Cock-Sucker: 'Psycho-Sexual'

'Keep doing what you're doing, you filthy slut, and when I come off it's gonna rip the back off your fucking head. When I come off there's gonna be so much gunk it's gonna be oozing outta your nose and your ears. What you think about that? You got a problem with that?'

Teasingly I bite down softly by way of response, applying the slightest pressure on yielding gristle to indicate such an outcome is something I'm entirely cool about. I'm in control. I know what I'm doing. I'm the one with the power to make him ejaculate. He laughs low and dirty. As I'm moistly working at it the pumping adrenaline in my head directs my hand irresistibly down to trap my own aching erection, to ease the building tension, to drain the pressure from the urgent swelling, and I begin languorously slow-wanking, up and down its straining length. His glance travels down in horror, and as he looks at what I'm doing, I can feel that horror crawling across my body.

He rears up. 'Stop that, stop that. You want your dirty boy-juice spurt-spurting all over the carpet? No! What would Mommy say?'

His cock wrenches loose from my mouth with a slurpy plop of suction. As it swings away glistening with my saliva I notice it's satisfyingly hard and fully erect. I crouch there stupidly.

'The bathroom' he says. 'Go get a towel and the Vaseline'.

I get up, pace across to the en-suite, aware that I'm erect, swaying and bobbing as I walk. Also that he's watching my every move with amused prurient interest. The bathroom is a planetary scuzz-hole. A dirty white towel scrunched over a stained bathtub, and a Vaseline jar in an off-white plastic unit. What the fragg, I hold them apart, one in each hand so making no attempt at concealment. When I walk back towards him I'm deliberately swaying my hips to emphasise genital movement. Let him look, he's paying for it.

'What're you flaunting that for? Ain't nothin' to brag about. Think I care? I'm not interested in your stubby protuberances, just your penetrable orifices. Can't imagine why anyone would waste their time with a twinkle like that. Lay the towel on the floor. When I fuck you you're gonna get off on it so much you're gonna start shooting your dirt all over the place. You ready to get fucked now?'

'I guess so.'

'Tell you what, it makes no difference if you're ready or not. Now, use that Vaseline to get me greased up.' I kneel down, begin massaging it around him in long slippery masturbatory strokes. 'You do that nice 'n' good, for the better you grease it the sweeter it slides in.'

'But I thought you wanted, y'know, a throat-job?' I ask, but deep down I know why. Because I was so obviously getting off on going down on him, and because -- so far as he's concerned, my enjoyment is not supposed to be part of the equation.

'What's it got to do you with you? What's your opinion got to do with anything? I'm gonna go so far up you it'll give your tonsils a treat anyway.'

Is it true it gives you a fat bottom? That it causes haemorrhoids in later life? Although it's not like it's not happened before. It's not like I'm some kind of novice at taking it. Normally I even like the sensation of being possessed, of the great emptiness within me being temporarily filled by another's urgent need, when two bodies become one.

'OK, that's enough, c'mon, be my dog again. I don't want to have to be telling you twice.'

I'm straddled over the spread towel, hefting my hips in the air, legs apart, feeling absurd and stupid, painfully vulnerable. I ease a little Vaseline around the point of intended entry, tense and wait. He's playing me like he'd play some cheap 45rpm record. Play once, then eject. I'm well aware of what he's doing to me, but I'm letting him do it anyway. I shimmy my bottom in nervous anticipation. All of a sudden he's crouched up behind me. The firm insistent pressure, the slight moment of resistance caused by the fat head of his glans -- which I'd already fingered, which had already been deep into my throat, then the smooth glide of penetration, and he's in me. It was so easy.

I feel I should show some reaction for his benefit, so I moan and lower my head as though in spasms of erotic impalement. He laughs. Wriggles his hips a little to gain greater penetration, and pauses. Then his hands come around me, across my gut, seeking out my own dangling cock, and catches it firmly. He withdraws slightly, then fucks back in, beginning to wank me at the same time. I grit my teeth and moan again in what I hope sounds like appreciation. Let him hear what he wants to hear. But the more he works at me the more my responses come less forced and more natural. Almost without realising it I'm straining back at him to gain maximum benefit, my sphincter muscles flexing around him, every nerve-ending sensitive to each thrust. The feel of his balls swaying and audibly slapping up against me slap-slap-slappity-slap, as his fingers work on me and my own testicles swing and jiggle. My breath rasping heavily, my eyes closed, the sensations building, and I cry out uncontrollably as orgasm hits me. I spurt all over his fingers. He squeezes my cock so tight and targets it down so the second spurt is trapped, then releases it to spray and drool directly onto the towel. It's as though his over-riding concern is less to be the instigator of my pleasure, more that the physical evidence of that pleasure is tidily directed.

He pauses, as if in indecision, then resumes fucking in long hard strokes. I can hear the slap of flesh on flesh, and it goes on for some time, until he groans, punches it home, and I feel jet after jet spurting deep into my gut. Both groaning together. He says 'one', and stays inside me. Both of us hot and sweating. Jism cooling on me as our breathing steadies. When he finally slides out of me it's like he's dragging my insides with him, leaving me empty. He gingerly lifts the towel, avoiding the shimmering spray-strands, checks the carpet around it for stray blobs and blobules, then cleans himself fastidiously. Folding it, mess-inside.

'Get rid of this, and make sure there's no traces left.' There's a rubbery-drunk woozy-weakness attacking my legs, suffused by the warm post-coital glow, but I tote it into the en-suite, plug the hand-basin, dunk it in, and flood it with water. Leaving it there to soak away the betraying evidence he fears.

Back inside I squat down, encouraged by the soft pulsations still radiating from my hips, and gesture across at him. 'You're still hard, you want me to mess about with it some more?'

My attempt at compliance has unexpected results. 'You're all the same, you evil spunk-monkeys,' he sobs, leaping to his feet and striding up and down. 'Mommy was right all along. You want to drain me of my precious fluids. You want me to get it over quickly so you can get your money and leave. Don't you? You don't give a damn about me.'

'No. no, I just thought it might be nice. That's all.'

'Liar. Mommy was right, you're all Slum-dog Scum. There's been no-one since Mark. No-one.'

'Who -- who was Mark?' I say, desperate to regain control of the situation.

'Mark. Who was Mark? Oh yeah,' he pauses, to rub nothing out of his eye. Sits down, much to my relief. A distraction. He lays his hand flat on the coffee-table and examines it carefully, as though he's hoping the script will be written on the back of it. 'Well, the thing was... ah... what we did was, uh... Mark was my friend. My only real friend. You know what a real friend is like? I guess you never will. We were just out of college. He used to come around here every now and then, and we'd... do stuff, y'know. I never touched him, not in that way, not in any sexual way. But he liked to do it to me, what you've done to me. With his mouth. No-one else knew. Our secret. That's why no-one ever thought to come here when he disappeared, although there were searches. He did it so beautiful. Sucked and swallowed it down like some graceful artist. But we was careless, messy too, I guess. He'd get worked up doing it, and he'd seep his boy-juice onto the covers, onto the carpet, wherever he was. Which Mommy detected. She cares about me. She loves me. Most often she knows what's best. And now she knew what we was doing. And she set out to trap us.'

He pauses, as though reluctant to go on. 'She must have been watching through the spy-hole in the door the next time of his visit. The last time. I had my pants down, laid on my back. He had his pants down too, leaning over to do it to me as he played with himself, like he used to do it. That's when Mommy burst in... I can barely bring myself to talk about it. Mark rears up, steps back, he's scared, his pants all tangled up around his feet and his legs. His cock waving like some spring-loaded magic wand. He steps back, loses balance, sways over like a crazy person, falls over -- heavy like. I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's all gone crazy. He keels over, then he's laid kinda scrunched up on the floor. And when he eventually gets up he's outta here like his ass is on fire. The fall'd scared him. Mommy scared the crap out of him. He never came back. I never saw him again.'

The world wobbles on its axis. The silence is roaring. This is the moment. His vulnerability. I can reach out and touch his soul. I lean forward, all compassionate and stuff. 'Did you love him?'

'SHIT! What do you take me for? Some goddam perv? He did it to me. Just like you did it to me. It wasn't me taking damn nothing from anyone...' and he's up and he's crazy.

Not for the first time I'm shit-scared of what's going to happen. I was born scared. My earliest memories are of fear. But this is different. It's like he's fit to explode or something. He backs off at the last moment, and retreats into the toilet. I can hear him in there sobbing and raging. This is just getting too weird. If life is white, then I've got to be black. He's backed off into the toilet. I can hear him storming. And this weird-sex must go on, until the cock crows thrice? This is when my do comes all undone. I'm coming round to the idea that he's not as dumb as he acts, and twice as dangerous. Maybe I should get out of here and not come back, like Mark did? Now. On last-minute impulse I shove at the couch, it's heavier than I thought, so I shove harder until it tips forward, grates across the carpet, to ram up against the door. That'll stop him. Or at least delay him long enough. He doesn't even notice.

On the landing I pause, still naked. This is the moment of choice. I can go direct down the stairs. The front door. Outside. Away. Or alternatively, to the left, the landing goes on, mysteriously inviting doors leading off. Got to find where he's put my clothes. Or some clothes, at least. And here are rooms rammed to the ceiling with all manner of strange stuff and weird goodies. If I leave now I might never get to check them out. And I deserve it. I gave him good value, I'm entitled to a little gratuitous looting.

'One' he'd said. He's ejaculated into me once. If I stay he'll deposit his spermy load into me -- throat or rectum, two more times. That was the agreement. That was the contract he proposed. The contract I agreed to. It was scary. This whole scene is scary. But kind of exciting too. Maybe I'm being a little premature? Perhaps I should hang around a while longer, and see what he's got in mind? See what develops? My groin crawls with a kind of creepy anticipation. An erection I can't deny. The heart is a fickle creature, particularly when it's guided by the gonads. So the choice is made.

I turn back the way I've come. The door opens easily, and I'm one pace inside. Now, with just my shadow in front. All senses straining -- ten, thirteen of them, senses they haven't even found names for yet. This is a time of no-time. A place of no-place. He's standing waiting for me. Naked and leering.

'I'm sorry, I got scared' I tell him. 'We do it two more times, please. Twice. And I'll keep it quiet. Mommy will never know.'

Approximately three hours and twenty-two minutes have passed since this began. And it will go on for some time yet, at least until dawn....