Cock-Sucker: Cocksucker Settlement

THE COCKSUCKER SETTLEMENT

by

TRISTAN TROTSKY

Betrayed, he has to alternative but

to accept the cocksucker settlement

The slouched convertible backfires explosively, a gunshot in an exhalation of oily black smoke that spews from the rusted exhaust. Riding its low suspension the 1959 Cabriolet 403 jounces through the high wrought-iron auto-gates and down the long curved drive in the shade of high trees, before settling in the designated space to the left of the big house's ornate portico, as though it's some tired old beast. Police Lieutenant Christoforo sways up out of the driver's seat, flashes his ID at the waiting patrolman, and shoves back the snap-brim of his battered trilby, screwing up his face the better to see the mansion.

'Some place they got here' he grins.

'It's a strange one alright, Lieutenant' agrees the patrolman, clearly unsettled.

He looks from the uniformed cop, to the house, and back again, picking up on the man's unease. 'We get used to strange in this line of work, I guess.'

'There's strange, and there's goddamn strange, if you'll excuse my French.' He stands back with an eloquent shrug. Christoforo mounts the steps up to the front doors one at a time, his trench-coat flapping mournfully around him. Through into the air-conditioned cool beyond, where another department cop is in deep discussion with a dapper well-dressed middle-aged man who clearly owns the lavish property.

'We got a problem here that I can help you out with?' offers the Lieutenant.

'No. Nothing of the kind' assures the dapper man with a dismissive gesture. 'Nothing worth wasting valuable Police Department time on. The matter has been settled amicably.'

'Nevertheless, sir, you can appreciate that a complaint has been lodged and that we're duty-bound to investigate' insists the cop. 'You logged a crime-call concerning a stolen Ferrari Testarossa which, to the best of our knowledge has yet to be retrieved...?'

'I'm sure we can sort out this situation' croons Christoforo in reassuring tones.

'I'm absolutely certain that is the case' insists the dapper man hurriedly. 'I am Dr Ray Keppell, Lieutenant. It's true that I made the original call. But it was simply an unfortunate... er, misunderstanding. I'd rather not pursue it further. Perhaps you'd care for a drink so that your journey's not been entirely wasted?'

'Well, you know, sir. I'm on duty, so I shouldn't. But I guess a little whisky sour wouldn't hurt none, now -- would it?'

With only a slight look of distaste at the Lieutenant's crumpled and unkempt appearance, Keppell leads Christoforo away from the reception lobby, through a set of glass-fronted doors into a private room beyond where French windows open out into formal gardens arranged around a swimming pool terrace. The beat-up Lieutenant slumps down into the couch's deep upholstery, reaching inside the breast-pocket of his trench-coat for a fat cigar.

'You mind if I indulge, sir?'

'I'd prefer if you didn't, Lieutenant. But if you must...'

He pauses for less for a moment, before lighting up the Havana and inhaling. Keppell irritably nudges an ashtray across the polished coffee-table towards the untidy sprawl of a man.

At the same time Christoforo glances up to where a young man has entered the room carrying a cut-glass of whisky sour on a silver salver. He does a startled double-take, almost choking on cigar smoke. The newcomer is completely naked. Slender and smoothly muscled, sparse blonde body-hair, and a generously-sized penis that sways like a hooded snake from a soft nest of pubic hair where a pair of round fat pendulous balls hang.

'Jeez' splutters the Lieutenant, shielding his eyes with his hand. 'Can't you put some clothes on?'

'I'm sorry, sir' says the young man, bending gracefully forward to place the tray on the table between them. 'The terms of the settlement forbid me to be clothed at all times.'

'Settlement! Settlement? I don't understand' as he gulps down a mouthful of whisky that burns his throat.

The naked youth glances across enquiringly at Keppell, as though seeking permission.

Keppell nods. 'I suppose the only way to resolve things is for you to explain, Jason.'

The naked man -- Jason, hesitates, then sits down on a leatherette chair across from the flustered detective, he sits poised with his legs deliberately parted, as though according to some set of strict code.

Dr Ray Keppell discreetly leaves the room. And Jason begins to tell his story...

--- 0 ---

'It's when Eddie Finnegan came back to town. It was late-night, we'd been drinking. And he posed me a question out of the blue that set my head spinning askew. He said 'do you still suck cock?' I didn't know how to respond. Fact is, I'd only ever sucked Eddie's cock while we were first exploring our sexuality -- nothing illegal, we were age of consent, but you know how it is when you're young and ravenous and fired up, your new sexual equipment has come online and you're hungry to try it out, and girls are capricious and still out of reach?, well -- maybe I'd fumbled around with a couple of the other guys too, but mostly it was with Eddie, but I thought I'd best not appear uncool and unworldly. So I shrug all casual-like, and say 'Sure'.

We'd been to school together, me and Eddie, in that little nowhereville dump of a town in the mid-West middle of nowhere. No jobs, no prospects, no future. But Eddie was different. He had that arrogant swagger. He was always the instigator. He always knew better. He disappeared once we'd graduated. They said he'd gone to Florida. Me, I began helping out at the Mart on minimum wage, shelf-stacking and sweeping for that creepy old Barney Kirby. He kind of angled that I might get an opportunity on the checkout desk if I played my cards right. That spooked me even more. I was kicking my heels restless and bored outta my skull. Then Eddie turned up again. And he had tales to tell...

It was later. We smoked a few joints, got more relaxed, and he confided the secrets of his new life. Florida is the land of opportunity. Lots of old MILF women and older Gay guys who simply get off on hot young bodies. All we do is hook up and sell sex. He told me about Mr Keppell... excuse me Lieutenant, but this is what he told me. Mr Keppell has a big house in the sunshine state with a pool, and he likes to see hunky young naked guys lounging around the pool, sometimes swimming, sometimes fucking each other, it's no big deal. Sometimes there's partying. Nothing we can't handle. It's a great life, living La Vida Loca, with all drinks and food expenses paid.

'We don't have much. But we must use what we have to get what we want.' That's the way Eddie told me, and he made it sound crazy-good. Better than sweeping floors for that creepy old Barney Kirby.

So there we were, stood on the turnpike hitchhiking south, packing only T-shirt and denims and $20 between us. We blew the $20 on cokes. Eddie made a few phone calls. And Dr Ray Keppell's chauffeur -- a big enforcer-guy called Oscar, drives out to pick us up. And once we arrive here we don't need T-shirt or denims, because we're expected to be bare-ass naked by the pool. That's the deal. That's what it's all about. At first, sure, I was nervous and self-conscious, but I rationalised, told myself it was just like skinny-dipping in the creek.

I adapt, I soak up those all-over rays. And when massaging sunscreen into each other's skin causes fierce arousal -- well, there are very stimulating ways of easing those urgent erections. Eddie was a good-looking well-hung guy. I liked the way his balls feel cupped in my hand, I liked the way his fat cockhead tastes as it oozes, pulsing and throbbing in my mouth. We got to get very good at sucking each other off. We sixty-nine when Mr Keppell comes out to watch. Sometimes he'd join in too, when the mood was on him, jacking one of us off as the other, me or Eddie sucks his smaller but equally needy cock. Eddie fucks me in the ass too, just to loosen me up, just to get used to what it was like to be fucked in the ass. And I get to enjoy that too. We live well, in the sunshine. The sex is, if anything, a bonus. There are extensive grounds here. And the shiny red Ferrari Testarossa in the garage, it was the good Doctor's pride and joy. We get to wash and polish it... naked of course, once in a while. It was a great life-style. What's not to like?

Until things start to go wrong. I guess it's true we disrespected Oscar. He was Korean or something, a big solid slow-mover of a guy, slow-thinking too. We weren't always as courteous towards him as we should have been. After all, he was on the payroll, just as we were. Which means we don't need to treat him right.

We laugh at him behind his back. Eddie calls him Odd-job, which Eddie thinks is really funny. I don't understand the reference, but I pretend I do.

Oscar calls us 'Keppell's tame faggots'. Then he got mad. I was trying to push past him on the pool patio, heading in to grab a drink. And something inside of him must have snapped. He grabs me from behind in an iron-fast grip across my chest and hoists me up off my feet like I was some lightweight brat, I was crushed and breathless, and suddenly very scared. He drops me and I fall to the paving, my back jammed up against the wall. He unzips and pulls out a monster cock, grabs me by the hair, and rams that fat cockhead into my mouth.

I was stunned, spluttering and gurgling as he begins to rough face-fuck me so deep it makes me gag and retch. The more I sob and tear-up the more he's laughing in a cruel throat rumble. He pulls out, dripping and drooling saliva and pre-cum, and he bends me over. Although I'm truly frightened, my body knows different, and I'm erect despite myself. He laughs and squeezes my balls so tight I groan. Then he slides that monster spit-wet cock up my rectum, my whole body tenses, then loosens incredibly, my toes curl, my head shocks back as I gasp in a big mouthful of air. And he fucks me hard until I feel he's going to rip me apart. When he pulls out, it's as though my entire body is a puppet his cock is supporting, and empty, I collapse into a whimpering heap on the paving, and with a couple of long cock-strokes he cums in huge white spurts all over my face and hair, leaving me limp and ruined.

Needless to say, I treat him with considerable respect across the subsequent days.

Then Mr Keppell hosts a pool party for four of his gentlemen business colleagues. At first me and Eddie simply act as naked toy-boy waiters, serving drinks and food. But the more they drink and the more they relax the more crude and ribald things get. They're feeling me up, squeezing my cock, stroking the taut curves of Eddie's pear-shaped ass. They get us to tongue-kiss and fondle each other. They get me to crouch down and suck Eddie's cock as they watch. Then Eddie is made to crouch down and suck my cock. We both have hard-on's, which seems to indicate that we're into it. That we're getting off on it. So then they're undressing. Four big aggressive cocks aimed as us with intent. I'm sucking one while another fucks Eddie, then they switch over. I'm being spit-roasted between two of them as the other two take turns fucking Eddie's mouth.

Mr Keppell watches and applauds with delight, then he wants his cock sucking too. At one point me and Eddie are side-by-side bent over the pool-furniture, rounded bottoms in the air, legs parted, as they jostle and laugh and take turns fucking us hard in the ass, I'm aching and sore, my body flecked with cum and spit and sweat. It goes on for some considerable time. They pause to drink and snort and regenerate their energies, then begin again.

It's afterwards when me and Eddie are finally alone in the twilight room, feeling bitter, abused and angry, that Eddie tells me about the way we are going to inflict our revenge. It's time we moved on, Eddie says. We've been here long enough, Eddie says. There are other things to do, new worlds to conquer, he says. Mr Keppell has overstepped the line. He owes us, big time. We have a moral right to exact our retribution. At the time, the way he tells me, it seems to make perfect sense, it sounds reasonable and convincing.

We choose our time. Eddie has contrived to get the key to the garage and the code to the auto-gates. And then we're sat side-by-side in the shiny red Ferrari Testarossa, and we accelerate down the long curved drive in the shade of high trees, between the high wrought-iron auto-gates and out onto the street. Eddie drives hard and fast up onto the interstate and keeps going, we never look back once, we drive as though hellhounds are on our trail. It feels so good. We've pulled one over on the world, we have the gift of effortless cool, we are the wild young rebels on a spree in our stolen auto, the radio pumping out relentless encouragement.

We drive for two days, heading ever-north, spelling each other, sleeping over in the car, over a thousand miles and counting, we don't stop until we reach Pittsburgh. I'm still feeling good about it all. But that is about to change. It's all about to go down and turn to shit. We stop over at a Motel. It's great to shower together and share a bed. We sixty-nine, this time because we want to. Because we are hungry for each other's bodies. Not because some creepy old guy has told us to sixty-nine while he watches. When we cum in each other's mouths it feels like ecstasy, and we share cum-kisses that taste rich with each other's sperm. This is delicious. This is the best part of it.

I wake up naked in the bed that we've wrecked. My head hurts in the light. The sheet is moist with sweat and bodily fluids. But Eddie has gone. I sit around for most of the morning, waiting for him to return, then pull on some clothes and stroll down to the nearby burger bar for coffee. Yes, the server tells me, she saw the red Ferrari pulling away earlier today. No, she doesn't know where he was taking it. Back in the Motel room I find the post-it note stuck on the freezer door. He's gone. Eddie has gone. He's sold the Ferrari to a dealer who doesn't ask too many questions, he's bought a one-way flight ticket to LA where he's going to use the money to start a new life. Maybe in music. Maybe in movies. Failing that, maybe in Gay Porn. He's sorry for laying all this on me in this way, but he can see no viable alternative, and whatever, he's gone, and I'm left here with nothing. I feel like I've been hit between the eyes. I forget to breathe. The planet reels sideways. I thought my heart had stopped.

Eddie has betrayed me. He's even texted my location to Oscar. The big Korean turns up at the door soon after. I know better than to protest. I know better than to resist. I get in the car sullen but defeated. I don't say a word as he drives us all the way back to Mr Keppell's Florida mansion. All of a sudden, Eddie's arguments about our moral vindication don't sound so convincing...'

--- 0 ---

Police Lieutenant Christoforo studies the cut-glass rim of the whisky sour glass in his hand. He lifts it to his mouth and swallows down what little remains. It burns its way down the back of his throat. Glancing around the room he noticed, for the first time, that there are expensive explicitly homoerotic art-sketches framed on the walls. And discreet cameras. So that wherever you happen to be in the house and gardens, you may consider you are unobserved, but you're not. Whatever devious or furtive activities you happen to be getting up to, they are being recorded for close prurient scrutiny later.

'So, Dr Ray Keppell is not pressing charges against you for the theft of the stolen Ferrari Testarossa?'

Jason lowers his gaze, as though ashamed to meet his gaze. 'No. There will be no charges. As long as I abide by the rules of the Settlement we've agreed to.' His heavy hooded penis stirs in a quite disturbing way as he leans forward.

'The Settlement in which you must be here, naked and sexually accessible at all times. For Mr Keppell and his guests. For a fixed term of years. Until you've repaid the value of what you stole from him? You're happy with that?'

Jason nods. 'Happy is not exactly the right word. But yes. That's the voluntary settlement we've agreed upon. Although, in truth, I have no real choice, excepting the only other alternative, which is jail. So I'm reconciled to doing what I have to do.'

The Detective discovers that his Havana cigar has died into ash. He sits uncomfortably, facing the intimidating nudity of the youth sitting on the leatherette chair across from him. The story is over. The case is closed.

He shoves back the snap-brim of his battered trilby, and screws up his face. Then his hand comes up to tap against his temple, as though he's trying to encourage some slow thought-processes. 'Er, yes... I understand all of that, but' he pauses, 'there's just one more thing...?'

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY