Cock-Sucker: Damnation Gate

What A Great Way To Turn Twenty-Five...!

Party Fears Too...

'You're in a strange mood tonight' Harriman says.

'Sorry. Just thinking.'

'Thinking? About what?'

'My birthday, coming up. Twenty-five. A quarter of my life is almost past. And all the sweet guys out there I'll never know. All the juicy sexy bodies I've not experienced. Hell, I should at least, have sucked one cock for each year I've been legal.'

He laughs, not unkindly, 'you can suck me,' his intense eyes narrowing.

'I've already done that more times than I could possibly count.'

'And that's a bad thing?'

'No, that's great. Every time I'm with you it's great. And when I'm with you tonight it'll be great again. You know that. You know the way I feel about you. It's just that, I can't help but wonder.'

'One guy? One guy for each year you've been legal. What's that...? like, seven guys?'

'That's not a lot, is it? Not in the great cosmic scheme things.'

'It can be arranged. A birthday treat...!' And we laugh. I think nothing more about it.

Some ten years older than me, Harriman -- Prof Harriman to his students, is always a generous benefactor, a firm and demanding lover. Yet sometimes I think he doesn't know me. For a low-esteem jerk like me, I can't believe my luck in belonging to him. It's a dream come true. I adore him, lust for him, and yet... fear him just a little too. Fear, I guess, losing him, losing all that comes with it. I know he's had live-in boyfriends before me.

He makes a joke of it for my benefit. 'Hey, I've used, and been used, like an Ancient Mariner I've been tossed and blown.'

And I guess -- although it's not something I care to think about, that he'll have live-in boyfriends after me. But for now, I'm content to simply enjoy the time we have, to share his life. It could be said that he's using me. Or that I'm using him. But -- as Kurt Vonnegut said, the worst thing in the world is not to be used by anyone for anything. So I enjoy his approval, and if he wants to use his camcorder to film us having sex, that's fine... 'a bit more. Smile for the camera as I come into your mouth, that's it.' Then we watch it back.

You don't know them, but you see them on internet sites, attractive guys having promiscuous guilt-free random sex with anonymous strangers. Sometimes it seems scary fun, partying with smooth attractive new bodies, but you think... what about cleanliness? how do you know where they've been sticking those cute dicks? For me, I like to feel I know there's a functioning intelligence behind the erection. One that at least responds to me as a thinking feeling human being. I'm ill-suited to promiscuity. I tend to form emotional attachments to my lovers.

That's not bad is it?

'No' says Harriman, 'it's not bad, it's good-bad but not evil, it's touchingly commendable. It's just that some time ago, a thousand years maybe, this grizzled old guy, Rene Descartes, defined what he called 'duality', dividing the mind and the body into two separate entities...' He talks some more about how the mind has its domain where the higher more spiritual aspirations reside and rule. It has its pleasures, its satisfactions. And the body has other, unrelated needs. Baser, shadow-darker, more to do with the instinctive, the intuitive. Both are equally valid. Human nature is contradictory. Sometimes you aspire to the higher things. Other times you just want to wallow in filth. And to achieve a healthy balance, neither impulse should be neglected. They can, and do, work together. But every now and then it's good to recognise that they also have independence. The sensual should not be neglected as an end in itself. Feed your head, sure, but indulge the senses too.

Walking out into the city of light there are luminous towers high into the starless black. Galaxies of artificial light, to urban infinity. Everything is solidly permanent, but shot through with a transitional air. Pulses of auto-traffic slithering displaced between glass cliffs, rivers of moving light. But beneath our feet there's a respiratory system of subways, a neural network of cables, and veins in a capillary-web of water-ducts and channels, all of which, what you can't see, are essential to the function of what you can. A synergy of the two, above and below, are necessary. The light, and the darkness. The intellect, and the carnality.

'Is that a convenient metaphor... or a useful simile?'

'Neither, just a poor analogy.'

'Is that the moral of the story?'

'No moral. No story...'

My birthday. I preen up. He takes me out for a meal. Wine. Italian. Then on to my 'surprise party'. Lots of guys in our loft apartment, dancing, flirting and kissing. Gifts, and embraces. At first nervous I'm soon enjoying myself. Harri is watching, urging me to go snog this tall slender guy with a mass of curly black hair, Carl I think he's called, I have no hesitation. Screaming Jay Hawkins is on the sound system, "Who Do You Love?" The three of us slink off to the bedroom. Harriman's camcorder waiting there ready.

'My gift to you' he says.

Carl is already undressing, he knows what's going on. I was about to protest, until I saw him nude, his big cock swinging up into view.

'Go on, suck it' Harri says, lining up the camcorder.

I undress, all thumbs, nervous, self-conscious. But, nude, we embrace so our genitals squash enticingly up against each other. He's cool, smooth, almost hairless, except for the tight dark circle in his groin. Carl relaxes back onto the bed. I look down, he's smiling up, inviting. I've known him... what, fifteen minutes? and now I'm about to suck him off. But isn't that what I'd wanted? Vicarious adventure. Cheap thrills. Stealing unrelated moments from each other's lives. And it does look appetising. I go down between his splayed legs, squeeze his balls softly, and take its tip in my mouth. An anonymous cock. The camera zones in. I look directly into the lens.

'Call that a blow-job?' whispers Harri, 'I've seen more heat in the Arctic, c'mon show some passion, suck it, you know you want to.'

This sexy cock is Harriman's gift to me. And I suck it like a slut. I melt in erotic abandon, sucking so hard I can feel his whole body stiffen and his breath exhale. It feels wild, horny, sinful. I'm achingly hard too, tossing myself leisurely as I gorge on it. 'Watch this Harri, this is for you, watch me take it deep.' My saliva trickles down into his matted pubic hair as I massage his fat juicy balls. But it was over almost too soon. I hear him grunting somewhere way above me, feel his body stiffen, and the salt-jet spatters the roof of my mouth. Eventually I release it to slap wetly back over his gut. He leers down at me with a smirk of satisfaction.

I raise myself, suddenly aware that, as I'm about to get up off the bed, there's someone else standing behind me. As I turn, I knew he was also nude. I was startled. The new guy is massaging a huge uncircumcised cock in my direction. Harriman's hand on my shoulder, preventing me from getting up, gently holding me down.

'C'mon, you've only just begun.'

I giggle in confusion. 'But Harriman.'

'Don't talk. We're not into talk tonight, we're into action. This is what you asked for, this is what you wanted, isn't it?'

Isn't this what guys do all the time in all parts of the city, in all cities of the world, infiltrating the shadows as darkness takes hold, fulfilling the urgent immediate physicality of need without all of the emotional and intellectual baggage that goes with it? Transitory pick-ups and fleeting hurried copulations charged with all the furious urgency of the moment. Isn't sex in itself enough, anonymously promiscuous, in a blur of instant mutual gratification? Cut straight to the good stuff, the fleshy interactions. None of that awkwardness and tentative unrealistic expectations, no checking each other out... does he like me? is he stringing me along? And none of that next-morning uncertainty... will he text me, does he respect me, was I any good? None of the falsities of love or the deceptions of romance. No internalising. No over-thinking. No intellectualising. No rationalising. Only bodies, sweat and spontaneity.

Take a big gulp of reality. Harriman is the catalyst, the third element making this happen. Legitimising it. The new cock-head is brushing up and down the side of my face, presenting itself. I'm squinting upwards, can't even make out his face properly in the light.

'C'mon. Smile for the camera like a good porn-star.'

It's not easy to smile with a thick cock distorting your mouth out of shape. It was risk-sex, but it was also a 'safe' game, Harriman is here, he knows what's happening, he's set it up, he knows just how far to take it, and no further. This is his apartment -- our apartment, nothing can happen here that he doesn't control. That makes it OK, doesn't it? I shrug. What the hell? It nudges my lips, I kiss it wetly, and it slips in. A slightly bitter staleness that's soon gone as I oralise it clean. And sure, once I've begun, it's kinda nice. A sated indulgent debauched feel to it. I close my eyes and luxuriate in the wanton sensation, reaching up to softly cup and caress the fat scrotum. My hand rests on his bare leg, then creeps around his waist to the crease of his bottom and trickles down, holding him in towards me.

Until Harriman pushes my hand away. My eyes move sideways. 'Keep your hand away, out of shot, the camera wants an uninterrupted tracking-shot of your mouth full of cock.'

I swallow hard, as stupid as it seems I've almost forgotten the camera was there.

'That's good. C'mon, nose to the gut, show us what you can do. Show us how much you can take. That's it, right down to the root.'

Suck, suck -- spurt, spurt, another mouthful of come. I rear back from the wet-glistening cock, wiping my mouth. Looking wildly around me. There are two more nude guys. Two more stiff cocks demanding attention.

'No Harriman. That's enough, no, I've had enough.'

He just keeps his eye to the camera as they come towards me. Wrestling me playfully. I'm laughing too, nervously, a little scared, glancing across at Harriman. They ignore my half-hearted protests, pressure me -- mock-forcefully, toppling me back across the bed, both of them holding me. One of them straddles me, I can see his arse, his hanging swaying genitals, as his leg arches over me, and he sits down hard on my chest, pinioning me so I'm unable to move. His hand comes down, guiding his cock over my face, its glans rubbing my forehead so his balls bounce on my nose and chin, into my eye sockets, down my nose, pressing it to my firmly closed lips.

Isn't this the stuff of the wank-fantasies you conjure during private moments of self-'abuse', self-pleasuring? The explicit porn-sites you hunt out on the internet? the DVD configurations of fully-interlocked bodies that turn you on, the sequences you keep skipping back to? Even when you're navigating your avatar through scenarios you'd prefer not to experience yourself? Even when that avatar happens to be a human being on a DVD? It's plagiarising someone else's life. Porn is both indefensible, and irresistible. So what logic is there in refusing the reality now? None. These are young good-looking guys, the kind you greedily, longingly do a double-take for when you pass them in the street. And wonder... hey, what'd he be like? But when that day-dream's suddenly raw and rude, three-dimensional, and nudging at your mouth for admittance, what then?

But the other guy is playing with my already-sensitised and highly aroused cock, painfully squeezing my defenceless testicles, ducking down to lick and suck at me, easing a saliva-wet finger into my rectum. I'm unable to see exactly what he's doing to me, which has the effect of multiplying my physical response, making it all the more pleasurable. Inevitably such a furious concerted assault has instant results, and I begin spurting the ejaculation I've been precariously poised on as he works. My sperm gushing across my gut. Moaning, I gasp uncontrollably, my mouth opening -- and as I inhale, the third cock goes in with it. It slithers deep into my throat, and once in he's edging his hips in and down cramming more in so I can't move, nudging it in further than comfort allows, fucking my mouth -- and I know, resigned to the inevitability that it won't leave my mouth without spunking off first. I was sobbing, gurgling, as it pumps at me.

I hear laughter. See Harriman filming from the corner of my eye, the other guy still casually playing with my sperm-lubricated genitals, flexing up and down. The fat glans in my throat, his hairy balls crushed up against my chin, it goes on and on, and when the hail begins, it fills me claustrophobically. Eventually he stops, slithering his sopping cock up and out, splashing my face as he does so. They change position. The guy who'd brought me off is lying beside me on the bed, sprawled, spread-eagled. I don't even glance up at his face. I just curl and slither around, crawl obediently over his gut, to where his erection awaits me, and submissively take it. Meekly, unresisting, I accept it, resigned to the fact that if I don't they'll only force it anyway. Fellating it like some tame whore, no pride, no ego, no resistance left. The sensation of total surrender. But eventually he seems content to let me do the work, so I suck lustily until I'm rewarded.

Harriman pores down over me with an expression of genuine concern. 'You OK?'

I nod, avoiding his eyes.

'You want maybe to use the john? Freshen up perhaps?'

Almost in a zombie-state I do as he suggests. Standing up shakily, there are hands to help me up, and I stroll across to the toilet. There are other guys waiting, I can sense their presence as much as see them. They don't see me as me. They don't see me as a person. To them, I'm a sex-object, an arrangement of pleasurably penetrable orifices. To be looked at in this way, to be desired as something purely sensual, is oddly gratifying. Weird. Inside, I take a deep breath, scoop up a mouthful of water, swill it round, rinsing my mouth, and spit it out. Take a long yellow piss into the porcelain -- is that a symptom of high protein intake? Hahaha! Turn myself to face me in the mirror. Shit, I don't look good. Closing my eyes hard, resisting the urge to wipe the tears, and the other -- more dubious, fluids.

Outside I can hear voices, laughter, and impatience. 'Hurry up in there, we don't have all night.'

'Sorry, I'm nearly ready.' I find myself apologising, inbetween heartbeats. A bead of cool sweat courses down my spine. Time to get this dream back in motion. I pace back. Ragged applause as I take my place, sat on the edge of the bed. A tall naked guy, his hair spiked into peaks, is moving in before me, one hand hefting his moist cock up to meet my face, the other going to the back of my head, easing me down to meet it. It begins again. I lose track. A succession, one guy with foreskin, another without, I forget the sequence, one black guy, another white, in mad beautiful fragments, giddy with life. One comes as soon as my lips brush around it, and all that's required are a few perfunctory post-ejaculatory sucks as it wilts, as its seed dribbles down my cheek. Another takes so long my jaw aches with effort. There's some cursing and laughter. And all the while Harriman is filming.

Time passes in a strobe of incident. At last, at long last, it stops. I'm left alone, feeling numb.

'Is that it, are we done?'

Harriman is stood before me. He holds the camcorder in one hand, unbuckling his pants with the other. 'One guy, one guy for each year you've been legal. Just as you specified. You should thank them all for, er... coming. And it's all on here, digitally documented for our future delectation. But watching all that rampant raunch has got me horny. So, one more, if you don't mind?' as he flips his pants open. 'Happy birthday, cock-sucker.'

I lean forward, taking it carefully in my fist. 'Thank you Harriman,' kissing it reverently.

Eventually, we are alone. Outside, the city hums and pulses, inside there's a capsule of silence. Looking out over the skyline, there are luminous towers of light breaking free from gravity, reaching high into the starless black. Sometimes I think you don't know me. We're on a planet spinning towards extinction. I get prophetic glimpses that we're waiting for the Doomsday Asteroid, the next apocalyptical contagion, the coming atrocity. In the face of forces capsizing us into nervous awareness of the world's dangerous fragility, what price a little careless intimacy? It seems we can do nothing without the fiction of a beginning, and the drama of a final ending. Tonight was merely that old uncorking the genii thing -- you've got to be careful what you wish for. It just might come true. Honesty is not always for the best, policy-wise. So was all this just cruel humour, or a life lesson? Does this mark the end of our relationship, or are we on the brink of a newer, stranger, more extreme one?

'What is the moral of this story?' I ask him.

'There is none. All morality is but a story...'