Cock-Sucker: The Dark Hunter Pt. 02

At other times I'm handcuffed, or in a latex pouch. Or Frey will attach a tether to my penis and scrotum and lead me by it into the adjoining room where a stranger awaits, he hands the leash over, granting him permission to do what he wants to me, and he leaves us. Always different. And I do what I must do.

Once we pass through the red door, once we enter the precious twilight of the 'room' all behavioural norms are suspended, and I become totally subservient.

I divest myself of my everyday personality along with my clothes. Once I cross that threshold I become property, once in that room I've stepped into another dimension of time and space where different rules apply, and I have no will of my own. I become a thing, absolutely servile to the wishes of whoever I find in there. There is leather. There is a musky aroma, the unmistakeable smell of old stale come. There is sparseness. Is the room getting smaller, or is it just me?

I brace myself, trying not to breath. The walls close in on me, intent on teaching me, ready to squeeze all the sin out of me. There are manacles and some scary-looking sex-aids hung on the wall, including strap-ons, powerful vibrators, and things I can't identify. One wall is mirror-panelled -- possibly with two-way glass, so that the 'victim', and maybe others, can watch you being debauched. There's an adjustable frame with worn leather straps for securing spread wrists and ankles, and a swivel-pivot so different orifices and organs can be brought into play. Low-set stocks that affix the head down at waist-level. There's also tri-pod video equipment, pvc sheeting, a black vinyl couch, and a suspiciously stained mattress.

Sometimes the guy I must serve is Frey, and the familiarity of doing it to him is always gratifying. I've grown to know his forceful cock and enjoy his demanding responses. With my mouth oozing his jism I look up at him and do the Oliver Twist thing, "please sir, may I have some more?"

Once the guy I was ushered in to serve was naked, but hooded with only eye-slits to observe me, as I grovel to blow him, I wonder at the anonymity he's protecting, is he someone I'd recognise -- a politician or TV celebrity? A big slimy hooded cock, and I was tersely instructed not to allow it to slip out of my mouth without permission, and that permission is a long time coming, who was it filling my mouth?

As it ends I prostrate myself and fawn "Will there be anything else, sir?" and if not, "Thank you for using me."

Thank you for the fresh semen I now carry within my body!

On one extreme occasion it was me who was blindfolded and led in to serve two men. I feel their presence. Hear the slap of their bare feet on the floor as they pose me ready. On my knees, and they take turns to use me, and I suck them both. First one of them holds my head while the other fucks deep into my windpipe mercilessly, then they switch places, talking to each other over my head, saying foul disgusting and demeaning things.

"Watch that cock-sucker go, all the way in, half the way out, all the way in, to the balls, c'mon it's your turn, let me see you choke him..."

They laugh coarsely as I meekly crouch. I've never felt so helpless, scared, intoxicated, or so dominated. For a moment, and a moment only they pause, yet I can feel their heavy heat quivering a breath from my mouth, the weighty firmness of one cock resting casually on my nose, leaking a trickle of sticky pre-come, the other tracing impatient saliva-wet nudges along my cheek.

"You ready for more, wretch?"

I manage to gasp "Yes, yes please."

They laugh and begin again, their sweating hairy masculinity pounding into me. I've never felt so punished for the vileness of my needs, yet the more it goes on the more crazy with uncontrollable lust I become. I've already come once, and I'm about to come again. When the first one ejaculates in my mouth it seems to set the second one off, and I get flooded with it, swallowing, gasping, slurping, moaning. They feed their messy cocks back into my mouth so I can suck and lick them clean. I'm helplessly drunk on excess. Afterwards I'm trembling and sobbing for a half-hour as the sensations work their way out. Frey allows me time to recover. Yet I emerge with my demons temporarily purged. The experience keeps me on an erotic high for days after, as I replay each disgusting detail of it in my head over and over again...

My wife is out there somewhere, being shagged by a man, and -- what-do-you-know? here I am doing pretty much the same! Although I'm a better cock-sucker than she's ever been, and what does that say about me? Unless she's a lot more enthusiastic about going down on her new guy.

The great lie of life is that people pretend to know each other. The truth is that no-one really does. The truth is we barely know ourselves. We are just frightened animals lost in our own immensity. It's easier to be frightened of our feelings, easier to deny them, than face up, and admit to the power of the forces that prompt them. There's so much pain in the world. So much unfulfilled longing, caged in and repressed by fear. A constant craving for forbidden sensuality. A raging calm of yearnings that will never be satisfied because of the shame of being caught out. For weaknesses exposed to the harsh condemning gaze of others. Stay buttoned-up. Don't show weakness. Don't admit those secret feelings, even to yourself. Deny the ache.

After each encounter, for days I'm overcome with hideous tides of guilt, consumed by self-recrimination. I feel dirty and ashamed of my need. Guilt at the vileness I've brought upon myself. I swear 'never again' with a new sense of resolve, pledge that this was the absolute final last time with self-righteous determination.

Until that resolve erodes, subverted by the daydream images and night-time fantasies that sneak unbidden and uninvited into my mind when I least expect. Like a junkie or an alcoholic, drawn back inexorably by the lure of that immaculate fix, that sublime high. Drawn to the dark-side, the lust, desire, obsession growing in me, like checking the back of my hand for the first signs of werewolf hair-growth. Putting off that moment. Fighting the baseness that haunts and provokes me.

But even as I'm swearing "Never again" my loins are stirring at the memory, and the anticipation, I'm helpless to stop the lazy erection happening as I replay each detail of the most recent incident, the nakedness, the arousal, the raw feel of bodies, the taste and texture of spunk as it uncontrollably jets onto my tongue as I gag it back. And I know that sooner or later -- usually sooner, I'll try to steady the pounding of my heart even though my body's out of control, I'll reach for the phone to arrange a session, and it will all begin all over again.

The house has many other rooms, other chambers, other universes, in which deviant things also happen. I know that now. I've never seen the other visitors, but I know they're there. Of course, cars don't bring them here directly, but I've noticed BMW's, Mercedes and Rolls slow-cruising the streets nearby, drop-off points, pick-up points, multi-story blocks occupied for an hour, two hours, perhaps a little more. For as long as they can afford to absent themselves from the office, from life-commitments. I've heard the creaking of floorboards beyond closed doors. I've heard muted sounds seeping through the walls, imprecise, but suggestive of all manner of strangenesses. We all play games of implied threat.

I don't know, but I can guess. Frey is an improviser, a fixer. He has a contact-book, a data-file. Dominants pay him to dominate. Submissives -- like me, pay him to be dominated. All he has to do is match up need-to-need. There's no way he can lose. I suspect he also has voyeurs with hidden prying eyes who pay to watch from concealed view-points, and that there is film and digitals for later profitable access. So the arrangement is structured around shared liabilities, risks, and self-interested trust locked into our mutual shame. Should there be one betrayal, all our lives collapse.

Such interdependence intensifies and adrenalises each encounter. He has photos of me with anonymous naked men, polaroids of me crouching before nude men in compromising positions, he's shown them to me, I know he has them -- he says he has, or will, video me. That if ever I try to break free of him he'll use them to destroy me. It's part of the game. I think. Guilty consciences blackmail easily. So far I've never been able to resist the lure of depravity for long enough for it to be necessary. But he says he will up the stakes... I confess, I'm a respectable married man with a dark secret. And I know that even as I write these words, before today is out, I'm going to reach for my mobile, my palms moist with nervous sweat, my throat dry so that my voice is husky with tension, and I'll place that call. There's nothing I can do to stop myself...

I'm going to stop sucking stranger's cocks. Next week. Or probably the week after. Maybe. But not today.