cock-sucking

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?

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.

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