Cock-Sucker: Lost In France

I heft up a chair and hurl it into the window. At first it just jars back. Strengthened glass. I ram it at the window harder, this time it shatters explosively. My head pumping now with fear and urgency. I pick my way out carefully, jumping down glancing to left and right. No-one. So I avoid the road in case he comes across me as he's returning. Running parallel to it, as fast as possible over the uneven terrain. It is sticky moist. I'm tired and thirsty. I run for as long as I can. Then force myself to keep walking fast until I must be miles from the house of captivity. At last I'm breathing more easily. Allowing myself a smile. I'm free. What a story I'll have to tell when I reach Barcelona. I slow down warily as it becomes apparent I'm approaching a village. I need to get directions. Hey, I'm thirsty too. So I enter cautiously. There's a Bar. Nothing much else. I go in and order a coke, then sit slaking on its coolness. A police car outside. Gendarmes. He strides in. Crosses to the Bar and talks for some time, glancing across at me. Then he approaches me, speaking in French.

I shrug. He obviously speaks no English. Should I tell him about my captivity? Before any other guys can be kidnapped and abused? Perhaps he'll provide me with a lift back to the autoroute? I accompany him to the car, and climb inside. The Police Station I suppose. But no, he's accelerating away out of the village. I sink back into the upholstery. Close my eyes. Smiling. When I open my eyes I'm shocked and startled to find we're pulling back into the converted farmhouse within which I'd been help prisoner. I yell 'no', and move to open the door. But he's got his pistol out, trained it at me, shouting something in fast French I can't follow. And Emile's waiting at the door in a dressing gown. Sullenly I'm led across and shoved inside. They're talking in French, indicating me. I'm confused and afraid.

At length the gendarme leaves. Emile faces me. 'I'm disappointed. You can't be trusted. You steal from me. You destroy my property.'

I find myself mumbling 'I'm sorry.'

'The gendarme recognised you were wearing my clothes. That you are a foreign vagrant. You're now known to him as a criminal. You have no right to wear my clothes, do you?'

I'm bowing my head, defeated, submissive, 'no.'

'So remove them.' I'm almost weeping with hopeless desperation. But do as he tells me, item by item. Pausing in just the brief silk shorts, turning to him with a forced smile that's intended to be conciliatory, pathetically ingratiating. Tugging them down slowly to expose my pubic hair. He watches without expression as my penis tumbles into view. Soon, I'm naked again.

'Are you going to behave? How can I trust you now, after what you've done? You cannot leave, you know that.'

I nod.

'All you have to do is make a decision to make no more decisions. It will be the last decision you ever need to make. Yes?'

I nod.

'Look me in the eye. You agree?'

'I agree.'

'Good, now, hush, come to the bedroom and put those pouting lips to more sensual use.' I pace reluctantly ahead of him, conscious of the movement of my genitals. He's bigger, stronger than me. I feel gauche and clumsy. What's he going to do? I'm tense with anticipation, sat on the bed, legs splayed for his attention, penis lazily half-aroused in the bizarreness of cool nakedness, ready for whatever he intends doing to me. He loosens the draw-cord of the dressing-gown so it gapes down the front. He wears nothing beneath.

'You know what you must do.'

I know, it's flaccid, I can change that. I can see us in the mirror. See me sliding down to crouch beneath him, cupping his pendulous balls, nuzzling his glans, slipping it between my lips, between my teeth, into my mouth, I begin sucking gently, acclimatised to his need. Its growing firmness comes up hard against my palate. Responding to me promisingly. If I do well, make him come quickly, he might leave me alone. I'm sucking for my life now, sucking as though my life depends on it, as – in a sense, I feel that it does. I can't allow it to be un-mouthed until I've sucked it limp again. This is what I must do, this symbolic act of absolute surrender to the authority of his will, this primal act of submission of the weak to the stronger, to the dominant alpha male. Abasing myself. Apes do this, or something very like it, to establish status and hierarchy. The chimps do it to Tarzan, or was that just in some porno spoof Tarzan I read somewhere? Moments extend into minutes, he shows no reaction. My face impaled on him, I look up over the smooth plains of his stomach and chest, trying to meet his eyes, appealing for approval, but his expression is indecipherable.

'You may masturbate,' more an order. So I draw him closer into me with one hand, and begin wanking with the other. Slow at first. Until, almost despite myself, the double gratification has an arousing effect, and my actions become intense, more concentrated, more focused. I catch a sideways glance at us in the mirror, him standing there, allowing me to do it to him. And what I'm doing squatting there looks so pornographic. I must sound like something from a bad porno too. Hell, it is pornographic, incredibly crude and nasty, more dirty and debased than I could believe. Previously, the sex in my life had been many things, intimate, emotionally-charged, tender, affectionate, sometimes even playfully mischievous. But it had never been as raw, blatant and perverse as this. His hands resting on the back of my head – not so much exerting pressure, as ownership. Sex as both punishment, and reward. I'm throating it a little deeper than I should, my nose delving into his pubescence, as I've learned he prefers it, with a hot and animal urgency. Totally concentrated on him. My own arousal desperately fierce now, my fist riding my own length so that my hanging testicles bounce and jiggle. I can hold no more, and ludicrously begin pulsing before he does, groaning and gasping around my fleshy gag as I tremble and quiver into my own ejaculation across my legs and fingers, careful not to allow it to stain his carpet.

He takes longer, much longer, making me work, my eyes closed in total erotic sensation as, at length, he begins twitching and the first jet hits the back of my throat. I burrow in closer and suck harder as he empties into me, spurt after spurt, rich and thick as though he's not come for a week (although I have good reason to know he has), hearing his heightened exhalation with relief, and some satisfaction, then sucking more gently in the soft afterglow of mutual orgasm as the slow ooze of his semen dilutes into my saliva, a million little micro-gay spermatozoa swimming into me, absorbing up through my mouth-tissue into my bloodstream. He begins drawing back, until I murmur 'wait, I want to do it some more' as though besotted, stupefied, 'please let me suck it some more'.

He holds as though in indecision, shrugs, relents, relaxes and generously allows me my way. 'You have learned to love this thing, exactly as I said you would?'

I nod my grateful agreement. If he wants to believe that, so much the better. But am I doing it for his benefit or mine? I'm no longer able to tell, no longer know or care. Already it's softening, losing some of its rigidity, becoming more slithery-malleable, the syrupy mix of sperm and saliva melting it, dissolving its angry power, stealing its virility. For a long deep richly satisfying moment I'm almost glad that I'm back here. I feel indulged, embraced within the security of his protection. A flood of unreasonable gratitude that he's allowing me to make amends by doing this to him. I'd tried to stand against him, tried to defy his will, and I'd failed, yet he's letting me off so lightly. Thank you, thank you. But he's moving around me, guiding my hands around my back as I concentrate on what I'm doing, keeping still, unsure if it's safe to un-mouth him or not. I feel the circlet of steel snap into place around my wrist. For a moment, there's panic.

'You know what I'm doing, don't you?'

I'm unable to reply. So merely nod slightly, as far as I can.

'You must earn my trust.'

Yes – I must earn his trust. That's what I must do. That's the only thing that matters. And so it goes on. Days on end. It's never clear where he goes during the long days, but now he locks me in the bedroom every time he leaves the house. Sometimes one wrist handcuffed to the bed-head restricting my movements even more. Often there's a TV on, sound-down, but it's in French. So instead I fritter time away by reading his books, some of which are in English. I skim 'The Legend Of Dick Hunter', the supposed autobiography of a porn star. Blessed with a monster unfeasibly large penis and an exhibitionist tendency. He was happy to whip it out for admiring attention at every possible opportunity, which made him the centre of attention from as early as he could remember. What he lacked in academic achievement he more than compensated for in inches where it counted. Groups of giggling girls in the refectory would make pointed comments about salami, jocks in the showers or the locker-room would sneak sideways glances and give long low whistles of appreciation. Throughout school and college he was never short of partners of all sexes curious to experience it. Later, furtive married gays would give him a dollar just to handle it, or masturbate him in parked cars or dark movie-houses. At first he enjoyed the celebrity, but then tired of being seen only as a walking schlong. He wearies of being treated as a freak, as cock-meat, as a sex object, and decided instead that if his unique 11" genital endowment was the object of such prurient interest he might as well turn it to his financial advantage. The gleam in the eye of all who beheld it told him all he needed to know...

I mean – boy, did Sigmund Freud ever get it wrong when he formulated the idea of 'penis envy'. Women don't really care, it's purely a male thing. You want to see penis envy, see a bunch of guys together in the shower eyeing each other up, watching the one with the biggest cock. That's pure penis envy – even among supposedly heterosexual straight men – breeders, and Dick knew all about that. But even in porn, as a kind of 'Dirk Diggler' he was the victim of unscrupulous exploitation and downright fraudulent behaviour, complicated by excessive partying and indulgences. He fucked and was multiply fucked, sucked and was multiply sucked, and found himself screwed in just about every sense of the word... It was a picaresque and sexually explicit story whether true of not.

Other books on his shelves were vintage erotica, and profusely illustrated, documenting a million variations on the lexicon of sexual moves, some as painful as they are pleasurable. Or I sample from his DVD collection. Despite my predicament it's undeniably arousing watching those interacting onscreen feral rutting bodies. I even develop favourites and watch them over and over again. Especially the three naked guys beside the L.A. swimming pool, working their way through every erotic permutation of positions, until I'm able to predict each thrust and grimace. The tanned guy with the buttock-tattoo who obviously enjoys his strutting moments of sexual power over the other two. The second guy who must work-out and operates like a well-muscled choreographed automaton, switching his impressive erection from mouth to anus, then back in one smooth flowing motion. Then there's the skinny third guy who is a little more docile and probably a tad too old for this kind of thing, he's enthusiastic, yet as the other two get lost in each other's eyes he's down there doing the dirty work to both of them.

What must it be like to have a thick cock in each hand, powerful?... or intimidating? struggling to manoeuvre both dick-heads into his mouth at once – one cut, the other uncut. He looks up at the two guys who are ignoring him, with an ingratiating pathetic 'please-like-me' smile. He squints a kind of contrived comic cross-eyed expression into the camera as they jostle each other for access to his mouth, obviously his special trick, his trademark on-screen gimmick, but if that was him acting, there's nothing fake or phoney about his ravenous hunger as he sucks. And when it comes to the money-shot, he takes two simultaneous big loads to the face with a look of humble gratitude, as though he's receiving joyful sacrament. There are stories of early porn films using raw egg-white to simulate sperm, supplementing any visual inadequacy in the amount generated. These two have no such problem. They must have been saving it up for at least a week. And he takes it all. He had already come harmlessly, and self-induced across his own gut moments before, although the fact that he was lying on his back with at least eight inches of work-out guy into his rectum at the time must have provided considerable stimulation.

In every aspect of life there is the lesser-loved, the under-appreciated, this is his role. I watch. Think of the sideways glance I took in the mirror of me servicing Emile. Yes, that was me. That same expression of intense focused concentration. That same facial distortion, mouth skewed out of shape by singular invasion. Yes, that's what it was like. Is that shudder of climax he feels the same as the one I feel with Emile? I watch the sequence over again, give each of them names, even imagine back-stories for each of them. 'Buttock-tattoo' might be 'Dick Hunter' from the autobiography, a man prodigiously gifted by nature in just one highly specific way, and he's exploiting that one great singular talent in the only arena it counts for anything. The one aspect of his life that has negotiable value.

'Work-out Guy' – Arnold, is hoping to make it on the Body-Building Circuit, and from there maybe into legit movies, who knows – he might get spotted on this DVD, hey, Hollywood casting-editors watch porn too, but first he needs the cash for expensive gym-membership fees. Finally, low-esteem 'Please-like-me' guy – Wilbur, is perhaps the most interesting. He needs cash for punitive alimony payments, and for the sleazy bars that figure high in his failed, lonely and desperately alcoholic life. But even if he wasn't getting paid for this, he'd be doing it anyway, somewhere else, in some motel with a one-night pick-up who would probably rob him in the morning. For him, this is the end of the line, for him, this is about as good as it's ever going to get. He needs the warmth of human contact, even when it is tainted by their disdain.

My viewing, or reading, is interrupted at intervals by the necessity to manually relieve the arousal the extreme imagery stimulates, after which I lie languid for long periods of time. Until boredom forces me back to the book, or the screen, and the cycle begins again. Of course, this continued exposure to hard-core material is part of a subtle conditioning designed to persuade me that what is happening to me here, if not entirely normal, is at least by no means exceptional. That what we are doing is an aspect of a widespread underworld of erotic game-play. And almost despite myself, the process is exerting its effect. This is my new life. Everything else recedes until it seems unreal. At other times I gaze out of the window working out stupid escape strategies, conjuring scenarios then dismissing them.

What if I manage to sneak pills from his cabinet in the bathroom, hoard them over a period, one by one, then administer them in one knock-out Mickey Finn, in a drink, knocking him out for long enough for me to get the keys and escape in the moss-green motor-home? Would that work? But how to gauge how many to give, without killing him? If I fake illness – or actually contrive an injury, he'll have to take me to hospital. What if I become more sexually demanding, tire him out, until he sleeps, then make a break? Or snap off a chair-leg, conceal it by the bed, and use it as a weapon against him when he's least expecting it? Knock him out with it. But I'm trembling even at the thought of it. You can't win with a losing hand. This isn't a story. If it was, I'd know what to do. Instead, I'm scared to do anything. Until he returns, we eat – his wine and his cuisine are exquisite, we discuss freedom and commitment, liberty and belongingness, books and movies, art and travel – he leads, I attempt to follow.

'This supposed boyfriend of yours in Barcelona, is he extravagantly well-hung?'

'Well' carefully considering my reply, 'he's bigger than I am, not as generously endowed as you.' His satisfied sneer suggests I've correctly flattered his vanity.

Then he poses the question 'what is it you desire more than anything else?'

'Freedom.'

'Freedom is not a state in itself. Freedom is something that can only be defined by its opposite. Freedom from pain. Freedom from hunger. Freedom from responsibility. You already have those freedoms.'

'No, I mean freedom as in self-determination.'

'The appearance of choice is not always what it seems. It can lead to bad decisions, and worse outcomes. Sometimes freedom can mean deferring choice according to circumstances. That is an equally valid freedom. The freedom from choice...' and it goes on. Until he's fully established his intellectual superiority. He has an epicurean's taste, but a glutton's appetite for excess. With something of the night about him. Thought, and animal instinct, in one.

'The penis is an instrument designed purely and single-mindedly for pleasure' he lectures, enjoying the sound of his own eloquence. By now I'm naked, and aroused in anticipation of what's to come. He holds my cock, 'that's why all those super-sensitive nerve-endings cluster there making every slightest touch a joy. This is the frenulum, the underside of the penis where the folds of the glans and the head meet.' He uses his fingers to trace the geography of what he's describing. He rarely touches me in this way, now his lecture provides a context. His touch is firm and invasive. 'This spot – the frenulum, this spot here is particularly sensitive when the man is aroused, as bundles of nerve-endings meet here. And the perineum, the small area here, between the balls and the ass. The skin here is delicate, making it highly sensitive too. But stimulating the perineum can help a man hold off from ejaculating – a useful trick. As I said, an instrument designed purely and single-mindedly for pleasure. That's why it provides the addictive bonus of orgasm, a sensation that nature gifts us for no other purpose than delight. So we must do it again, and again. Self-induced it's richly satisfying, with a partner it's an interactive ecstasy. Aesthetically, of course, the cock is an absurd protuberance. A brutalist after-thought. A vestigial organ as though left over from some earlier more primordial animalistic stage of evolution. A blunt persistent reminder that no matter how high we aspire, it's always there, animal, physical, a beast of the senses, a vigorous squirming assertion of life at its most primal...'

Then we have sex. We role-play. Sometimes he likes for me to ask permission for sex, to plead for the privilege of his penis, until he relents and allows me, and afterwards, with his semen on my face and coating my mouth, to look up and say 'merci monsieur.' I am to be polite and suitably grateful to him for granting me the pleasure of its inches. Other times I am to crouch completely passive, forbidden to react as he stands and smears his penis around my face, across my forehead, down the length of my nose, into each eye-socket in turn, through my hair, along my cheek-bones, and down across my chin and throat. He rubs it across my pursed lips, then poises its tip less than an inch from my mouth. I am the compliant robot reacting instantly and obediently to his single-word commands, 'open', 'suck', 'wait', 'open your mouth, let me see, good', 'now swallow'. I do as he tells me.