Cock-Sucker: The Day of The Gay

We remount the Lambretta and continue the last stretch of road towards the cluster of new-build redbrick offices. Most of them deserted. 'BioTech' is down at the farthest reach of the accessway. We approach slow and careful. Observe from a distance. There's a tall security perimeter-fence with vivid red hazard keep-out signs. At the main gate there's an overturned SUV, and two security guards. They are obviously sex-zombies too. Their pants are missing. Tall meaty erections poking out beneath their uniform jackets as they slouch, in some kind of trance-state.

'We want to get inside, we have to get past those guards' reasons Mark. 'They have swipe-cards on their lapels. You know what we have to do now?'

'I'm scared to ask. But I fear I know already.' Leaving the scooter, we undress. Naked we pace towards the BioTech gates. I'm conscious of my penis swaying as I walk, my testicles brushing against my inner leg. And the eyes of the two security guards shift with ravenous cunning in our direction, their eyes scanning our nudity hungrily. An obscene leer disfigures their brutish faces. They lurch to their feet, and shamble forward. I glance across at Mark. Meet his eyes, deep and soulful. I swallow down the jitters storming in my gut, and return his grim smile. When we are level with the overturned SUV, we turn in unison, lean forward across the warm bodywork, spread our legs. And wait.

I hear them approach. The dread scuffing shuffle of their feet on the tarmac. Their breathing, which is both sluggish, and excited at the same time. An impossible combination. An impossible situation. Then there are rough hands clasping my raised arse, a repellent touch that revolts me. A violent finger slides up my bum-hole. I gasp out loud, gulping air. And brace myself. Keep loose, relax the anal sphincter, release all resistance. Stay as limp as possible. The finger is replaced by the swollen head of a throbbing cock, stretching me to the limit, until the glans is fully inserted. Then he rams home crudely with a suddenness that smashes me forward, crushing me up against the car. I thought I was ready. I wasn't ready. My stomach-muscles tighten convulsively as I inhale, gulping air. The first rabid thrust is followed by another, then again and again.

From the corner of my eye I see Mark being subjected to the same vile treatment. They're grunting like animals as they fuck us. Their foul stench of sexual arousal fills my nostrils. It's raw merciless rutting. He's covering me. Hard up against me. Hard inside me, pounding, thrashing. I strive to keep control. To reach up, and back. My fingers find the swipe-card, and rip it away. I've got it, folded away in my fist. But I'm pinned down, unable to escape until it's done. There's a moment when they withdraw, fat blood-bloated cock-heads dribbling pre-emission from messy foreskins, and switch over, when we might have broken loose... but my legs are shaking, so numb they won't react, then it's too late. The second guard is thrusting into me, almost lifting me off the ground as it embeds, then his fucking intensifying into a frenzied blur. My balls dancing in response to each crazed thrust, my own cock pressed up against the car body. I hear his breath grating in sharp panting gasps, my own lungs exploding. Then there's a seismic shudder deep in my anus. He whimpers like a wounded animal, and I feel his spunk bursting inside me. Stupidly it tips me over the edge too. I fight it. I fight it. But it's impossible. I ejaculate again and again so my spunk blobs and smears over the paintwork.

All four of us stay body-locked. Breathing more evenly. When he draws back, as it slithers out, it's like he's drawing my hips back with it. I groan as it sways free, sloppy-wet. I stay crouched over the car, my head cradled in my arms as the aftershocks recede. It's only when Mark puts his hand gently on my shoulder that I raise my head. He's looking into my face, concern in his eyes.

I force a smile, and open my fist. 'See, I got it.'

The two security guards have shuffled off, temporarily sated. Hunting fresh prey. Mark smiles back and opens his hand to show me that he, too, has the card.

Unsteady on my feet I stand up, a little sore and messy with ejaculate.

'You came when that freak was fucking you,' Mark comments sulkily. 'That means part of you was getting off on it. That's totally gross.'

'It just happens. You can't control it. It doesn't mean anything.' Why am I being defensive about it?

We limp towards the gate. I run my swipe-card over the pad. Mark does the same. For a moment there's no reaction, and I fear it's all been for nothing. Then the gate judders open with agonising slowness. We sneak through and across the concrete reception space beyond. The gates close behind us. The dull-witted guards stranded safely outside. They've circled around and are now battering fists against the steel mesh in futile attempts to break through to us. Their cocks bouncing up and down as they do so. Drooling and messy with slime. I shudder at the sight of what it is that had penetrated me.

The cards work again. The glass doors breeze open, and we pad inside.

'Stop, or I swear I'll blast you to hell.' A startling voice that stops us in our tracks. We wait. A young guy steps out from behind the reception desk. He's wearing thick geek-spectacles and a white lab-coat. And he's training a shotgun at us.

'It's OK, we're alright' says Mark firmly. Sure, we're naked, and obviously well-used. We must look like sex-zombies.

'You're not... you're not, affected?' His gun-hand is shaking uncertainly. His voice almost breaking, on the brink of panic.

'I'm Mark. This is Shawn. We're from Little Humping. We're unaffected. We're here to find out what the hell's going on. Do you know? Do you have any idea what's causing this?'

He wavers. Still not convinced. Then he bites his lip. 'Are you really for real?' His shotgun angling down.

'Sure, we're for real. Cool it. Talk to us.'

His face breaks into a relieved grin. He indicates us inside. We follow. Into a conference room with tall potted plants and plush swivel chairs. He fetches us beakers of iced water from a dispenser, and we sit together in a close circle.

'This is where it began' he admits softly. 'My name is Styng. I work here. We're doing GM-research. Recombining genetic materials, you must have read about the process in the press, seen it on the TV-exposés?'

Mark nods. 'I figured something like that. I read about GM-pollution in some lake where the fish changed sex. Is that what's happening here?'

Styng laughs in an easy and attractive way. He removes his glasses and runs his fingers through a cascade of dark tangled hair. 'No-one's changing sex. Don't worry on that score. But yes, there was a vapour-leak. It mushroomed out into the air over the near vicinity, including the village. But it's highly-localised, and there's a storm coming. The rain will dilute it, purge it away, sluice it into nothingness, leaving no trace. Everything will return to normal. No need to worry. All of the victims will wake up with a kind of hangover and a guilty conscious about the flashback memories they dream. But nothing more.'

'That's what I heard, wasn't it?' I add. 'It started with the sound I heard, one long shrill blast of sound. The escaping leak. So what about us? Why weren't we affected?'

'I'm guessing. You're homosexual already?'

Mark smiles at his use of the old-fashioned word. 'Guilty as charged. We're as homo as they come. So what's your story?'

'I was here when the others first succumbed. When my colleagues began ripping their clothes off and doing... doing those thing to each others bodies. I got scared and hid in the sample-store until they were done and had moved on out to seek fresh bodies. There's only me here now in this secure compound, and those two guards who are too stupid even to leave their posts.' He stands up. Opens the white lab-coat. Naked beneath. His cock beautifully smooth, darkly-pigmented and standing at an impressively erect forty-five degrees. A dense riot of pubic hair extending, at its highest point, from his navel to where it nestles around his shyly secretive balls at its lowest point. 'I was never quite sure of my orientation. I guess this kind-of decides it, removes any lingering doubts. So my story is this, we sit it out. Enjoy its aphrodisiac qualities while we can. While we wait for the rain.'

Mark reaches out. Takes the tulip-shaped head of Styng's cock gently between thumb and forefinger. Bends down and kisses it... If, as he claimed, he was sexually inexperienced when we met, we made sure that situation was well-rectified by the time the rain came, by then he'd learned to appreciate the full range of sensual pleasures the male body could enjoy. To suck, and be sucked, to fuck, and be fucked, in a delightful variety of three-way interconnections. He proves as eager to please as he is to be pleasured, in a fumbling amateur manner that is curiously engaging. And with Styng enthusiastically sucking his cock Mark seems to forget whatever jealous feelings he'd harboured earlier.

It's six months since the incidents at Little Humping. You won't hear about it in any official report. The security clampdown makes that certain. The only way I can divulge this truth is in this fictional form. Once it was over, once the rain washed all the guilt and memories down the drain and away, things returned to a shame-faced approximation of normal. It does seem to have resolved the long-standing animosity between Old Man Grosden and Mr Simpson. They whisper secretively across the dividing fence, and occasionally disappear into the garden shed together for up to half-an-hour. I don't know for sure what they get up to in there, but I have my suspicions. And I quite like it. The grateful Bank Manager unexpectedly extended additional loans to the corner supermarket for expansion. The swarthy young guy on the checkout smiles shyly, reminding me a groin-stirring way how good he looked unclothed. BioTech shares have crashed, and the company's future seems uncertain.

I finally told Mark I was leaving. Heading for London. It wasn't easy. There were tears. But by then he'd become more involved with Styng. And when I skyped him some time later he told me Styng had moved in with him, and they were lovers. Closer than he'd ever been with me. With me the sex was good, but with Styng there's the emotional commitment too that I was never capable, or never willing to give.

I say I'm pleased for them. Wish them well. But afterwards, as the memories return, the pain is an acid that burns. I've thrown away a good thing. Something within me will regret that loss for the rest of my life...