Cock-Sucker: The Artist's Tale

"Me?"

"Sure, you and Brat, you'd look good together."

"Sure you would" urges Max.

"But of course, like Brat here, you'd have to be shaved" leers Blasco.

"Is he really shaved?" laughs Max.

"Here," Blasco beckons and Brat crosses to his side, draping his arm around the youth's waist so his fingers trail along the belt of his pants. "Shall we show 'em Brat?"

He unhooks the belt open, flicks the zip down, and shrugs the pants aside. I'm looking at a sketch of a nude Brat tied on his back with someone fucking his arse. And looking up, I can see his crotch-bulging promisingly. With the slightest of tugs Blasco flips the tight black pants down, he doesn't even flinch as they fall to the floor, the lazy penis quivering free and hung there for all to see. As large as the sketches promise, just as hairless, with a black band around the bass of the shaft that I'm unable to identify. It is quite breathtakingly inviting.

Now it's begun, without too much encouragement I undress quickly, despite myself, I'm jealous of the attention he's getting, and want some for myself. I slip my shorts down and off. The faint cool breath of an oscillating fan on my skin sensually arousing, the carpet-pile coarse and tickly on my bare feet. We pose together, playful, provocative.

"Good, now let's see some gob-action to take our mind off business. Go to it Brat, it's all yours."

He's kneeling down - what a strong supple tongue he's got, snaking up under my glans, tracing the groove dividing it, like he's trying to force that tongue-tip into its single flared eye. Move an inch, into his mouth. That's it, that's how it's meant to be, pursing his lips into a tight ring around me.

Wait, we relocate. No more coquetry, all pretence of coyness and truculent reluctance dissolved. I lie on my back on the rumpled duvet, my cock achingly stiff, lolling lasciviously over my stomach. Ian throws away his T-shirt to be nude too, his cock thick and uncircumcised, hard and erect now stuck out before him impertinently. Now I can see it's a thin leather belt passed around the base of his penis and scrotum, locked tightly into place with a small padlock, so that it extrudes his genitals even more obscenely. He climbs over me, straddling my bare chest, his engorged cock bouncing and lolling in front of my face, to lie down beside me, head to toe. Now I can see there's a small disc attached to the padlock, inscribed 'property of Roland Blasco...'

I grasp the black-banded cock, drawing the foreskin back to expose its glistening arrowhead as it invades my mouth, as it slides luxuriously deep into me, and self-indulgently begin sucking it. Soon we're sixty-nining on the bed for their entertainment. It's like the Earth has ceases to rotate. Time has stilled, its timelessness seeping into my flesh, crawling beneath my skin like addiction. His mouth is educated, elegant, rolling me around his palette. I reciprocate with undisguised enthusiasm, thirsty for it. Brat rocks his hips in and out, so his thick cock slides into me deeper, until he throbs and ejaculates. A moment later I'm spurting uncontrollably into his mouth too, to the applause of unseen laughter.

"Now you must pleasure your master to seal our special bond."

What have I to lose? I might as well see it through. I stand up slowly, unsteadily. Still semi-erect I squat down in front of where Max is sitting, kick away a drained wine bottle, and unzip him, fingers burrowing in his pants and hooking it out, that familiar solidity all hot and slithery, slipping into my mouth.

"A very generous gesture" purrs Max evenly. "But you must consider the etiquette of common courtesy, Mr Blasco is our host."

Brat is crouching beside me. He reaches out, fingers inserting between my lips and the base of the cock, pulling it free. "Thanks, I'll see to this now while you attend to Roland."

I look around as Max's cock slithers inch-by-inch into Brat's devouring mouth. Blasco sits looking across towards me, his trousers gone. It looks fiercely blood-engorged, wormy with threading veins, ugly like something that belongs on a dog, or a horse. And I crawl towards it on all-fours like a grotesque submissive animal ravenous to feed on it.

After that, things become blurred. We use each other, and are used in varying combinations. It gets a little confusing. I get memory flashbacks of Blasco taking me from behind while Max is pulsing somewhere deep in my throat, then fellating Ian while they both use him in the same way, then me and Ian taking turns to mouth Roland, passing it from one to the other, vying for who can provoke the most exquisite response. Until Brat takes three messy facial ejaculations, licking each throbbing cock clean. Later I find myself sharing a bed with Blasco while Ian lies with Max. I coax him, and he manages one more anal before we sleep.

Morning finds both 'masters' lying on their backs while we crouch between their splayed legs sucking luxuriously, me sucking Blasco, Brat sucking Max, glancing covetously at each other over our respective mouthfuls. It's then that Blasco suggests a swap for the rest of the weekend, that each man should have the other's boyfriend as a personal possession with full sex-rights. I'm not too keen on the idea, but as he's holding my head into his groin at the time, I'm unable to protest, not that our opinions seem of any importance.

Later, in the lounge, as we prepare to return to the gallery, the transaction continues in a vague hypothetical game-playing way without consulting either of us. There are to be no physical limits placed on the servitude expected of the 'slaves', and Blasco insists, half-joking, that as a token to emphasise my new role as his possession I should be shaved. I protest half-heartedly, unsure if it's intended as a joke or not, until Blasco produces a laser-knife. The laughter stops, and I'm suddenly scared.

"Hold him Brat."

Despite my feeble play-struggles I'm seized and held down spread-eagled on the carpet. Brat is unexpectedly strong, pinioning my shoulders. Max holding my legs. Roughly Blasco seizes my T-shirt, slides the knife beneath it, and cuts it clean down the front until he's able to rip its tattered remnants free and throw it away into a corner.

"Hey, my T-shirt, man!"

"Quiet." His knee on my chest, the knife pricks my nipple. It is razor-sharp. It traces its way down to my navel, and on down. Under my belt, to sever it.

"No" I laugh nervously, "enough, right?"

At first I writhe and wriggle against their grip, really meaning it this time, pleading with them, but as the blade gets closer to my groin I freeze. The blade is cold as it slides beneath my shorts, as the fibre parts its way inexorably down. A tug, and it falls away in rags. He scoops it and bundles it away, and I'm nude. Helpless.

Roland Blasco stirs my penis with the knife. "Nice, but the pubic fuzz has got to go."

He seizes a handful and cuts it off with the knife, it tugs unpleasantly and I yell.

"Get the gear Brat," from Blasco, and he reappears from the bathroom with razor and shaving foam. Roland begins squeezing the aerosol all over my genitals, seizing my cock in one hand and the razor in the other. Hands merge and fumble, working together on my now-glistening thighs, massaging the cream in. I cough and splutter miserably.

"Keep still" Max hisses, "or they'll cut the bloody thing off by mistake."

So I steel myself to lie still. While Ian carefully trims my pubic hair, then Blasco begins shaving the stubble that remains. I bite my lip, but I can feel Ian's cool fingers manipulating my cock first left than right, hear the laughter, and feel the sensation of the blade on my groin, testicles and around what Blasco refers to as my man-hole. Someone is shaving between my legs now, I feel the kiss of the blade, to grunts of approval. Someone else is sliding a foam-lubricated finger up my anus making me squirm like a virgin on his first fuck-date. The ordeal extends.

At last, long moments later, my groin is sponged and towelled dry and they leave me alone. Swaying, brain throbbing with sensations, I find myself more nude than I've ever been, my thighs unbelievably bare and bizarre, my genitals seemingly bigger and more naked than I thought possible.

Ian and Max are fumbling on the bed, ignoring me, while Blasco supervises, he stands back observing my new condition critically, moves to unfasten the thin black belt from Ian and manipulates it, passing it around the base of my penis and encircling my scrotum instead. I stand there and let him, what's the point of resisting? as he sets the small combination lock tightly into place with the padlock resting beside my testicles, forcing me out so it seems to induce a near-permanent erection. The small disc attached says 'property of Roland Blasco...' This is how it must have felt for Brat.

"This, your pubic nudity and your clasp are the marks of your sexual servitude" says Max Beardsley softly. "You must obey your new master in every way until the hair has fully grown back. Only then will the clasp be removed, you accept the condition?"

"This is a joke, right" I pout, acting surly.

"This is no joke my spermy little friend. This is serious."

So I nod dumbly. It's a game, isn't it?

"No." Max's words. "You must say 'I accept these conditions'."

I cover my face in my hands in mock shyness. "OK, OK, whatever, I accept the conditions."

Only now am I allowed to pull on a pair of faded Levis (no briefs) and one of Brat's T-shirt's with holes targeting the nipples. He also produces a studded dog-collar, insisting I must wear that too. I feel oddly surreal, my groin crawling with strange sensations, I'm embarrassed and ashamed too, but also undeniably aroused and sluttish. With some misgivings I watch Max leave. He goes out the room without even a backward glance. Ian goes down to the car with him.

But hey, it's just a game. It's La Ronde, an amusing body-roulette, isn't it? Yet I'm thinking, to have sex with a guy you respect, admire, or fancy is one thing. To have sex with a stranger you're unsure about just because the rules say you must is something else. Arguing back, but it's only a sophisticated role-play of sub/dom, all you do is play it out on it's own terms. That's all. Nothing more. How bad can it get? And I'm not here for me. I'm here as a pledge to Max. To do anything other than what he wants will be to betray him, to disappoint him. How can I bring that guilt down on myself?

We spend the day at the gallery. Mostly he ignores me. Until around lunchtime. He indicates the toilets. I precede him into the cubicle, throat dry, unbuckle my pants, shrug them down to my knees. He waits expectantly, so - sensing what he wants of me, I crouch to unzip him. His cock is already stiff, its stale sweaty smell reaching me. There's the taint of disinfectant and the sound of dripping water. I can hear someone moving outside, the tap running, and feeling vulgar I crouch and cram the cock-head in my mouth, snaring the foul salty taste, licking and sucking it hard.

"You can't get enough of that, right?"

I nod, as best as I can. Be what he wants.

"Right, when I thrust up your ass I want to hear you grunt and howl so loud he can hear outside and know exactly what I'm doing to you, right?"

I mumble something around a mouthful of cock, reluctant to release it for fear of something worse. He pulls back and I hang onto it, sucking hard. Make him shoot quickly, get it over with. He grabs my hair brutally and extracts slowly until it slops free and hangs in my face.

"No, I'm going to fuck you, right?"

I stick my tongue out, force against his grip, lick it so it quivers, he twists me away and around, so I comply reluctantly, brace up against cistern, and relax as much as I can to make it easier. In a single thrust he's way into me and I'm grunting and mewling like some deranged animal as the pressure forces me forward and he fucks efficiently and emotionlessly until he comes, my own genitals bouncing and slapping with each anal thrust and the indescribable sensation of penetration as I orgasm too, shooting spasms of long gooey strands over the toilet seat. Hey, I'm human, your body reacts despite yourself, how could it be otherwise?

Later, we cross to the car park and he pulls out into the fast lane. "How many lovers have you had?"

"Lovers - or just partners, encounters...? More than some I guess, less than others."

"Do you imagine yourself to be pathetically and hopelessly in love with Max Beardsley?"

"Not love exactly. I love his creativity, his inventive originality, his art... his cock."

"Is he sexually demanding?"

"He can be."

He guffaws wickedly. "What's he like you to do?"

"Oral. He likes me to give him head."

"And you get off on doing this?"

"Whaddya think? I got natural healthy needs and appetites. Course I do."

"How often? How frequently does he make you do these disgusting things...?"

This interrogation - no, this inquisition, goes on for the full duration of the journey back until he's extracted every intimate detail of our life together. The evening is worse. Like I've died and gone to some special part of hell set aside for inverts. Details blur in nastiness. Only the rectal ache, the sour taste at the back of my throat. It's then I decide to get out. To hell with this. I don't need it. To hell with what Max wants. This is no fun. I've got no money, no cards. The clothes I'm stood up in, and they're not even mine. The next day begins the same. He ignores me in the gallery, but I know if I wait long enough, until he gets bored and he finds the time, it'll begin again.

So what is it you resent more, the way he uses you, or the way he ignores you? After all, isn't that why you ditched poor Edgar, because of his essentially undemanding sexuality? Because he was insufficiently forceful? And that genital-shaving thing, you resented it - sure, you resented it, but you enjoyed being the focus of all that concentrated attention didn't you? You got off on having your groin the centre of scrutiny. Admit it.

For long moments I'm alone at the merchandising counter. Postcard reproductions. Personalised pens. A leaflet from a previous exhibition - Edgar Stromberg, wonder what he's doing now? Art biographies. Max Beardsley this and Max Beardsley that. He won't mind. I fist a handful of banknotes from the till, then step outside for a toke of fresh air. And keep walking. The street stretches away. There are traffic lights, red, amber green, red, amber, green. An ad hoarding for Audi. A newsagents. It's cold, I don't know where the hell I am, but I keep walking anyway and don't stop.

All seasons have become winter. Everything is gone. Even the dream. Day is dead. All that's left is the twilight of this strange flat light. With a silence inside me, deep and unremitting. Confused and dirty I try to find my way back. Time has passed. A dark and confusing time. Byron Hamilton, my former flatmate, endured months of penury and focused squalor. And now, I read in the review-columns of a paper I pick up on the tube, he has his first one-man exhibition to show for it, works produced during the period of my debauchery. One of his pieces on display is called 'Miss Slutty Spunkbucket Regrets.' I laugh, it's a joke, yeah? Him, he's going places. Me, I've lost the plot, with nothing to show but pain and humiliation. Can't even get the cock-ring off, although I scrape it raw.

After what seems like forever, I'm back at Max's. Nowhere else to go. No other direction home. The house is quiet. So quiet it's painful. Now I'm climbing narrow stairs that protest each step. Across a crimson landing washed by a single suspended bulb. And that's where I find him. Laid on his back like some hit-and-run victim, cold, his face twisted into some kind of pale mauve mask. I'm crouched beside his body. Heart-attack, with a narcotic element perhaps? Exertion, stress - with a sexual element, with Ian, maybe? Whatever, Brat's gone and left Max like this. So chill. Like marble. A sculpture. An art-work in his own right.

The shock and horror is over. How did it ever get to this? It wasn't meant to be this way. There was so much more I was going to do, so much more I was going to achieve. Shooting stars they never stop. Even when they reach the top. But for me, it's ended up all so different. Instead it's like I'm just an extra in a real-life porn movie. How did I get to this?

I was supposed to be the artist, wasn't I? But it's not too late. This event can mark a decisive move into a last, terminal art-phase. The final work. The culmination of what we had become together. The collaboration. I drag him into his studio. I've been here before, so many times. Know each Jackson Pollock scrawl and ripple of pigment ground into the floorboards. The mounds and dexion-shelving crammed with cans and brushes and found-art objects. Torn magazines and peacock feathers. Canvases propped up in the corner covered in drapes. A blow-torch for fusing plastics into new shapes. But now it's empty without his animating life-force. Stark. Totally empty.

There's a straight-razor here. I know where it is. I straddle his chest. An erotic straddling, a razor like they used on me, to strip me bare. And delicately the artist begins slicing slivers of flesh from his face and arranging them into a halo on the floor around his head. Slice away pride. Slice away ego. Slice away self-worth. Shedding them one by one, laziness, self-delusion, contrariness, arrogance, vanity, intellectual snobbery, gullibility.

There are two large fluid-filled vitrine tanks. Glass panels inner-lit by the skylight, and into these I peer. They act as multiple mirrors. I stare into them for a long time trying to decipher the expression on our faces as we work together, trying to memorize each detail for use in future works. The reflections seem roughly rounded, as if in anticipation of what they will soon contain, body-parts suspended in a viscous liquid, faintly orange, around a darker nucleus of many, uncountable numerous parts, with a transparent skin on which several thin hair-like things look to be whipping and wiggling. Max Beardsley took my life, moulded, reshaped it into new configurations. Now I'm reflecting that back on him.

I blink. Look away. The artist. The slave. The strange weave of relationships binding us. He speaks in my head. Guides my blade. Telling me, this shall be our secret. The secret we are finally revealing to each other. His deadness is here for me. And only me. Formaldehyde. HCHO. Made by the oxidation of methanol. And his severed body-parts suspended within. Head, shoulders and torso go in first. Then thighs and legs. But transposed, arranged. Then rearranged. Added to. Subtracted from. Intestines spiral in protective coils. Internal organs wink and glisten. Ornamented. One eye watches from deep inside the navel. The other from the anus. The penis replaces the nose. Testicles fill the empty orbits of the eye-sockets. Feet replace hands, and hands feet...Max. This is our final work. I wait for them to arrive and discover it. I guess life goes on. But sometimes... it doesn't.

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY