Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 03

'So you may suck my cock.'

I obediently reach down to unfasten his belt and shoot his zip. He's already rearing impressively hard, reminding me exactly what it is I'm attracted to. As my head goes down he says 'while you're doing that I'll tell you what we're going to do'.

I slide my lips over the ridged membrane of the fat bulbous head and begin sucking, content for him to talk and plan all he wants, so long as I can do this. 'Each hour, on the hour, you will suck my cock for a full five minutes, not a moment more, not a moment less, understand? For the duration of that time period it will not leave your mouth under any circumstances whatsoever'.

He moves my hair aside so he can see better as I suck harder. He reaches into the glove-compartment, produces a compact camera, and frames me with my mouth full, and I must present a truly debauched image to his lens as the flash ignites, I'm both amused by and horrified by the man's arrogance. His assumption that there's no question about my doing his bidding in this bizarre experiment.

'Should I decide ejaculation will occur then you will be permitted to continue beyond that five minutes, if not, once completed you'll merely say 'merci', and desist. You will indicate full acceptance of these conditions.'

For a moment I reluctantly release his cock, 'yes sir, thank you sir' I play along, 'and will ejaculation occur now?'

He sighs irritably, 'I do believe it will, yes, nature will take its course. You may resume.'

I resume, with some enthusiasm, fucking his cock with my mouth, until he fills me. After that the strange ritual continues. We visit an art gallery, and at 11o'clock we take advantage of the toilets where I dutifully suck his cock for the allotted span as he times me. I assumed, once I'd begun, once it's safely in the warm liquid moistness of my wet and welcoming mouth, he'll forget the silly game. But no, reluctantly I desist as he gestures me to stop. At midday we visit a riverside restaurant where he orders for us.

I'm scared to ask the question, dreading the answer. 'What is Franz like?'

'Franz was a pleasing distraction, nothing more. He lacked stamina.'

My relief must have been obvious. In other words... Franz had lasted one night, and hadn't measured up. I feel oddly emotional, realising how lucky I am. It was ten days now since he'd fed me that first shattering mouth-fuck, and he's still using me. I feel the need to thank him, to express how grateful I am.

'You have other boys?'

'Don't get above your station' he cautions, 'you're far from the first, you won't be the last. With a golden dick like mine, they've been competing for my attentions since my schooldays. There's always eager new boys trying to get into my pants.'

'Yes, I can understand that.'

I wonder, am I cheapening myself accepting this situation? Hell, I couldn't make myself any more cheap. Between courses, on the hour, we retire to the toilets for another precise five minutes. I can hear the sound of the diners coming through the adjoining wall, their clatter and muffled conversation, as I feast on another kind of meat, suck-suck-suck-sucking. He takes another photo of me crouching, head rammed in his groin, then again I feel cheated as I have to leave off. By now I realise I'm his total cum-slut, I want it more than he does. Thoughts of male sex obsess me.

Later we go down into a copse of trees beside the river where I go down on him again. In this pastoral grove, the breeze shuffling foliage overhead, the low swirl of nearby water, the drone of flittering insects, this is phallus-worship in its most natural, most primal setting. His swollen gonads seething with seed, the very stuff of life raw and fecund with earthy energies, and I'm submitting to the dominant male as the weak have done to the strong since the Cro-Magnon dawn of time, feeding on his virility like a man with a god-sized hunger. We should be raw naked, as in a primitive tribal ritual. This is my natural place in the order of things. You could say there's nothing Darwinian in this debasing gay blow-job, an arrogant exploiter taking advantage of my silly slavish gullibility, but as I suck him, it doesn't feel that way. It seems timelessly right. I was giddy with lust.

He snaps a photo -- then it was snatched away. 'C'mon, don't he greedy' he chides, as I pout my best hurt petulant sulk.

This continued coitus-interruptus is a deliberately teasing form of mind-control, in that my frustration and deferred climax becomes part of his game. In the evening we visit a gay club. I was nervous to discover it was the 'Green Carnation', wary of encountering Luis or any of my previous clients. The tiny stage where I'd been 'prize' is occupied by a dancer made up like something from a Diaghilev production, making balletic exaggerated moves in a tiny cache-sex. It takes years of rehearsal to get that good, to become that supple. I'm disappointed that when, with a flourish, he poses nude, he's limp and unimpressively endowed. He might be talented, he might even be classically-trained, he could dance like Nijinsky or Nureyev, but if he's hung like a mouse I'm not really interested.

I visit the gents, take a piss and then, as I'm turning around, feel myself suddenly alarmingly seized. I glance up.

He's grinning at me. 'Hi, remember me?'

At first no, I don't. A lot's happened. Then, yes. 'Mr Undershaft.'

It's his turn to look confused, until he remembers the alias he'd assumed for the lottery. 'You here with a client?'

'No, I don't do that anymore.'

'A partner, maybe?' I nod.

'Pity, we could have had fun, you owe me, remember?'

He reaches out and traces the shape of my cock which still hangs lazily from my pants. He has a point, we never completed. When his fingers start closing around my shaft, I don't attempt to stop him, just allow him to begin a slow wanking motion up and down. It feels unexpectedly good. The cisterns are hissing, water swirling with a blue disinfectant odour. I wish he'd chosen somewhere less public, or at least backed us off into one of the cubicles, but all the teasing I've endured today has me fired up. Encouraged he extracts his own fat stubby cock and presses it up against my longer firmer one, squeezing them both together in his fist.

His closeness is uncomfortable. His face so near I smell his breath. But he's wanking both cocks together, and I nip my lower lip in response. An ageing queen passing by, his obviously-tinted hair coiffed extravagantly, seeing what we're doing he smiles indulgently.

His wistful expression says so much, 'enjoy yourselves while you can, boys, that once was me.'

I've been on edge all day, in a state of constant arousal. It doesn't take long. Suddenly I'm jetting sperm all over his fingers and cock. 'Yeah!' he leers and begins using it as a slick-lubricant on himself. The odd interludes has eased and siphoned off some of the head of erotic energy that's been building dangerously within me. Released the escape-valve. And as he's now so self-involved I wipe, tuck mine away and return, a little flushed, to Bruno.

He's watching the floor-show. I sit beside him, docile, remembering things I've done in this place. Things I'm not necessarily proud of. Under electric candlelight there are alcoves around the wall which provide the patrons a little secrecy. I was there with one client. He drapes a serviette over his groin, unfastens his fly beneath it, and every now and then I'm induced to dip my head down below the table-rim and suck him. This game goes on for some time, until he ejaculates in my mouth. At least an hour later I return to Luis in the car-park. He laughs and flips the vanity-mirror down. In its reflection I can see blobs of sperm on my cheek, which have been there for all to see. I shiver at the memory.

But I need some of that man-milk now. I ache for it. It was approaching the hour. I have to remind Bruno. He seems irritable at having to indulge me, but breaks off from watching the exotic floor-show, and we return to the car-park where he flips his cock out in the car and I obediently go down. The moon a stone's throw above us. After a few moments he sees some friends passing, horizontals down the window, and calls them across, talking casually and joking with them over my head. I feel confused and shy, hot and bothered, keeping my head down, literally, to hide my face.

After some time they became aware something is going on.

'I'm just getting me some head' Bruno admits, inching the door open sufficient for them to see.

I cringe and stay down, burrowing deeper into his groin.

They're laughing and whooping -- 'me next,' 'wow, look at him go. Don't choke the dirty little fucker' and 'come up and say hello to us.'

For a moment I'm certain Bruno is going to pass me around, and I'll have to service them all. After all, he'd offered me to Franz. And if he does, what else can I do? I'm incapable of refusing him. Refusal is not an option I dare consider, I'm in no position to refuse. In my mind I am totally his property, if he tells me to I'll take them on one at a time, or together, and do them all. I'm that far under his mental control. That's what I do when I consider myself owned. It's absolute. I'm compelled to do his bidding, or lose him. But after a while they get bored and drift off.

I feel odd. I've been observed sucking cock before, of course. Hell, I'd even done that at college, and probably earlier than that. How could this be different? After all, me, I'm the slut without morals or shame, aren't I? But all such thoughts are crowded out once we're back at his apartment. Without even being told, I strip naked and immediately crouch ready, he stands over me still dressed, shifting my erection from side to side with the toe of his expensive hand-stitched Italian shoe, applying pressure to my balls until I gasp, but do not protest. Determined to refuse him nothing. He stands back observing me coolly, then slowly undresses.

He's in no hurry, the urgency is mine. Then he stands with it forming a long immaculate horizontal curve less than a handspan from my nose, that strong commanding cruel demanding never-ending cock, yet he makes me wait. I'm already quiveringly close to orgasm myself purely through suspense and anticipation. Fascinated by the tiny bead of pre-come moisture forming in the eye of its hooded heart-shaped arrowhead, which I'm forbidden to lap. The nectar-drop seeping to fill the slit, oozing through the urethral opening, until the welling fluid overflows to trickle down the underside of the glans.

'You want it, don't you?'

'Yes please, I want it more than anything.'

Bruno's countdown seems to extend endlessly, it takes every ounce of self-control not to pounce and gobble on it. Instead he taunts me, feints it towards me so I gape and move to receive it, then he moves it away, he angles it left and then right, my head following it stupidly as though invisibly connected to it by magnetic lines of force, he runs its messy tip down my nose leaving a slime-trail, then orbits the outer circle of my mouth, when I try to enclose it he sways it so it slaps up against my cheek with an audible thwacking sound and a stinging sensation.

'Wait. I didn't grant permission...'

I'm left there, mouth gaping stupidly open. 'I'm sorry.'

If his leering arrogant intention was to humiliate me, he failed. I've lost all sense of shame. I've been reduced to a slavering slobbering pile of fucked-up devotion. I have this compulsive-obsessive aspect that allows me to single-mindedly ignore everything else out of existence.

He laughs, 'are you ready for it?'

'Yes please, let me suck it, give me a big mouthful of come.'

Before... at last, at a single-word 'now', I'm allowed to lunge at it and indulge myself. 'Go on, feast.'

By now I'm hypnotised by it, aching for it. I'd been patient, now my patience was done. And it's a slithering python sliding down my throat. This time, as he uses his camera, I make sure I'm not cheated of my reward, I've worked for it, I deserve it, he'd have needed to crowbar it out of my mouth. When his come starts bursting in my mouth it's as though I've beaten him at his own game, blissfully smug with my spermy victory. I'm down there so long that crouching cuts off the circulation to my ankles, so that when I eventually came up, even though I'm standing a little unsteadily, I'm licking my lips, and my face must look radiant with joy.

'When did you first realise you were addicted to cock?' he teases.

These guys are so predictable. I've been asked variations of that so often I've got a set rehearsed response. 'There's never been a time when I wasn't. I can't recall a time when I wasn't attracted to cock.'

'So tell me' he persists 'of all the many cocks you've had in your filthy cock-sucking mouth, which has given you most satisfaction and been the most pleasurable?'

'It's not about my satisfaction, or my pleasure.'

'Yes, you tell me that. But the state you're in now says otherwise. Look at you. Begging for it. Let me narrow it down for you. Which cock do you enjoy sucking more, me or Georgio?'

I look bashful, 'you know the answer, it's obvious.'

'No, I want you to tell me.'

'You're the best, I love sucking your cock, I love sucking it much more than sucking Georgio's cock. You're the best cock I've ever sucked, the best come I've ever tasted' I blurt out truthfully.

He laughs unpleasantly. 'Tell me more.'

'Every time I suck him off, I close my eyes and imagine it's your cock in my mouth. When I lie awake at night I dream of the next time we can be together and I can do it to you. Your cock is all I live for. I'd suck you for ever if you'd only allow me to.'

Afterwards I was confused by my own feelings. I don't like him. He's unpleasant, unreliable, disloyal to Georgio by deceiving him, abusing his hospitality and his property (me), by going behind his back and deliberately using me, seemingly enjoying the added frisson of deception. He scares and intimidates me, yet I love sucking his cock. The fear and humiliation only makes it better somehow. I'm unable to refuse, my body reacting to his presence like a dog sniffs pheromones. To me, I'm the innocent party, hopelessly emotionally confused, carried along on a hormonal tidal wave beyond my control.

Naturally, a few days later Georgio discovers my guilty secret. I have no mother. There was no visit. So who was I meeting? He was vehemently upset, hurt and angry. Maybe it was Madame Bovery who told Georgio what we were doing, perhaps it was even Bruno himself -- emailing those compromising photos? For Bruno, it turns out, is with some rival legal practice. And he's been using me as a way of getting back at Georgio in some kind of complex professional revenge issue. So he'd not been irresistibly drawn to me, didn't even fancy me, his interest in me less a factor than his thirst to use me to hurt Georgio. I was merely an instrument of his vendetta. Which is not good for my self-esteem. After all, I'd been a push-over, I'd made it so easy for him.

As Georgio throws me out I realise too late he was in every way a better human being than Bruno, he was kind, but he'd neglected me, I'd been tempted, duped, led astray, strung-along. I'd been too trusting. Too enamoured. I'm flesh and blood. It wasn't my fault. I was the victim here. If I'd not strayed I might still have been safe and secure, if bored, with Georgio. Because Bruno was no longer interested in me. He'd got what he wanted, and moved on.

For something less than a week I was back to scuffing on the street, resentful, feeling sorry for myself. A teenage kid with a mid-life crisis. I was the injured party, wasn't I? Yet with every step I took away from the situation, away from them both, the stronger and more content I became. And as new ventures took shape the incident began to seem like forever ago. I was busy changing my own tomorrows.

I might be down. But I'm on my way back up. As I'll tell you, next time...