Cock-Sucker: The 7.5

I serve them salad in white ceramic dishes. Without dressing.

Magister Vance reaches out to the clasp of the short pleated white kirtle I'm wearing. He waits, allowing my refusal as protocol demands, for everything here is done through humility and consent. Naturally, as etiquette dictates, I allow his hands free rein. He unclasps the belt, and I inhale, holding my tense stomach in, as the garment falls away, leaving me naked. He smiles across the table to where Meister Ashton sits, and reaches out to fondle my balls. My heart jumps a little, although my self-control strives my body not to betray a tremor. My veiny sallow member starts to climb up my belly in slow response, as he shifts his intimate attention to caress that most sensitive sweet-point on its underside where the shaft meets the bulbous head, using fingertips, then the feather-touch brush of the heel of his fingers. His grip encircles me, I'm alive in his hand, which is now holding me so firmly and pumping up and down my length, quickening the tempo, the jellied roundness of my testicle-sack dancing, until my cock begins quivering from the inside out, whereupon he deftly directs it down so that as it spurts, its sticky sauce of buttermilk sprays across the green tendrils of salad in his dish.

As the final pulse subsides Vance wipes the leaking cock-tip carefully with a serviette, then lifts a green strand, anointed with my dribbling semen, between thumb and forefinger, and nibbles at it critically. Then he swallows it. And smiles up at me, 'thank you.' I'm relieved by his evident approval, for I'm a little in awe of this donnish fellow with his honey-coloured skin and amber eyes, his disarming combination of poise and articulacy.

I stand there, a little unsure. 'Should I dress now, Magister?'

He glances across to Ashton. 'I think not. We prefer you in the state of nature. Is that not so?'

Ashton nods his approval. 'He'll never qualify for the 7.5, but the boy has a pleasing package.'

So, with the question resolved, I continue attending to their requirements nude. But the incident has significance in that this was the first time I'd encountered the term 'the 7.5', and the reference intrigued my attention. Their conversation continues, back and forth, over the meal. I wasn't really paying attention, something about the number of planets inside the orbit of our world, those which had been devoured by the expanding solar mass. Had one, or maybe two bodies been incinerated...? Mercury and Titan? They are learned men. Their knowledge of myth and history is extensive. Their dialogue is fascinating, but much of it goes beyond my understanding.

Finally I'm dismissed. Thanking them, I retrieve my kirtle and tiptoe from their suite discretely, leaving them to their debate. Heading back for our room I pause on the piazza balcony. The air is soft with the season. There's a white accumulation of bird-shit on the balustrade. Blossoms stand on tall purple stalks lined up in the dirt-pots just outside. And beyond it, the huge pale dome of the sun eclipses half of the sky, the daytime stars glimmering in the surrounding twilight. No matter how many times I take the view from here, it's never less than inspiring. The mauve undulations of sand stretching away from our perch all the way to the horizon. The Foundation is embedded into the lower slopes of the mountainside, it has four floors, each with extensive meditation garden and cloisters. Its segmented roof made up of interlinked sections overlapping like glimmering lizard-scales. Glancing up and back are the white towers where, they say, occasional sky-ships used to berth, their sails and pennants billowing in the updraft thermals of the terminator from day to night. There have been no sky-ships for at least a hundred years or more, the empty towers provide roosting-space for black bats, but I can see in my imagination the way those fantastic galleon must have ridden the shimmers of air.

Somewhere way across the vast wastes of sun-parched desert and sunken lands, sundered away by gulfs of time and stranger dimensions, there must still be shoreline cities around the Pacific lake. Although I've never seen them. I've heard tell the stories of other human genders, races and species that walk those distant streets and mazy-alleyways. I've seen colour-plates in books, tapestries and flickering screen-images, but it's difficult to tease out truth from pleasing fantasy. Like Vance and Ashton in their saffron house-robes discussing extinct planets. I tarry for longer that I should, before heading back to the room we share, walking with soft tread so as not to disturb the ghosts of the thousand generations who have lived here before us. The last pure spikes of daylight streaming in.

Cujel is waiting there, already undressed, and we embrace. His compact torso glistening beneath the touch of my fingers. His corn-silk hair falling in around his face, shadowing his expression, but the feel of his hand's journey up my leg in agonisingly delicious progress tells me all I need to know. My nostrils detect the faint aroma of the oil-polish on the four gleaming bed-posts as we recline together, skin to skin. My heart beating faster as the sex-heat of our bare bodies increases.

The scent and texture of the hot flesh of his penis in its wild bush of pubic colour, its hue and stirring dimensions, as I kiss and caress it. The soft feathery touch of my lips on his shaft leaves it moistly-warm, its taste absorbing up through the roof of my mouth as I draw my lips along its full length until I feel its head probing at my throat-entrance. Drawing back, pausing just below the perfect glans, pressing my lips around the familiar contours of his cock, sucking the fold of loose foreskin, sliding my lips slowly up and down. Detecting the soft moan of his escaping pleasure. Then sliding my lips all the way back down into the nest of soft hair, my lips caressing the base. Both of us responding in convulsions of flushes and palpitations. His mouth is on me where my cock is bobbing uncertainly, drawing it nimble-tongued within the clasp of his thin pale lips. Pleasurable sensations shocking up from my groin to storm my brain. We squirm in together, sucking each other in a passionate frenzy, riding mutual waves of pleasure. Then, too soon, but eagerly appreciated, we drink the spurt of each other's bodily secretions.

Since we both turned eighteen and graduated to become free to choose, it's the fourth month of our pair-bonding. Some bonds endure for intense, torrid and erotically-charged weeks, but no longer. Others – like Vance and Ashton, endure a lifetime. Given man's proclivity to seek variety and novelty, few are exclusive. Man will plant his promiscuous dart and spray his seed wherever and whenever he can. It was ever thus. But still, every time together with Cujel is special.

It's only later as we lie together, perspiration cooling on our skins, the rich taste of his semen cloying in my mouth, that I ask 'Cujel, have you ever heard of the 7.5?'

'What do you mean? What have you heard?' He reaches down to flick the flaccid head of my cock with his tongue.

I groan appreciatively. 'Nothing really. Just that Meister Ashton said something about it while I served them. I don't understand what he meant.'

'I've heard something. Not a lot, and most of it rumour, unsubstantiated. It's a secret society within the Foundation. One that has been passed down through centuries. A biological elite, the defining qualification determined by penis size, 7.5... you see?'

'Can that be true? Does that make sense?' I nuzzle my head forward into his groin, drawing the full length of his cock back into my mouth, mentally ascertaining its dimensions.

He shrugs. 'Because we are cloned and grown from the DNA of preceding generations it stands to reason there will be recurring physical echoes.' His blue, deep deep blue eyes are keen with sharp intelligence.

All across the Foundation, the lights are burning low. Although it is now late evening, the sky is still faint-blushed with solar fire. From the wall-window of our room I see the moon, its surface-features circled with chlorophyll green as if kohl around a boy's eyes. It hangs low above the horizon-rim, while the more distant, but brighter ice-moon gleams like a more malevolent eye. It's a black-and-white graphic night. Cujel raises himself on one elbow as I gently fellate him. 'They say the ice-moon hurtled in towards the world from the darkest outer solar system, but that human science reached out and turned its path into a safe orbit, to illuminate our night. That was a million years ago. Would we be capable of performing such a feat now? Would we...?'

I lift my head momentarily, his moist glans resting on my lower lip. 'We have records. We have data. The science is here, in our library archives.' I'm slightly annoyed by his distraction, surely what I'm doing to his newly re-stiffening cock should drive all other thoughts from his mind?

He lies back despondently, as though his beautiful sad eyes are shadowed by doubt. His deep introspections take him places I can never reach, he's grasping for indistinct things I cannot even conceive of. 'But we no longer understand. We are the Erastes, while the Magisters and Miesters are our Eronemos. We study here, they teach us, we learn of equilibrium at the Foundation, of humility to each other, and to respect the energies of the realm in which we exist. That we must accept that which cannot be changed or averted. That we must value the compensatory delights we bestow on each other's bodies. But we do little else. With lenses we can see the green forest-world of Mars, we see Venus with its dense clouds of water-vapour. They all revolve along the same orbital path as Earth and Moon. Some say that, in itself is artificial, an arrangement resulting from scientific intervention by some ancient civilisation. Do people still live out there on the other worlds...? Or are we alone? History is at an end. If this world survives for another year, before the sun swallows us as a boy swallows sperm, as some scholars predict, or if it lasts a million years, as others claim, will there still be people here to care?'

I am a creature of now. My thoughts cannot follow his through the misty yearnings of yester-ages gone forever. But I can share the delights of his body. Feeling intellectually shallow, I try to return his thoughts to more immediate preoccupations, biting down softly on the fleshy bulb of his cock. It squirms in response and leaks a single milky-white tear. I drink it. Tasting all the essence of him I can reach. 'All that concerns me is the two of us here now. We are bound to each other. Me and you. I care for nothing more.' Then, with teasing humour, 'although I'd very much like to serve the 7.5.'

'Am I not enough for you?' with a playful petulance.

'You know it's not about that. It's about curiosity. It's about testing out my limits. It's about sex-games. It's nothing more.'

'Of course, I understand...'

--- 0 ---

It is three days later that Calgan approaches me as I leave our room. He's maybe a year older than we are, a little portly. And although I have no grounds to make judgement, I do not trust his obsequious manner. 'It is said you've been enquiring about the 7.5?' he hisses beneath his breath.

'Who says these things?'

'Cujel has been asking, on your behalf.'

'So what is it you have to tell me?'

'I know of the 7.5. I know who they are. I know what they do.'

'Sure you do. So tell.'

'There are six of them. They meet in conclave once a month for mutual pleasuring. I know that. Oft times, they select a compliant boy to be the instrument of their pleasure during the conclave. This I also know. I know this because I was once chosen. You could be that too, if you wanted.'

'If I do want, what must I do?'

'Why should I tell? What inducement can you offer?'

'I ask in humility. I ask as a courtesy, wishing only to serve.'

He laughs unpleasantly. 'Two days. Be here at this time, two days hence. And be prepared to do just that, right?

I nod. 'Thank you, Calgan.' My emotions are in turmoil. The days crawl past. I attend my seminaries and tutorials, I serve my designated Eronemos, I sleep beside Cujel, within the reassuring warmth of his embrace, but my thoughts are leaping ahead to what Calgan promises. Once planted there, the ideas run riot in my imagination. With Cujel there is tenderness, affection and compassion. With the 7.5 it will be pure engorged raw sex. Six men with huge cocks needing my continual sensual attention. Can I meet their demands? Sometimes, even what you most urgently lust for can be scary. My dreams are wild. I have spontaneous erections at inconvenient times of the day, purely due to the fug of expectation of what is to happen. At the pre-arranged time I am there, restlessly waiting for him. Hurry, hurry, my patience can't endure much longer. Yet he makes me wait, before eventually he sidles up.

'You are still desirous of going ahead with this?' he smiles.

'Yes. Yes, it is what I want.'

'You understand fully what it entails. There are six members of the 7.5. As their instrument it will be your place to pleasure each of them as and when they desire across the space of time you serve them. You will suck each of them off. You will be fucked by them, as many times, and in whatever combinations they decide. You accept this?'

'I do. I do accept this. It is what I want.'

'Good. So I will lead you to them. You must be naked, this is a precondition. And to ensure the security of their secret, you must be blindfold.'

I swallow. A germ of suspicion gnawing at the edge of my mind. Can I trust this man? Why would the 7.5 choose someone like him to select their next submissive? Can what he says be true? Will I be hurt? But the strength of my need drowns out the voice of caution. I must take my chance. I undress as he watches. We are standing in the entrance-alcove to the room I share with Cujel. But public nudity is hardly uncommon, the young in particular enjoy flaunting and being admired. Yet I feel self-conscious under his gaze. He licks his lips in an unpleasantly lascivious fashion as I stand before him naked. Obviously enjoying my discomfort.

'Do you think they will like me?' I ask, for the sake of saying something.

'Who? – oh yes, the 7.5. Hmmm, they prefer their boys to be a little better-hung than you are. But I'm sure you have skills to compensate for that lack, eh?' He rests his hand on my hip. His touch is sweaty. His fingers move around to cup the rounded curve of my bottom. His index finger traces its way down to the orifice I'd already lubricated, ready, and it slips inside. He's testing me. I control myself so as not to react.

He grunts and abruptly extracts his finger. 'Cross your arms behind your back.' I do as he says, and he uses a leather harness to secure me there so that my arms are pinioned behind me, then he extends an affixed cap up and over my head so he can pull it down over my eyes. There is a raised section that fits snugly around my nose, and straps that fasten it firmly around my ears. I accept this restraint. Then I feel his fingers on my genitals, and steel myself not to flinch as he roughly tugs and squeezes. He is attaching a leash around the base of my penis and my scrotal sack, which he then uses to lead me. He pulls at the leash with a low dirty laugh, jerking me forward, and I have no choice but to follow its persistent guidance.

He leads me by the genital leash. I swiftly lose orientation. I'm unable to tell in which direction we're going. My bare feet trace the floor-tiles with a soft slap-slap which echoes back from the walls. The tightness of the mask is restricting and unpleasant, but I endure it for the sake of the promised rewards. We seem to be walking for some time before we arrive at some point where he pauses me. I stand absolutely still, and wait. Although I'm unable to see, my senses alert me, we are not alone. There are others. My heart is pounding in my chest.

'You will kneel.' I kneel.

'Open your mouth.' I open my mouth, only to feel a firm insistent pressure against my lower lip, the familiar texture of cock-head. I draw it reverently in, and suck what is now hard up against the palette of my mouth. It tastes sour and urgent as my mouth locks in around it and I begin sucking more urgently. It is big. It fills my mouth. But not to the extent I had been led to believe. Even as I use all the oral skills I can bring to bear from my repertoire of technique, there are crawling doubts. This is not 7.5.

Then, as I work at the penis lodged in my throat, there are fingers fiddling at the fastenings of the hood blindfolding me. It comes loose and is pulled back, sliding up and over my head. I can see, temporarily blinded by the light. I can see his gut immediately in front of me as I suck. The fat low-hung balls beneath. But it is not what I expect. Who is it I'm fellating? Calgan! He's standing there, legs spread, hips thrust forward, with a leering expression on his face. And we're not in some secret enclave in a forbidden annexe of the Foundation. No, we're in the cloister, with some half-dozen others sitting around watching my public humiliation. There's an instant uproar of mocking laughter and ridicule, some of them throw pistachio-shells at me which sting when they hit my bare skin. I'm crouched there with Calgan's cock deep in my mouth, he's tricked me.

He holds my head and fucks deep into me. With my arms fixed behind me, I'm unable to control the forceful penetration. At the same moment his ejaculation explodes in the deepest recesses of my throat, and my mouth is awash with his semen. He shouts out his exultation as his audience claps its ragged applause and I gulp it down. I struggle to my feet in an agony of embarrassed humiliation, my arms coming loose as the hood falls away. I see nothing but a blur of tears as I retreat away into the shadows, back into the enclosing corridors. Humility. All in humility. But what of consent? He fooled me. I was duped. It's not as though such subterfuge was even necessary. I might have agreed to sex with him anyway had he approached me in the usual manner, but obviously for him duplicity was an integral part of the adventure. And I was too trusting not to have seen through his beguiling lies.

I discover that where I'm standing, feeling sorry for myself, there are tapestries filling the full length of the wall. I force my attention away from what has just transpired, as a displacement activity, an avoidance technique so as not to dwell on my bitter disappointment, and trace the intricate needlework instead. It portrays images I can only recognise from dream, from illustrations in books, from the fantastic histories that so intrigue Cujel. Trees in such profusion that they flood down the slopes of hills in a green tide to shimmering lakes of clear water, where human-like figures of mythology cavort. In places the images are faded, betraying their great antiquity, but it's still possible to discern magical cities of strange devices, towering walking machines and things that flit among the towers. The sun was smaller then. There was but one moon. The planets more distant than they are today. Was the world ever truly like this?

I am a creature of the senses, I feel comfortable with what I can feel, touch and taste. I trust to the sensations of my body. Which is why there is a gulf I can never bridge to the places where Cujel goes in his head. He goes to these fantastical places. Through the millions of years of past changes, through time-lost cities, empires and cultures, through histories of pandemic plagues, famines, warfare and mass extinctions followed by the slow crawl back, to new civilisations that reach out and brush the nearer worlds of space, altering and humanising them, before retreating back to centuries of decline, decadence and isolation. The eternal cycles of the human story in all its multitude of millennia. For a moment I can almost grasp something of the wonder that he must feel...