Cock-Sucker: Ganymede Confessions

COCKSUCKER: THE GANYMEDE CONFESSIONS

by

TRISTAN TROTSKY

The story of my life and Gay times at the exclusive London Sex Club

It all started with an employment small-ad in a gay magazine advertising for compliant young men. I had no job, I was broke, I was about to be thrown out of my tiny garret room for non-payment of back-rent. I had nothing to lose. So I apply. I'm summoned for an interview. It's a grand old sedate house located in a quiet Mayfair mews square. I use the heavy brass doorknocker. When I'm invited inside by a nude boy of around my own age -- maybe nineteen? I'm immediately intrigued in a skin-crawling kind of breathlessly sensual way.

I follow the perfect jiggling hemispheres of his round bottom as he escorts me down the reception corridor to meet Mr Ponsonby. As the boy half-turns to rap politely on the door, I can't help but notice his impressively large penis. But before I have the opportunity of anything more than a lingering glance, he ushers me in to confront a dignified figure who sits in a booklined wood-panelled study, his back to French windows that open out onto an enclosed garden flooded by golden autumn light. In soft even tones he explains that he represents an exclusive Gentleman's Club with a history that extends back to Restoration times, that the services it provides are discreet and sophisticated, catering to men of certain tastes and erotic dispositions, that if I accept its absolute terms and conditions I will be provided for in every material, psychological and medical sense.

Am I willing to proceed?

I indicate that 'yes sir, I'm willing to proceed, thank you sir.'

In a quite matter of fact manner he instructs me to undress. Following the reception that greeted me here, the request should not have been exactly unexpected, and I've never been overly bashful about my body. I do so carefully, pulling off my T-shirt and jeans, folding my clothes in a neat pile, then slipping out of my shorts to stand naked for his scrutiny, arms determinedly by my side, turning, bending over and spreading my legs as he directs. As he can see I am of medium-height, slender build, dark-haired, with a large circumcised penis, semi-erect, and pendulous testicles. He enquires as to my sexual orientation and experience. Already naked, I feel quite at ease telling him fully and openly. That I've always had a troubling voraciously strong sex-drive. And that I've always loved cock. I tell him about my male sexual partners, how I'm attracted to mature dominant men, about my early oral experimentation with friends, then how I lost my anal virginity to an older married man who seduced and subsequently abandoned me, and about my unsatisfying casual hook-ups with random men since.

He makes a few notes, then -- in response to the press of a desk button, the naked youth I'd encountered earlier promptly re-enters the room, he smiles in a quick shy way at me, and stands waiting. I'm instructed to fellate him as Mr Ponsonby watches. So I kneel passively at the boy's feet. Close up I can see that his respectably large darkly-pigmented cock is raging hard and veiny, it looks as though it's already about to burst. In a single swoop I engulf its fleshy head in my wet mouth, taking it all the way to the back of my throat, something I'm quite happy to do. I suck that beautifully clean penis vigorously with his fat balls warmly nudging my chin, hearing the sharp catch in his breathing until I feel him pulsing hard up against the roof of my mouth. His sap rising. He controls his physical tremors admirably, standing to attention as he cums in a series of long spurts, the piquant taste flooding every recess of my mouth.

I pause with his slimy cock still filling my mouth, and wait until Mr Ponsonby waves his hand in impatient consent and says 'you may swallow.'

I swallow in two audible gulps. As I stand unsteadily he notes my own swaying erection with approval. Giving head has had its inevitable stimulating effect on my body! Mr Ponsonby looks me up and down, his scrutiny tarrying at my groin, at the glistening ooze of pre-cum that hangs from my cock-tip like a tear. I wonder briefly whether wiping it away will only focus more attention on the fact of my arousal? Then I'm promptly dismissed with another imperious wave of his hand. I thank him, dress and leave feeling rather confused. As I step outside, the autumn streets are chilly. The entire incident seems like a crazy dream. But as I retreat to a coffee house thinking over what has just happened, the cloying taste of the boy's cum still lingers in my mouth.

I kick my heels, lost in a void of uncertainty. The wheels have come off my life. I have no future. The interview already seems to be receding into a surreal fantasy. Did it really happen the way I remember? Surely things like that don't occur in real life? Then, later that same week I receive a text-message summoning me back. It seems that my application has resulted in a favourable report from the administering board. Some people claim 'my heart skipped a beat', and I never fully understood what that means. But reading that message, with the full implications contained in those few words, yes, my heart skipped. Without hesitation I hurry back to the square, glancing around at the oasis of calm in the midst of the city. And I knock decisively.

Once inside, the door to the world of normality thuds behind him with a decisive finality. I'm taking a life-changing step. This time I obediently surrender all my clothes at the reception, and pace naked behind Mr Ponsonby into the Ganymede Club itself, the expensive carpet soft beneath my bare toes, into a hushed atmosphere of calm where a scattering of attractively naked boys attend to the needs of various Club members. Many elderly gentlemen sit in alcoves in comfortable leather armchairs reading books or newspapers, while the attentive boys bring them drinks or kneel to suck their cocks. Mr Ponsonby shows me a series of side-rooms where more extreme sex-acts can be performed, anal, bondage in various restraint devices, or group sex. Beyond a curving central staircase hung with gilt-framed homoerotic paintings and polished mahogany banisters, there's a swimming pool, sauna and massage area, as well as an extensive library and archives of forbidden erotica.

Do I wish for employment here?

I eagerly affirm that 'yes sir' I do.

And do I accept the terms of an induction process, I happily sign various wavers and non-disclosure agreements.

I move into my allocated room high above the Ganymede Club the following week. I have few personal possessions. I'm leaving nothing of value behind me. The room has a washbasin, make-up mirror, a skylight window overlooking the quiet square and a single bed. Yet the room is to be shared with one of the other indentured boys. My initial share is with 'Rosie', the boy I originally sucked-off during the interview process, at midnight we slip into the single bed together already aroused by the smooth sensual contact of skin on skin. Eyes gleaming in the twilight as we wordlessly fumble with each other's erections. The intimate closeness feels so very good it's intoxicating. I get a sharp precognition that this situation is going to be the turning point of my life.

There's a rota system in place to ensure that the 'room-share' lasts for a month at a time, after which I will share with one of the twelve other well-hung boys, with the full expectation that we will have sex on a regular basis. Part of their remit is to ensure that my duties will not only be fully explained but demonstrated to their total satisfaction. I already know that loving tender sex with another man is good. So we play sex games. Tenderness and mutual respect are always a part of it. No coercion. Only fully interactive eroticism. Sucking cock is good. Pleasuring each other with mouth and tongues, sucking and licking is good.

There's nothing more exciting than someone else's orgasm happening in your mouth. In that sense, you're closer to their climax than they are, when you feel that cock swelling and pulsing up against the roof of your mouth, you can actually feel the sperm-duct on the underside of the cock swell against your lower lip as the spunk races up towards your throat... no backing out, no pulling away, that spunk is going to throb out across your tongue and fill your mouth, dissolving in your own saliva. And there's no more delicious surrender. Swallowing spunk is good. That most perfect intimate gift. That ecstatic proof of pleasure given and received. Giving mutual pleasure by sucking cock hurts no-one and only increases the total human happiness of the world.

As a result I'm quickly recognised as an accomplished cocksucker, and that becomes my speciality. I assume the new identity of 'Fellacia'. With Rosie we quickly bond, enjoying each other's cocks at every opportunity, although the enforced intimacy and arousing nudity quickly develops into a strong group loyalty with the others too. We are all over nineteen, and consenting adults within the eyes of the law. So I come to enjoy consensual sex with each of them, learning and adapting to their bodies and their tastes, Sebastiane who is a smoothly-sculpted virtually-hairless Afro-Caribbean, Bosie who is mixed-race with delightfully coffee-coloured skin, Bela with fine straw-coloured hair, dark impish Bambi who has a foreskin, and a pretty effeminate tousle-haired boy called Phillis with a graceful poise and delicate porcelain skin. We practise and perfect skills I would later employ on the clientele, rehearsing deep-throating over and over again until I can take the biggest cock with relative ease.

I commence my duties by serving drinks, and am induced to suck several cocks on my very first day. No degree of self-consciousness is tolerated, our bodies are simply property to be employed at others behest. Presentation-wise I am groomed, my pubic hair clipped tidily. At the start of the day we purge and lube in anticipation of being anally penetrated. Nudity is essential at all times in order to ensure ease of sexual access, but a collar can be worn engraved with a speciality or preference such as anal, BDSM or oral, my first collar is inscribed 'Deep-Throat Whore', which I wear proudly, some boys wear only pull-up stockings or have a pink ribbon tied in a neat bow around their genitals, others wear nail-varnish, rouge, or subtle make-up.

There's a certain novelty value to a 'new boy', and members are keen to try me out. Some of the more elderly gentlemen need much patient coaxing and sucking to achieve anything like a respectable erection, with only an ooze of sperm pulsing into my mouth as a reward. But I'm also led into one of the adjoining private rooms and anally-fucked by a number of the younger more active gentlemen, one time I'm the subject of a threesome who take alternating turns to penetrate my raised bottom with me laid across a waist-high bolster designed especially for that doggy-style purpose. Each new cock makes me groan with pleasure, causing me to messily ejaculate across the upholstery, much to their amusement. Of course it is obligatory that we submissively acquiesce to all desires with instant obedience, respect and courtesy. Refusal is not permitted. We curtsy and politely thank the gentlemen after sex for the pleasure of their attentions. I enjoy those attentions, and it seems that I receive good approval ratings.

Some of the guests are regulars who have their own special chairs and favourite boys. They sit in groups to discuss current events and exchange anecdotes, breaking off every now and then for sex. Some of them are even third generation patrons introduced to the club by fathers and grandfathers who were regular guests before them. Others only visit while they happen to be in the city on business, and take advantage of what we have to offer while they're here. Maybe inducing the boys to do things that their staid and sexually-frigid wives will never do for them. There are special members who come down from Scotland or across from Eire once a year to indulge in passions they're forced to repress elsewhere. There are foreign guests on exchange visits from similar establishments in Paris, Amsterdam or New York. And there are group visits booked by specialist agencies who cater to the gay market, from Africa and Japan. Sometimes guests book one of the spacious first-floor private suites for special sex parties, specifying a number of boys for their exclusive use.

Each upstairs suite is decorated in a different style, a gold and silver room, an art deco room, a seraglio suite, a 1940s Parisian bordello, a torture 'dungeon', and a baroque extravaganza which is my own favourite. A Kenyan diplomatic delegation require three shackled boys to be delivered to the golden suite to be used as slaves, including light flagellation. We are arranged in a tight crouching circle, back-to-back, the heels of our feet neatly tucked neatly beneath our bare buttocks, as the diplomats take turns fucking our mouths, then -- at the command 'switch whore', they move around and fuck the next mouth. I hear the squelching gurgling sounds of the other two cocksuckers, the sounds act like an aphrodisiac on me as my own throat is being systematically invaded. Is this humiliation or degradation? It is neither, simply satisfying animal needs. Their need for our complete submission. Our need to submit.

The Club's constant air of eroticism is heady and intoxicating, naked male bodies crush together, hungry for each other, it crawls into the bloodstream like a narcotic. The ever-present attractive male nudity provokes conspicuous arousal that's impossible to conceal. When I happen to brush up against Sebastiane or Bosie, as if by accident, we smile and fondle each other, he runs the head of his cock along the length of my cock, squeezing our cocks together in bursts of such delicious sensations, while Bela and Bambi watch, flirting and teasing exquisitely.

The finest international chefs offer their services simply in order to benefit from the privileges of honorary club membership. At weekends and on special occasions there are select members-only by-invitation parties in the elegant function-room with string quartets, or soulful drag renditions of Billie Holiday songs, in which us boys are expected to participate in group sex with members or with each other for the member's entertainment. During my first party-duty I'm teamed with another boy, the generously-endowed Bosie, to be strapped into a sixty-nine position across the centre of the dining table and we suck each other lustily for the duration of the meal. Later, as it's my 'debutante' debut I'm designated 'target boy' for a closing bukkake performance, with my wrists affixed behind my back in playful bondage I'm eased down until I'm crouching on the floor surrounded by a threatening circle of erections, then face-fucked relentlessly and repeatedly hard, to be rewarded -- not only with a dripping face-full of cum, but with an enthusiastic round of applause. Each arcing splatter of semen, jetting one after the other, landing in warm puddles on my messy face is a baptism into my new life. This is what I am from this moment on. This is how I serve.

Recognising my potential, Mr Ponsonby takes a great personal interest in my career development. I work closely with him, in a sexual way, sucking him off and regularly being fucked across the desk by him as we discuss schedules and day-to-day details. Despite his reserved conservative outer appearance he proves to be a virile man of fierce sexual energies and a relentlessly large uncircumcised cock. He helps open up my senses. Frequently my own joyful ejaculation causes my rectum to convulse around the cock that's impaling me, which causes him to spurt his load deep inside of me with a groan of satisfaction. As we talk he likes to fondle me until I ejaculate into his whisky glass, which he then swirls around and drinks in a single gulp. He reminisces about how he was first recruited into the Ganymede Club as a rootless orphan, but how he'd found his perfect vocation here, his life's work has been cock-sucking and being fucked as he gradually worked his way up the management hierarchy. It's an enclosed self-contained world of shadows and secrets, where rules are different. Where all our needs are catered for, as long as we conform to those rules absolutely and without question.

During leisure time I frequently explore the library, delighted by the explicit volumes of erotica to be found there. Scurrilous poetry and prurient history. Even the Club's opening manifesto is breath-taking, 'We hold these truths to be self-evident: That every cock deserves a willing, enthusiastic and grateful cocksucker, that every tight little puckered bum-hole needs to be filled by a big erect bottom-fucker.' The original Ganymede of myth was a beautiful Trojan youth desired and lusted over by Zeus, who abducts him and carries him away to be his lover. Male loving goes back a long way. Some of the library journals are personal accounts of events at the Ganymede itself, listing names and incidents, who fucked who, who was fucked by whom. During one phase there was a Sapphic lounge for lesbians to freely express themselves at a time when their love was forbidden.

Within its walls the Club has always been a safe haven for deviant poets, misfit writers and bohemian artists to carouse and debauch in a non-judgemental milieu of decadent tolerance. During times of repressive anti-homosexual legislation the Ganymede was a refuge where gays, cross-dressers and transvestites could be themselves, where they could bring friends or lovers to socialise without fear of censure. Protected to an extent by patronage from judges and police chiefs who secretly share their penchants, who were extended privileged membership, and bribed by exclusive use of new boys. When legislation was repealed, there were orgiastic celebrations. I browse with a book in one hand and a burning hard-on in the other. These memoirs of grubby erotica unite us across decades, they touch the soul and stir the cock. I help reorganise the cataloguing and display of the library.

Mr Ponsonby explains that he's painstakingly compiling the history of the club from its founding in 1660 through its 'Hellfire' years and as a 'Molly House' or 'Palace of Buggery' during the Georgian era. When he shows me his detailed hand-written manuscript, I assume responsibility for transferring it to computer-text, then use my literary skills to edit, improve and extend the narrative into the present day. I also have the club's paintings valued. Some of them are breathtakingly beautiful scenes of idealised male nudity in mythological settings, but there are others crated in a backroom of original sketches and explicitly pornographic art-work done by famous artists who had been Ganymede members during the time of Oscar Wilde, or from the 1950s. There are also nude photos of smiling Ganymede boys with proud erections from the early 1900s, embracing each other, some group photos of three or four of them disporting with limbs and genitals joyfully entangled. Each image trickles onto the tastebuds of my mind, each one of those cheerfully randy urchins were like me. I realise humbly that the Ganymede Club is part of a long homo-erotic tradition of which I am privileged to be a part. Yes, we are all whores, bum-boys, queers, faggots, Sissies, cum-sluts, silly fripoons, odalisques, and we are proud to be so. I now fully accept that I am 'Fellacia'. Each new cock I suck to orgasm, each burst of semen that erupts deep in my rectum links me into this long history of giving and receiving intense man-to-man pleasure.

Regular medical checks are carried out on the boys by a club member who is also a qualified doctor, on the understanding that he receives free sex whenever he fancies it, although penicillin shots, cream for anal fissures and other medication is paid for by the Ganymede. And there were still favours and obligations to be extended to those in positions of power, in order to obtain immunity from legal harassment. Bosie and I are summoned to one of the private suites above the Club to 'be nice' to a high-court Judge. I glance across at Bosie, and we smile in a sniggery conspiratorial way that says 'we are such shameless cum-whores, you and me...' I know how good he looks with a big cock forcing his mouth out of shape, and so sexy with a dribble of fresh spunk trickling down his chin... Yet our hesitant knock is answered by a rather unpleasant aged gentleman with a flabby paunch. This is the man whose favours we are to cultivate, his lips drawn back in what -- for him, is an attempted smile, a smile that fails to reach his eyes. He reaches out to take a penis firmly in each hand and draws us inside where he has been generously gifted with expensive wine, cocaine and viagra. He has us stand by the bedside as he sits on the coverlet to suck our cocks, alternating from one to the other. He's coarse and rough, his teeth rasp up against the sensitive tissue of my glans, I grimace at Bosie over the balding legal head that's bobbing up and down in my groin, wishing against wish that he'd stop. Bosie meets my gaze, and shrugs.