Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 04

'Nevertheless, I'm confident that he benefits from your moral example. And that he expresses his gratitude in uniquely wicked ways?'

All the while they're bantering in this way, he's caressing the bulb and shaft of my penis, which stubbornly refuses to lose its rigidity. He forms his fingers into a light cage around my glans, so I'm crooked in the hollow of his hand, gently coaxing it, and hell, what young guy does not get off on his cock being admired and petted in this way? No matter who's doing the admiring and petting, male or female, old or young? And he knows how to treat an angry young erection.

The guest doesn't undress until later – not that he's got anything to be shy about it, except maybe he's self-conscious in front of Sergé. Without realising that his host is watching it all anyway. He leads me by the leash to the guest-suite, hangs a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the knob, and does other stuff to me, and I respond as required. He's pretty good. Needless to say the instructions written on my body are followed to the letter. I crouch to suck his big blunt cock-head, setting his low-hung balls aquiver. Lie on my back as he deep-throats me, with me making little gurgling noises at the point of maximum penetration. And I bend over, presenting the smooth curves of my bottom, so he can bugger me. Of course, I ejaculate before he does, much to his satisfaction.

Then he pauses to regain stamina, releasing my arms and watching as I sit with splayed wide-open legs and he gets me to do stuff to myself with a large greased dildo. Sliding it deep up my ass so I raise my hips to probe it further, sawing it in and out with my balls moving in response and my cock flipping this way and that. Before we begin a second bout. This time he lies on his back, gets me to do all the work, so I climb up onto him until I'm straddling his thighs, sliding myself down onto him inch by inch, facing him then riding his cock up and down, as he's reaching out to grope my lazy sway and bring me off again.

The porn-sites have a lot to answer for. They see these things on them, and want to try them out. So they pay for a compliant body to act it out. We become the experimental fuck-vehicles of their dirty-minded curiosity. This is not a position I favour, I prefer to be simply shagged from behind. But I shoot across his hairy stomach and up his chest in long contractions of cum, a lot of guys don't like that. It's OK them spunking on me and in me, but me coming off on them is different. He doesn't mind, just laughs lecherously. Finishing him again with a slow endless blow-job, curled around so he can amuse himself sliding the dildo in and out of me as I do him, fingering me to yet another satisfying cum. At one point I felt sure he was about to suck me, he was hovering, as though tempted, but undecided, he didn't, but unlike a lot of guys he enjoys feeling me up. Rather than purely concerned with his own gratification he seems fascinated to explore and stimulate my anatomy too. I wonder what his name was? Hopefully Sergé closed the deal.

On another evening Sergé hosts a torch-lit evening garden party, for which he hires in a couple of well-hung rent-boys. Sergé's pretence is that we are to be waiters, we will emerge carrying a carafe of wine on our shoulders like debauchees in a bacchanalia from Petronius''Satyricon'. To this end we are given sequined thongs to wear. When we're first nude together, sizing each other up as young guys do, I'm struck by the fact that one of them – dark and surly, is better endowed than me. 'Swarthy' as I mentally call him stands stooped as though he's borne down by the weight of it, as though it's capsizing him by lowering his centre of gravity. Normally that would intrigue me, but tonight I'm immediately jealous, fearing he's going to receive more attention. It seems I have stiff competition, in every sense of the word! We juggle the thongs into place. At first, my cock flips out of the inadequate covering, Sergé tucks it carefully back in, only for my balls to squeeze out, he massages them back into place, to much sniggering giggles.

There's a hierarchy among whores. Some girls say yes, I sell sex, but I'm not as bad as her, I'm not a street-whore, I'm a selective escort. Then – a step further, they say yes, I'm a street-whore, but I'm not as bad as her, I only do vanilla sex, with a condom, nothing pervy. Then – further still, they say yes, I do oral and anal, but not S&M or group-sex. Then they say yes, I do it all, but not animals or underage, hey, I've got a habit to pay for! It's a hierarchy that's just as applicable to male-whores. Me, I'm top of the game. A kept-boy. A paid companion. These two, a couple of social stratas beneath me.

Stars appear and shadows start falling, the evening lengthens. At last we are ready. Sergé checks us out approvingly, we look like something from an old pervert's wet-dream. Nervous? Sure, I'm a little goose-pimple nervous, but more than that, I'm competitive, I'm not going to be outdone by these two guys. As it turns out I have no need to be concerned, there are guests enough for us all. Some thirty of them. I'm certain Bradley-Martin is one of them. Maybe the other anonymous 'guest' too. A couple of dubious-looking females. And as we emerge, the gentlemen are in a playful mood. What the hell? no more nerves, no more hesitancy, beside the shimmering light-flickering pool our three lithe sun-bronzed bodies weave and cavort – the sacrificial victims, although scarcely virgins. We provide the entertainment. Not that we need much encouraging.

The second rent-boy, skinny but wiry with blonde hair and cute freckles, is the first. Someone reaches out. Snags their fingers under the thin band of his thong and simply jerks it down in one swift motion. Although hardly unexpected, 'Blondie' makes a comical show of surprised distress, his hand over his mouth, while turning slowly to allow everyone a good view of his swaying genitals. Even as I watch, grinning, I feel unseen hands clasping me from behind, contemptuously tearing my thong away with such force that it snaps. Tangled around my ankles I kick its torn and useless fabric away. Then 'Swarthy'. His ripped thong gets tangled up around his erection, causing whoops of delight before his cock springs free to attention. They obviously like what they're seeing.

If the two rent-boys are naturally more exhibitionist than I am, that only drives and motivates me more. They're foreign, I don't understand what they say, but we communicate in other more physical ways. 'Blondie' has a smile as wide as his teenage dick is long. He stands with his hand on his hip in a provocative affectation, flat toned stomach with a faint pale scutt of hair down from the dimpled deep-socketed navel to the groin, for all the world like a better-hung version of one of the nude art-sculpture statues I'd seen in Florence.

As Master of Ceremonies, Sergé devises a list of oral and anal games for us to perform. With the guests laughing, applauding and urging us on, we tug out a random sexual forfeit card, knowing we must pay whatever penalty it dictates. It dictates a daisy-chain on the lawn. And in response we're prowling and sniffing each other out on all fours like predatory animals, with much shuffling and delighted giggling, working through the interlocking logistics of co-ordinating triple cock-to-mouth. Obediently, Blondie rolls over onto his back, with Swarthy moving over him, his long swollen and heavy cock angling down into the gaping receptive mouth. From that position Swarthy squirms around into my groin, where I'm already drooling with anticipation as he suck me in. And I side-twist down onto Blondie, closing the chain.

His cock looks as delightful up close and personal as I'd assumed at first lingering glance. Some cocks are ideally designed to be sucked. It slides into my eager maw beautifully, the raw fleshy snout then the smooth firm shaft. I can happily suck this one forever and never tire of it. Soon we're eating each other alive in a three-way oral feeding-frenzy of nodding heads and bucking thighs, the encircling laugher silenced and replaced by lush slurps. The sound of three cocks being simultaneously sucked is incredibly dirty. I suck this tasty cock with a passion, as I'm being expertly sucked, and it's so excruciatingly good I almost forget the circle of watchers around us. It's only with a fantastic expenditure of effort that I keep my mind on what I'm doing. We suck first this way, then wriggle and switch around, so Blondie looks even cuter with my cock forcing his mouth out of shape as I devour Swarthy's big dark pole, glistening wet with his saliva.

I'm not normally attracted to younger guys, particularly if there's no obvious material benefit, and especially if they're in competition with me. But I'd have liked to have done more dirty things with Blondie. I try to let him know by the enthusiasm of my attentions. I'd like nothing more than to take him into the bushes and sixty-nine with him until we're both drained. I've never had a relationship with a guy my age, or even a proper friendship, that's something else lacking in my life, unfortunately we never get the chance, I never even discover his name.

Instead, hauled back up onto our unsteady feet before we've had a chance to cum, but high on arousal, things get increasingly blurred and confused. For the next forfeit, Swarthy finds himself standing on one of the tables, accidentally kicking over glasses and spilling wine, while Sergé auctions his ass. Glistening in the torchlight like in some ancient Roman slave-market. Bids start out cautiously – ten euros, twenty-five, before getting into the game and shouting out a thousand, two-thousand euros (amounts that will never actually be paid!). Eventually he gets hustled down for the winner to claim his prize, although by now I'm in no position to see the outcome.

Fuelled by liberal amounts of wine and snorts of other illicit stimulants, the guests have become progressively more uninhibited. It's a long way from the choreographed porn-movies or gay-clips on the internet. This is all messy fumbling and clumsy groping, clammy hands with skittering podgy fingers intent on sheer nastiness. We take turns, on each other, then on selected guests, suck this, suck that, bend over, part your legs, get down on your knees. We preen for their attention, proud to flaunt our bobbing hard-ons, beguiled by flattery, vying for favours, competing for privileges, rewards and subtle intoxicants. As I watch, Blondie is performing with someone's cock in his mouth – and make no mistake about it, he's good. I'm envious of the attention he's getting, and itching for my turn to be in the spotlight, the star attraction again. Particularly when he gets the money-shot, and comes up smiling messy-faced to a ragged round of applause. By now I'm impatient for my own first mouthful of cum. I don't have long to wait. Whatever Blondie does, Swarthy must take a step further, then it's down to me to take it further still. Until the tiles around the pool are treacherously slippy with spilt semen

I'm sure mobile phones are recording clips of it for future replay viewing. In a way, being watched makes me feel special in a peculiar way. I know, deep-down, that whatever he may claim, the guy doing the watching is jealous of the guy being sucked. He's aroused by what I'm doing. He wants to be sucked. He desires me. I am desired. That makes me feel smug and content. You may think I'm naïve, I was even more naïve-on-stilts then. I assumed their approval, the way they're apparently lusting for me, means they like me, desire me. I imagined I was living in some kind of daring decadence. Stupid, but that's the way my mind works.

Now the party is breaking up into groups. Many of the guests are doing it to each other, which is not always good to look at. At least we are pretty. Instead, last time I see the blonde rent-boy, I stare wistfully as he's being upended by a group of older guys, his bottom raised and his legs parted, his anus lubricated with wine before the first one takes him, while I'm getting fingered and touched up by two more. I'd seldom felt so much the centre of attention. Fool that I was. In truth, we were broken dolls, with Sergé as the puppet-master pulling our strings. We're just wind-up toys, not even considered really real, with no feelings, incapable of being hurt. That's what we were. I know for sure that this year Sergé will be partying with new boys, just as pretty, just as sexually receptive, just as pliable and eager for his patronage.

Meanwhile, it was at Sergé's a day or two later – once I'd recovered, that I properly meet, and get seduced by a gay couple, Cecil and Marcel. Not that I need much persuasion. Cock exerts an irresistible magnetism. A more powerful gravitation than the most super-massive black hole at the galactic core, drawing me in despite my best intentions. They'd seen me at the garden party. They'd taken note of my various 'talents'. And during their stay in Sergé's villa, he offers me to them on a whim. We spend our first troilist night together, lying together naked in the afterglow, Cecil on one side of me and Marcel on the other, both of them drained limp.

The perspiration cools, I'm feeling the familiar warm anal tenderness, the taste of stale spunk cloying my mouth, the crinkly ridges of dried sperm in my hair, I don't like that, I've never liked that. It's then they first broach the subject of my returning with them. It seems like a great idea. Is Sergé renting me out? Am I on lease? Is there a transfer fee? I never find out. They have a pied-à-terre near Versailles. Once we're installed there, within a space of days, they are sexually demanding, using me as a sex-aid to spice up their own sessions. Frequently spit-roasting me in various ways together.

They're kissing and embracing each other, while I'm down there doing all the sex-work to them both, with the trip from cock-to-cock a short lick apart, scrupulously showing no preference, devoting time equally to satisfying each erection. Down there bathed in the subtle olfactory stimulus of sweat-shimmer, the heady pheromones of arousal, the faint aroma of taut skin, the leaking juice-excretions of pre-cum body-fluids, and the wiry stipple of pubic hair. Cock. Hot cock to the left, hard cock to the right. Trying to get both in my mouth together. Of course it's not possible, except by squashing the two heads together. Then I can just about get my lips around them both, but no more. When Cecil closes into orgasm the tip of his cock is pressed up against Marcel's, with both of them crushed up against my lips, so when the sympathetic vibrations start they set him off too.

Pulse, spurt, splash, gulp, glug-glug, gobble, cock, stiff cock, poke, choke, another spurt, slurp, prod, twitch, throb, splash, swallow, and my face is caught in the crossfire until I'm inhaling the funk of a fresh double-shot of sperm. Grunt, squirm, gasp, gulp, slobber, drool. I've seldom drunk so much, or felt so good about it. Well, it's supposed to be good for the complexion. Quick suck left. Quick suck right. Long lingering suck left. Long lingering suck right.

At first I'm not only meeting, but anticipating both of their erogenous needs. That's their intention. That's my function. I'm an add-on to intensify their love-making. A sex-aid to provide extra stimulation. Marcel is thick-set and lively. Cecil is taller, older, quiet, but given to bitchy put-downs that suggest he already has doubts and suspicions about this venture. But if I've been brought into their faltering tryst as a last conciliatory attempt to control Marcel's philandering wandering eye within an essentially monogamous set-up, it doesn't quite work out as Cecil had intended.

Increasingly Marcel begins seeking me out for secret sessions, without his partner's knowledge. Whenever we happen to be alone together, with Cecil briefly out of sight, he feels me up – not difficult as I'm usually in the state of nature. Or he whips it out and I give his cock a furtive suck. It's not my place to demur. And anyway, I enjoy his illicit attention. Marcel is the deceiver. Cecil is the deceived. I am merely the instrument of deception. Until Cecil unexpectedly enters the bedroom to find us there, Marcel bollock-deep up my arse. He pulls out abruptly with a stinging 'plop' that makes me gasp. The shock of the sudden extraction triggers my ejaculation, and as I rear back I begin spurting spectacularly like a sperm garden-sprinkler as it swings and bounces, which only adds to the messy confusion. I seize my red and inflamed organ in an attempt to staunch the flow, but once begun it's impossible to stop. Marcel hasn't cum yet, although he must have been close judging by the frantic way he's been banging me. And as if in a comic farce, as Cecil flounces out affronted, he makes to follow him while pulling his pants up over his drooling erection – getting entangled, and stumble-lurching across the floor.

Of course, in all the cheap pornos this fairly familiar situation would resolve itself in a glorious three-way sex-bang, but this isn't porno, this is what passes for my life. Instead, Cecil retreats in tears, and their relationship goes into crisis. It's not even that I was important, because obviously I wasn't. It was more the furtive way Marcel had used me that was the deal-breaker. But if every game is rigged, I always wind up the loser. Once that chapter draws to its natural end, as such arrangements tend to do, I find myself out on my own again, back on the street, ready, eyes wide for the next opportunity. I suppose I could have contacted Sergé again, he might well have taken me back. I could have picked up some 'dates' from Luis, or gone back grovelling to Georgio.

Instead, I wake up this morning. Collect myself. My hair is rumpled. I comb it. There's a familiar grey sourness in my mouth. My tongue looks bad. Fresh air is what I need, to compensate my body for the abuse it's taken. As I stroll, I consider things. Surely I've reached a turning-point in what I laughingly refer to as 'my life'? The problem – if it could be said to be a problem, is that I like cock. In fact, I like cock probably more than I like just about anything else. Sometimes I like the idea of cock more than the particular cock I'm faced with. The cock, more than the guy that necessarily goes with it. I like the things cocks do to me. And the things I can do to cocks. I've had a lot of guys. A lot of guys have had me. I try to work out how many guys I've been with. And lose count very quickly. I've come too far too fast. I've done too much too soon.

Maybe it's my naughty streak, my devilish grin. As a serial slut I've probably had more men than is humanly healthy. And done things, far too many things and too often, that I should not have done. But it's what I do. I know no other way to live. And, largely, I live well. Sucking cock is a career, and a vocation I'm more than qualified for. I do it well, and... yes, I get job satisfaction from it. When I suck a guy off he knows he's being sucked off by a specialist. I've got the experience, and the inclination – the obsession if you like. I'm more homo than sapien. Cocks are the focus of my life. Sucking them is my art. Norman Bates' mother – in the classic movie'Psycho', harangues her son about 'young men with cheap erotic minds'. That's me.

Like other guys my age – or maybe more so, at times my brain exists merely as a vestigial life-support system for my testicles. But truth to tell, I've seen too much in too few years. There's more, some things I scarcely dare admit to myself. I'm fortune's fool. And there's still things I don't understand, like all the sick things that men do to other men. Not sexually. But psycho-wise. Realistically, I've been used and abused in their hands like a tool. Like something momentarily distracting, amusing, but disposable, to throw back into the trash once they've had their fill. My mind has been ripped.