Cock-Sucker: Lost In France

He takes intimate photos of me sprawled naked across the bed, sometimes with my arms folded behind my back and strapped there so that when he chooses to penetrate me orally he has absolute control and I have none, in others I crouch bound and blindfolded as he takes me anally, I have no self-consciousness any longer, I no longer argue or attempt to oppose him, relinquishing all ability to resist as though my spirit is broken, and I'm totally without will. I'd tried to fight him, tried to escape, and failed. So whatever he desires, happens, in total obeisance. And he desires much. But there's nothing he can do to me that I cannot take. He masturbates me as I lie helplessly bound on the bed, so he can photograph the glistening sperm-trails that shoot across my stomach. Then he ejaculates across my face so he can photograph it trickling across my nose, forehead, and cheeks. I imagine those prints taking their place in his library alongside the others who preceded me here, and find myself wondering what became of them, did they survive? Are they out there now somewhere...? And who, in future days, will become aroused looking at the photos of my erotic enslavement, these images of my predicaments stirring his erection. Like I get hard reading the exploits of 'Dick Hunter', or watching the three guys at the poolside giving it to each other, someone is going to get turned on looking at these photos of me, it's the human response. Beyond morality or right or wrong, the body reacts to visual stimulation.

Until it all ends, as abruptly as it began, one evening, when he returns. I'm in the bedroom. I can hear him moving around. Eventually he opens the door, throws a pile of clothes to me, 'put these on.' They're not mine. They're a size too small, but I force myself into them. Tight 'T'-shirt and denims. I follow him out. There's a sound, like the shower's in use, but no, must be mistaken. Must be the toilet. He leads me outside. The daylight blinding after being confined inside so long. We get into the motor-home, side by side, and pull out onto the road. It's a bizarre sensation. I don't know what to expect. Where's he taking me? Is this it? Back to the river, disposing of me into that fast-swirling current? Or some kind of hard-core bondage group-thing? Is he going to trade me to some other abusive guy? Is this the final reel of some snuff movie I've been playing my part in? I'm too scared to ask. As though by asking I'd be precipitating the situation.

But no. It's nothing like that. After a long strange drive I recognise where we are. We're back on the autoroute verge. He slows to a stop and gestures me out. I can't believe what he's telling me. Or what's waiting out there? I slide the door and step out onto the grass. Cars and trucks hurtling by. The motor-home door slides back. Amputating me from him. It pulls away, and I watch it, not believing this is happening until I can no longer make out its shape vanishing into the traffic. And I'm lost in tides of conflicting emotion. Until now, a month later, it's all receded into something like a strange dream. It's obvious to me now. On that final day, the sounds I hear from the shower, that's my replacement. The new guy he's picked up out there somewhere. The clothes thrown in for me, they're his. Just as my clothes must have wound up being passed on to the guy who came before me. The voices I half-hear half-imagine when I first entered that place. Full circle. It's just that now I'm here, thumbing up and down this same strip of the autoroute, thumb stuck out, watching the cars flash past, every now and then getting shunted this way or that. But always returning to haunt this same stretch of highway. Hoping against hope I'll see that moss-green motor-home again, that it'll slope in to pick me up, and I'll find that place once more. Emile, the body I yearn for. Craving the aroma of his coffee, the aroma of the dark places of his body. I've taken my last decision. I need take no more. This broken addiction has left me with such a bleak desolation. I must reclaim what I've lost...

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY