Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 03

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In which I fall in lust, and face the consequences.
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Part 3: In which I fall in lust, and face the consequences...

At last I'm free of Luis. I no longer need an 'agent'. But I've learned enough from my time as a 'Midnight Cowboy' to go solo. I look at myself naked in the mirror, pose and preen, Wow, I look good, so hot. Look at me, look at me, the delicious curve of my arse, peach-round and just as succulent, the arrogant thrust of my prong, big enough to be tasty and desirable without being so big it's scary, I like looking at my penis anyway -- hell, it's so perfect I'd love to suck it myself if only I could, it's where my personality resides. It's more me than I am. It controls, dominates and drives me. And the juicy sweetmeat fruit attached -- you know those valentine's-day cards with perfectly executed hearts? turn that heart upside-down, that's the exact symmetry of my balls -- are they too distended? do they hang too low where they should be tight and high? does that mean I've been cumming too much, too frequently? more than's good for me?

Hell no, there are guys out there who'd really get off on this, there are wealthy guys who'd blow a thousand-watt fuse seeing this, hell even I'd do me if I could. The only commodity I have that they want is my sex. The only thing I have to trade is myself. So be it. It's not even about being gay. To me, to be homosexual is the capacity to fall in love with your own gender. I've never loved, and been loved by anyone. Maybe that's sad? Maybe it is, but that's the way it is. What we do is just sex, just bodies, just gratification. Orientation doesn't figure in that equation.

So we decide, me and my inner twin, that we prefer older men who look after me, take care of me, make my decisions for me. So increasingly we gravitate towards them, wealthy, more sophisticated men. Men have always taken advantage of my gullibility, of my trusting nature. Back then, I was younger, I thought all I had to do to attract a new patron was give a coquettish fuck-me smile. And it works. It's almost like a job interview, which in a sense, it is. I'm offering my services, they're weighing up whether I'll be worth the running costs. Every boy has his price, I'm just more honest about the transaction than most.

I quickly learn how to get sympathy from men, while arousing them too. Men are stupid. Men are shallow creatures. Vain and self-centred. So long as you flatter, pleasure, or communicate with them through their genitals, you've got their souls. At least for a brief while. For long enough. I develop a number of elaborate hard-luck stories I tell to explain myself. Inventing autobiographies of deprivation, bereavement, cruel step-fathers, orphanages and institutions in which I was subject to bullying ordeals. The sexual betrayal and abusive relationships I've lived through. Of course, certain elements of what I say might be true. Sometimes I vary it to amuse myself, or to conform more to my confidante's expectations. Until the real and unreal becomes confused in my mind and the borders of imagining are no longer clear.

I confide my fantasies with a genuinely convincing sob in my voice because, by now, I almost believe it myself. The emotions are real. My listeners -- my targets are always volubly sympathetic. They're moved by the deep wells of sadness in my eyes. And they are always aroused. At that moment they want nothing more than to be my benefactor, they want to save me and compensate for all the things I've endured. Even if, through my sensual gratitude, they benefit from being the agent of my salvation. The secrets I divulge advertise my skills and dexterity, and explain my need to be used and sexually dominated. When I get to go down on them, which I inevitably do, they know in advance that they're going to get a superbly satisfying blowjob, and that I'll get erotic and psychological satisfaction from giving it. Hence all parties are pleasured.

My stories are a kind of verbal foreplay. I repay my Sugar-Daddies in the only way I'm capable, and I give good value. Since then I've been 'owned' by a series of generous patrons who look after my material needs, merely on the understanding that I serve their sexual requirements. An understanding I consider myself fortunate enough to enjoy. I give good value, and they show their appreciation. Why work when you can play? Why seek gainful employment when everything about your nature is repelled by the very idea? Why worry about messing up the job-orders and getting bawled out by the line-manager in a disciplinary session? Why go through the meaningless pretence of enduring interviews for minimum-wage positions, faking an enthusiasm for the benefit of some dull grey little non-entity, as though your greatest life-ambition is to flip his burgers or stack his supermarket shelves, when there's so many better, more pleasurable ways to live your life?

Don't get me wrong, make no mistake about it, I like to fuck if the circumstances are right, it's just that I prefer to be fucked. Perhaps that's a kind of laziness? Not having to take the initiative. Not having to endure the humiliation of rejection or rebuff. This way, I don't have to make the approaches, because it's me that's propositioned. I don't have to seduce, I am seduced. I don't pursue, I am pursued. I don't persist, I yield. I don't buy, I am purchased. I'm not competing, I am the prize. I can do consensual. Sure, when it's something -- or somebody, I really want, I can manipulate. But I can never be the predator in a relationship, I merely make it known that I'm available. That's enough.

And as a result, I've travelled the world, stayed in villas and hotels, sucked the cocks of aristocrats, politicians, business tycoons and a TV-personality whose fans would never believe he enjoys the intimate attentions of joy-boys -- but he does, he comes back for seconds, and thirds in the space of the same evening. He's a degenerate's degenerate. A Satyr in near-orange fake-tan. And I take every inch of him. Viewers of his TV game-show would never believe the games he puts me through. I've done it on yachts, in expensive cars, in private planes and Jacuzzis.

Was I a victim? Some might say I was. I never saw it that way. There was never a situation, not even of the most extreme nature, that I'd not actively contrived myself into, or was at least complicit in. In my saner, more rational moments, I accept there's no-one else to blame, no-one responsible for the events of my life but myself. I never saw myself as a victim. The opposite in fact, I felt I was special. I was exploiting their need. For something as simple as an occasional blow-job, sometimes as infrequently as twice a day, by which time I'm impatient for some action anyway, it's no big deal -- hell, I'd be doing that regardless, somewhere else with someone different. And yet for so little, I was getting all this life-style.

I've loved every minute of it. When sex is a direct commercial transaction there's none of that seduction awkwardness. None of that second-guessing his intentions, 'am I taking it too fast or too slow? What will he think of me afterwards? Will he still respect me... blah blah blah'. It's just, he tells me what to do, and I do it. Simple! Of course, some of my gentlemen have been more demanding than others, but they've been more exciting. For as long as I was their flavour of the month, I consider it all part of my duties. Things that, even months before, I'd have found bizarrely intimidating, now seem like voyages into exotic extremes. Part of my sentimental education.

I was doing all the fetish dressing up bit, and the bondage too -- 'bound to please', when that's what those of a more disciplinarian persuasion require. Not to sound pretentious, it's almost what the Buddhists mean by ego-loss, or the old acid-head thing, to place yourself beyond yourself, to transcend your own needs, to put yourself totally at the disposal of another human being. Like a dancer, your body is your instrument, and you force it to whatever extremes are necessary.

For example, I was going through that phase when I was dating Raoul, a dominant chunky bear of a man. I spend time around his place. He is clothed. At his command, I'm soon stark naked. I like pubic hair, but at the time am totally shaved. Some clients like it that way, and I was becoming more attuned to their taste (in all senses of the term!). I wear a studded dog-collar, and tight amulets around my wrists, with links so my wrists can be affixed to my neck-collar. I'd also taken to wearing a tight cock-ring that restricts bloodflow and hence ensures a more enduring erection. It has a catch for fastening a leash to, also for the client's convenient use, to lead me by. And yes, it's fair to admit my hard-on was straining at the leash! All dirty-minded teenage boys are hormonally led by their cock anyway. I'd turned that tendency into a life-style, with the lead as a kind of metaphor.

I grovel to him, 'Please sir, I'm bad. I need the badness fucking out of me.'

So he leads me into his special room by the lead, and I follow, pulled along by my erection. Sure, I'm a little butterfly-in-the-gut wary as he proceeded to strap me into a bizarre device located in this 'play-room', in a position making my goose-pimple naked body-parts vulnerably-available to his whim. A tight knot in my stomach, a foreboding of dark and strange thoughts, but what he's doing hits something deep inside me I didn't know was there. Something that lives in the dark of my mind.

This is all about his dominance over me. And more importantly, I need for him to get maximum pleasure from this. The aroused state of my cock tells him so, its colour deep-blushing into a rich crimson. It's not a new device. There are stains on it, human stains. He's had some other boy strapped into this before me. I'll be better. Like the anonymous earlier boy, I'm secured into a sloping frame, head conveniently fixed at low overhung groin-height for ease of unrestricted oral penetration, legs securely splayed to their maximum spread-limit, hips uptilted and raised presenting cock, balls, and puckered purged well-lubed arse inescapably wide open for his total use.

Blindfolded too. An object for his absolute use, an arrangement of meat and orifices, relieved of all responsibility for what's about to happen to me. Able to suck whatever is placed in my mouth, or use my anal muscles to squeeze whatever penetrates my bum, but nothing more. The feeling of being corrupted and led astray is a huge turn on. Any reservations I may have had evaporate quickly. It feels so good to be a slut.

The experience goes on for some time. Hours, probably, it's difficult to tell. He doesn't speak throughout, and I'm instructed to remain silent. I hear the rustling of clothes as he undresses. Then he slaps his cock sharply unexpectedly across my face, rubs its smeary-moist tip over my cheeks and nose, then fucks it crudely into my mouth deeply but briefly -- he's big, not the biggest I've ever had, but by now I've learned some tricks, I can take it like the whore I am. I feel a small amount of discomfort and panic. But it feels good. He's obliging me that way. I suck it hungrily and messily. Then he withdraws, pivots me around, and takes long slow thrusts into my arse, sliding in deeply all the way, after which he leaves me alone for a short spell. A brinkmanship presumably intended to spin out the experience for as long as he can. Holding back his own orgasm.

Then he repeats it, over and over. At one point he's totally impaled in me anally, and stays there perfectly still as he concentrates on bringing me off with his hands, none too gently. The double-sensation of full penetration, combined with the general weirdness, and him roughly groping my balls and squeeze-jerking my cock rapidly acts on me to produce an intense juddering climax, until I go off like a gusher. As my hips are positioned higher than my head, he directs the long squirts down over my stomach and chest until they subside. But the convulsions surging through me must be transmitting to his embedded cock, clenching and clutching at it, because I can feel its pulsing response deep inside my gut.

He withdraws it hastily, before the intimate attention sets off his own premature orgasm. Following ejaculation my scrotum is distended. His hand clamps around it, forcing the testicle-eggs to the bottom of their flesh-envelope, making them stand out round and red. He then proceeds to pull downwards to the extreme limit of its elasticity. The sensation is excruciating. Unable to move, I can do nothing other than endure his cruel attentions, gasping over the sound of my wild heartbeat.

Beads of sweat stand out on my forehead. He then forces my straining balls back between my splayed legs, as far as the crease of my arse. He can go no further, but rolls them back and forth across the perspiring skin. It's only when he tires of the game that he releases it, and my aching scrotum retracts back to hang properly. My relief is short-lived as he switches his lascivious attentions to the shaft of my weeping penis.

I can't be sure, but again I think I'm hearing whispered voices and suddenly I'm being fucked by what seems to be a different cock. I can't be sure, there might even have been a third. It's difficult to tell, these were both more frenzied fucks, and they unload deep inside me. While when Raoul comes, twice, he does it over my face and into my open mouth, dripping and dribbling over me like a leaky tap for long moments after the initial copious cascade has finished. I'm left spattered in cooling sperm I can't wipe -- my own as well as his, and lubricant, but the breathy constrained helplessness has got me all fired up. When he finally unstraps me I almost fall to the floor, jelly-legged but glowing.

Whatever, to me, these are just sex-games to unleash the libido, and make you incredibly horny. I appreciate that the visual aspect of sex is important, as every porn-addict knows. A guy can take you from the rear, and that can be great, but that means you never get to see it, or even properly picture it -- like the maybe two other guys with Raoul. I couldn't see, can't envisage, can't even be sure of them. I like to see what he's going to fuck me with. I guess 'A cock in the mouth is worth two in the ass.' Do oral, and you've time to see every detail. I'm not always proud of the things I've done. I've taken it too far. I've been taken too far. But in society at large a significant number of women put up with abusive relationships with men rather than to survive alone, or endure exploitative sex purely for monetary gain. Saying that is not to legitimise it, far from it, it's just to place it within some kind of context. The deal-breaker is the issue of consent. And I do consent. Frequently.

For example, I was living in a large house set in its own grounds out beyond the Periferique, with Georgio, a liberal lawyer who was faultlessly generous but neither sexually demanding or very well hung. He was frustratingly reserved, even when we were first making out he complains I'm making disgusting noises as I suck him, and can't I do it a little quieter? I do try, but these things are natural, you know?

On another occasion I wake with a morning glory, a burning erection lost in that lazy bleary sexual fug of half-dreaming, he is sleeping on his back beside me, I pull the duvet back so I can see it lying limp across his gut, and I'm hungry for it, so almost without conscious thought I curl around, slither down, lick it and watch it stir in response, lick it again, all the way up and nuzzle its crown, flick it with my tongue, smiling as it squirms in reaction, tracing the contours of its rim with my tongue-tip, then slowly begin sucking at the bulb, as it stiffens to his full, if not vastly impressive size in my mouth, luxuriating in my sense of control, taking a little more of it with each downstroke suck. Enjoying the skill and artistry of my technique, I know how to do this, I'm a master of my craft. Feeling warm and indulged, rolling my own hips languorously so my genitals flip and slap up against my gut, sending smooth sensual radiations up from my groin, deliciously all the way up my body.

He's sleeping. Breathing heavy and more raggedly laboured now. Uttering occasional disturbed mumbled grunts. His stomach undulating. Applying slight pressure to his cock with my teeth, feeling the tightness indent, and watching the teeth-marks heal back, a slow ooze of whiteness bubbling from its piss-slit, I lap it clean, tasting its blurry richness as it merges into my saliva and dissolves away. Dietary protein for me. Then I suck it again, deeper and more intensely. He wakes in response. Most men would be only too delighted to be woken in such a fashion. Not he.

'What's going on?' he blusters, adding that he's going out and wants to conserve his strength. Begrudgingly he allows it to continue. Then halfway through he orders me to stop, by now I'm so into it, it's impossible to stop. Hell, I have needs he's neglecting. I'm entitled to a sex-life. It's a basic human right, enshrined in a United Nations charter, probably. I need release. I need an outlet for my teenage lust. I have a right to sex, and well, sometimes the slut in me just takes over.

Although he tries to squirm out from beneath me, I refuse to let him, feeling mischievously horny I keep sucking, my lips vice-tight around him, it develops into an absurdist tug-of-love for possession of his cock, with his whole body rigid as though he's fighting the sensations I'm inducing in him, trying to resist the climax, until he loses control, and with no warning abruptly and messily fills my mouth with come, a lot of it for him, all the while moaning a despairing 'no-o-o-o.'

'You greedy little slut, I suppose you think that's clever?' he spits bitterly as I finally release it in a tiny explosion of exhaled breath, licking my lips, not spitting but swallowing. Actually no, it's just whetted my appetite for more. I smile sheepishly.

But he's genuinely annoyed, I have to apologise for my inconsiderate greed, in pleasuring him with a blow-job! Even so he sulks for a couple of days afterwards. So it comes as no surprise when I allow myself to be seduced by Bruno, his colleague. I'm well-intentioned, I want to be faithful to one man. I honestly do. But I'm weak. I'm easily led. A little flattery. A charismatic guy. And I forget monogamy.

When Georgio was away, as he frequently is on high-powered lawyerly-business, it was a big house to be alone in. How long can you watch day-time TV game-shows and chat-shows, or Sci-Fi DVD's? How long can you jack-off four-or-five times straight surfing internet porn-sites? Oddly, at one point I happen across a site called 'La Homme Libre', and click on it out of curiosity. And yes, there's grainy images of boys with short white towels around their waists entering massage cubicles where leering guys lasciviously await their attentions. Hell, I even recognise one or two of the masseurs. I'd always suspected there were hidden cameras.

Even more bizarrely, browsing along a scroll of clips, there I am! I click. It loads. I am entering the cubicle. A burly guy watches me. Next thing he's lying on his back, we're both naked, I'm crouched over giving him head. A big cock too, my lips slithering up and down its length with such obvious pleasure I feel embarrassed, but also aroused watching it. I can see my own cock nodding, bob-bob-bob as my head goes up and down. Is that really what I look like with a cock in my mouth? Is it so obvious I enjoy doing it? He ejaculates into my mouth, some of it trickles down my chin, I look like the cat whose got the cream. What's worse is I don't even remember the guy.

The next day I try to find the site again, but after a fruitless search I give up. There are porn clips of me out there on the internet, and I can't even find them. I get bored. I need attention. I need to be kept well-fucked. Or my attention strays. Georgio has a bustling well-upholstered middle-aged house-keeper, Madame Bovery. She's obviously used to finding naked young males in his bed, but equally doesn't approve of my being there. She fussily tut-tuts pointedly in my presence at the large stains of boy-juice body-fluid on the sheet. I try to be polite and respectful, but her formal coldness tells me all I need to know about her disapproval, and after a while I do my best to avoid her and keep out of her way.