Cock-Sucker: Time-Share Boy

Babe

I was bitter, I was angry. But I suppose I should be grateful. When I first met Drang I was a confused screwed-up twenty-year-old. You know how it is at that age, socially dysfunctional, messed in the head, moody and petulantly self-centred. But after a year with Drang I knew exactly what it’s all about. Infatuated, I even dropped out of college because he was all I could think about. The dirty-sweet things we did together. He taught me that if I lack confidence that’s because I have submissive tendencies, a deep-seated need to be controlled. He taught me that.

So when he dumps me for a good-looking younger guy, I confess I was pretty torn-up. I was hurt. There was no more room in me for envy, anger, fear and self-loathing, no room for bile, spleen or downright abhorrence for the entire male sex, its devious unreliable nature. It was a forced withdrawal from a powerful addiction, leaving a cellular ache of separation. Yes, I was wounded and vulnerable. Which is why I acted on that small-ad. Chances are, otherwise I’d never have even noticed it. Or been amused by it, and moved on to the next. ‘Interesting proposition for obedient boy.’ With a number. I was intrigued. I’ve got nowhere else to go, no future. Nothing better to do. And I was seeking some kind of gesture of revenge.

After we make contact we meet at a coffee house in the village. Muted cool jazz plays in the background. He wears a red AIDS charity-ribbon which I think is pretty neat. Appraising him kind-of sideways, without making it too obvious, he’s got to be some fifteen years older than me, and smartly-dressed in that kind of uptown professional way. As though he works the stock market, or a solicitors, or maybe an advertising agency. I feel down-at-heel by comparison, a scruffy boho. But he’s courteous and considerate. Chooses an alcove and gets me a cappuccino. It’s oddly formal, like a job interview. I should be nervous and uneasy, but he puts me at my ease.

“Firstly, you understand that the agreement we are about to propose is of a sexual nature?” he enquires tactfully. “You’re happy with that?”

“Yes sir, that’s how I read the ad. I’m prepared to consider whatever is involved.” I smile at him in what I hope is an appealing way.

“Good. I’ll explain. There are three of us. After a great deal of thought and preparation, we’ve formed a unit for legal purposes, a syndicate if you like.”

He allows himself one moment of playful humour by adding “or Sin-dicate if you prefer, with contractual obligations and guarantees. We’re all married, but you know the score. We love and desire the female sex, but they’re unpredictable, capricious creatures. They get moods that you must respect. And there are occasions when we have urgent needs that don’t necessarily involve all that romance, hearts and flowers stuff. Individually we couldn’t afford the solution we’ve devised. Together, we can. Hopefully, with your participation, we’ll all benefit. You’re happy with this so far?”

I sit forward attentively. “Sure, tell me more. I’m intrigued.” And strangely, it’s the truth.

“We have an apartment leased in our names. Not a top-class apartment, you know what property prices are like. But it’s a good apartment, well situated with all regular facilities. Should things work out to our mutual satisfaction you’ll take up residence there. The apartment is yours in every sense of the word, for whatever period of time we all agree to. Although this can be terminated should any party default. Your time is your own. You’re free to do whatever you choose. Your only obligation is that you make yourself available to us at any time of our choosing for sexual purposes. Don’t say anything yet. We can go around and view the apartment if you have no objections.”

I swallow the last foamy mouthful of cappuccino, and shrug. “Lead on.”

It is autumn. There’s a chill in the air as we hit the street. He turns his collar up against the cold as we cross the neighbourhood. There are gentrified old brownstones overlooking the east river. A thin mist rolling in from its mud-dark water. We climb the stairs. There are elevators, but it’s only the third floor so we walk. The loft-apartment is empty, although there’s bed, wardrobe and furniture covered by drapes. It’s better than anywhere I’ve stayed before. Certainly better than the dump I’m crashing over at now. I act deliberately casual. As though it’s no big deal.

He pulls the sheet back off a chair, and sits down facing me. Opens up his laptop and silently keys in the wifi connection. When he’s done he speaks softly.

“For our purposes, I am Mr Hickory. My partners in this venture are Mr Dickory and Mr Dock. That’s how you will know us. You approve of the apartment?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“You understand the full meaning of what we’re offering, and wish to proceed?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Well maybe it’s appropriate we should see you naked before making an offer.”

“Yes, of course.” I look around me. He means here, now? Suddenly it’s no longer a hypothetical game. I’m alone with a guy whose real gaziantep escort name I’m never likely to know, a stranger I met less than an hour ago, and he wants me naked. That makes it even crazier. Weirdly exciting in an oddly disturbing way. He watches me as I shrug my worn leather jacket off, his half-smile as brittle as broken glass. He watches me haul my T-shirt up and off. I’m all thumbs now. On the point of quitting. Walking out before the situation gets past the point of control. But he’s got expectations, I’m incapable of backing down.

Determinedly I unclasp my belt, shoot the zip. I’d taken the precaution of wearing no undershorts, so when my jeans fall to my knees my cock tumbles free, half-aroused by the air of weird eroticism, swaying in a down-angled curve. I’m grateful for that. Makes it seem bigger. Not that I lack inches, but guys are sensitive about these things. There’s a small tattoo in my groin. My balls hung in a tight nest of dark pubic hair.

Drang had always said he liked my cock — Drang, the guy who deflowered me, as he tweaked and teased it as I squirmed. But no, that’s not strictly true, I’d not been entirely a virgin before I met him, there had been fumbling sweaty-fingered flirtations before him. And messy oral stuff with guys my own age. Nothing serious. And Drang hadn’t so much taken my anal cherry, as I’d eagerly gifted it to him. But he’d zeroed in on my potential, and guided me to a realisation of my true inclination. I don’t want guys my own age. I don’t want mutual. I need to be down there on my knees with a dominant cock in my mouth. I need to the told what to do. And now he’s out there somewhere tweaking the perky new pretty-cock of my replacement. Feeding his delicious cock into some new bottom. Well, two can play the betrayal game.

I stand with my arms at my sides, legs slightly apart, concealing nothing, as I’ve been trained to. Mr Hickory is looking directly at my groin, with every appearance of approval. As though I’m a showroom dummy. A thing of surfaces. A nude study in some SoHo gallery. He adjusts his laptop, so that presumably his linked-in online colleagues can also see me.

His tone alters, presumably for their benefit. “You suck cock?”

“Yes sir, I suck cock.”

“You take it up the ass?”

“Yes sir, I take it up the ass.”

A pause. “My colleague suggests we need not just an oral confirmation of your skills, but actual confirmation of your oral skills. Would that be possible?”

“Of course. I’d expect nothing less.”

I’d come here anticipating sex. Isn’t that the whole point of doing this? My pants are crumpled up around my ankles. I step out of them, ensuring that the movement makes my cock swing in an entirely visible way. I take two paces towards him. He’s positioning the laptop on the chair arm, lining up its viewpoint, while also unfastening his pants. I wait patiently. He has striped blue boxers which seem a little retro. I’m disappointed to note he’s still limp when his cock flops into view. I squat down. It seems perversely mischievous to be doing this, in so coldly calculating a fashion. I’m about to give a blowjob as a commercial transaction.

“May I?”

“Please do.” His voice slightly more high-pitched than before.

I go in and lick my way up it, from the base where it’s hidden in dark coils of hair, then zizag up its full length, tongue lapping this way and that around its warm curvature, up to where the bulbous head is sheathed in a tight foreskin. I can feel him tense. Hear the sharp inhalation of his breath. A build-up is good, a little tease. But you can be too fancy. This is raw sex. Make it raw. Using only lips and suction I hook it up, and draw it into my mouth. Because it’s soft I can swallow it all down, but it’s not about to stay that way. Use your mouth.

Drang taught me that. All that up-and-down stuff is great for internet-clips where it has to be visual. But keep it deeply embedded when it’s strictly personal, let tongue, lips, mouth, suction and light teeth do all the work. And work at it, pulsing it, playing suction and tightness around its girth. Feel it swell and grow in response, forcing itself fatter, tight up against the palate of your mouth, nudging the back of your throat in its eagerness, tasting the salty leak of its growing arousal. This is good. I can do this.

Not that the visual aspect of cock-sucking should be underrated. Surely there’s nothing more sexy than for a guy to look down and watch as the full spit-glistening length of his fully-erect shaft slithers its way between receptively parted lips, inch by incredible inch, all the way in as it’s devoured down to the very hilt, and the sucker’s eyes are glistening up back at him with tearful adoring grateful lust. A good cock-sucking is sheer poetry.

With Drang it was like I’d stepped into a parallel universe that orbits around my total dependence on him. Life stopped. All other friends and relationships fall away. I’m incapable of concentrating on anything else. All I do is stay in listening to Billie Holiday and Amy Winehouse, waiting for the fleeting snatched occasions when he’d come and fuck me. That’s all I live for.

At first I tried to continue my college work, but I’m always one click away gravitationally drawn to Gay-porn websites, over and over again, where in my mind every scene revolves around him and me. Every kid squirming and grimacing on the receiving end of a stiff cock is me, every big guy having his cock worshipfully sucked is Drang. I’m tasting him. Feeling him, with that same agonising urgency in my pants. I’m drawn back over and over, no matter how much I try. I’ll just look at one clip, one clip won’t hurt, a couple of minutes, no more, a second clip maybe, this one looks good… then, before I know it, hours have passed, and all I have to show for it is an aching erection.

I’m always wary of using the ‘love-word. It wasn’t love. But an intensely overwhelming erotic fixation. How could he end it? How can he do this to me? He’s left a wound that won’t heal. This is my revenge. Using all the expertise he tutored in me for the benefit of another guy. See, I’m doing it. See my own cock, I’m stiff with it. It’s turning me on. I don’t need Drang to get fiercely aroused.

I’m sucking Mr Hickory’s cock with a moist slurping sound. Dirty-sound adds to the eroticism. I purr with pleasure, to show my appreciation. He’s hard and erect in my mouth now. He’s gripping the sides of his chair attempting to control the fire raging in his balls. Unseen faces on the laptop are watching. I’m squirming my head around in his groin. Building and guiding his helpless passion, leading him towards orgasm. It fills my mouth in a satisfying way. Difficult to tell seeing it quiescent. But it’s expanded delightfully. I’m content to suck it. Its heat is reassuring in my mouth, close my eyes and I’m back on my knees serving Drang — except for the foreskin.

“Get ready” he whispers hoarsely.

As if I don’t know. As though I can’t interpret its every mood. Instead of drawing back I nuzzle in deeper to his fat balls. Holding as much of it as deeply as I can, and intensify tongue and suction. I hear his helpless groan above me, and the first orgasm-shock hits me, a wave of spunk filling my throat. I swallow, suck, swallow and suck. It jerks and trembles up against my lips, again and again. I’ve stopped breathing. Just holding him in, tongue working in and around. His hips bucking up against me in spasms. I keep sucking long after the last spurt. Feeling him slump back, feeling the tension leaving his body. Sucking as it loses something of its hardness, but sucking more softly.

Finally releasing it, but still squatting there obediently. It’s not over until he says its over. That’s the way I was trained. He seems more concerned with pulling his clothes back into place, although there’s a betraying bead of sweat on his forehead. He closes the laptop too.

“That was satisfactory, most satisfactory” he manages at length.

I’ve got the rich taste of his spunk in my mouth. How can he be so cool? I wait.

“Thank you. So what happens now?”

I stand up so there can be no doubt he sees I’m sporting a full hard-on. Indeed, I’m so sexed-up it would need only a few wrist-strokes to bring me off, but he’s given no instruction to do that, so I don’t.

“You may dress now. You’re happy with the situation I’ve outlined?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir, very happy with the situation.”

“So we now go forward to an induction period. We extend to you a generous retainer to spend a group weekend with us. We have a chalet up on the New England strand. If all goes well, to the satisfaction of all concerned, then we sign a contract and you move in here.”

“We do this now?”

He’s acting a little self-conscious, a little embarrassed. Which could be interpreted as quite endearing. It seems as though he finds my nudity suddenly unsettling. Now that he’s cum. That’s quite amusing. But I mean — hello, who is it who just swallowed a big mouthful of cum? Who is it standing here with it all on display? Not him. Not him. I get a mischievous urge to further embarrass him by staying unclothed. What if I do a naked jog around the room, a series of press-ups, running on the spot? — that’d totally blow his sensitive ordered mind.

“Er, you can dress now, please” he repeats. “No, we’ll contact you. First we have some precautions, to protect us all. We’re clean, we have regular status checks. But we anticipate there will naturally be a considerable amount of bodily fluids exchanged. So we have a doctor who will check you out. Once that’s cleared we go ahead.”

I nod my agreement. Only then do I step back towards the pile of my discarded clothes. He’s already hauling his coat on. Time to go. It’s over.

We shake hands, and take our leave on the street outside. I was impatient. I want to get this thing moving. I want this apartment. I want to move in. I have no tolerance for days of doing nothing, kicking my heels, waiting. But I have no choice. Days crawl by like wounded animals. Don’t think. You can overthink situations. It tests the distance between the mindfully simple, and the simple-minded. Maybe that’s how inspiration and its aftermath always feels? The doctor appointment comes and goes. She’s cool and efficient, although the receptionist seems to have an inkling of what’s going on and gives me an intimately knowing smile. Blood samples are taken. I guess it’s a vital precaution. Then I finally get the call. There’s no obstacle. We can go ahead.

It’s a chill morning, I meet them on the corner. The big SUV draws in, and Mr Hickory gets out. We shake hands in a bizarre formal way. I confirm that, yes, I’m ready for what the weekend holds in store. I’m polite and respectful to him. In the passenger seat there’s Mr Dickory, he leans across to greet me, a tall elderly guy with a disciplined beard that immediately reminds me of Vincent Price. I’m ushered into the back, where Mr Dock moves aside in an effusively fussy way to allow me room. He’s what they term ‘stout’, his hairline receding from his round moonface. He smiles across at me as the car pulls out into traffic and accelerates across the east river bridge.

The confined atmosphere would provide the perfect setting for sardonic catastrophe. So don’t volunteer comment. Wait, and be docile, obedient. Mr Dock strikes up a casual conversation. A chill morning? Yes, it’s a chill morning. How are things with you? I’m fine. Do I have brothers and sisters? No, I have no family. Then things get a little more intimate. When did I first realise I liked sex with boys? When did I suck my first cock? Was it a big cock? Did I spit or swallow? I realise that he’s into some kind of voyeuristic dirty-talk thing so I play him along, and not only give him details, but exaggerate until his positively drooling. Not the extent of implying promiscuity. That would be to devalue the brand. They want at least the hint of gauche innocence. I can supply that.

Speeding by outside we’re leaving the city, hanging right off the major freeway onto smaller side-roads, it changes from shopping malls and auto-sales to fields and trees. We call off at a diner for coffee and pancakes. Naturally I allow Mr Hickory to settle the bill. Back in the car Mr Dock gets a little more adventurous. He runs his hand down my leg, squeezing my thigh. When I show no adverse reaction his hand settles on my crotch, lightly at first, then his fingers trace the outline of the genital bulge with a murmur of approval. I sit back and let him have his way. He’s fumbling with my belt, drawing the zip down. Burbling his appreciation at the first appearance of pubic hair. I raise myself from the upholstery so he can ease my pants down to my knees. I’m amused in a curious way to see what he intends doing. My cock tumbles into view, already semi-erect. He’s looking directly at it, as though weighing it up.

He spits into the palm of his hand, massages his hands together, then gingerly reaches out to encircle my cock. I make a show of inhaling sharply as his fingers fold in around my shaft, although my arousal is not exactly faked. You can’t fake a hard-on. He holds it for a long moment, sniggering like a naughty kid. Then makes a few slow masturbatory strokes. It feels quite good. I look out the window concentrating on the farmstead countryside flashing by outside, nipping my lower lip with my teeth as his caress becomes more focussed. I’ve wriggled my pants down to my ankles and splayed my knees to give him better access.

He’s in there enthusiastically cupping my balls, separating them, cosseting each one in turn, tight enough to feel it, not so tight it crosses the pain threshold. Then up the full length of my cock again, which is now straining to its ripest extent. Squeezing firmly just beneath the neck so that the glans stands out richly plum-coloured, running his thumb around the raised ridge, rubbing the tender-spot on the underside, flicking the bulbous head in a way that makes me gasp. Scoring his nails across the dome. He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to pleasure a randy boy. His tongue protrudes comically from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“You two enjoying yourself in the back?” queries Mr Hickory from behind the wheel.

“Very much so” blusters Mr Dock, with a dirty laugh.

I can imagine he’s thinking back to how it reminds him of doing this years earlier, furtively tossing off a friend in a circle-jerk session after school. That sweaty-palmed nervous excitement of shared bad behaviour and forbidden delights.

I grunt in a way that adequately expresses approval, and the two in the front of the car laugh. For a while he just sits with my cock firmly clasped in his tight fist, just enjoying the sensation in silence. Every now and then he squeezes it gently, or gives a quick flurry of the old up-and-down that has me wriggling, my balls jiggling between my legs. A shimmering bead of gloopy liquid oozes from the tip, and he smoothes it around the arrowhead of my glans so that it glistens moistly. Then, as if it’s a signal, a taster of what’s to come, he starts slow — gradually increasing his wanking speed. Despite myself, despite my attempts to stay cool and detached, I’m breathing heavy as energies build in my gut.

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