Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 04

Things get weirder in the House Of Shame

As the weeks extend, things get weirder. A lot of water under the bridge, a lot of other stuff too. Wolfie becomes more confident in his power over me, and also, I guess, something of the novelty of my slavish attachment to him is wearing off. So he needs to shove it further. We were in the gymnasium, I was close to Wolfie. But there was this other youth who has dark hair gelled back, I much later learn he's called Buzz, and he was fooling around suggestively.

Eventually he hisses at me "Hey, sweet-boy, I could really fuck your face, how about it?"

I feel embarrassed, but almost despite myself I blurt out "You'll have to ask Wolfie. I belong to him."

Wolfie smirks at me, then at Buzz. "What's it worth to you?"

They begin talking in low voices that I can't quite hear, but to my amazement I realise they're bargaining for me. Eventually Wolfie comes across to me. "Go to the changing room with him and suck him off."

It's assumed I have no say in the matter. Meekly I do as I'm told. The price - I later discover, was two cigarettes. Without a murmur I obediently follow Buzz back into the changing room and wait as he looks around for a suitable corner, then he shoves his elasticated gym shorts down to his knees. He's got a big cock with a wicked highly-pigmented foreskin and pendulous testicles. Despite myself my entire attention is fixed on his groin and I feel myself colour slightly with expectation at what's to occur. Imagining already how much of it I can get into my mouth. Yes, I can do this.

I sit down on the nearest bench so that I'm level with his thighs. He stands with his hands on his hips in front of me with a wide grin. Momentarily I look up at him, meeting his eyes, then take it gently in my hand, hot and firm, moving my head down submissively to slide it between my pursed lips.

I was controlling the situation, but almost immediately his arrogant coolness dissolves as he feels my lips circling him, I see his gut quake and his hips move as I begin to suck it. I'm losing control as he moves in closer, his pelvis easing in an evil steady thrusting motion forcing me back until my head is backed up against the wall, fucking my throat. Uncomfortably I hold his fat balls in one hand and concentrate on sucking as best I can despite retching and involuntary tears clouding my vision. All control gone.

Halfway through I hear movement and giggling, which tells me we have an audience. Someone sniggers "The dirty little sod."

It makes Buzz pause for a moment, lodged so far down my throat I feel I'm suffocating, my face must be reddening, my eyes bugging.

"Don't kill the pervy bastard" came a second disembodied voice.

Why is it always me that's the perv? I wouldn't be doing this if they weren't compelling me to do it. Well, I would, but just not so much. And that moist pre-cum patch staining the front of my shorts? Well, I can't help that, can I? Buzz shrugs, and resumes fucking and I keep sucking, mewling slushy, gushy, squishy wet-noises, dribbling long drooling spit-bubbles down my chin.

My only hope is to make him cum sooner rather than later, get it over with as quickly as possible. So I suck with savage determination, using my tongue around its thickness. Until with a groan he begins creaming down my throat, a single slurpy pulse, followed by two smaller pulses, then nothing more than the slightest trembling. Wolfie and a couple of others are standing there smirking, applauding.

"OK?" enquires Wolfie.

"Not bad" concedes Buzz breathily, wiping his wet spermy cock across my face. "I've had better. Tell you what though, Wolfie." He rubs his cock in my hair to remove the last traces of saliva. "I've heard that practice makes perfect, and purely as a friendly gesture to you, I'd be willing to put him through his paces, sharpen up his technique, give him all the practise he needs."

"Fuck off" laughs Wolfie. "You want more, you know what to do. I'm sure we can come to some sort of... arrangement."

He snaps his fingers at me, and without a backward glance I meekly follow him back out into the gym, my hair drying into the hard flaky ridges left by his ejaculate. And again, rather than feeling cheap and debased, I feel a sense of considerable achievement. I'd been set a task, and I'd performed it.

Others might consider me weak? Feeling that I should fight such debasement and humiliation. Such a possibility never existed. Some would likely have died rather than submit. Me? call me spineless, but I'm not that strong. I realise how I must appear. A gutless wimp with no pride or self-esteem. And of course, they'd be right to think that. I was all those things, and more. I suck cock when it's expected of me. I know I have no choice. No other possibility exists. By now it's way too late. Within that first month at the Big House I'd been reduced to absolute sexual servitude and fully accepted the role without regret or remorse.

One day I saw 'Chuckler' Phil again, the young guy from the kitchen, and - jealous or resentful perhaps, he cornered me in the cloakroom. If he'd been sullenly silent before, it seemed he's found his voice.

"I think it's demeaning and degrading the things you do with Wolfie" he spat out. "Do you like what he forces you to do? Do you like the way he does things to you with his... penis?"

"Who says I do those things with Wolfie?" I counter.

"Come off it, it's common knowledge you're his cum-slut."

I smile defensively, a little awkward. How can I deny his accusations, when I've already decided that my 'protection' depends on people knowing what's going on?

"Sometimes it's OK. Sometimes it's not too bad."

"So you're his sex-slave?"

"Not exactly, no. I can always refuse."

"But he sticks it in your mouth?"

"Yes."

"And that's OK?"

"I guess so. That's what he wants, that's what I must do. At first it seems a little strange. After a while you get used to it. Then it's fine."

"I never could. Yuch."

I squirm in discomfort, not at all at ease with this disapproving level of intimate interrogation. "But I'm not the only one doing stuff, and anyway, what we do together is no business of anyone else."

Then it gets worse. "But it is, don't you see?" And he accuses me of making it worse for others. "You've made yourself into a cheap cock-pig, putting yourself around as a push-over, a sure-thing, a Slag, and by your absolute acquiescence and your willingness to do whatever Wolfie wants you're setting the bar others are compelled to conform to."

Perhaps he's telling me something about himself, about his own situation, whatever it is the two trusties are making him do when they take him into the store-room, who knows? That's as maybe. He could be right. Of course, if force, duress or threat are being used I'm very much opposed to that. I'm not being forced to do anything, and firmly believe that no-one else should be either. Since that very first night with Dean I'd been faced with a clear choice. I can resist and fight back alone, or go with the flow. I'd taken what I considered to be a pragmatic decision. To do what he wants.

The fact that I've accepted the situation determines what I'm doing now. But it was down to me and no-one else. It was my choice. I could have refused to participate. I still can. I choose not to. But I can't be held responsible for the sex-life of others. That's unfair. I must do what I must do. All I'm concerned with is getting through the day. And the next day. And the one after that. One day at a time. Surviving from day to day. That's enough.

Maybe you - reading this, think of me as a poor miserable little sod, a pathetic victim? Perhaps I am all those hurtful things 'Chuckler' Phil says I am? Yet certainly, despite it all, I grudgingly admit, I'm also increasingly driven to extremes and attracted to excess, just as Wolfie is. In a different way, I have appetites and tastes that amplify as I go on. His extremism takes the form of pumping more sperm down my throat, my extremism, increasingly, is to accept it.

Do I enjoy sucking his cock? Stupid question. It's fairly obvious I do. Whenever or wherever he wants. And to those of his friends he specifies. I must do as he says. It's not my fault. It's not of my volition. But fate has arranged it that I'm his to do with sexually as he pleases. That's enough. But, yes - own up, there's a weird pleasure in that submission too. Perhaps my essential nature is, what they say, submissive, and I have a real need to be dominated?

I begin to seriously have doubts about my state of mind, is this all getting out of hand? Am I losing all semblance of control? This sex thing had begun as a pragmatic acceptance of the inevitable fate I've been forced into. Now it was more than that. Now it's all gone into some other place. Am I developing a dependence on it? Am I getting addicted to it? And if so, what does that make me? Will I ever be the same again? And Wolfie ratchets it ever-higher. I was sleeping over in his dorm now, on an unused bed adjacent to his, to make it easier, to make it more convenient. And as far as I'm concerned, that's no problem.

I never really speak properly with Phil again. Perhaps he was as embarrassed by his outburst as I was? But there's a curious sequel to the incident. One night I left Wolfie's bed driven by the urgent need to go take a piss, pacing through a strangely haunting moonlit emptiness. In the neutral space between dorms the toilet was often used for assignations, there were penis-sized holes bored in the partition walls and graffiti indicating dates, times and lurid promises. But tonight it was empty. Idly glancing out of the window once I'd completed my ablutions, I could glimpse an expanse of the grounds, the lawn, outbuildings, and the wooded area beyond. And there was a pale moving shape.

I focus my attention on the figure, the ghost weaving through the trees, running in a slow-jog - and completely naked. I can't be certain, but I was convinced in my mind that it was Phil. What was he doing? Was he being pursued? No, he was alone. So he's running a complete circuit of the grounds, around the inner retaining wall, for a wager, a dare, or a forfeit? A bet, or a penance, or because of a threat? I wished I had binoculars, or a high-powered telescope so I could see him more clearly, pick out the detailed movement of his tackle as he ran. My interest was curiously aroused. I watch the furtive figure glancing around, ducking through the shadows of trees and around the sheds, then further until he vanished out of sight.

It was easy to move between dorms, as I've discovered, but after lights-out it was virtually impossible to descend to the ground floor, never mind leave the building. Unless he knows a secret route through the kitchen? Or unless there's actual collusion with the staff? Sure, there were rumours of illicit drinking and gambling - and more, in the outbuildings at night, although no-one could ever provide proof to substantiate the rumours.

As I tiptoe back to my bed I have to pass Wolfie's bed, and in the gloom I can see him lying on his back in a deep sleep, his covers sufficiently disarrayed for me to glimpse his groin. The ridge of body-hair leading me down from his navel. In this place of shadows, whispered breathing and semidarkness, my head fills with possibilities, I find myself drawing the sheet back further to see it better, bit by bit, a long way, and god - it looks so wickedly appetising, I can't resist it, glancing around guiltily I seek out his godlike megadick with my fingers, just a quick feel. My own half-hard cock stiffens in response, and my touch leads overwhelmingly to taste, just a lick, swish my tongue around its purple-pink head, dancing it along the cleaved ridge. It stirs and reacts, although he doesn't.

I'm plumping down onto the bed, my head resting on his thigh now, up against his cock, so close I sense its funky musk. It stands almost the full length of my face. It can be angry and demanding. Now it's just nesting warm against me in the comforting dark, and almost absently I hook around and begin gently sucking it. Slowly, reflectively, contemplatively, at my own pace, taking a little more, then a little more, taking it only as deep as is comfortable - then a little more, just for me. 'Chuckler' Phil was correct, I must be a cock-pig. Other guys get a horn-on and they privately pull themselves off, me, I get the same kick from sucking someone else off, not for their benefit, but my own. I'm enjoying this.

But how strange it must be to run naked through the night like that. Is it some kind of test? Would he be stopped by his tormentors at various points in his circuit to perform an action, or have an action performed upon him? I suck thoughtfully in a leisurely self-indulgent fashion, as his cock engorges, and as it swells I can feel the blood pulsing within it. Although he continues sleeping, I wonder what effect my attentions are triggering in his dreams? It must be wild inside his head right now.

While my first instinct about Phil is that I wish I'd known. I'd have liked the chance to run beside him. To experience that freedom. The more I suck the more the idea seems inviting. My sucking grows correspondingly more intense, drowning out all other brain-function, the cock-heat raises my body temperature by degrees, this is what I need, I can feel the sperm rising, until it's only Wolfie's explosive ejaculation that wakes him. He looks down at me blearily, eyes focusing in the faint light. I look up, self-consciously coaxing the last beads of sperm from its wet head with my lapping tongue.

"I'm sorry" I whisper. "It looked so inviting I couldn't help myself."

He just snorts "Slut", and goes back to sleep as I think pensively of us, me and 'Chuckler' Phil, running naked through the night-dark trees together, watching the muscles move beneath his skin. Cocks and balls bouncing free. Briars reaching out to sway at us, boughs that whip and sting at us as we run. With only the owls and the bats to see us. Wild things. We are children of the night.

Another weird character is 'Creepy George', who should never have been in the Big House at all. A blow-job short of an orgy, he was what they call 'challenged', and should really have been placed in a facility equipped to cater to his special needs. Not that he was unhappy. Far from it, in fact his status seemed to endow him with privileges enforced by his own self-appointed minders. They protect his interests and ensure no-one interferes with his pleasure. I suspect they're naturally inclined to mete out punishment, and use Creepy George as an excuse. There's no evidence he was 'earning' his protection from them in any way. But even being the 'property' of as powerful a figure as Wolfie guarantees no immunity from his attentions.

He shuffles along the corridors with a wide vacant grin, selecting whoever takes his fancy, with his choice enforced by his attentive minders. I could not avoid him. We pass in the corridor. I hold my breath, but it's too late. His hand reaches out to trap my cock through the material of my pants. I freeze. But daren't resist. He squeezes and fondles. There are three guys standing behind him, watching me for any signs of refusal. I daren't object, I stand and let him fondle. This is what he does. If he doesn't like what he finds he'll leave you alone and move on to someone else. With a bit of luck. But stupidly, against my will, my body is responding to his intimate caress. It's impossible not to.

I concentrate, trying to stop my erection happening, but it just firms and grows in response to his touch. He grins. Oh shit, he likes what he's found. He begins to unfasten my pants. Runs the zip down. Shrugs my pants roughly down to my knees, my stupid eager cock bobbing free. He looks directly at it, then glances back at his entourage with a cheeky smile. He reaches down, his thumb braced against his forefinger, and he flicks me sharply on the glans, so that I gasp as it quivers redly, and he laughs.

Then, my natural reaction is to duck my hips back, pull away from his grubby probing fingers, but I control the impulse as I'm enclosed by his fist. I feel like an idiot, in a self-conscious agony of self-exposure. In the corridor, his three minders forming a protective shield around us as others walk past. They're all dressed, I'm stood there with my stiff cock out for all to see.

George looks at me with a curious expression, and says "Riddle me this, Adam & Steve & Tossmeoff went into the sea to bathe, Adam & Steve were drowned, who was there left to save...?"

My throat is dry. I gulp. One of his minders nudges me. "Come on, answer his riddle."

I whisper "Toss-me-off," and he begins to wank me, my balls swaying and dancing up against my legs. His minders sneer, enjoying my discomfort. Creepy George licks his lips and works me. This is what he does. Don't fight it. In fact, his gentle attentions are far from unpleasant, and few attempt to deny him. He likes cocks big. And he likes lots of what he calls 'milk'. It's advisable not to disappoint him. I've met his first expectations. I'm big enough. But what next? I ejaculated last night while I was sucking Wolfie. I had good sex with Ian yesterday too, sixty-nining to its full natural mutually-satisfying climax. How much more spunk can I manage?

I bite my lip as he eases his fingers up and down my shaft. Beyond the protective circle others walk past, I hear their mocking laughter. It's impossible to quench the sensations. My head goes back as I feel the tremors begin. He squeezes. The shock hits me. I spurt across his fingers, once, twice, three times. I must have hidden reserves, it keeps coming. His minders laugh.

Creepy George grins, lifts his spermy hand, looks at it, and says "Milk."

He says it seriously. He approves. I stand there, my cock still drooling, but scared to conceal it. I just stand there. Creepy George looks at me, says "Milk" again, and then moves off.

It's over. His minders follow. I hastily pull my pants up before any other curious observers can see. Although they know what's going on. They all know about Creepy George. Everyone does. I breathe a sigh of relief. My clothes uncomfortably moist. It's not the last time I'm the subject of his attentions. It's one of the hazards of the 'Big House'. It happens on two more separate occasions, with exactly the same results.

More scarily, I notice he has a wart on the thumb of the hand he wanks me with. Does that mean it will transfer from his thumb to infect my cock, and I'll find a nasty fungal-infection wart growing on the shaft of my cock? I check nervously for days after, but it seems that my dread has no medical foundation. No wart appears.

The more the weeks drag into months the more I settle into the dull routine of the Big House, the less threatening it seems, the more I become conscious of the tedium, the boredom and the dullness of the place. Perhaps my initial fears were unfounded? Perhaps it's not so dangerous, so terrible? I saw few examples of direct intimidation. No bullying to speak of, other than whatever is happening with 'Chuckler' Phil. Most of the inmates are no more than amiable buffoons, hopeless inadequates, more a danger to themselves than anyone else. Although there are a couple I'd prefer to keep at a safe distance, and they barely notice me.

I begin to wonder if I'd over-reacted out of unreasoned fear. As if even that one scene I'd witnessed between the three guys in the shower had been staged for my benefit, a conspiracy designed to scare me into compliance. Until the day I entered the shower-room again. As I undress I was aware of the sound of chanting and clapping. I pace through towards the shower-stalls with my towel casually thrown over my shoulder, only to be brought-up uncertainly by what I saw there.
Something like six naked guys are crowded into the first shower-stall, their backs to me forming a jostling wall of glistening bare bottoms. They are clapping rhythmically and chanting "three, three, three". I couldn't work out what was happening. Then I could see through the forest of bare legs, up against the tiled wall, another figure is in a low squat, and it dawns on me. I was repulsed, and attracted at the same time, in a weird confusion of sensations. Hurriedly, I retrace my step back, before my presence is noticed, and I begin dressing again. Behind me there's a sudden commotion of cheers.

A pause, a voice going "Me next, it's my turn, gimme some space," as they presumably shuffle position. Then the chant begins again.

As I exit through the drably-painted swing-doors the sound of "four, four, four" is ringing in my ears, and follows me down the corridor. I hadn't hung around long enough to tell who it was on his knees sucking cock after cock, or who was lining up to be sucked. Whether or not it was anyone I knew. Whether the victim was going for some kind of a record, or a marathon. I don't know whether the guy on the receiving end of the numbered cocks, one after the other, was doing it voluntarily, or under pressure, and I don't intend staying around long enough to find out.

Sometimes, with guys, the pack-instinct takes over, and they forget you're human. That's when it can get scary. But it was a timely warning to me that perverse currents do flow through this place, which I should be aware of, and wary of.

Without protection, that could have been me crouched there, the centre of a rugby-scrum of nude bodies, surrounded by a standing ovation of urgent erections. The very thought, the more I think of it, is tantalising, painful, luring, frightening. How would I deal with a situation like that? Well, I've seen videos of girls doing it. They seem to manage OK.

And if it was set-up and arranged by Wolfie with him and say, three - or maybe four other guys, and done properly... yes, it's just possible that... would they stand in line and politely wait their turn, or jostle for my mouth in a free-for-all wham-slam? Would I be expected to switch from one to the other, and try to bring them all off around the same time? Would there be jealousy if I show favouritism by sucking one cock longer and harder than another? Would they expect to come in my mouth, or on my face, or a combination of the two? How many before I could take no more and retched, as many as the legendary 'Frenchie' maybe? ... shit.

No, No, No, I can't believe the way my mind's working that I'm even considering such a scenario. What have I become? My mind runs on into the most lurid fantasies, I have no control even of my imagination anymore. Convincing me, if ever I doubted it, that the survival-course I've chosen is the correct one.

"This is a human zoo" agreed Ian sagely. "Watch out, there are pigs about. You can recognise them by their distasteful personal habits. There are sheep, they are the ones who follow mindlessly. The herbivores, mindlessly grazing, no ambition, never looking up to see the sky. But beware, there are wolves too, stalking, waiting to pick off the weak."

"And us? Where do we fit into this menagerie?"

"Definitely of the higher primates, me and you. Surviving through our wits and intelligence. Yes, higher primates, and sometimes naked apes too..."

By now, nights are cold, dead leaves rustling in the chill breeze outside the window, but there's body-warmth between the covers. It begins when Wolfie decides that, as an amusing experiment, I must spend the entire night with his cock in my mouth, that I must never allow it become unmouthed for a single moment. Perhaps there's some longest-time record we can beat? My consent is taken as granted.

And it works out fine for the first hours, it was almost comforting lying in the warmth of his bed with my head resting on his groin, and after the initial few ejaculations his cock seems content to lie quiescent in my mouth barely stirring except when stimulated by the movement of my tongue, until much later he woke some time in the early dawn to find that, as we both slept, it had unconsciously slipped out from between my lips.

He was naturally angry and upset. I was profusely apologetic. I was sorry. I would do it better, honestly. But even though I'd obviously failed him, he decided I should stay close at hand because I could still be useful. On those occasions when he awoke at three o'clock in the morning with a raging hard-on, he'd wake me too so that I could use my mouth to deal with it. Blearily, I would do so, groping for it, even half-asleep I was still infatuated with his big penis.

When I told Ian what we'd done he promptly sketched a kind of blow-job restraint harness which - with his penis in my mouth, would go around Wolfie's waist and between his legs, up around my throat, the nape of my neck and across the back of my head, with adjustable leather straps to tighten, fixing the sucker in place immovably, so that if the all-nighter 'experiment' were to be repeated, no accidental un-mouthing could possibly occur. We laughed, he intended it as a kind of joke, an idea from the 'Roderick Random' story, but I know with absolute certainty that if Wolfie had been able to produce such a device, I'd have submitted to being fastened into it without a whimper or murmur of protest.

Although Wolfie's short attention-span meant that he'd already moved on to other sources of amusement. It would amuse him to test my gag-reaction with attempts at deep-throating. Sure, I take it deep, but he's big, and he wants it deeper. So one afternoon he was lying on his back on the bed, I was naked, down between his splayed legs at his urging, seeing how much of his stiff cock I can take down my throat without choking. His friend lies on the bed next to us reading a porn novel (and what a difference the brief passage of time can make. How disturbed I'd been to discover Hooch watching me giving Dean head. Now I no longer care who's watching).

I've been doing it for some time now. Gazing at its proud fat head determinedly, then sliding my lips in around it, slithering it down, further, a little further each time, closing my eyes in desperate concentration, feeling its pulsing heat hard up against my throat. I can manage most of it, but not all. Wolfie chuckling at my tear-stained anguish and blubbering concentration as I patiently strive to relax my throat sufficiently to swallow it all the way down to his balls. But not quite succeeding.

Until, growing impatient he decides to help me. He fixes both his hands firmly on the back of my head, relentlessly forcing me further in. Gasping for air, gurgling and spluttering, it was difficult to keep it quiet. His friend glances across idly.

"Can't you get your creature to stop making such disgusting noises, it's very distracting," before going back to his book.

Wolfie grins and waves me to stop. So that's what I am... 'his creature'? The description amused more than it offends me. And I resent his interruption. What I do with Wolfie is our business, and no-one else. While I'm the centre of his attention, that's enough. What he chooses to do to me, and what I consent for him to do to me, is no-one else's concern. What right does he have to interfere?

I wait impatiently for the irritant to go, so we can resume. From where I sit sulkily on the edge of the bed I can see Wolfie's thick cock, drooping a little now, becoming detumescent, losing something of its tempting rigidity even though I wasn't losing mine. It was temporarily tantalisingly out of reach, and I was burning hungry for it. I was a victim of oral coitus interruptus - I'd had a taste, but I need the rest to achieve my own release.

Until, the moment the other guy leaves, Wolfie clicks his fingers, indicating for me to lie on my back so he can straddle me. I quickly wriggle round so he can sit forward on my chest, he presses his cock easily into my open mouth and begin easing it into my throat from that position, so that my head is up against the mattress and I'm unable to retreat. He slowly rocks back and forth with it never leaving my mouth, but forcing it a little further in with each thrust and holding it there, my lips slithering up to their furthest extent to envelope as much of it as I can, while he counts the seconds, with me gurgling, dribbling, drooling and gagging. It seems to be feeding in an incredible way, I'm nosing his pubic hair, his balls squashed up on my chin, but it's not quite all the way in.

"C'mon, take it down balls-deep" he urges. For him it must still be frustratingly unsatisfactory.

As it plops out I wipe my mouth apologetically. "I'm sorry, I'm trying my best" I plead. "I know I can take it all, just give me another opportunity."

I know he wants to do this and I hoping against hope I'll be able to please him. More worried about possibly disappointing and upsetting him by not being able to do it than about my own discomfort.

"I saw this in a dirty video once" says Wolfie. "Some bitch was doing it. Are you slut enough to do it?"

"Yes" I say, wriggling into a better position. "Yes please, let me try it."

He finally succeeds by getting me lying on my back, head draped over the edge of the bed. From that position, as he straddles my head, I can see the rearing underside of his cock as he flexes it up and down to fully firm it, the upside-down perspective makes it seem even more intimidating, the raised ventral ridge of his sperm-duct running all the way up, the pattern of blue blood-vessels, as, without a word, he down-angles and begins inserting it length-wise into my gaping open mouth from over my forehead. My fists grip the bed-covers in concentration, steeling myself to receive its thick insistent pressure.

I'm wishing I could be like one of those snakes who can dislocate their lower jaw to enable them to swallow large objects. As more of it slides in I can see nothing but arse and the fat fertile eggs of his testicles, my eyes glazing, with my sprawled bare body twitching, writhing, and predictably betraying me again. As his cock-head scrapes across the back of my throat it sets up answering shockwaves that set my own cock off, it starts twitching and jerking in the air, wracking me in convulsing orgasm. A welter of sperm jets, splashing up my undulating stomach as I fight for control.

It's as though the ejaculation releases all the tension in my body, I melt into a boneless thing, mouth gaping as wide as possible, unconsciously making a swallowing motion that takes his swollen glans beyond the restriction and way deeper. He grunts with satisfaction someplace way above me, and increases pressure. He's leaning in over me now, facing my throbbing messed-up genitals, his hands resting palms-down on my chest, his hips moving in to fuck my face which is trapped beneath him. It's lodged too deep for me to even offer much in the way of oral stimulation, beyond the tight clasp of my gullet itself, all I can do is lie as loosely-limp as possible, fists desperately white-knuckling bunches of sheet, and allow it to continue. I feel sure I'm going to pass out from suffocation as it penetrates my windpipe. I can hear the pounding of my own blood in my ears. What am I supposed to do, breath through my ears? Fact is, he doesn't care.

My eyes glaze over, but I can feel the coarse tickle of his pubic hair on my nose, the soft warm squelch of his balls on my nose, and he holds it there, enjoying the sensation, I thought I was going to pass out, sure I was going to die right there and then (and what would they write on my autopsy as 'cause of death'?), but by his approving grumpings I know he's gone in to the hilt. He draws back a fraction, allowing me a feverish gulp of breath, and when he slides it back it seems to have found its path and goes in more easily.

I'm smothered in pubic hair and scrotum as he makes his third and fourth deep-thrust, there's a jolt and quiver that sends me dizzy-reeling, and he's unloading his ejaculation so deep it completely by-passes my taste-buds and spews straight for my stomach. He holds it there for a long moment, reluctantly losing rigidity, before slithering the full messy length back out, inch by incredible inch. Vomiting strands of foamy saliva. I could barely believe I'd managed to take all of it, lying gasping and spent, mesmerised by it, drunk on it, but I was relieved, I was still his 'creature'. I'd done his bidding. I also had a sore throat for two days afterwards.

But later I overheard him describing to Dread how he was able to look down at my total impalement, how he saw the prominent bulge in my throat and couldn't tell for sure if he was seeing his 'bobby's helmet', my adam's apple, or some obscene combination of the two. For a dreadful moment I feared he was about to demand a demonstration, but no, once he'd achieved what he'd set out to do, he was no longer interested, he moved on to something else (although after I'd described the incident in detail to Ian we re-enact it in our 'cock-pit' in a less extreme, more playful interaction). And once I'd learned the technique I use it every now and then on Wolfie just to keep him interested, just in case he's tempted to go elsewhere for his jollies. Deep-throating him down to the root when he's not expecting it.

Wolfie would also 'lease me out' in trade for cigarettes or whatever else was on offer - as happened in the gym with Buzz, or watch me give head to some other guy just because he was feeling generous and it amused him to show largesse. I'm so totally conditioned I simply do as I'm told. Pleased only that Wolfie is pleased. And curious to know what he has in mind for me next. Eager even.

A lot of my memories of this period are blurred and jumbled up. I was afraid of tomorrow, bored and tired with today, making the same stupid mistakes over and over again. But living through a heightened sense of arousal, with incidents tending to jostle one into the other without clear recall of what was actually going on. As always, Ian can explain it. He has the words. The vocabulary. With sexual arousal, all senses are engaged, cheeks flush, the pulse quickens, pupils dilate, the brain receives more oxygen as breathing becomes irregular and deeper.

This is real, this happens. The excitation of lips locked around cock provokes actual physical reactions, oxytocin is unleashed into the bloodstream, flooding the body-systems with feel-good hormones. There's a rise in the neurotransmitter dopamine, while serotonin spikes. This is the chemical torrent responsible for heightened craving and desire, stimulating obsessive behaviour. It produces an addictive state. A compulsive junkie-need for more.

As Ian said, "It's fucking with your mind, by way of your mouth."

In other words, I was getting the same kicks from sucking cock as they were from me sucking them. It's science. I have no control. My body has taken over. The more you do it, the more your body gets hooked on the buzz. And I was doing it a lot. More than a lot.

For example, on one occasion we were detailed to sweep the yard of leaves. They're big on exercise here, sports, physical activities of all kinds. It's probably designed to wear you out, tire you, drain your energies, to defuse any unruly tendencies. If that's what they intend, it never works out that way. Wolfie discovered that it was one of the other guy's birthday, Stuart I think he was called, although I could be wrong. Not that it matters. His name is not important. Wolfie immediately offered me to him as a birthday treat.

Stuart looked a little bewildered. "No thanks, Wolfie" he said, returning to his sweeping.

Half-an-hour later Wolfie returns to the subject, and repeats the offer. This time I could tell he's tempted, that he wants to, he glances across sideways at me, weighing me up, but was scared of whatever implications he imagined were involved. The dilemma of being seen giving in to seemingly effeminate practises.

Wolfie insists, until eventually he says, "OK Wolfie, yes, thanks."

I follow him into a grove of trees, the ones where I'd seen 'Chuckler' Phil from the night-time window. Stuart glances furtively left and right, to make sure no-one's observing. He seems nervous.

At last he addresses me for the first and only time. "You sure you're alright with this? Because if you're not...?"

I nod. "It's fine, if Wolfie says it's alright, it's alright."

He backs up against the trunk of a tree, unfastens his belt and pulls his trousers down to knee level. I'm impatient to see it. And when I do, his cock is long and smooth-slender, capped with a perfectly-cleft helmet. It's attractively poised just one degree below the horizontal, as though half in hope, half in anticipation. I'd love to see Ian's sketch of this. His expression changes to one of alarm as I begin to drop my own pants, as though uncertain of my intentions, but as I go down into a crouch and set about doing what I've come to do, and it's obvious I'm merely intent on pulling myself off as an accompaniment, he relaxes a little. But he flinches as my lips first brush his knob-end, he's more jittery than I am.

He braces his back against the bark, balling his hands into fists as I work on him, sucking his cock enthusiastically. His reactions tell me he's not previously been enjoying a very active sex-life. That, although he obviously knows it exists, he's not part of, and hasn't taken advantage of the institution's sexual underground. Which is a pity, for him - because he could have been enjoying more of this, and for his potential partners who could benefit from the neglected and under-appreciate organ now hotly pulsing in my mouth. His balls are nicely tight and high, as I'm in the best possible position to ascertain. Contrasting to my own, which are low and distended. Maybe I've been coming too much recently? Too late, it's about to happen again, I can feel it already building in my groin.

For me, there's something wild and raw about doing dirty-sex out here beneath the restless tide of wind stirring the remaining autumn foliage, close to the base sexuality of nature. It must have felt something like this to 'Chuckler' Phil running naked through these night trees, the cool wind goose-pimpling on his body, like a wild animal, liberated - even though enclosed by the walls. Freed from the restraints of morality. As I am paradoxically freed by sucking this cock. Stuart is striving to stay silent so as not to alert the rest of the work-party to what is happening, although soon he's incapable of stifling the final whimpering sigh as he approaches climax. His hips are jerking now, making urgent little thrusts into me, his hands firmly holding my head in place. And when it begins, judging by the copious amount flooding me, it's as though he's been saving it up for a month, further evidence that his sex-life is severely limited.

By now my own ejaculate has showered and is slip-sliding in silky spider-strands from leaves of grass and down, absorbing into the soil. Afterwards he wipes himself scrupulously with a crumpled handkerchief, as though to guiltily expunge all trace of my mouth-fluids from his genitals, holding it this way and that, wiping it carefully free of all saliva.

"Sorry" he whispers shyly. "I should have warned you I was coming, I lost control."

As an afterthought he offers me the handkerchief. I'd already wiped my mouth with my hand, I shake my head with a smile of appreciation. I'm thinking, losing control is the whole point, no need to apologise, and no warning necessary, you think I didn't know you were about to come, even before you did? I'm familiar with the symptoms. I know what it feels like. But he seems nice, I hope he's enjoyed our brief interlude together. We rejoin the yard-sweeping detail.
Stuart grins across at Wolfie. "Thanks, that was a great birthday gift, cheers."

I smile to myself, and resume sweeping.

On another occasion, I was 'summoned' to meet Wolfie in the dorm, and when I get there I was a little wary to discover he was not alone. There were three of them. Would I be expected to 'do' them all? Dread was there, and the one sitting in the middle is Adrian - 'big Ade', an overweight and 'slow' guy I'd seen around, but never spoken to. Wolfie brusquely instructs me to undress, and as I do so I begin to piece together what's going on. They'd been talking to Ade, part-curious, part-teasing him, and under their jibing prying interrogation he'd finally admitted that he'd never had any kind of sex. Not with anyone. And partly for his own amusement, and entertainment, and partly because he feels sorry for him, Wolfie took the responsibility upon himself to remedy that situation.

Ade was sweating. A bead of perspiration winding its way down his forehead. But his eyes light up, visibly widening and brightening with shame-faced delight as my hard-on swings loose, into view. Soon I was naked, and standing facing them with my hands by my sides.

Wolfie encourages the obviously embarrassed Ade. "Go on, touch him up."

Adrian was uneasy, awkward. "I don't think I should, it wouldn't be right" he protests weakly.

"It's alright Ade, it's my gift to you" he urges.

At length, very quickly and nervously he reaches out and squeezes my erection once with his clammy-warm chubby fingers, giggling under his breath. He levers it down, then titters like some big naughty child as it springs back up again when he releases it.

"Good, that wasn't so difficult was it? Do it some more, play around with it."

I stand still as he reaches out again, this time his sweaty hand lingers a little longer, encircling and rubbing it up and down, gripping my balls a little too hard for comfort. I wince. He was grinning a slow stupidly dull-witted grin. He was gripping me tight, as though now he's plucked up courage to hold it, he's determined he's not going to let go. The more I ease back, the tighter he squeezes so his nails are leaving sharp indentations on the shaft, with the head growing angry purple-red in his fist. I grit my teeth. But by now Wolfie is getting bored with the game and decides it's time to take it further.

"Now comes the best part Ade, you're going to get your cock sucked."

Ade instantly releases me and starts to his feet. "No, it's alright, thank you Wolfie, I've changed my mind, I want to go please."

They grab hold of his arms persuasively, restraining him, and playfully ease him back onto the bed, nodding purposefully to me. I know what I have to do, and begin unfastening his belt and tugging his fly down.

Wolfie adopts a mock-stern voice like some retired colonel. "What you need my boy, is a damn good cock-sucking, and I intend to make sure you get it."

Ade was laughing and struggling half-heartedly, complaining excuses as they hold him on his back, while they assist me to haul his pants down and off.

"No, wait, please, you're tickling, I've changed my mind" between nervous fidgety giggles, as though he's facing some hazardous medical procedure.

At last, pulling his shirt aside, I'm able to get in at it. Beneath his wobbling swollen gut is a ridiculously stubby little cock, a rosebud completely hooded in a tight foreskin, and almost hairless. His balls are practically non-existent. You could snap it off and hang it on a girl's charm bracelet. No wonder he's wretchedly agitated at having it exposed to our gaze, no wonder he doesn't want anyone to see it.

He's wriggling and laughing, which - combined with the size of his heaving stomach, makes it difficult for me to reach it. How can I suck that? I can scarcely find it! It'll be like sucking on a teat. But I crouch down, work my head in, hold it between thumb and forefinger, and manage to get all of it into my mouth. He's flexing and writhing his body, his giggling carrying a hysterical edge as I attempt to do what I have to do. His quivering gut-skin is strangely coarse and unpleasantly sweat-moist.

Even though it's erect the pathetically tiny strut of worm-penis isn't easy to work on and constantly seems about to slip free out of my mouth, but I do my best, and he doesn't last very long anyway, within moments of me sucking he's shouting out as though in pain, breathing in big wrenching gulps as though suffocating, his hips jerking spasmically, and he starts cumming. A twitch, a tremble, and uncontrollably, despite my best efforts, his micro-dick slithers free from my mouth just as a starburst of slight white uprush spurts down my chin, thin and tasteless, a gloopy teaspoonful, no more.

Unsure what to do I give it a few more quick little sucks. When I raise my head Wolfie and Dread are laughing, as though the sight I present is the funniest thing they've ever seen, and Ade just lies there exhaling great sobs of breath. I wait, unsure what to do as Ade sits up, hurriedly self-consciously pulling his pants back on.

Wolfie stands there with his arms folded. "Are you grateful for the gift we've given you? Say thank you Ade."

The miserable fat kid looks up petulantly. "Thank you Wolfie."

Hang on a minute - it's me with his spunk on my face, and he's thanking Wolfie! But of course, in a sense, he's right, we're both his victims. At that moment, I despise Wolfie more than at any other time. But it's over already. They've tired of the game. I'm the only one naked, cock still visibly erect and screaming for attention.

"For fuck's sake wipe your face, and get some clothes on, you look ridiculous stood there with that thing sticking out like that" sneers Wolfie.

I do so, a little confused. The whole incident has lasted barely minutes, I'm still aroused. In fact it's necessary for me to go directly to the nearest toilets and pull myself off to relieve the ache of unrealised anticipations. Wanking with furious desperation.

My first thought had been of Ian. We had joked about producing sex-vouchers to share between the two of us. IOU's for sex-acts to be performed there-and-then, on production of the voucher. First there would be 'do' or 'be-done-to' vouchers. Then a 'Quickie Suck-&-Swallow' voucher. A more leisurely blow-job voucher. A sixty-nine option. And a wild card for whatever the voucher-holder decides he wants on the spur of the moment. We hadn't actually gone ahead with the idea. What if the vouchers found their way into other hands? What if we were presented with a situation in which a stranger produces a voucher expecting it to be honoured? Would we be obliged to do as the voucher specifies? So it never went beyond the point of giggling speculation. But if I'd had one, I'd have used it now, unfortunately Ian is nowhere to be found. On a course maybe, or a work-detail.

So I was reduced to doing it myself. The indentation-marks of Ade's stubby fingernails still red on my shaft, the sensation of his tight grip still tingling there, as I begin pulsing my ejaculation as roaring visions of cock and jism storm my head. As I squeeze out the last ooze, dripping it onto the dirty porcelain and flushing it away, I was consumed by dismal wonderings about how low I had sunk. What was this debased creature I've become? Like Ian said - I've become an 'orgasm addict', hooked on endorphins, this is a conditioned response.

My chin still felt sticky, even though I'd wiped it. I never get to speak to Adrian properly, although once or twice when we pass by in the corridor he smiles uncertainly at me, in a way I can't quite decipher. Not quite a shy apology, not even a secret acknowledgement of guilty pleasure at our fleeting and unsatisfactory intimacy, more as though he doesn't really understand what had happened, or how to deal with it. I actually felt more sympathy for him than I do for myself.

I wonder if he's ever had a day of fun in his entire miserable life, and if squeezing my balls a little too hard for comfort and having me clumsily suck him off is the closest he'd ever got to it, if so, then I don't exactly begrudge him it. If it was really his first sexual experience, and I'm sure it was, maybe I could have, perhaps even should have made it better for him, if circumstances had been different. Perhaps I should have made an attempt to befriend him, and make up for the messiness of that encounter in some other way?

Not that I was allowed time for reflection, for Wolfie was about to introduce me to anal, which I was less than enthusiastic about. Although I admit, following Ian's colourful admissions, and the graphically explicit descriptions in 'The Random Rod' and 'Horatio Cockblower', I was becoming curious to know what it was like. Intrigued even. We'd talked about it.

"It's not natural" I'd argued. "Bottoms are not designed for sex, they're for... y'know, turds come out there. It's dirty."

"You say dirty because you've been brought up to think its dirty" argues Ian. "But to say that is logically inconsistent. Because you piss from your cock doesn't mean you can't also use that for sex. It's an evolutionary joke to have the source of life, and the piss-hole so close. You just have to disassociate the two functions in your mind. The body has certain bits that feel good, dirty only comes into it if you want it dirty..."

Adrian had happened on Wednesday, the next afternoon I was again 'summoned' to the same dorm by Dread. It was raining and overcast. I anticipate giving Wolfie a blow-job, nothing more, but he's got Vaseline - more for his own convenience than mine, and other intentions. Dread stands guard at the door, sneaking a peak every now and then, as I undress and sit naked on the bed patiently waiting to be buggered, shivering slightly in the chill, watching him grease up. Then I turn, crouch on all fours head-down face cradled in my hands, arse raised, legs splayed presenting myself for him. Despite everything I've been through I'd never felt as exposed as I do now.

Determined not to wince or cry out, biting my lip as I feel his probing fingers on me, locating the route in, but once the fumbling and wriggling is done, he lodges his burning spear at the puckered opening and with an almost effortless nudge forces the swollen knob-end inside, the tip stretches its way through the tight sphincter, like he's pushing a billiard-ball through an impossibly narrow passage. Once the head has entered, my body relaxes, accepts the inevitable, and I feel my inner tissues stretching as a little more of it slithers in more smoothly. My back undulates snake-like, and I take a sharp intake of breath as the strange sensation storms at me. He pauses half-engulfed, more for his benefit than mine, wallowing in the tight feeling clasping him. Then shoves it all the way. A silk torpedo targeting my innermost fundament, and primed for a messy detonation.

I stifle a grunt, and begin to wonder what it was I'd been so scared about. It's a strange, tight feeling, weird, but fine. No taste, no gagging, no face-to-face contact, it was almost anonymous. Perhaps that's precisely why I prefer to give oral? Looking down I can see what a more coy and evasive writer might call my own rampant member staring pointedly back at me, directly towards my face, its usual dusky-rose hue reddening with excitement, a drop of pre-cum oozing from the piss-slit. It's obviously enjoying what's being done to me. Beyond that I can see Wolfie's own balls hanging freely behind mine. It looks so bizarre. I feel beads of sweat trickling down my back. I brace myself, he slides back about half-way out, holds, then eases in as far as he can go.

For the first and only time he says "You alright?"

I feel weak, trembling, my heart-rate racing. I gasp out "Don't stop, don't stop."

The words come before the thought. I don't know where they come from. Not logic or reason, some gut-deep primal place in my psyche. He begins to pump back and forth, his body slapping up into me audibly. I'm gasping hard like a skewered animal, as though each deep stroke is ramming the air up out of me. I catch a glimpse of leering Dread watching wide-eyed from the door, but the more he fucks me, the more I get turned on. I count each thrust that makes my own genitals jerk, flip and bounce, until I lose count.

I close my eyes as it goes on, his testicles swaying and slapping up against my tender scrotum as our bodies come together at the peak of maximum penetration. It was exciting, how could such an intimate invasion be anything else? And I'm doing my best to stifle the rhythmic grunts as it forces my breath up into my throat. Panting the way only teenage hormonal lust pants, sweat in my eyes. Unconsciously I'm cupping my thighs back the better to receive him. Until the wonderful soft pulsing begins, fireworks detonating in the deepest recesses of my gut, and he's gushing hot fluid - or to be more accurate, we're both coming.

Some say taking it up the ass feminises you, that it's a demeaning way of unmanning and emasculating you, that planting his seed deep in the convulsions of your intestines is an act of claiming you as property. Well, maybe all that's true. But I'm in no state for thinking. After some time he withdraws so sharply that pulling out leaving me with the disturbing sensation that I'm passing a turd, with the petroleum-jelly tang of hot churned Vaseline. He glances down at the ejaculate-streams on my gut and pubic hair as I unsteadily try getting to my feet.

"You messy sod" he jeers. "Don't you have any self-control?"

He's demonstratively wiping himself clean on my discarded y-fronts. I smile weakly, getting my breath back, after what he's just subjected me to - it's a joke, right? For the rest of the day I can feel the lingering tingle in my ass, a smug secret reminder of the new intimacy I've been initiated into. I'm afraid my bum will never be the same again, that it'll never return to its pre-fucked condition. I know Dread was watching, that he shares the secret, and that his curiosity may well have been piqued. He might try it on with me. I bleakly accept that if he does, then it will happen. And he would fuck me too. But he must be too scared of arousing Wolfie's ire. The situation never arises.

I've always been wary when someone uses 'bastard' as a swear-word. After all, that's what I am. After this, when I hear anyone using 'bugger' as a swear-word, it won't be quite the same again. Because I'm that too. He'd enjoyed it enough to repeat the experience at intervals, alternating mouth and anus as the mood takes him. And bleakly I accept anal as just another condition of my protection.

Perhaps he saw it as a game, perhaps it amuses him to see just how far he can push my limits? Perhaps it was his intention to deliberately shove me to the point at which I'd recoil, refuse, resist? If so, I never give him that satisfaction. Some might think that what I was subjected to during those months was more extreme than what would have happened had I not been 'bonded', and just took my chances. I never saw it that way. Never. My only imperative was that it was absolutely necessary to have, and keep, a protector. And I was terrified of losing that protection. I'd been with Wolfie a while now. Would he tire of me?

Once, jokingly, Ian told me he'd seen Wolfie talking secretively to a younger guy. They were whispering together. What could they have been talking about? Were they setting up some kind of meeting for furtive sex? Ian was playful, he was teasing me, but I was worried. Wolfie is a strong guy. People respect him. As a protector, he's invaluable. The younger guy might have designs on him. What can I do? Absurdly, I was jealous. I can't afford to lose him. Come to think of it, he's not called for me during daylight hours for a straight blow-job for some time... how long? Days?... even longer, several days. Perhaps he's tiring of me? Maybe the novelty of having me do it to him is wearing off? What if he's got someone else sucking it for him? This sneaky new kid in town...? The thing is, even though he might now need daytime sex infrequently, my mouth needs cock in it, frequently.

Despite Ian's protestations I move away and begin to search the building, walking the halls and passages looking for Wolfie, desperate to reassure myself of my status. Eventually I locate him in the corridor by the gym. He's alone. I seldom approach him, that isn't our way. He demands me, or not at all. Instead I just hang around, glancing shyly across at him. Eventually he notices me and comes across.

"What do you want?"

"You know what I want, Wolfie."

In my head I've rehearsed what I was going to say. About how yes, I know I'm going to be sucking you off tonight. I know and accept that. But tonight seems such a long way away. And the more I think about it, the more I can't wait. I've got a hard-on just thinking about doing it. I want to suck it now, if that's alright, Wolfie? Please. I want to suck your cock now. I want to feel its thickness pulsing in my mouth. I want to taste the spunk spurting like liquid sin into my greedy mouth. I want to say all that. But instead my throat is dry. I'm struck dumb.

"Me? No, how the hell am I supposed to know what you want?" he teases dismissively.

I gulp self-consciously, but I have to go through with it, to set my mind at rest. "I want to, y'know, do the thing we do."

He smirks, as though realising what I mean but intent on playing me along. "No, tell me. If you wanna suck me off you got to ask me properly."

"Yes, I want to, y'know... I want to suck you, to suck your cock, please. I want to do it now, please."

He laughs cruelly. "You dirty slut."

He turns and goes into the gym. I follow him. It was empty. I pace behind him into the silence of the changing room.

"You really want to do this now, you want to suck me off?"

"Yes Wolfie, please."

He drops his pants casually, sits down on the bench and splays his legs, granting me access to it. Eagerly I push my own pants down, to prove to him that I'm already hard. This is my chance to show him just how much better I can be than any new kid. I've got to win him all over again. To show him just how good I can do it. I crouch down. Seeing it in the half-light of the dorm is not like seeing it in full naked daylight. Its raw beautiful ugliness still takes my breath away. It's still scary, even though it's sundered my mouth so many times. I feel humbled and inadequate all over again confronted by its bestial arrogant power.

"Thanks Wolfie."

Licking his low-hung balls, first one then slurping at the other, then tracing the long path all the way up the veiny shaft of his cock to the fat flared crown. I look up at him, infatuated by it, then devour him inch by delicious inch. I give him the best blow-job I'm capable of giving, working hard, wanking myself slowly and luxuriously as I do so. I use little tongue-lapping caressing motions, lips and the slightest teeth pressure, then plunging it deep into my throat, all the sexy tricks I've learned from Ian, and practised on Dean.

Licking my way up around the ridge of his fat glans, tracing the groove that oozes beads of pre-cum, then sinking it all the way into my windpipe so far I can scarce breathe. But holding it there as long as I dare. Then sucking it so hard it must be taking his breath away. When it twitches it jars my jaw, a muscular spasm so powerful it raises my head. It's intoxicating, the blood-rush roar in my ears surging.

Half-way through I hear footfall behind us. I'm scared, but more scared of breaking off. So I just concentrate all the harder.

"Hi Wolfie, you alright?" I hear the voice, but can't see the speaker. All I see is Wolfie's undulating gut.

"Sure, never better."

There's a pause. "Is this the young cock-sucker you were telling me about? Is he any good?"
"He's OK, he'll do" says Wolfie.

It's almost at that moment I orgasm, pumping my spunk out in long jets across the floor. Moments later, when he finally ejaculates into my mouth I feel overjoyed, my mind yelling 'yes, yes, spurt it into me, yes, gulp, again, again, more, fill my mouth, I can take it, gimmie more, slurp, gulp, gulp.' I was vindicated. I'd proved myself. Swallowing it down sets my mind at ease, I have the warm reassurance of his spunk in my gut. I was safe. This cock is my property. No-one else gets to suck it off like I do, I've earned the right. From now on I'm keeping it regularly well-sucked, I'll keep him so drained of spunk he'll have none left to feed to anyone else. I'm almost laughing inside at my cunning, my cleverness. But I'm still scared to stand up. Shy of seeing the other guy. So I stay down with his cock in my mouth for as long as I can. Until he shoves my head away. My knees are sore from crouching. The other guy, whoever he was, has gone.

wipe my mouth, forcing myself to speak. "Thanks Wolfie, I really love it when you cum in my mouth," steeling myself to say the words, even though I'd said much the same to Dean.

He laughs, not too cruelly. "Wipe up your dirt before you go."

I smile with a kind of defiant pride, pulling my pants back up slowly so he has every opportunity to notice I'm still erect, and wiping my pool of sperm up with a grubby handkerchief as he watches. I breathe easy as he walks away.

Everything that has happened occurred within a stratified structure that I understand, and feel protected by. To me, I've effectively been relieved of the complexity of choice. I no longer have the troubling responsibility of making decisions, I've surrendered all of that to him. Which has the result of leaving me liberated. Life is simpler. There's something reassuring about the regimented life of having everything planned out for you. Choice and decisions are no longer my concern. He does all that for me. No part of what I do is down to me. I wasn't doing it for me. Nothing I was doing was due to my nature or to my taste. I was not to blame. I was doing what I had to do to survive. He's taken over those aspects of my life, and I was reconciled to it. I'd become totally biddable. I'd become numbed - like 'Roderick Random', I'd lost the will to escape, forgotten everything else, and obediently accept my new role.

If I'd once naively imagined that Ian's lurid tales of the humiliation of 'Frenchie' had been exaggerated, then here I am, submitting to exactly the same treatment without qualm. Will I ever be talked about like the legendary Frenchie? Once I've left here will they talk about my erotic exploits in the same hushed tones that they use to talk about Frenchie? There was the story about when his protector was strapped for cash, he sat Frenchie in the end cubicle of the toilets - the one still referred to as Frenchie's throne, and then charged a queue of guys 50p each to go in one at a time for a blow-job suck-athon. When the queue was done the Protector went out into the corridor and the day-room to harass and intimidate others to go down and use him. When some seem reluctant he haggles, reduces the fee down to 30p, then 20p.

Some say he placed a paper-bag over Frenchie's head to protect his anonymity, with just eye-holes and a mouth-hole for access, but that after a while the lower part of the bag got so sodden with spunk and drool that it disintegrated. I listen with fascinated horror and contrived grimaces of disgust. How much cash did the protector need to raise? How many 50p's was that? Could I believe that such tales are true, or even that Frenchie had existed beyond urban legend? But there's no legend without some kind of substance. Legends don't always lie. This place is full of intrigue and untold stories, secrets never to be whispered, of fear and humiliation, loneliness and unlikely friendships, perverted delights, excess, and maybe even love.

It would be wonderful to be in a position to tell them all. But they will remain silent, all but mine. Can I become a similar legend? I guess this manuscript makes that possibility more likely. Meanwhile, my imagination takes me to increasingly outrageous places. And, in fact, it's the only way to escape these confining walls, if only for brief intense moments of fantasy. I've always enjoyed a rich world of daydreams, as the fact I'm even writing this stuff down surely indicates. But now it's taking a more sexually-charged, more focused form. Sometimes stupid stuff of the Roderick Random porno-variety, or else conjecturing what I'll do once I'm out of this madhouse.

New scenarios I've never envisaged before. My mind idly moving into new realms of possibilities. New tomorrows. Developing what I'm doing here, into the future, only with rich older men instead of 'protectors'. As though this is more than just an obscene necessity forced on me by the intolerable situation I find myself having to deal with, but more a vocationary training, a preparation for a future way of life. Sometimes involving Ian, sometimes not. Or else just me, contriving to meet up with some wealthy indulgent gay guy, who appreciates what I can do for him. He provides the open wallet, I provide the open mouth for his dick. A mutually beneficial arrangement.

And we sail away together on his yacht. Away from here. Away from this relentless drabness. With me as his kept man, his toy-boy, his boy-toy, his sex-toy, his fun-bunny, sunbathing nude on deck for the prurient benefit of my generous benefactor, as he gratefully watches me. My pale and scrawny body healing, nourishing, reinvigorating and re-energising, a slow-tan bringing colour back to my limbs after these long months of cruel incarceration. I deserve it.

Close my eyes, I can feel the warm sun caressing the sprawled contours of my bare body, hear the lapping of waves up against the ship. I'd scarcely need to bother with clothes at all, giving him leisurely head as we cruise the Med. Maybe, at his instruction, having sex with his guests too, one by one in his private cabin when he berths at Monte Carlo to host extravagant parties. I can do that. I'll be so good I'll make him proud. After the things that have happened to me here, it'll present no problem. After the things that have happened to me here, it'll be too easy. My life here is a rehearsal. All I need is the connection. Uncomfortably aware that in this route to escapism I'm now thinking of sex as a negotiable commodity. A life-style...

*****

Look Out For The Next Chapter -

Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 05: Bryan

by

Tristan Trotsky

cock-sucker testimony

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