monomaniac. I don't stand a chance against it.

The arrangement with Luis goes on for a number of months after my time at 'Le Homme Libre', but the experience with Rene had unsettled me badly. The things he'd said had seeded ideas, planted a deep discontent. Until one of my clients, Julian, invites me away for a week of high hotel living in Tuscany. He was cultured and considerate, I was polite and respectful, all I had to do was make myself available for him whenever he wants sex. Which is no problem. In truth, I was ravenous for experience, I was hungry for all the wickedness he could give, and was always more up for the dirty stuff than he was.

I remember details of the excursion, the leather-smell of his car upholstery, the heat of the sun as we cross the Piazza Della Signoria in Florence, the sharp tang of wine, the Renaissance art and statuary he seems so very knowledgeable about. When I observe that much of the art seems to take a particular interest in the anatomy of the male nude he explains that, back in those Renaissance days, those who weren't busy shagging their own sisters were seducing every pretty boy in town. That no cute bottom was left unmolested and no cock unsucked. And even earlier, in Roman times -- according to the 'Satyricon' of Gaius Petronius, there wasn't even what we now think of 'Gay' and 'straight', instead, every young man of education would be expected to be skilled in the erotic arts of pleasing all genders. I agree that seems a most sensible arrangement. And then, once the talking is done, I recall the warm insistent pressure of his greased cock sliding into my ass as I groan appreciatively, squirming my nude undercarriage up against the silky sexiness of the luxury designer sheets as the muscular reflexes shock through my body. The expression of concentration on his face as I sit splay-legged on the edge of the Jacuzzi so he can jack me off, to fountain in a spurting arc into the water where the white ropes of sperm float. He likes to watch me take a piss, which I think a little odd, but if that's what he wants I'm more than happy for him to do it. So I drink a lot of water. And it amuses him to sit on the balcony of the hotel suite looking out over the people below, greeting them and waving, as I crouch unseen beneath the low parapet, sitting on my heels naked, to suck him off long and slow. I enjoy the perversity of that too.

But after the weird extremism of Luis and some of his 'clients' I was grateful for his consideration, and demonstrate my very real appreciation in the way most appropriate. His isn't the biggest or most beautiful cock I've ever sucked, even then, but by the slavish attention I lavish on it I strive to deceive him that it is. With him sitting out on the balcony, and me down on my knees between his splayed legs, starting with slow short sucking actions on the head, then long strokes of my well-trained mouth worthy of the best Porn-DVD's, slurping lasciviously, then gazing up at him with huge eyes filled with grateful adoration. I feel content and warmly sated.

'I need to cum now' he says abruptly moving out from under me and leading me back into the bedroom. 'Lay down with your head on those pillows' he says and I flip over on my back and wriggle up, my own cock swaying and bouncing with each move, aiming the ceiling in perky eagerness, my legs spread, knees slightly raised, until my head is propped up on the pillows, unsure what he intends. He straddles my chest and pushed his cock back down in line with my mouth, moves his hips forward to feed it to me, using short, quick strokes as he holds the back of my head to face-fuck me. I feel its urgent power as he saws himself back and forth into my mouth. 'OH FUCK...' he shouts -- and I'm ready for the imminent explosion, but startled as he pulls his throbbing cock out of my mouth.

My confused mind is all over the place, I look up just as he wraps his fist around his cock and rapidly milks while pointing it directly at my face, holding onto the top of my head with his other hand. I see his piss-slit flex and open and then the first massive shot of pearly cum jettisons itself onto my face, hitting me just below the eye. It's followed by another gigantic dollop which hits me square in the nose and upper lip. Julian continues pumping, directing shot after shot onto my face, until I'm a mess.




Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 02



'I always wanted to do this' he breathes.

I try to smile appreciatively as it drips and slithers across me, closing my right eye. That's what I'm here to do, fulfill his dirtiest dreams. Some say a facial is about humiliation or domination, to me it's just another sex-game. He finishes by sticking his cock back into my mouth for me to finish taking his final drops, nursing again at the cock-head as it continues feeding me his life-giving juice. Taking every drop as it pulses its sticky load deep into my receptive throat. Unable to express how much I'm loving it, I just purr my pleasure around it, and don't let go. But always careful to politely say 'merci, monsieur' afterwards.

He tells me 'you do that thing a damn sight better than my frigid bitch of a wife ever did. And I guess you get more pleasure out of doing it than she ever did.'

I smile in shy acknowledgement, and tell him 'oui', in a flirty way.

He says I have 'a mouth made for sex', he probably means it as a joke, but I take it as a compliment, and take every opportunity to prove just how talented my mouth can be. No money changes hands. It isn't that kind of arrangement, I'm merely his kept-boy for the duration. I'm just some dumb-ass tongue-tied kid. I don't deserve his patronage. I was lucky he even glanced twice at me. I was fortunate, no, privileged to be even there with him. As the week draws to a close I thank him profusely, feeling the arrangement has favoured me far more than it has him, and I return home regretfully, feeling well pleased with myself, and eager for more of the same.

I take stock. I don't need Luis. He's not my friend. Never has been. He's my pimp. Nothing more. The line between consent and exploitation is not easy to draw. There's nothing I did because of Luis that I wouldn't have done without him, and no situation he set up for me that -- arguably, I'd not have got myself into otherwise. There was no coercion. He never held a gun to my head. It's just the sneaking suspicion that I was getting ripped off, cheated out of the true benefits of my erotic efforts. And that's exploitation.

When I tell him I want out, he's not best pleased, 'hey, don't get your panties in a twist.'

My intention was to quit immediately, but he holds me to fulfil dates he's already lined up for me, so I reluctantly agree to staying another week. He works me hard. Getting his money's worth out of me, and -- maybe, something of a revenge on me for quitting too. He takes me to an out-of-town truck-stop where three greasy truckers wait in the yard between two high-sided trucks, within view of the traffic hurtling by.

'Where are we gonna do it?' I ask nervously.

'Right here boy' says the first trucker, shoving me roughly in between the trucks and hauling his pants down to knee-level. He's got an ugly foreskin like a hose. Not a proposition I particularly care for. But as his two companions wait in line he pushes me down onto my knees on the dirty tarmac with the stink of sump-oil and grease, and I get into sucking him. I'm half aware of Luis watching it all with a leery smile, taking snaps with his phone. Midway, the second guy gets impatient, reaches round to unbuckle my belt and pulls my pants down. Naturally, I'm already -- and now visibly erect. After a hurried conversation they re-arrange our positions. The guy I'm sucking sits up on the running-board of the truck so I have to stand, then I lean over to get his stiff cock back in my mouth, my legs apart, so the second guy can slide up my arse, inch by inch, all the way.

Every anal thrust propels my head further and deeper into a groin sour with sweat, both suffocating me and forcing me to throat more of it than is comfortable, making me drool and retch. I try to relax my throat to keep from choking, but it's obvious he doesn't care. My mouth is just a hole for him to use. While the other one is pounding and pumping my bottom vigorously from behind, making my own free-dangling cock jerk and slap up against my stomach, wet and dribbling strands of pre-come, going slap-slap-slappity-slap, rhythmically. Until the building sensations causes me to spurt off in long strands across the tarmac. The double fucking goes on some time until my mouth is swimming-full with speeding ejaculate, and seconds later the other guy geysers off into me too.

At last I rear up, my brain a marshmallow, seizing huge gulps of air, gasping for breath. The convulsions racking my chest make my protruding cock jerk, tremble and flip-flop as I turn to meet the third guy, who's glugging direct from the neck of a wine-bottle. I get his fat vein-marked cock out and suck that too. From the corner of my eye I can see Luis, and a couple of passers-by, a man walking a dog and two giggling teenage girls who pause to watch. Spooked, I concentrate on what I'm doing, although it smells of stale sweat. When he comes in my mouth, spattering its salty-rich excess down my face, his entire body jerks as though electrocuted by some massive voltage. He pauses for a moment with it resting on my lower lip, still dribbling milky fluid.

Then he offers me the wine bottle, 'here, wash away that spunk-taste with this.'

I'm actually more dubious of drinking from the bottle-neck his mouth's been slobbering over than I was sucking his cock. When it comes to hygiene, I guess I'm quirky that way.

Later Luis gets the idea of taking me to the 'Green Carnation', a small Gay club we'd frequented before. I'd rendezvoused with clients there. His new scam is to set up a lottery for my favours. In the intimate half-light, past a gaggle of sneery drag-queens and effete poseurs in discrete make-up sipping what is supposed to be absinthe, there's a tiny corner stage where I sit on a high bar-stool. Low music plays around me, Jacques Brel and Parisian Chanson. But when take-up is slow Luis pulls me aside and, despite my reservations, I get naked -- he massages me briskly erect, then I return and sit on the high stool, jittery, hands clasped loosely behind my back, legs apart as instructed, with the full package hanging out for their appraisal, and interest grows.

I must look impossible delectable. Don't let the nerves show. I was concerned, was I contravening some indecency by-laws, some public nudity legislation? Whatever, I'm a dirty feast for their eyes, and they're gluttons, there's not one guy in the audience whose not lusting to give me a good seeing-to. The sensation of lecherous eyes crawling all over my exposed body is faintly repellent, amplified by knowing that whoever 'wins' me can do whatever he wanted to do to me. Yet at the same time, the silent breath-catching awareness that they all desire me is unmistakably exciting.

Two guys come up from the floor and, at Luis' invitation, feel me up. I inhale sharply and squirm appreciatively, forcing a coy smile. I get the impression that my humiliated embarrassment is part of Luis' intention. He's enjoying it. Some contribute business-cards, others write assumed names designed to disguise their identities. Finally Luis draws the winning card, a 'Mr Undershaft'. Rather than getting him up to claim his 'prize', oh no, Luis leads me by the hand deliberately down through the audience. I have to endure slow-pacing a gauntlet of impudent obscene probing hands as we wend our way between tables and clientele, offering the opportunity for questing fingers to reach out to brush and squeeze my genitals, fumble and grope my cock, and stroke the smooth round curves of my bottom. Even as I twist my hips away to avoid their prying reach the movement causes my genitals to sway setting up yet more prurient attention.

One gentleman, much to the amusement of his companions, and probably a little inebriated, reaches out at snake-speed to trap my shaft in his fist and the more I pull to free myself the tighter he grips. My cock-head bulges red in his fist. The uneven -- and uncomfortable, tug-of-war causes my balls to dance and jiggle until, when I finally free my reddened member a ragged round of applause ripples around me. Some boys might enjoy this, being the centre of such ribald attention. I just burn self-consciously. Fearing for a moment there'll be a total loss of control, and they'll simply up-end me across the nearest table and take me there and then, one after another. When situations get out of control they get scary. Until Luis hands me over to the winner.

'I wish I'd thought of this scam before' Luis chortles gleefully as he counts the takings, and the leering slob of a guy takes me backstage to get his reward.

He's not disappointed. He takes some time exploring me, squeezing my balls as though he's weighing and measuring them up, his sweaty fist pumping my tenderised cock up and down as though he's never done it to anyone before. He even bends down -- glances up at me as though waiting for permission, and takes my hard-on clumsily in his mouth, plainly inexperienced he rasps his teeth across my sensitive glans causing me to wince.

Mistaking the reaction for pleasure he says 'you like that, don't you, dirty boy?' And I have to pretend I do. I get the impression he's more used to solitary wanking in front of a porn website than having sex with a real-life partner. Me, I admit I've done some bad things in my life, but at least I'm not repressed and frustrated as he obviously is. Encouraged, he takes it deeper and I feel the serious sharpness of his dental hardware biting midpoint down the shaft as he makes a curious humming noise that might be concentration or enjoyment. And when he starts sucking it's as though the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner has been attached to me, like he's trying to suck my balls up through my shaft, almost tearing it loose and devouring it.

Mercifully he soon loses interest and says 'your turn now.' Relieved, I gratefully crouch down. My poor member is swollen and redly inflamed with the rough treatment it's endured, and I've been perspiring, making the backs of my legs uncomfortably moist as I squat to extract his stubbily unimpressive cock. It's flaked with dried sperm -- which I carefully brush away while lying and telling him 'you've got a nice suckable cock', and show him what a real blow-job is all about. I could have easily taken it all down at once, but inch gradually down its length, sucking and tonguing all the way to gradually ease him in. All too soon he gets excited and wants anal.

I turn around and spread, but as he slips the bulb of his cock into my rectum he starts moaning 'no, oh no,' he quietens, tenses, quivers ever so slightly, and starts prematurely coming. 'Damn, Damn, Damn' he wails, 'I've blown it.'

'Don't worry' I say, 'it happens to everyone.'

'Even to you?' he says, standing there stupidly with his drooping cock dribbling come.

'Sure, it happens to me all the time.' Which is true, it happens every time some guy fucks me or slides a cock into my throat. It just does. I'm born that way. Only I didn't tell him that my prematures are usually irrelevant anyway, they seldom matter, because my ejaculation is an incidental part of their pleasure. Nothing more. I compensate him by bending down and licking the white sperm-strands off his cock as he watches in stupified amazement. As though he's witnessing an explicit clip from one of the websites he wacks-off to.

I mean, I'd agreed with Luis to fulfil existing 'dates' -- yes, but how could either of those have been set up earlier? I doubt it. I suspect he's just maximising his profit out of me. But I don't argue back. He says he has two other boys I've never met. A massively-endowed Moroccan who is popular with submissive clients, with those who like to take it, rather than give it. And another who -- although of age, looks younger, and appeals to those who like to debauch and corrupt innocent cute Twinks.

I ask Luis what is my specialty.

He looks dubious, 'you don't have one. You're just two fuckable holes,' after a moment he grudgingly adds 'you give an OK blow-job. Trouble is, you enjoy it too much yourself to make a good whore.'

I'm a little offended at first, but concede there might be truth in what he says. With the 'lottery-winning' creep in the back-room of the Gay club, I'd have waited for him to recover until he was able to do to me what he wanted to do. It seems only fair. But Luis was impatient to whisk me off to the next paying client. It's the cash, not the customer-satisfaction that's important to him.

The third date is a repeat session with Hans, the unpleasant Belgian. Back in town he'd apparently called up Luis and asked specifically for the 'dirty submissive boy'. The instruction is I present myself, already in the state of undress, at the door of the hotel suite. So I strip off rather nervously in the corridor, Luis gives me the fondle that is all that's necessary to get me hard, then he disappears with my clothes. Leaving me there, nude. I knock.

While I await a response a hotel-maid goes by, pushing her utensil-trolley. She sees me. I try to conceal my groin, but my hands are inadequate for the task. Her expression of absolute disdain tells me what she thinks. She knows exactly what I'm doing. She knows that, although she has a low-paid low-esteem job, at least she's not hawking her ass around to strangers. I see myself, as she sees me. And it's not good.

Then she's moved on past, the door opens, and I deliver the line I've been told to deliver, the line I've been rehearsing in my head in case I get it wrong -- 'you ordered a cum-slut, sir? Please may I offer my own unworthy body in that capacity?'  

Hans seizes me roughly by the penis and uses it to draw me into his hotel room where I'm disturbed and a little unhappy to discover he's there with three friends, they're sitting there fully dressed, appraising my nudity, obviously intent on group-partying. They've clearly been drinking, and maybe doing some white-powers too. There's a big home-cinema hook-up, they might've been watching some porn to get in the right mood.

'I've fucked this bitch before' Hans announces casually, 'he's very very naughty. Isn't that right slut?'

I force myself to smile and nod.

'Tell them, tell them what you told me.'

So I repeat the 'you ordered a cum-slut, sir' line, hesitantly and stuttering a little, distracted by the way he's squeezing and manipulating my balls.

They laugh as I fumble my line. 'Sure hope it's better at sucking cock than talking about it.'

'We'll sure as hell find out tonight.' They're getting up to surround me, unfastening their pants.

'Look at the state of its whang, I've never seen a whore so eager to get its dirty little mouth fucked.'

'Young and dumb, and full of come, you know what these little queers are like, insatiable.'

'Yeh, but some more than others.' From behind me Hans put his arm around my throat, almost choking me, forcing my hips forward while squeezing my balls, 'tonight, your testicles and penis, your mouth, throat, tongue, and anus are our personal property, right?'

I gasp and strain to say 'yes, sir' as I'm pressured down into a crouching position, unresisting, faced by a circle of four very angry, very determined cocks, resigned to the fact that the only way I'm going to get out of this alive is to do what they want, do everything exactly as they say. Does Luis know what I was getting into? Was he setting me up? I've a suspicion he does, this is another part of his reprisal for my leaving him.

'To start off, by way of warm-up, I suggest we do it democratically, yes? The kid sucks each cock in round-robin rotation, thirty-seconds each, round and round, I'll time it. First one to cream his tonsils gets to suggest the next event, OK?'

So it begins. I crawl from one to the other, sucking each cock in turn. They seem as fascinated watching each other's cocks slithering into my mouth, as when it's their own turn, and I'm devouring them.

'He likes you. You can tell the way he's gorging himself on that thing.'

Second event is deep-throat, the guy who penetrates deepest gets to suggest the following event. And so on.

'You like this, don't you slut?' he demands.

I mumble my response around a throatful of cock.

'Tell us how much you love it, do as you're told.'

I'm crouching now, sperm and saliva on my face, 'I love sucking your cocks' I force myself to say.

'Next' says a voice, 'c'mon, the whore wants more.' At one point one of them unthreads his leather belt from his discarded pants, and while I'm down on all fours sucking-off one seated guy, he uses it to flick at my raised bare arse with loud slaps leaving red marks.

'This must be the most compliant fuck-toy you've ever brought us, Hans' he says approvingly, over my head.

Then I'm laid on my back over the coffee-table, head hung over the edge so another one can throat me so deep that when he comes I don't even taste it. And the guy loops his belt around my penis and scrotum, so when he feels I'm not performing with sufficient enthusiasm he amuses himself by pulling it tighter so it extrudes my balls, making me writhe and squirm in discomfort, groaning as best I can around the choking cock, to their immense enjoyment. The attention forces my cock prominently up red and straining, weeping silvery goo.

'Let it breathe' warns one voice.

'Who cares if it can fucking breathe' says another, 'it's an animal, just fuck its throat.'

I scarcely know which cock is which anymore, except Hans who seems to delight in causing me most discomfort. My body is on fire. I'm literally seeing stars from near-asphyxiation, and in the retinal swirling galaxies and exploding nebulae I see that cleaner's accusing expression. Her face, watching me. And I swear this will be the last time I do this. The next time will be on my own terms.

But first, they ensure they get good value from my body, leaving no aperture repeatedly unfucked. My own highly visible state of arousal, and three messy ejaculations across the course of the evening, are seen as evidence of my being complicit. Watching my face and stomach spattered with pools of gooey white ejaculate just excites them more. Normally, once a guy has shot his load he loses interest. Not these. Maybe pharmaceutically-enhanced, they go on and on. Do they never go limp?

Some hours later I come away with my lips numb, my jaw aching, my bottom sore, and my cock-&-balls sensitive from their rough man-handling. At the week's end Luis comes around and counts out what I'm due, deducting his percentage and expenses. It's far less than I was expecting.

As I turn to go he says 'oh, just one more thing' and he drops his pants, smirking at me.

I glance down at his stiff cock, and I'm tempted, but for the very first time I refuse to give oral.

'No Luis, I don't have to do that any more, get Jean or Willie to suck you off instead.' And, haughtily, I walk out on him for the last time. Perhaps I shouldn't have done that, it's always advisable to part on good terms. And what's another blow-job? After all, I'm a lover not a fighter. But I feel vindicated by my refusal...

This might be the end of one phase of my erotic career, but sure as hell it's going to be the start of another. This time, on my own terms.



Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 03



Part 3: In which I fall in lust, and face the consequences...

At last I'm free of Luis. I no longer need an 'agent'. But I've learned enough from my time as a 'Midnight Cowboy' to go solo. I look at myself naked in the mirror, pose and preen, Wow, I look good, so hot. Look at me, look at me, the delicious curve of my arse, peach-round and just as succulent, the arrogant thrust of my prong, big enough to be tasty and desirable without being so big it's scary, I like looking at my penis anyway -- hell, it's so perfect I'd love to suck it myself if only I could, it's where my personality resides. It's more me than I am. It controls, dominates and drives me. And the juicy sweetmeat fruit attached -- you know those valentine's-day cards with perfectly executed hearts? turn that heart upside-down, that's the exact symmetry of my balls -- are they too distended? do they hang too low where they should be tight and high? does that mean I've been cumming too much, too frequently? more than's good for me?

Hell no, there are guys out there who'd really get off on this, there are wealthy guys who'd blow a thousand-watt fuse seeing this, hell even I'd do me if I could. The only commodity I have that they want is my sex. The only thing I have to trade is myself. So be it. It's not even about being gay. To me, to be homosexual is the capacity to fall in love with your own gender. I've never loved, and been loved by anyone. Maybe that's sad? Maybe it is, but that's the way it is. What we do is just sex, just bodies, just gratification. Orientation doesn't figure in that equation.

So we decide, me and my inner twin, that we prefer older men who look after me, take care of me, make my decisions for me. So increasingly we gravitate towards them, wealthy, more sophisticated men. Men have always taken advantage of my gullibility, of my trusting nature. Back then, I was younger, I thought all I had to do to attract a new patron was give a coquettish fuck-me smile. And it works. It's almost like a job interview, which in a sense, it is. I'm offering my services, they're weighing up whether I'll be worth the running costs. Every boy has his price, I'm just more honest about the transaction than most.

I quickly learn how to get sympathy from men, while arousing them too. Men are stupid. Men are shallow creatures. Vain and self-centred. So long as you flatter, pleasure, or communicate with them through their genitals, you've got their souls. At least for a brief while. For long enough. I develop a number of elaborate hard-luck stories I tell to explain myself. Inventing autobiographies of deprivation, bereavement, cruel step-fathers, orphanages and institutions in which I was subject to bullying ordeals. The sexual betrayal and abusive relationships I've lived through. Of course, certain elements of what I say might be true. Sometimes I vary it to amuse myself, or to conform more to my confidante's expectations. Until the real and unreal becomes confused in my mind and the borders of imagining are no longer clear.

I confide my fantasies with a genuinely convincing sob in my voice because, by now, I almost believe it myself. The emotions are real. My listeners -- my targets are always volubly sympathetic. They're moved by the deep wells of sadness in my eyes. And they are always aroused. At that moment they want nothing more than to be my benefactor, they want to save me and compensate for all the things I've endured. Even if, through my sensual gratitude, they benefit from being the agent of my salvation. The secrets I divulge advertise my skills and dexterity, and explain my need to be used and sexually dominated. When I get to go down on them, which I inevitably do, they know in advance that they're going to get a superbly satisfying blowjob, and that I'll get erotic and psychological satisfaction from giving it. Hence all parties are pleasured.

My stories are a kind of verbal foreplay. I repay my Sugar-Daddies in the only way I'm capable, and I give good value. Since then I've been 'owned' by a series of generous patrons who look after my material needs, merely on the understanding that I serve their sexual requirements. An understanding I consider myself fortunate enough to enjoy. I give good value, and they show their appreciation. Why work when you can play? Why seek gainful employment when everything about your nature is repelled by the very idea? Why worry about messing up the job-orders and getting bawled out by the line-manager in a disciplinary session? Why go through the meaningless pretence of enduring interviews for minimum-wage positions, faking an enthusiasm for the benefit of some dull grey little non-entity, as though your greatest life-ambition is to flip his burgers or stack his supermarket shelves, when there's so many better, more pleasurable ways to live your life?

Don't get me wrong, make no mistake about it, I like to fuck if the circumstances are right, it's just that I prefer to be fucked. Perhaps that's a kind of laziness? Not having to take the initiative. Not having to endure the humiliation of rejection or rebuff. This way, I don't have to make the approaches, because it's me that's propositioned. I don't have to seduce, I am seduced. I don't pursue, I am pursued. I don't persist, I yield. I don't buy, I am purchased. I'm not competing, I am the prize. I can do consensual. Sure, when it's something -- or somebody, I really want, I can manipulate. But I can never be the predator in a relationship, I merely make it known that I'm available. That's enough.

And as a result, I've travelled the world, stayed in villas and hotels, sucked the cocks of aristocrats, politicians, business tycoons and a TV-personality whose fans would never believe he enjoys the intimate attentions of joy-boys -- but he does, he comes back for seconds, and thirds in the space of the same evening. He's a degenerate's degenerate. A Satyr in near-orange fake-tan. And I take every inch of him. Viewers of his TV game-show would never believe the games he puts me through. I've done it on yachts, in expensive cars, in private planes and Jacuzzis.

Was I a victim? Some might say I was. I never saw it that way. There was never a situation, not even of the most extreme nature, that I'd not actively contrived myself into, or was at least complicit in. In my saner, more rational moments, I accept there's no-one else to blame, no-one responsible for the events of my life but myself. I never saw myself as a victim. The opposite in fact, I felt I was special. I was exploiting their need. For something as simple as an occasional blow-job, sometimes as infrequently as twice a day, by which time I'm impatient for some action anyway, it's no big deal -- hell, I'd be doing that regardless, somewhere else with someone different. And yet for so little, I was getting all this life-style.

I've loved every minute of it. When sex is a direct commercial transaction there's none of that seduction awkwardness. None of that second-guessing his intentions, 'am I taking it too fast or too slow? What will he think of me afterwards? Will he still respect me... blah blah blah'. It's just, he tells me what to do, and I do it. Simple! Of course, some of my gentlemen have been more demanding than others, but they've been more exciting. For as long as I was their flavour of the month, I consider it all part of my duties. Things that, even months before, I'd have found bizarrely intimidating, now seem like voyages into exotic extremes. Part of my sentimental education.

I was doing all the fetish dressing up bit, and the bondage too -- 'bound to please', when that's what those of a more disciplinarian persuasion require. Not to sound pretentious, it's almost what the Buddhists mean by ego-loss, or the old acid-head thing, to place yourself beyond yourself, to transcend your own needs, to put yourself totally at the disposal of another human being. Like a dancer, your body is your instrument, and you force it to whatever extremes are necessary.

For example, I was going through that phase when I was dating Raoul, a dominant chunky bear of a man. I spend time around his place. He is clothed. At his command, I'm soon stark naked. I like pubic hair, but at the time am totally shaved. Some clients like it that way, and I was becoming more attuned to their taste (in all senses of the term!). I wear a studded dog-collar, and tight amulets around my wrists, with links so my wrists can be affixed to my neck-collar. I'd also taken to wearing a tight cock-ring that restricts bloodflow and hence ensures a more enduring erection. It has a catch for fastening a leash to, also for the client's convenient use, to lead me by. And yes, it's fair to admit my hard-on was straining at the leash! All dirty-minded teenage boys are hormonally led by their cock anyway. I'd turned that tendency into a life-style, with the lead as a kind of metaphor.

I grovel to him, 'Please sir, I'm bad. I need the badness fucking out of me.'

So he leads me into his special room by the lead, and I follow, pulled along by my erection. Sure, I'm a little butterfly-in-the-gut wary as he proceeded to strap me into a bizarre device located in this 'play-room', in a position making my goose-pimple naked body-parts vulnerably-available to his whim. A tight knot in my stomach, a foreboding of dark and strange thoughts, but what he's doing hits something deep inside me I didn't know was there. Something that lives in the dark of my mind.

This is all about his dominance over me. And more importantly, I need for him to get maximum pleasure from this. The aroused state of my cock tells him so, its colour deep-blushing into a rich crimson. It's not a new device. There are stains on it, human stains. He's had some other boy strapped into this before me. I'll be better. Like the anonymous earlier boy, I'm secured into a sloping frame, head conveniently fixed at low overhung groin-height for ease of unrestricted oral penetration, legs securely splayed to their maximum spread-limit, hips uptilted and raised presenting cock, balls, and puckered purged well-lubed arse inescapably wide open for his total use.

Blindfolded too. An object for his absolute use, an arrangement of meat and orifices, relieved of all responsibility for what's about to happen to me. Able to suck whatever is placed in my mouth, or use my anal muscles to squeeze whatever penetrates my bum, but nothing more. The feeling of being corrupted and led astray is a huge turn on. Any reservations I may have had evaporate quickly. It feels so good to be a slut.

The experience goes on for some time. Hours, probably, it's difficult to tell. He doesn't speak throughout, and I'm instructed to remain silent. I hear the rustling of clothes as he undresses. Then he slaps his cock sharply unexpectedly across my face, rubs its smeary-moist tip over my cheeks and nose, then fucks it crudely into my mouth deeply but briefly -- he's big, not the biggest I've ever had, but by now I've learned some tricks, I can take it like the whore I am. I feel a small amount of discomfort and panic. But it feels good. He's obliging me that way. I suck it hungrily and messily. Then he withdraws, pivots me around, and takes long slow thrusts into my arse, sliding in deeply all the way, after which he leaves me alone for a short spell. A brinkmanship presumably intended to spin out the experience for as long as he can. Holding back his own orgasm.

Then he repeats it, over and over. At one point he's totally impaled in me anally, and stays there perfectly still as he concentrates on bringing me off with his hands, none too gently. The double-sensation of full penetration, combined with the general weirdness, and him roughly groping my balls and squeeze-jerking my cock rapidly acts on me to produce an intense juddering climax, until I go off like a gusher. As my hips are positioned higher than my head, he directs the long squirts down over my stomach and chest until they subside. But the convulsions surging through me must be transmitting to his embedded cock, clenching and clutching at it, because I can feel its pulsing response deep inside my gut.

He withdraws it hastily, before the intimate attention sets off his own premature orgasm. Following ejaculation my scrotum is distended. His hand clamps around it, forcing the testicle-eggs to the bottom of their flesh-envelope, making them stand out round and red. He then proceeds to pull downwards to the extreme limit of its elasticity. The sensation is excruciating. Unable to move, I can do nothing other than endure his cruel attentions, gasping over the sound of my wild heartbeat.

Beads of sweat stand out on my forehead. He then forces my straining balls back between my splayed legs, as far as the crease of my arse. He can go no further, but rolls them back and forth across the perspiring skin. It's only when he tires of the game that he releases it, and my aching scrotum retracts back to hang properly. My relief is short-lived as he switches his lascivious attentions to the shaft of my weeping penis.

I can't be sure, but again I think I'm hearing whispered voices and suddenly I'm being fucked by what seems to be a different cock. I can't be sure, there might even have been a third. It's difficult to tell, these were both more frenzied fucks, and they unload deep inside me. While when Raoul comes, twice, he does it over my face and into my open mouth, dripping and dribbling over me like a leaky tap for long moments after the initial copious cascade has finished. I'm left spattered in cooling sperm I can't wipe -- my own as well as his, and lubricant, but the breathy constrained helplessness has got me all fired up. When he finally unstraps me I almost fall to the floor, jelly-legged but glowing.

Whatever, to me, these are just sex-games to unleash the libido, and make you incredibly horny. I appreciate that the visual aspect of sex is important, as every porn-addict knows. A guy can take you from the rear, and that can be great, but that means you never get to see it, or even properly picture it -- like the maybe two other guys with Raoul. I couldn't see, can't envisage, can't even be sure of them. I like to see what he's going to fuck me with. I guess 'A cock in the mouth is worth two in the ass.' Do oral, and you've time to see every detail. I'm not always proud of the things I've done. I've taken it too far. I've been taken too far. But in society at large a significant number of women put up with abusive relationships with men rather than to survive alone, or endure exploitative sex purely for monetary gain. Saying that is not to legitimise it, far from it, it's just to place it within some kind of context. The deal-breaker is the issue of consent. And I do consent. Frequently.

For example, I was living in a large house set in its own grounds out beyond the Periferique, with Georgio, a liberal lawyer who was faultlessly generous but neither sexually demanding or very well hung. He was frustratingly reserved, even when we were first making out he complains I'm making disgusting noises as I suck him, and can't I do it a little quieter? I do try, but these things are natural, you know?

On another occasion I wake with a morning glory, a burning erection lost in that lazy bleary sexual fug of half-dreaming, he is sleeping on his back beside me, I pull the duvet back so I can see it lying limp across his gut, and I'm hungry for it, so almost without conscious thought I curl around, slither down, lick it and watch it stir in response, lick it again, all the way up and nuzzle its crown, flick it with my tongue, smiling as it squirms in reaction, tracing the contours of its rim with my tongue-tip, then slowly begin sucking at the bulb, as it stiffens to his full, if not vastly impressive size in my mouth, luxuriating in my sense of control, taking a little more of it with each downstroke suck. Enjoying the skill and artistry of my technique, I know how to do this, I'm a master of my craft. Feeling warm and indulged, rolling my own hips languorously so my genitals flip and slap up against my gut, sending smooth sensual radiations up from my groin, deliciously all the way up my body.

He's sleeping. Breathing heavy and more raggedly laboured now. Uttering occasional disturbed mumbled grunts. His stomach undulating. Applying slight pressure to his cock with my teeth, feeling the tightness indent, and watching the teeth-marks heal back, a slow ooze of whiteness bubbling from its piss-slit, I lap it clean, tasting its blurry richness as it merges into my saliva and dissolves away. Dietary protein for me. Then I suck it again, deeper and more intensely. He wakes in response. Most men would be only too delighted to be woken in such a fashion. Not he.

'What's going on?' he blusters, adding that he's going out and wants to conserve his strength. Begrudgingly he allows it to continue. Then halfway through he orders me to stop, by now I'm so into it, it's impossible to stop. Hell, I have needs he's neglecting. I'm entitled to a sex-life. It's a basic human right, enshrined in a United Nations charter, probably. I need release. I need an outlet for my teenage lust. I have a right to sex, and well, sometimes the slut in me just takes over.

Although he tries to squirm out from beneath me, I refuse to let him, feeling mischievously horny I keep sucking, my lips vice-tight around him, it develops into an absurdist tug-of-love for possession of his cock, with his whole body rigid as though he's fighting the sensations I'm inducing in him, trying to resist the climax, until he loses control, and with no warning abruptly and messily fills my mouth with come, a lot of it for him, all the while moaning a despairing 'no-o-o-o.'

'You greedy little slut, I suppose you think that's clever?' he spits bitterly as I finally release it in a tiny explosion of exhaled breath, licking my lips, not spitting but swallowing. Actually no, it's just whetted my appetite for more. I smile sheepishly.

But he's genuinely annoyed, I have to apologise for my inconsiderate greed, in pleasuring him with a blow-job! Even so he sulks for a couple of days afterwards. So it comes as no surprise when I allow myself to be seduced by Bruno, his colleague. I'm well-intentioned, I want to be faithful to one man. I honestly do. But I'm weak. I'm easily led. A little flattery. A charismatic guy. And I forget monogamy.

When Georgio was away, as he frequently is on high-powered lawyerly-business, it was a big house to be alone in. How long can you watch day-time TV game-shows and chat-shows, or Sci-Fi DVD's? How long can you jack-off four-or-five times straight surfing internet porn-sites? Oddly, at one point I happen across a site called 'La Homme Libre', and click on it out of curiosity. And yes, there's grainy images of boys with short white towels around their waists entering massage cubicles where leering guys lasciviously await their attentions. Hell, I even recognise one or two of the masseurs. I'd always suspected there were hidden cameras.

Even more bizarrely, browsing along a scroll of clips, there I am! I click. It loads. I am entering the cubicle. A burly guy watches me. Next thing he's lying on his back, we're both naked, I'm crouched over giving him head. A big cock too, my lips slithering up and down its length with such obvious pleasure I feel embarrassed, but also aroused watching it. I can see my own cock nodding, bob-bob-bob as my head goes up and down. Is that really what I look like with a cock in my mouth? Is it so obvious I enjoy doing it? He ejaculates into my mouth, some of it trickles down my chin, I look like the cat whose got the cream. What's worse is I don't even remember the guy.

The next day I try to find the site again, but after a fruitless search I give up. There are porn clips of me out there on the internet, and I can't even find them. I get bored. I need attention. I need to be kept well-fucked. Or my attention strays. Georgio has a bustling well-upholstered middle-aged house-keeper, Madame Bovery. She's obviously used to finding naked young males in his bed, but equally doesn't approve of my being there. She fussily tut-tuts pointedly in my presence at the large stains of boy-juice body-fluid on the sheet. I try to be polite and respectful, but her formal coldness tells me all I need to know about her disapproval, and after a while I do my best to avoid her and keep out of her way.




Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 03



Whenever Bruno comes round and Georgio is there he acts cool and businesslike. But the moment Georgio leaves the room he begins flirting outrageously. And I was intrigued. I admit I was flattered too. He fondles me through the tight crotch of my jeans, and compliments me. Once he even fishes the head of his cock out and motions me to suck it. I pretend embarrassment, try to stay aloof, pretend not to look. But I look, secretly tempted.

Until one day he calls around when Georgio is out. Perhaps deliberately, just waiting for a chance to get me alone? I'm in a dressing gown, having just showered. He insinuates himself in and pours himself a martini from Georgio's cabinet. Hands me one. I'm flustered, confused. I can't even explain my confusion.

He's already brusque and lewd. Begins into saying 'so you're nude under that gown. Bet you look hot naked' then a little more cajoling 'let me see what sweet treats Georgio has been enjoying'.

As he approaches me I back into an alcove corner. He laughs at my discomfort, 'you go shy at the strangest moments' he taunts, 'and when you blush you're almost cute.'

He reaches out, unfastens the sash and eases my gown aside so he can see, my cock springing up to greet its new master -- I may have had reservations, it has none. I'm scared in case he doesn't like it, if it's not big enough. But when he begins touching me it's electric, and the moment his warm insistent fingers close in around my shaft, taking firm possession, I lose control. Any feeble vestiges of resistance I may have clung to evaporate, my legs turn to mush.

I could have protested. I could have refused. But I don't. Why, because Georgio has gone, and Bruno is here. That's enough. My revenge on him for neglecting me. I can be wicked when I don't get my own way, when my desires are frustrated. It's not my fault, it's just the way I'm programmed to function. That's when my cock does my thinking for me. He's jacking me casually with one hand, tugging his own pants down with the other. His self-assurance is compelling. I drown in his power, the latent power of the muscles rippling beneath his skin. He's everything Georgio is not. Forceful. Dominating. By contrast I feel weak and effeminate. Trapped in his spell.

To demonstrate his authority, he squeezes my balls a little too hard, making me gasp in discomfort, my already weak knees buckle causing me to go down as though suddenly rendered boneless, he pressures me further, gently but insistently, onto my knees. I'm in awe of him, too scared to protest.

He murmurs 'you suck Georgio's cock. Suck on mine for a while.'

And how quickly caution and inhibition disappear when faced by the enormity and pure thrill of a new cock. 

In my head it's 'no, wait, I'm not ready.'

But he's everything Georgio is not, big, uncut, this is going to be like being fucked by an animal. I'm terrified by it, but at this exact moment I've never wanted anything so much in my life, already it's force-nuzzling my face, force-easing my lips apart, so that he's virtually ramming it into my mouth. I have no choice. It's so thick my lips stretch to drape across it, curling in to clasp around the big plummy tip, sheathing as tight as possible around the shaft as it slides in as far as it can go. My heart pounding fit to burst, every nerve in my body firing off explosions.

I've totally lost it, surrendering to it, sucking voraciously, sprawled bare-arse on the carpet, back up against the alcove wall, my legs splayed wide, my own smaller cock red with burning arousal, but so bloated with blood it must be bigger than it's ever been, so swollen and hard it almost hurts, swaying and quivering in my lap. An exquisite electric tingling in my balls, still tender from his squeeze, jiggling, extending, contracting and filling in poised anticipation.

He stands over me, his legs apart, thrusting his thighs into my face, his bigger heavier balls swaying pendulously up against my throat as he thrusts his thick shaft deeper and deeper into my maw. Merdé, it's so raw and elemental, the force of his assault on my mouth so primal that all thought and consciousness gets fucked away until I'm a mindless thing. A servile appendage skewered on it. Incapable of unmouthing it, even it was possible. My hands come up submissively to cup his buttocks, holding him to me as I splutter, gurgle and squelch around solid cock, attempting to suck greedily at it.

He's holding the back of my head all the while whispering 'you dirty fuck-slut, you can't get enough of it, can you? Has Georgio not been feeding you enough spunk?' And I submerge in fierce tides of eroticism and physical sensation I'm incapable of controlling. His forceful totally-selfish sex dominates me and I have no other will than to serve. I suck meekly and compliantly as best I can, totally helpless. Groaning, I'm spunking off already in jets up my gut and across my legs, breathing in heavy gasps, moaning with pleasure. His thrusts became quicker and more violent.

For an eternity it seems to be lodged somewhere way down in the depths of my throat, I'm taking it all, his balls squashed up against my chin, my nose rammed hard up against his wiry pubic hair, I can't breath but he's holding my head tight in while forcing his hips further, I get a panicky terror, I have visions of suffocating on it, yet rather than extracting he's still forcing deeper. My gag-reaction heaving in my gut, my eyes drown with tears. I hear the sounds of drowning, strangulation and murder, I can't believe I'm making them. But the second he eases off I'm desperate for more, I'd rather that than be deprived of it.

'Here it comes, bitch, get ready to drink your fill, I'm gonna choke you with spunk.' At last he begins to draw back, slurpy gouts of saliva oozing out and over my chin, I feel it slithering up a long way, hard and hot between my lips, feel the semen racing up its length towards the spout-hole, towards my gut, then it pulses explosively and my warm hungry mouth is deluged with thick discharges of gooey sperm, at the same moment he rams back in as far and deep as he can go so the next jet splatters direct into my throat so I'm drowning in it, whimpering in an agony of sex-intoxication as its jerks and throbs seem to be wrenching my head out of alignment, spunk and spit drooling and slithering my chin. There's so much of the stuff I swear it's oozing out of my nose.

The ordeal of pleasure goes on. Then, after a long moment when I think he's finished, it suddenly flexes and spurts another mouthful I'm not prepared for. Caught unawares I'm choking on it. I'd never before believed those porn-story never-ending comes that fill your mouth to overflowing and just keep on gushing. Everyone knows that your average ejaculation barely fills a lovin' spoonful. He proves that sometimes, even porn tells nothing but the truth. At that moment, I'd never felt so lucky in my entire life. Never felt so blessed. At last I knew exactly what I wanted, more of the same.

We stay welded together in a weird calm as its kicking subsides in the back of my throat. It's a wonder to me how it can be so hard, and yet so smooth and soft at the same time. Time stands still. We are fused into one single organism. As though conjoined. I can't breathe in or out. In that suspended moment it seems an era goes by. And I know, this is where I was born to be. Only then does he extract by slow degrees, as I suck with renewed vigour, eager to retain it, more in control now he's come. As he slides it out it's like he's ripping my soul out with it. At length it slops free and hangs in a curving arc to my chin, but I'm still connected to it by silvery saliva-strands. I seize it tenderly, begin daubing wet loving slobbery kisses over it, drawing it back in to suck it, then allowing it to slip free again. At that moment I'm totally in love with his manhood, like it's an object of worship, I've never been face-fucked like that before, like a beast, I was doe-eyed with sated lust. I've heard of being shagged senseless, but it's the first time it's happened to me. At that moment he could have done anything at all to me, and I'd only have adored him more because of it.

He looks down at me through hooded eyes, sneering. As I squat there, my lust-filled face smeared messy with his dribbling sperm and my saliva, flushed with arousal as I lap his deep-maroon glans gluttonously, pumping my hand slowly along its length towards me, squeezing gently. In response, a drop of come wells up, starts to expand, getting milkier in color as I coax more of his teasing semen up the lengthy shaft bulging with veins. The globule expands and starts to distend towards my face. I gape the pouting orifice of my mouth eagerly and shift his cock slightly until the growing pearl of his creamy seed is hanging a hair's-bredth from me. I continue slowly easing my gripping hand forward until the droplet swells and starts dripping down.

I swear I'm moaning out loud with my eyes locked on that teasing morsel of milky fluid. As my fist nudges up against his engorged crimson crown, the droplet extends still further down as it stays connected to his cock by a thinning web of his precum. It slowly drools its descent right between my lips until I feel it touch down on my tongue. The gob continues to grow and spread across my tongue as if fed by the clinging web. I can feel its warmth on my tastebuds, and moan even louder as the web finally parts from the head of his cock to fall across my tongue. To be rewarded with another glistening jism-morsel, quickly swiping it up with my tongue. It's like a narcotic roaring through my body, I can't control myself. Looking back up it him, lewdly, flirtatiously drooling spunk from between my lips, then drawing the shining manhood back into my mouth, and gulping. A sloppy mouth-fuck. My own messy cock still red and hard, oozing whiteness, stomach and legs glistening with a string of spunk-pearls where I've ejaculated all over myself.

'You young sluts are all the same, you pretend coy, but once you get a taste of it, you can't get enough' he says, not unkindly, 'Wipe your face, you're a mess.'

I just smile stupidly, and half-heartedly wipe my chin, my fingers instantly slimy white, I can't resist another suck at his cock, while gazing infatuated up at him. Shit, I must have looked love-sick stupid. Eventually he shoves me roughly out of the way and sits on the couch, his pants pulled back up, sipping a martini from Georgio's cabinet. I've still not moved, sitting nude on the floor, not trusting my legs to support me. I concentrate on dabbing my body-stains with a crumpled handkerchief, in an agony of uncertainty. Was I alright? Did I do it the way he liked?

'Do you have no pride?' he says at length.

'I take pride in what I do' I answer defensively.

He shrugs, 'not many guys are capable of taking it like you did. The next time I fuck your throat you'll do it even better, right?'

I smile and nod with relief, as though I've passed some kind of test.

Sometimes, with a guy, I become besotted, obsessed with him. This was lust. Not affection or friendship, not even respect. It's like I'm under an enchantment and can't stop thinking about him. I'd swallowed the bait, and pretty much everything else. His cock is the centre of my universe. I was hungry for him. It's not even as though it's the biggest manhood I've ever been on the receiving end of. It isn't. Make no mistake, it's big, but not the biggest. It's the way he uses it. 

Soon, it becomes a regular arrangement. I follow him around like a pretty pot of glue. As soon as Georgio is away on business he comes around to fuck me. I'm incapable of resisting him. When he says 'frog', boy, do I get to jump! Even in bed, having infrequent and unsatisfying sex with Georgio, I close my eyes and can't fight the imagine it's Bruno filling my mouth, I get a hard-on just thinking about him, salivating in anticipation of the next time I'll be with him, eagerly craving for it, jealously keeping our assignations secret. Thinking is for losers. Pleasure can smash things up. You can die, or kill for it.

Bruno phones me, 'is Georgio there?'

'No.'

'Right, I've not got much time, no time for prelim or conversation. I want you in the bedroom, naked and greased, arse in the air ready when I arrive. No words will be spoken. I'll fuck you, at the last moment you'll flip over and take it in the mouth, suck me clean. Then you'll say 'Thank you', that will be only the only verbal exchange between us. You've got that?'

'Yes Bruno.'

In a kind of feverish anticipation I do as he says. Waiting in the bedroom until I hear the door. What if he's set me up? what if it's not him? What a sight I would present to greet a newcomer! I can see nothing, my head determinedly down in the coverlets, until I hear the zip slide, the rustle of clothes, then the familiar pressure forcing its way into my anus. He only rarely want anal, so I concentrate on enjoying the sensation.

On another occasion he phones me, 'is Georgio there?'

'Yes.'

'Tough, I'm in the car on the strip below you. Make an excuse, I need you naked and down here now to suck my cock, OK?'

I was on the point of protesting 'no, it's impossible, I can't do it, I'll be seen', but if I refuse he'll only find someone else. He's a charismatic guy, he could have any boy he wanted, I know I'm lucky for him to even favour me with his temporary attention. I'm too besotted to risk losing him. 'Yes Bruno' I say.

I cross to Georgio's room. He's doing some spread-sheet work on the big desk-top computer.

'I'm going to use the pool' I say.

'Fine' he replies over his shoulder, not really caring.

I go out onto the patio. On the far side of the pool there's a low wall, then a long slope of grass and shrubs that leads someway down towards the road. I squint in the sun. I can just see Bruno's Japanese car pulled in on the verge, not even directly below, but a distance further away. I gulp uncertainly. I've got to do this. I undress, leaving my clothes in a neat pile at the pool-side, and climb over the wall. Stupidly I'm already erect in anticipation so it flips and bounces. I start down, running in quick bursts from cover to cover. It's not a busy road, but every now and then there's traffic.

The moments extend as I run, for a moment I attempt to hide as a car goes by, but I'm certain the lady driver sees me, craning her neck to look so she almost misses the curve. At last I reach the verge, there's a tangle of brown cassette tape caught up in the weeds, and a coke can. I glance this way and that. It seems to be clear. The car is still some way away, and I sprint towards it. It's then I notice that Bruno is not alone, there's someone else with him in the car. Again, my courage almost fails me, but I continue. He guns the window down, leaving me standing there.

'You took your time.'

'I'm sorry' I stammer.

'Never mind' he brushes my apology aside, 'this is Franz', he indicates the car's other occupant. 'We've just met. Later he's going to give me head, aren't you Franz?'

The dark youth sniggers suggestively, 'if you say so Bruno.'

'So I intend demonstrating the standard he'll be expected to equal, so you'll suck me off while he watches.'

It's only then, as a car screeches by, that he opens the door, and reclines the seat back, inviting me to do all the work. I glance at him, then at the smirking Franz, who is greatly enjoying my humiliation. I reach down, unfasten his pants, squat down on my heels, draw it out and start sucking it like the hungry animal I am. I can hear Franz giggling dirtily. OK, if I'm doing it, I'll show him just how good I can be, and I take it deeper, then deeper still, caressing his fat balls gently all the while. Slide back, tease it with my tongue, slip my lips tight around the raised rim, then gulp it all down again, possessively, heightening the sensation by simultaneously pulling myself off. Despite all the weirdness I'd gone through with Luis, this bizarre situation -- by the roadside in broad daylight, with an attentive audience, is a powerful drug. The furtive illicit nature of the assignation too, cheating on Georio's claims on me. It goes on for some time.

Bruno notices what I'm doing with my hand, 'don't spurt your dirt on the upholstry' so, without releasing him from my mouth for a moment, I dutifully draw my hips back and as the sensations hit me point it down so I jet long streams of white cum down my leg, across my toes and onto the warm tarmac. Some time later I sense he's about to come too.

'Don't swallow it, show Franz first' he cautions me as he starts coming off in my mouth. I follow his instructions. Holding it until the final pulse, then a little longer. Sliding up off it, facing Franz and opening my sperm-filled mouth.

'Oh gross' he smiles, as I swallow.

'He'll suck you off too if you want Franz' invites Bruno.

I'm stunned by the suggestion, but await his pleasure. Franz is looking directly at my dripping drooling hard-on. I can tell by the tent-ruck in the groin of his pants that he's turned-on by what he's seen.

But he just sneers, 'no thank you Bruno, I'm fine. I can wait.'

Bruno shrugs, 'as you wish', and without a word to me, closes the door, engages gear and drives off, leaving me nude at the roadside. Hastily I scramble back up the slope, over the wall, onto the patio. I swim one length of the pool to clean off dust, grass stains and sperm and, without pausing to dress, seek out Georgio. He's still on the computer. He's not even noticed my absence.

Maybe I'm feeling a little guilty, but I begin stroking my cock lasciviously, 'you want to go mess around, Georgio, I'm feeling ever-so horny.'

He doesn't even look up, 'can't you see I'm busy.'

'I can crawl down there and suck you as you work.'

He sighs in exasperation, 'don't bother me. Go jack off watching a porno movie if you must, but leave me alone'.

At least I'd tried, but honestly, he's only got himself to blame if I'm wandering. I think of Franz bending naked with Bruno sliding his big delicious cock into him, and I'm burning with jealousy. That should be me...

I want more than just furtive blow-jobs, I want what Franz has. And on another occasion, greatly daring, I make an excuse to spend a day with Bruno. I tell Georgio I want to visit my mother, and as always he's kind and considerate. He even offers to drive me there. Bruno is fairly unpleasant in so many ways, but his sexual charisma is powerful. He picks me up in his car at a secret assignation around the corner from where Georgio dropped me. We've not gone too far across country when he pulls off the road into the shade of a copse of trees. He reclines his seat back. This is the moment I've most feared, and looked forward to.

'And Georgio, has he trained you well? Do you do his bidding in each and every filthy way? Licking the underside of his balls, sitting on his cock and riding it like it's a fleshy pogo stick?'

'He is considerate of my feelings. He doesn't want me to do anything I don't want to do,' I was surprised by the regretful tone in my own voice.

'In that case you constitute a seriously underutilised resource. Your full potential should be immediately exploited. What is it you want to do?'

'Everything, everything.' I never feel quite at ease at moments like this. I'd been looking forward to being with him. Yet now I feel self-conscious and awkward in his company. Inadequate to engage his level of conversation. But then I feel that way with most people, timorous and dithering. I only feel competent when I'm engaged in acts I know I'm good at.

'But if I'm going to spend my time with you, you've got to make it worth my while, you've got to prove you can take instructions' less a request, more a condition.

I smile, 'merci Monsieur, of course.'




Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 03



'So you may suck my cock.'

I obediently reach down to unfasten his belt and shoot his zip. He's already rearing impressively hard, reminding me exactly what it is I'm attracted to. As my head goes down he says 'while you're doing that I'll tell you what we're going to do'.

I slide my lips over the ridged membrane of the fat bulbous head and begin sucking, content for him to talk and plan all he wants, so long as I can do this. 'Each hour, on the hour, you will suck my cock for a full five minutes, not a moment more, not a moment less, understand? For the duration of that time period it will not leave your mouth under any circumstances whatsoever'.

He moves my hair aside so he can see better as I suck harder. He reaches into the glove-compartment, produces a compact camera, and frames me with my mouth full, and I must present a truly debauched image to his lens as the flash ignites, I'm both amused by and horrified by the man's arrogance. His assumption that there's no question about my doing his bidding in this bizarre experiment.

'Should I decide ejaculation will occur then you will be permitted to continue beyond that five minutes, if not, once completed you'll merely say 'merci', and desist. You will indicate full acceptance of these conditions.'

For a moment I reluctantly release his cock, 'yes sir, thank you sir' I play along, 'and will ejaculation occur now?'

He sighs irritably, 'I do believe it will, yes, nature will take its course. You may resume.'

I resume, with some enthusiasm, fucking his cock with my mouth, until he fills me. After that the strange ritual continues. We visit an art gallery, and at 11o'clock we take advantage of the toilets where I dutifully suck his cock for the allotted span as he times me. I assumed, once I'd begun, once it's safely in the warm liquid moistness of my wet and welcoming mouth, he'll forget the silly game. But no, reluctantly I desist as he gestures me to stop. At midday we visit a riverside restaurant where he orders for us.

I'm scared to ask the question, dreading the answer. 'What is Franz like?'

'Franz was a pleasing distraction, nothing more. He lacked stamina.'

My relief must have been obvious. In other words... Franz had lasted one night, and hadn't measured up. I feel oddly emotional, realising how lucky I am. It was ten days now since he'd fed me that first shattering mouth-fuck, and he's still using me. I feel the need to thank him, to express how grateful I am.

'You have other boys?'

'Don't get above your station' he cautions, 'you're far from the first, you won't be the last. With a golden dick like mine, they've been competing for my attentions since my schooldays. There's always eager new boys trying to get into my pants.'

'Yes, I can understand that.'

I wonder, am I cheapening myself accepting this situation? Hell, I couldn't make myself any more cheap. Between courses, on the hour, we retire to the toilets for another precise five minutes. I can hear the sound of the diners coming through the adjoining wall, their clatter and muffled conversation, as I feast on another kind of meat, suck-suck-suck-sucking. He takes another photo of me crouching, head rammed in his groin, then again I feel cheated as I have to leave off. By now I realise I'm his total cum-slut, I want it more than he does. Thoughts of male sex obsess me.

Later we go down into a copse of trees beside the river where I go down on him again. In this pastoral grove, the breeze shuffling foliage overhead, the low swirl of nearby water, the drone of flittering insects, this is phallus-worship in its most natural, most primal setting. His swollen gonads seething with seed, the very stuff of life raw and fecund with earthy energies, and I'm submitting to the dominant male as the weak have done to the strong since the Cro-Magnon dawn of time, feeding on his virility like a man with a god-sized hunger. We should be raw naked, as in a primitive tribal ritual. This is my natural place in the order of things. You could say there's nothing Darwinian in this debasing gay blow-job, an arrogant exploiter taking advantage of my silly slavish gullibility, but as I suck him, it doesn't feel that way. It seems timelessly right. I was giddy with lust.

He snaps a photo -- then it was snatched away. 'C'mon, don't he greedy' he chides, as I pout my best hurt petulant sulk.

This continued coitus-interruptus is a deliberately teasing form of mind-control, in that my frustration and deferred climax becomes part of his game. In the evening we visit a gay club. I was nervous to discover it was the 'Green Carnation', wary of encountering Luis or any of my previous clients. The tiny stage where I'd been 'prize' is occupied by a dancer made up like something from a Diaghilev production, making balletic exaggerated moves in a tiny cache-sex. It takes years of rehearsal to get that good, to become that supple. I'm disappointed that when, with a flourish, he poses nude, he's limp and unimpressively endowed. He might be talented, he might even be classically-trained, he could dance like Nijinsky or Nureyev, but if he's hung like a mouse I'm not really interested.

I visit the gents, take a piss and then, as I'm turning around, feel myself suddenly alarmingly seized. I glance up.

He's grinning at me. 'Hi, remember me?'

At first no, I don't. A lot's happened. Then, yes. 'Mr Undershaft.'

It's his turn to look confused, until he remembers the alias he'd assumed for the lottery. 'You here with a client?'

'No, I don't do that anymore.'

'A partner, maybe?' I nod.

'Pity, we could have had fun, you owe me, remember?'

He reaches out and traces the shape of my cock which still hangs lazily from my pants. He has a point, we never completed. When his fingers start closing around my shaft, I don't attempt to stop him, just allow him to begin a slow wanking motion up and down. It feels unexpectedly good. The cisterns are hissing, water swirling with a blue disinfectant odour. I wish he'd chosen somewhere less public, or at least backed us off into one of the cubicles, but all the teasing I've endured today has me fired up. Encouraged he extracts his own fat stubby cock and presses it up against my longer firmer one, squeezing them both together in his fist.

His closeness is uncomfortable. His face so near I smell his breath. But he's wanking both cocks together, and I nip my lower lip in response. An ageing queen passing by, his obviously-tinted hair coiffed extravagantly, seeing what we're doing he smiles indulgently.

His wistful expression says so much, 'enjoy yourselves while you can, boys, that once was me.'

I've been on edge all day, in a state of constant arousal. It doesn't take long. Suddenly I'm jetting sperm all over his fingers and cock. 'Yeah!' he leers and begins using it as a slick-lubricant on himself. The odd interludes has eased and siphoned off some of the head of erotic energy that's been building dangerously within me. Released the escape-valve. And as he's now so self-involved I wipe, tuck mine away and return, a little flushed, to Bruno.

He's watching the floor-show. I sit beside him, docile, remembering things I've done in this place. Things I'm not necessarily proud of. Under electric candlelight there are alcoves around the wall which provide the patrons a little secrecy. I was there with one client. He drapes a serviette over his groin, unfastens his fly beneath it, and every now and then I'm induced to dip my head down below the table-rim and suck him. This game goes on for some time, until he ejaculates in my mouth. At least an hour later I return to Luis in the car-park. He laughs and flips the vanity-mirror down. In its reflection I can see blobs of sperm on my cheek, which have been there for all to see. I shiver at the memory.

But I need some of that man-milk now. I ache for it. It was approaching the hour. I have to remind Bruno. He seems irritable at having to indulge me, but breaks off from watching the exotic floor-show, and we return to the car-park where he flips his cock out in the car and I obediently go down. The moon a stone's throw above us. After a few moments he sees some friends passing, horizontals down the window, and calls them across, talking casually and joking with them over my head. I feel confused and shy, hot and bothered, keeping my head down, literally, to hide my face.

After some time they became aware something is going on.

'I'm just getting me some head' Bruno admits, inching the door open sufficient for them to see.

I cringe and stay down, burrowing deeper into his groin.

They're laughing and whooping -- 'me next,' 'wow, look at him go. Don't choke the dirty little fucker' and 'come up and say hello to us.'

For a moment I'm certain Bruno is going to pass me around, and I'll have to service them all. After all, he'd offered me to Franz. And if he does, what else can I do? I'm incapable of refusing him. Refusal is not an option I dare consider, I'm in no position to refuse. In my mind I am totally his property, if he tells me to I'll take them on one at a time, or together, and do them all. I'm that far under his mental control. That's what I do when I consider myself owned. It's absolute. I'm compelled to do his bidding, or lose him. But after a while they get bored and drift off.

I feel odd. I've been observed sucking cock before, of course. Hell, I'd even done that at college, and probably earlier than that. How could this be different? After all, me, I'm the slut without morals or shame, aren't I? But all such thoughts are crowded out once we're back at his apartment. Without even being told, I strip naked and immediately crouch ready, he stands over me still dressed, shifting my erection from side to side with the toe of his expensive hand-stitched Italian shoe, applying pressure to my balls until I gasp, but do not protest. Determined to refuse him nothing. He stands back observing me coolly, then slowly undresses.

He's in no hurry, the urgency is mine. Then he stands with it forming a long immaculate horizontal curve less than a handspan from my nose, that strong commanding cruel demanding never-ending cock, yet he makes me wait. I'm already quiveringly close to orgasm myself purely through suspense and anticipation. Fascinated by the tiny bead of pre-come moisture forming in the eye of its hooded heart-shaped arrowhead, which I'm forbidden to lap. The nectar-drop seeping to fill the slit, oozing through the urethral opening, until the welling fluid overflows to trickle down the underside of the glans.

'You want it, don't you?'

'Yes please, I want it more than anything.'

Bruno's countdown seems to extend endlessly, it takes every ounce of self-control not to pounce and gobble on it. Instead he taunts me, feints it towards me so I gape and move to receive it, then he moves it away, he angles it left and then right, my head following it stupidly as though invisibly connected to it by magnetic lines of force, he runs its messy tip down my nose leaving a slime-trail, then orbits the outer circle of my mouth, when I try to enclose it he sways it so it slaps up against my cheek with an audible thwacking sound and a stinging sensation.

'Wait. I didn't grant permission...'

I'm left there, mouth gaping stupidly open. 'I'm sorry.'

If his leering arrogant intention was to humiliate me, he failed. I've lost all sense of shame. I've been reduced to a slavering slobbering pile of fucked-up devotion. I have this compulsive-obsessive aspect that allows me to single-mindedly ignore everything else out of existence.

He laughs, 'are you ready for it?'

'Yes please, let me suck it, give me a big mouthful of come.'

Before... at last, at a single-word 'now', I'm allowed to lunge at it and indulge myself. 'Go on, feast.'

By now I'm hypnotised by it, aching for it. I'd been patient, now my patience was done. And it's a slithering python sliding down my throat. This time, as he uses his camera, I make sure I'm not cheated of my reward, I've worked for it, I deserve it, he'd have needed to crowbar it out of my mouth. When his come starts bursting in my mouth it's as though I've beaten him at his own game, blissfully smug with my spermy victory. I'm down there so long that crouching cuts off the circulation to my ankles, so that when I eventually came up, even though I'm standing a little unsteadily, I'm licking my lips, and my face must look radiant with joy.

'When did you first realise you were addicted to cock?' he teases.

These guys are so predictable. I've been asked variations of that so often I've got a set rehearsed response. 'There's never been a time when I wasn't. I can't recall a time when I wasn't attracted to cock.'

'So tell me' he persists 'of all the many cocks you've had in your filthy cock-sucking mouth, which has given you most satisfaction and been the most pleasurable?'

'It's not about my satisfaction, or my pleasure.'

'Yes, you tell me that. But the state you're in now says otherwise. Look at you. Begging for it. Let me narrow it down for you. Which cock do you enjoy sucking more, me or Georgio?'

I look bashful, 'you know the answer, it's obvious.'

'No, I want you to tell me.'

'You're the best, I love sucking your cock, I love sucking it much more than sucking Georgio's cock. You're the best cock I've ever sucked, the best come I've ever tasted' I blurt out truthfully.

He laughs unpleasantly. 'Tell me more.'

'Every time I suck him off, I close my eyes and imagine it's your cock in my mouth. When I lie awake at night I dream of the next time we can be together and I can do it to you. Your cock is all I live for. I'd suck you for ever if you'd only allow me to.'

Afterwards I was confused by my own feelings. I don't like him. He's unpleasant, unreliable, disloyal to Georgio by deceiving him, abusing his hospitality and his property (me), by going behind his back and deliberately using me, seemingly enjoying the added frisson of deception. He scares and intimidates me, yet I love sucking his cock. The fear and humiliation only makes it better somehow. I'm unable to refuse, my body reacting to his presence like a dog sniffs pheromones. To me, I'm the innocent party, hopelessly emotionally confused, carried along on a hormonal tidal wave beyond my control.

Naturally, a few days later Georgio discovers my guilty secret. I have no mother. There was no visit. So who was I meeting? He was vehemently upset, hurt and angry. Maybe it was Madame Bovery who told Georgio what we were doing, perhaps it was even Bruno himself -- emailing those compromising photos? For Bruno, it turns out, is with some rival legal practice. And he's been using me as a way of getting back at Georgio in some kind of complex professional revenge issue. So he'd not been irresistibly drawn to me, didn't even fancy me, his interest in me less a factor than his thirst to use me to hurt Georgio. I was merely an instrument of his vendetta. Which is not good for my self-esteem. After all, I'd been a push-over, I'd made it so easy for him.

As Georgio throws me out I realise too late he was in every way a better human being than Bruno, he was kind, but he'd neglected me, I'd been tempted, duped, led astray, strung-along. I'd been too trusting. Too enamoured. I'm flesh and blood. It wasn't my fault. I was the victim here. If I'd not strayed I might still have been safe and secure, if bored, with Georgio. Because Bruno was no longer interested in me. He'd got what he wanted, and moved on.

For something less than a week I was back to scuffing on the street, resentful, feeling sorry for myself. A teenage kid with a mid-life crisis. I was the injured party, wasn't I? Yet with every step I took away from the situation, away from them both, the stronger and more content I became. And as new ventures took shape the incident began to seem like forever ago. I was busy changing my own tomorrows.

I might be down. But I'm on my way back up. As I'll tell you, next time...



Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 04



Part 4: In which every good thing must end with a come ...

My experience with Bruno dented and skewed my self-confidence. He'd used me. I'd let him use me. I'd willing allowed myself to be used. Then he betrayed me. But before Georgio threw me out, I'd laid my plans. I investigated his contact book. I know all about his gay friends. Now I follow up on the leads it indicates. Whittle the names down to a short-list of five possible contacts. Research them through internet profiles and the financial pages. From now on, I tell myself, when it comes to potential patrons – first I look at the wallet. From my list I select and focus in on just one name, a guy called Sergé. He's in future's consultancy, whatever that is, and he lives very well from it. So, once targeted, I draw up my schemes against him.

Stalk him. Observe him. Watch him coming and going. Reconnoitring my terrain. No sentiment this time. I've wised up. I've toughened. This is an astute commercial calculation, a career-choice. This is the switcheroonie – I've become the predator, me! Does he already have a boy? A partner or live-in 'friend'? No. He lives alone, in considerable luxury. I bide my time, then make my move. At the reception desk of his office I leave a 'For Your Eyes Only' manila-envelope containing a sheaf of the A4 photos taken at Luis' instigation. Moody black-and-white full-frontal nudes. And my mobile number. How can he resist? I'm a little disturbed to notice he has a smart attractive young male personal assistant. Is he giving him a good seeing to? No. I see him meeting a girl in a bar. She's all over him like a cheap tart.

Then, hesitantly, Sergé takes the bait. He calls me, unsure about my motives. He agrees to meet, no, not in the café near his office. He's known there. In the hotel-bar a block away. He's being discrete. That's good. He's not especially physically attractive, a dapper man of fifty wearing gold-rim spectacles, thinning strands of hair slicked cross-wise over the dome of his skull. He wears a tweed suit with matching grey-green tie and a small sapphire ring. But although he's small in stature too, I feel at ease with him. I start by smiling shyly, acting bashful.

I'm polite and respectful as I spin him my tales. 'Yes, I was with Georgio. But no (with a small sob of regret), we're no longer together. At the moment I have no gentleman to satisfy my healthy and natural needs and appetites. To guide and discipline my unruly desires.' Meeting his gaze with deep soulful eyes. 'Men have taken advantage of my gullible and trusting nature.' I start flirting with him, finding myself extremely turned on by the thought of acting like such a slut. This is my revenge on all the users and betrayers.

We click, he's had the forethought to book ahead and reserve a room in the hotel. That's good. But once there, as I prepare to get naked, to make sure he gets a sweet taste of what's on offer, I've no intention of making myself cheap. Act coy, as though to imply, I don't do this with just any guy (although, check my record, I pretty-much do!). I wear a T-shirt, it's hauled up and off. And tight distressed jeans, that slip down and off. There are a couple of memory-techniques I can use to produce an erection when required. The memory of my first double-date with the Belgian Hans, his friend, and fellow 'escort' Jean. That always turns me on. And the sordid incident with the truckers, as they take me from both ends as the guy walking his dog stops to watch the gay sex-action. In my line of 'work', it's a useful technique. So now, when I do a slow reveal for Sergé, taking my cupped hands away from my groin so he gets to feast his eyes on my hard-on, he gets the full benefit.

When he moans 'oh, dear boy,' with such emotion, I know he's mine.

Guys are so self-centred and egotistical they automatically assume your arousal is a direct result of your eager anticipation of sex with them. He spends a long time just feeling me up, squeezing and caressing, first with me standing, then jacking me off in long strokes as I lie on my back on the bed. He holds my cock as I ejaculate, bucking my hips to emphasise my pleasure.

'Gay spunk is one of the great wonders of the world', he breathes softly as he fastidiously wipes it clean with a monogrammed handkerchief, 'it's not intended for procreation. It exists purely for pleasure.' He ensures he detects and wipes up every trace of spilled semen, the intimate brush of the silky material on my already sensitised nerve-ends setting off exquisite ripples of sensations, before carefully folding the handkerchief and placing it on the coffee-table. It later occurs to me that he's doing it for analysis, checking me out for communicable infections. Although, at the time I'm more concerned I was going to be denied the opportunity to demonstrate my sexual expertise. He's remained clothed throughout, which is not exactly unprecedented, there are guys who get off on just tossing-off a comely boy. But this might be my one chance to be with him, to show what I can do.

Should I initiate...? Should I say 'you've given me pleasure, may I reciprocate?' But it's not necessary. Disappointingly when he undresses, his slight corpulence overhangs not hugely impressive genitals, yet we have spontaneous and satisfying sex. I make sure I'm good for him, working hard with all the skill and experience I've gained, to please. Sucking him deep, as though it's the one thing in the world I desire more than anything else. Smiling up at him adoringly with his sperm smearing my lips and chin, as though grateful and breathless with passion. Let me kiss it again, please. One more lingering suck. Now, if you please, my bottom requires attention, urging him to take me anally, bending to receive him, groaning a welcome as it slides all the way in. Making sure he can't help but notice my own fierce erection bobbing appreciatively. Saying 'Merci Monsieur' once he's done, as Luis had taught me. I can be convincing when I set my mind to it. I come again in long white strands up my gut as he humps me. He watches as I shower.

Two days later, as I'd anticipated (when the Lab-analysis of the handkerchief comes back), he phones me, asks me the question, and I move in with him. It's a warm perfect day as my new 'owner' drives me to his villa, somewhere beyond Arles in the Camargue. I'm overjoyed. I'm leaving my problems and bitter memories behind. This is the start of a new phase for me. Sergé has left his pa in charge of the business – Mr Bradley-Martin, and for the first month I spend in that luxurious villa I never wear a single item of clothing.

The climate is such that clothing is hardly necessary, and anyway, Sergé prefers me to be as naked as nature intended. That way he can watch as I sunbathe on the mosaic patio-area beside the ornate terra cotta arbours, or as I swim in the infinity-pool. All of which is much to the interest of the aged groundkeeper who leans on his hoe and also watches me keenly with bright beady eyes, my state of undress either reminding him of promiscuous adventures from his own distant youth, or else envying the freedoms I enjoy today. Let him look, let the sad wrinkled old perv dream.

And of course, my nudity means that when Sergé requires sex there's no encumbrance. It amuses him to casually reach out and masturbate me as and when the mood takes him, as I lie on my back on a lounger beside the pool. I give him a good show, writhing and bucking in response to his clumsy attentions, but never failing to rise to the occasion, lifting my hips so as to project further and always delivering a white-fountaining arc of ejaculation to make him chuckle. He traces the rounded curve of my bare bottom possessively with the palms of his hand, tracing the course of the valley between the soft cheeks with his trailing fingers.

'Your ass is mine' he's soft-voiced even as he leers 'bought and paid for, I say suck, you suck until told to stop, and not a moment earlier, I say bend over and part your legs, you do it, whenever, and for whoever I say, right?'

I smile my acceptance of his terms. After all, we both know that's what I'm here for. I'm always respectful, do his bidding as obediently as a good slut-boy should be, and call him 'sir'. I enjoy his luxury, and make a show of enjoying his sexual attentions. Even when he has me stand bent over to spank my bare bottom until it reddens, it's not really stressful. I guess I must look pretty cute and sexy-as-hell like that, on the pool-side with the round curves of my bum raised. He likes to watch my genitals bob with each smack. Of course, I'm already hard, the slightest attention has that effect on me, so it's no problem. And when he's finished those preliminaries and decides to ass-fuck me I'm more than ready, he goes up my ass as is his right, and my delight, but it's like having a stubby pencil inserted, or maybe a slender finger stuck into me.

I make all the required moans and 'yes-yes-yes, give it to me, oh, you're the best, you're the best' gasps of pleasure as he thrusts and sweats, but it falls way short of the experience I need. I think back wistfully to Bruno, and wish it was him giving me a full length. My time in the villa should have been a kind-of rest-cure, a rehab, a chill-out period with probable therapeutic benefits. We dine well. Sometimes – if infrequently, at an out-of-town bistro. More usually there's a lady who comes from the nearby village to cook, with a couple of female domestics. I avoid them. I learned by Madame Bovery's disapproval at Georgios'. They don't like Gay Boy-Toys. Maybe they see us a threat to female sexual power? While, how to describe my shifting moods? I'm incapable of analysing them. But to be honest, after the eventful sex-life I'd been used to, life here is a bit – whisper who dares, boring?

I swiftly realise what his major turn-on is, he's given to voyeurism. He likes to watch me with other guys. And that's fine too. At the end of the first week Bradley-Martin arrives in a red open-top sports-car. Idly, I watch him park. He's smartly dressed, in reflector-shades and suit, despite the heat of the day, his blonde hair close-cropped. He's here to update Sergé on the latest business developments, and they go indoors to spend hours together poring over detailed files and documents. None of which is any interest to me. I sunbathe beside the pool, naked, little knowing that it was to be a day of testing and discovery.

Eventually they emerge through the slide doors. Sergé is dressed in shorts and loose floral shirt. He sits on a lounger a little way opposite me. Bradley-Martin wears a kimono bathrobe with, as he unfastens the sash and opens it down the front, nothing underneath. He crosses to stand over me, his hands arrogantly on his hips.

Sergé indicates impatiently, 'see to his needs.'

I glance up. Although Bradley-Martin doesn't meet my eyes, and in fact, never addresses me directly, I'm pleased to notice he's in good physical shape, and impressively hung. I need no second bidding. I raise myself sufficient to lick it the full length from base all the way down to the heavy sheathed glans, feeling him tense as I take its fat head into my mouth, tasting it, and it gets bigger. He betrays barely a tremble of emotion. It was the first time I'd performed with another guy for Sergé's entertainment, so I make sure he gets the full benefit. Slavering my teasing tongue around it, sucking and pumping it, feeling it throb. Cupping and manipulating his balls with my other hand. Squirming around into a better position, my mouth sliding up and down the full length of his stiffening split-glossy shaft, making little sexy fuck-thrust undulations with my thighs as my hand moves down to squeeze and caress my own fierce hard-on, my balls jiggling.

He's aloof and fairly unpleasant, but with a nice body. I'm happy to ignore the former, to enjoy the latter. The air is super-charged with erotic energy, on an orgone high, as Sergé watches gleefully. Glancing across I can see him slyly rubbing the groin-bulge in his shorts. When I feel the intimate pulsations going into overload, I draw back, mouth wide open, so he bursts directly in between my teeth, long jetting strands of white drooling from my upper lip slithering down across my tongue, blowing spit-bubbles of cum, and Sergé can see its messy excess dribbling down my chin, before I engulf the bright twitching cock again with a moist gurgling slurp, and suck it clean, he winces with suppressed reaction as my saliva drips and trickles down onto his balls, matting the tight pubic hair. Careful not to compromise his haughty dignity. Sergé could have participated. He preferred to watch us. And – to be honest, he should never wear shorts.

I spend most of the remaining evening crouched sucking it. We break off only to swim in the pool, the taste of fresh chlorine on his cock each time, and after the inadequate dimensions I've been used to here, it's more than satisfying. He stays over before returning the following morning, and I'm despatched to his room with a complimentary bottle of wine. Naturally I go nude – as I'm obviously just another executive perk. Pacing the tiles with my bare feet gratefully absorbing their coolness. Clothes get in the way. Clothes hinder the action.

He's wearing the kimono bath-robe again. I know what it's concealing. Wordlessly, he beckons me in, and I stay for more than wine. I'm pleased to notice he has lubricant ready. He's professional at all times, snapping his fingers to indicate the positions I'm to assume. I crouch, he takes me from behind, so he can't see my face. He wants anonymous sex. Raw sex. An orifice to fuck. Nothing more. Which suits me. I'm amused, aroused. Little more. If I'm being treated like a cheap street-boy, no such slight can hurt me any more.

He casually lines his erection at my anus with one hand, a subtle gyration and my puckered pink sphincter-mouth yields to the slight pressure, opening and accepting its blunt insistent head, then closing in around it, drawing it in, a tight fit, a snug fit. I'm aware that Sergé has the house wired, and we're being closely observed onscreen. So I make it good for our unseen audience (it's probably an effective way of ensuring employee-loyalty too, having all this potentially explosive gay sex on film).

This is the telling of my life. This is real, it's not something intended for sad jerk-off jockeys. It's not as though Bradley-Martin has one of those eleven or twelve-inch monsters that Gay porn glories in. Yet, as he feeds it into me inch by incredible inch I almost cream myself instantly, my back undulating with pleasure, it feels so richly satisfying. The sweat coursing down my spine is not entirely due to the humidity. It's me doing all the gasping, no faking necessary. Regardless of his supposed orientation, he knows what he's doing. Holding my thighs, steering me, riding me expertly until it's me he's reduced to groaning and mewling out my joyful ejaculation onto the bed-covers, long before he chooses to climax.

Maybe I was wrong about his inclination. Or more likely he's just taking advantage of the situation. You can bet he won't get his girlfriend to act this way! She won't do all the dirty little things I do! Oh well, her loss is my gain. Eventually he slows his thrusts, presses in impossibly further, shuffles in as deep as he can get, as I brace to receive him in a wriggle of pleasure, his balls – fat with cum, squashed up against me, and I feel the eruption of sudden spasms as he comes off inside me in a mess of tortured nerves and spouting semen.

He extracts abruptly and leaves me momentarily, goes into the en suite. I can hear him taking a piss and the sound of water as he freshens up. Unsure what to do, I remain where I am, on all fours. When he returns he pours wine for himself, but not for me. I smile hopefully. But he ignores me. I want him to notice my own lolloping hard-on, at least to the extent of giving it a fondle, but no, despite providing every encouragement, my feverish efforts are studiously ignored. This is not a reciprocal arrangement. I'm here to be fucked. Nothing else. I'm not a person. More an organic extension of the fixtures and fittings. A furniture-boy. I find his cool neutrality, his ridiculous elitism more amusing than offensive. As though we're role-playing a 'master and servant' thing. As he sips his wine he indicates me to suck him back to firmness, which doesn't take me much time or effort, I'd have contentedly stayed down there enjoying the taste of him, but he's impatient to fuck me again, slower and longer this time.

Bradley-Martin returns with fresh reports each weekend, and keeps me well-fucked each time. I look forward to his visits. But there are other occasions too, and other visitors. When Sergé has a guest to stay over I was prepared for his use. My arms crossed behind my back and secured there. Sergé uses a felt-tip pen to draw an arrow across the curve of my bare bottom pointing to my anus, with the instruction 'insert penis here'. As we both giggle infectiously, another is inked across my right cheek to my mouth with same instruction. It was a masquerade, extravagant play-acting. As an afterthought he inks 'Spunk-Slut' across my forehead. Finally a ribbon is tied tightly around my penis and testicles making them stand out more prominently, with a tag 'A gift for you, please do not return unfucked, no limits'. A dog-collar fastened around my neck, with a leash, by which I was led.

'Be good for him' cautions Sergé, 'put him in the right mindset, I'm hoping to close a deal with him'.

I was the novelty dish to be served up at the evening meal, the extra garnish. A complimentary amenity for the amusement of the guest. When I'm presented to the stranger in this state, beside the pool, his eyes are like saucers. A soft-faced fleshy guy, his pupils flick unsteadily in their sockets. He seems more nervous than me. The guest's clammy fingers nervously reach out to untie the ribbon, glancing questioningly at Sergé as if seeking confirmation. He simply smiles and nods approval. And he takes full advantage of what is offered, as is his right. I stand perfectly still and allow the guest's fingers free reign, he's in total control of my erection because it's not my place to refuse anything, and the idea never occurs to me.

'Is it a bottom feeder?' he enquires tremulously, 'does it eat meat?'

'It does whatever you want it to do' assures Sergé 'it's the complete sex-bot, totally programmed to please'.

I extinguish thought. No thought. No decision. No self-consciousness. No shame. Instead, my stunt sex-double emerges from some shady region of my psyche, comes out to perform as he impales one wine-lubricated finger up my ass. My pinioned palms are growing clammy, sperm is churning through my scrotum. The force of penetration jerks my hips forward and forces a single bead of clear fluid to ooze from the eye of my cock. They both laugh as he smears the glistening cum-tear around the surface of my glans and uses it as a lubricant to begin wanking me. My whole body trembles, I bite down hard on my lip and clench both fists. A tingly shiver runs up and down my body like needles-and-pins as he tosses me off, tension ebbs from my body, I go weak-kneed and giddy with orgasm as he milks my spouting ejaculate into a wine-glass of Chateau de Valfaunes. He swirls it round into the wine-dregs although, of course, the blobby white strands don't dilute, and he gets me to drink the glass dry. It goes down smoothly.

'That's what I call a cocktail' he laughs, a little over-excitedly as I swallow.

'What a divinely naughty boy' says the guest, 'and so obliging too. I do trust you punish him exquisitely for his wickedness?'

'I try' concedes Sergé, 'it's just that so far I haven't yet been able to devise a punishment he doesn't enjoy, one which does not, shall I say produce those visible indications of pleasurable arousal that the young and decadent are so prone to, I am forced to conclude that he is beyond redemption.'




Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 04



'Nevertheless, I'm confident that he benefits from your moral example. And that he expresses his gratitude in uniquely wicked ways?'

All the while they're bantering in this way, he's caressing the bulb and shaft of my penis, which stubbornly refuses to lose its rigidity. He forms his fingers into a light cage around my glans, so I'm crooked in the hollow of his hand, gently coaxing it, and hell, what young guy does not get off on his cock being admired and petted in this way? No matter who's doing the admiring and petting, male or female, old or young? And he knows how to treat an angry young erection.

The guest doesn't undress until later – not that he's got anything to be shy about it, except maybe he's self-conscious in front of Sergé. Without realising that his host is watching it all anyway. He leads me by the leash to the guest-suite, hangs a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the knob, and does other stuff to me, and I respond as required. He's pretty good. Needless to say the instructions written on my body are followed to the letter. I crouch to suck his big blunt cock-head, setting his low-hung balls aquiver. Lie on my back as he deep-throats me, with me making little gurgling noises at the point of maximum penetration. And I bend over, presenting the smooth curves of my bottom, so he can bugger me. Of course, I ejaculate before he does, much to his satisfaction.

Then he pauses to regain stamina, releasing my arms and watching as I sit with splayed wide-open legs and he gets me to do stuff to myself with a large greased dildo. Sliding it deep up my ass so I raise my hips to probe it further, sawing it in and out with my balls moving in response and my cock flipping this way and that. Before we begin a second bout. This time he lies on his back, gets me to do all the work, so I climb up onto him until I'm straddling his thighs, sliding myself down onto him inch by inch, facing him then riding his cock up and down, as he's reaching out to grope my lazy sway and bring me off again.

The porn-sites have a lot to answer for. They see these things on them, and want to try them out. So they pay for a compliant body to act it out. We become the experimental fuck-vehicles of their dirty-minded curiosity. This is not a position I favour, I prefer to be simply shagged from behind. But I shoot across his hairy stomach and up his chest in long contractions of cum, a lot of guys don't like that. It's OK them spunking on me and in me, but me coming off on them is different. He doesn't mind, just laughs lecherously. Finishing him again with a slow endless blow-job, curled around so he can amuse himself sliding the dildo in and out of me as I do him, fingering me to yet another satisfying cum. At one point I felt sure he was about to suck me, he was hovering, as though tempted, but undecided, he didn't, but unlike a lot of guys he enjoys feeling me up. Rather than purely concerned with his own gratification he seems fascinated to explore and stimulate my anatomy too. I wonder what his name was? Hopefully Sergé closed the deal.

On another evening Sergé hosts a torch-lit evening garden party, for which he hires in a couple of well-hung rent-boys. Sergé's pretence is that we are to be waiters, we will emerge carrying a carafe of wine on our shoulders like debauchees in a bacchanalia from Petronius' 'Satyricon'. To this end we are given sequined thongs to wear. When we're first nude together, sizing each other up as young guys do, I'm struck by the fact that one of them – dark and surly, is better endowed than me. 'Swarthy' as I mentally call him stands stooped as though he's borne down by the weight of it, as though it's capsizing him by lowering his centre of gravity. Normally that would intrigue me, but tonight I'm immediately jealous, fearing he's going to receive more attention. It seems I have stiff competition, in every sense of the word! We juggle the thongs into place. At first, my cock flips out of the inadequate covering, Sergé tucks it carefully back in, only for my balls to squeeze out, he massages them back into place, to much sniggering giggles. 

There's a hierarchy among whores. Some girls say yes, I sell sex, but I'm not as bad as her, I'm not a street-whore, I'm a selective escort. Then – a step further, they say yes, I'm a street-whore, but I'm not as bad as her, I only do vanilla sex, with a condom, nothing pervy. Then – further still, they say yes, I do oral and anal, but not S&M or group-sex. Then they say yes, I do it all, but not animals or underage, hey, I've got a habit to pay for! It's a hierarchy that's just as applicable to male-whores. Me, I'm top of the game. A kept-boy. A paid companion. These two, a couple of social stratas beneath me.

Stars appear and shadows start falling, the evening lengthens. At last we are ready. Sergé checks us out approvingly, we look like something from an old pervert's wet-dream. Nervous? Sure, I'm a little goose-pimple nervous, but more than that, I'm competitive, I'm not going to be outdone by these two guys. As it turns out I have no need to be concerned, there are guests enough for us all. Some thirty of them. I'm certain Bradley-Martin is one of them. Maybe the other anonymous 'guest' too. A couple of dubious-looking females. And as we emerge, the gentlemen are in a playful mood. What the hell? no more nerves, no more hesitancy, beside the shimmering light-flickering pool our three lithe sun-bronzed bodies weave and cavort – the sacrificial victims, although scarcely virgins. We provide the entertainment. Not that we need much encouraging.

The second rent-boy, skinny but wiry with blonde hair and cute freckles, is the first. Someone reaches out. Snags their fingers under the thin band of his thong and simply jerks it down in one swift motion. Although hardly unexpected, 'Blondie' makes a comical show of surprised distress, his hand over his mouth, while turning slowly to allow everyone a good view of his swaying genitals. Even as I watch, grinning, I feel unseen hands clasping me from behind, contemptuously tearing my thong away with such force that it snaps. Tangled around my ankles I kick its torn and useless fabric away. Then 'Swarthy'. His ripped thong gets tangled up around his erection, causing whoops of delight before his cock springs free to attention. They obviously like what they're seeing.

If the two rent-boys are naturally more exhibitionist than I am, that only drives and motivates me more. They're foreign, I don't understand what they say, but we communicate in other more physical ways. 'Blondie' has a smile as wide as his teenage dick is long. He stands with his hand on his hip in a provocative affectation, flat toned stomach with a faint pale scutt of hair down from the dimpled deep-socketed navel to the groin, for all the world like a better-hung version of one of the nude art-sculpture statues I'd seen in Florence.

As Master of Ceremonies, Sergé devises a list of oral and anal games for us to perform. With the guests laughing, applauding and urging us on, we tug out a random sexual forfeit card, knowing we must pay whatever penalty it dictates. It dictates a daisy-chain on the lawn. And in response we're prowling and sniffing each other out on all fours like predatory animals, with much shuffling and delighted giggling, working through the interlocking logistics of co-ordinating triple cock-to-mouth. Obediently, Blondie rolls over onto his back, with Swarthy moving over him, his long swollen and heavy cock angling down into the gaping receptive mouth. From that position Swarthy squirms around into my groin, where I'm already drooling with anticipation as he suck me in. And I side-twist down onto Blondie, closing the chain.

His cock looks as delightful up close and personal as I'd assumed at first lingering glance. Some cocks are ideally designed to be sucked. It slides into my eager maw beautifully, the raw fleshy snout then the smooth firm shaft. I can happily suck this one forever and never tire of it. Soon we're eating each other alive in a three-way oral feeding-frenzy of nodding heads and bucking thighs, the encircling laugher silenced and replaced by lush slurps. The sound of three cocks being simultaneously sucked is incredibly dirty. I suck this tasty cock with a passion, as I'm being expertly sucked, and it's so excruciatingly good I almost forget the circle of watchers around us. It's only with a fantastic expenditure of effort that I keep my mind on what I'm doing. We suck first this way, then wriggle and switch around, so Blondie looks even cuter with my cock forcing his mouth out of shape as I devour Swarthy's big dark pole, glistening wet with his saliva.

I'm not normally attracted to younger guys, particularly if there's no obvious material benefit, and especially if they're in competition with me. But I'd have liked to have done more dirty things with Blondie. I try to let him know by the enthusiasm of my attentions. I'd like nothing more than to take him into the bushes and sixty-nine with him until we're both drained. I've never had a relationship with a guy my age, or even a proper friendship, that's something else lacking in my life, unfortunately we never get the chance, I never even discover his name.

Instead, hauled back up onto our unsteady feet before we've had a chance to cum, but high on arousal, things get increasingly blurred and confused. For the next forfeit, Swarthy finds himself standing on one of the tables, accidentally kicking over glasses and spilling wine, while Sergé auctions his ass. Glistening in the torchlight like in some ancient Roman slave-market. Bids start out cautiously – ten euros, twenty-five, before getting into the game and shouting out a thousand, two-thousand euros (amounts that will never actually be paid!). Eventually he gets hustled down for the winner to claim his prize, although by now I'm in no position to see the outcome.

Fuelled by liberal amounts of wine and snorts of other illicit stimulants, the guests have become progressively more uninhibited. It's a long way from the choreographed porn-movies or gay-clips on the internet. This is all messy fumbling and clumsy groping, clammy hands with skittering podgy fingers intent on sheer nastiness. We take turns, on each other, then on selected guests, suck this, suck that, bend over, part your legs, get down on your knees. We preen for their attention, proud to flaunt our bobbing hard-ons, beguiled by flattery, vying for favours, competing for privileges, rewards and subtle intoxicants. As I watch, Blondie is performing with someone's cock in his mouth – and make no mistake about it, he's good. I'm envious of the attention he's getting, and itching for my turn to be in the spotlight, the star attraction again. Particularly when he gets the money-shot, and comes up smiling messy-faced to a ragged round of applause. By now I'm impatient for my own first mouthful of cum. I don't have long to wait. Whatever Blondie does, Swarthy must take a step further, then it's down to me to take it further still. Until the tiles around the pool are treacherously slippy with spilt semen

I'm sure mobile phones are recording clips of it for future replay viewing. In a way, being watched makes me feel special in a peculiar way. I know, deep-down, that whatever he may claim, the guy doing the watching is jealous of the guy being sucked. He's aroused by what I'm doing. He wants to be sucked. He desires me. I am desired. That makes me feel smug and content. You may think I'm naïve, I was even more naïve-on-stilts then. I assumed their approval, the way they're apparently lusting for me, means they like me, desire me. I imagined I was living in some kind of daring decadence. Stupid, but that's the way my mind works.

Now the party is breaking up into groups. Many of the guests are doing it to each other, which is not always good to look at. At least we are pretty. Instead, last time I see the blonde rent-boy, I stare wistfully as he's being upended by a group of older guys, his bottom raised and his legs parted, his anus lubricated with wine before the first one takes him, while I'm getting fingered and touched up by two more. I'd seldom felt so much the centre of attention. Fool that I was. In truth, we were broken dolls, with Sergé as the puppet-master pulling our strings. We're just wind-up toys, not even considered really real, with no feelings, incapable of being hurt. That's what we were. I know for sure that this year Sergé will be partying with new boys, just as pretty, just as sexually receptive, just as pliable and eager for his patronage.

Meanwhile, it was at Sergé's a day or two later – once I'd recovered, that I properly meet, and get seduced by a gay couple, Cecil and Marcel. Not that I need much persuasion. Cock exerts an irresistible magnetism. A more powerful gravitation than the most super-massive black hole at the galactic core, drawing me in despite my best intentions. They'd seen me at the garden party. They'd taken note of my various 'talents'. And during their stay in Sergé's villa, he offers me to them on a whim. We spend our first troilist night together, lying together naked in the afterglow, Cecil on one side of me and Marcel on the other, both of them drained limp.

The perspiration cools, I'm feeling the familiar warm anal tenderness, the taste of stale spunk cloying my mouth, the crinkly ridges of dried sperm in my hair, I don't like that, I've never liked that. It's then they first broach the subject of my returning with them. It seems like a great idea. Is Sergé renting me out? Am I on lease? Is there a transfer fee? I never find out. They have a pied-à-terre near Versailles. Once we're installed there, within a space of days, they are sexually demanding, using me as a sex-aid to spice up their own sessions. Frequently spit-roasting me in various ways together.

They're kissing and embracing each other, while I'm down there doing all the sex-work to them both, with the trip from cock-to-cock a short lick apart, scrupulously showing no preference, devoting time equally to satisfying each erection. Down there bathed in the subtle olfactory stimulus of sweat-shimmer, the heady pheromones of arousal, the faint aroma of taut skin, the leaking juice-excretions of pre-cum body-fluids, and the wiry stipple of pubic hair. Cock. Hot cock to the left, hard cock to the right. Trying to get both in my mouth together. Of course it's not possible, except by squashing the two heads together. Then I can just about get my lips around them both, but no more. When Cecil closes into orgasm the tip of his cock is pressed up against Marcel's, with both of them crushed up against my lips, so when the sympathetic vibrations start they set him off too.

Pulse, spurt, splash, gulp, glug-glug, gobble, cock, stiff cock, poke, choke, another spurt, slurp, prod, twitch, throb, splash, swallow, and my face is caught in the crossfire until I'm inhaling the funk of a fresh double-shot of sperm. Grunt, squirm, gasp, gulp, slobber, drool. I've seldom drunk so much, or felt so good about it. Well, it's supposed to be good for the complexion. Quick suck left. Quick suck right. Long lingering suck left. Long lingering suck right.

At first I'm not only meeting, but anticipating both of their erogenous needs. That's their intention. That's my function. I'm an add-on to intensify their love-making. A sex-aid to provide extra stimulation. Marcel is thick-set and lively. Cecil is taller, older, quiet, but given to bitchy put-downs that suggest he already has doubts and suspicions about this venture. But if I've been brought into their faltering tryst as a last conciliatory attempt to control Marcel's philandering wandering eye within an essentially monogamous set-up, it doesn't quite work out as Cecil had intended.

Increasingly Marcel begins seeking me out for secret sessions, without his partner's knowledge. Whenever we happen to be alone together, with Cecil briefly out of sight, he feels me up – not difficult as I'm usually in the state of nature. Or he whips it out and I give his cock a furtive suck. It's not my place to demur. And anyway, I enjoy his illicit attention. Marcel is the deceiver. Cecil is the deceived. I am merely the instrument of deception. Until Cecil unexpectedly enters the bedroom to find us there, Marcel bollock-deep up my arse. He pulls out abruptly with a stinging 'plop' that makes me gasp. The shock of the sudden extraction triggers my ejaculation, and as I rear back I begin spurting spectacularly like a sperm garden-sprinkler as it swings and bounces, which only adds to the messy confusion. I seize my red and inflamed organ in an attempt to staunch the flow, but once begun it's impossible to stop. Marcel hasn't cum yet, although he must have been close judging by the frantic way he's been banging me. And as if in a comic farce, as Cecil flounces out affronted, he makes to follow him while pulling his pants up over his drooling erection – getting entangled, and stumble-lurching across the floor.

Of course, in all the cheap pornos this fairly familiar situation would resolve itself in a glorious three-way sex-bang, but this isn't porno, this is what passes for my life. Instead, Cecil retreats in tears, and their relationship goes into crisis. It's not even that I was important, because obviously I wasn't. It was more the furtive way Marcel had used me that was the deal-breaker. But if every game is rigged, I always wind up the loser. Once that chapter draws to its natural end, as such arrangements tend to do, I find myself out on my own again, back on the street, ready, eyes wide for the next opportunity. I suppose I could have contacted Sergé again, he might well have taken me back. I could have picked up some 'dates' from Luis, or gone back grovelling to Georgio.

Instead, I wake up this morning. Collect myself. My hair is rumpled. I comb it. There's a familiar grey sourness in my mouth. My tongue looks bad. Fresh air is what I need, to compensate my body for the abuse it's taken. As I stroll, I consider things. Surely I've reached a turning-point in what I laughingly refer to as 'my life'? The problem – if it could be said to be a problem, is that I like cock. In fact, I like cock probably more than I like just about anything else. Sometimes I like the idea of cock more than the particular cock I'm faced with. The cock, more than the guy that necessarily goes with it. I like the things cocks do to me. And the things I can do to cocks. I've had a lot of guys. A lot of guys have had me. I try to work out how many guys I've been with. And lose count very quickly. I've come too far too fast. I've done too much too soon.

Maybe it's my naughty streak, my devilish grin. As a serial slut I've probably had more men than is humanly healthy. And done things, far too many things and too often, that I should not have done. But it's what I do. I know no other way to live. And, largely, I live well. Sucking cock is a career, and a vocation I'm more than qualified for. I do it well, and... yes, I get job satisfaction from it. When I suck a guy off he knows he's being sucked off by a specialist. I've got the experience, and the inclination – the obsession if you like. I'm more homo than sapien. Cocks are the focus of my life. Sucking them is my art. Norman Bates' mother – in the classic movie 'Psycho', harangues her son about 'young men with cheap erotic minds'. That's me.

Like other guys my age – or maybe more so, at times my brain exists merely as a vestigial life-support system for my testicles. But truth to tell, I've seen too much in too few years. There's more, some things I scarcely dare admit to myself. I'm fortune's fool. And there's still things I don't understand, like all the sick things that men do to other men. Not sexually. But psycho-wise. Realistically, I've been used and abused in their hands like a tool. Like something momentarily distracting, amusing, but disposable, to throw back into the trash once they've had their fill. My mind has been ripped.




Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 04



Have those old creeps been debauching my innocence? Well, no, not really. I was already a dirty-minded sod. Does their treatment of me constitute abuse – even if it's a situation I was fully complicit with, even one that I'd purposefully sought out? Yes, but only if you buy into the theory that it's precipitated by social inequality and exploitation of the vulnerable by those with wealth and power. That it's due to the way the system is unfair to the underclass. If you can fight and you're physically fit, you can Box your way out, if you can sing and present yourself you can make it in Pop music, or if you're a model or an artist you can use those routes to escape the dead-end ordinary life and grab your slice of La Dole Vita. I have no such talents. This is all I have to barter, myself, my body, my servitude. I've always had problems with relationships, complex adult relationships even more so. As a 'kept boy' I am not expected to have a mind of my own. I do as I'm told. Perform as instructed. That relieves me of the awkwardness of taking initiatives or making advances that may be spurned. It's safe, with none of the pain of rejection. Until it ends. I'm not always necessarily proud of the things I've done. But I'm not ashamed either. I made a pragmatic decision early on about the kind of life I wanted to live, and what I had to do to achieve it, the narrow channel of choices I had to attain them. That's what I've done...

Every time I resolve to give up on men... I happen to see a young guy on the street, maybe some quiet and shy student, and I'm already off imagining us in his poetic garret-room, him naked, nervous and excited, and in my mind I'm going down on him, teasing out his uncoiling dick with my tongue, lapping at his tight balls, about to inspire the next verse in his own 'Les Fleurs du Mal'. Or I catch the attention of a sophisticated older guy sitting in the pavement café sipping a cappuccino, I feel his eyes appraising me, and I think hey, I could be the answer to your wildest wet dreams, you've got spending plastic in your wallet? then I can do things to your cock to make your hair stand on end. Just try me on. And I smile across at him... Have all those guys been debauching my innocence? Well, no, not really. All they've been doing is enabling me a means of expressing my sexual urge.

Nevertheless, I was feeling a little... used. Until I happened upon you, or you happened upon me, and my future was decided. No question about it. You reached out and took hold of my mind. I'm not going to pretend things to you. I'm not going to lie. Why am I divulging all of this to you? These are precious intimacies I'm sharing. I'll tell you why. I'm doing it because my life is out of control. I need a firm guiding hand to discipline my unruly urges. And where you're concerned I have no edit button, I can't do anything but tell the truth.

So my picaresque odyssey draws to a close, my tale of a well-intentioned cock-sucking boy adrift, buffeted and tossed-about on the storms of outrageous fortune in a world of cruel predatory deceivers. Do my candid confessions shock you? Are they too explicit for your sensitivities? There's nothing here that the vast majority of males on the planet do not fantasise about doing, either to women, or to each other. Sometimes those desires are screwed down so deep in the recesses of their subconscious they scarcely dare admit them, even to themselves. But those dark lusts are there. I merely facilitate what is already there. I make myself the instrument of their dark pornographic fantasies. Do my squalid reminiscences make you horny? Do you wish you'd been there? Make no mistake, you could be enjoying and taking full advantage of the same levels of my slavish devotion. Maybe I invent them to provoke that reaction in you? You'll never know, unless you respond... please. If every good thing must end with a come, let's make it a good one...

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY