Cock-Sucker: Lost In France

Afternoon – four-nineteen pm, and it's tar-melting sultry-hot. Hitch-hiking down through France, the Loire valley, medieval hill-top towns, and beyond. My nineteenth summer, in distressed jeans, faded T-shirt and backpack, dark shoulder-length hair and shades, as much for cool as the bullying solar glare. After a chain of short-term and unsatisfactory thumb-trip lifts, when the truck-driver drops me off, I start sloping south along the slow black ribbon curve of road, more or less on impulse, thumb stuck out, until I get too bone-weary to walk. Squatting down on the verge beneath a shading overhang of trees, sun slow-spilling through to warm aching legs, where gaudy butterflies hug the shade beside a field that ticks with grasshoppers and flashes with red poppies, I wait for destiny to intercede. Normally, I love the road. It picks me up and takes me anyplace I please.

After what seems like three-hundred cars go by I get picked up by a French guy in a moss-green motor-home, dropping my pack behind the contour-seat. He speaks good English, but lubricated by an attractive Gallic inflection. He must be around forty, and swarthily attractive. A big man, with a perpetual beard-shadow. Dark hair shot with a few strands of grey. He speaks to me in a charming and flirtatious way, perhaps sensing my orientation. That kind of telepathy we all understand. After a while he – Emile, suggests he's due for a rest-stop and pulls in at a Routier. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder, as we turn and walk across the car-park, not quite guiding, more steering me. He buys café-au-lait and croissants, acting impeccably in every way. I feel strongly drawn to him. To his sophistication, the aroma of expensive aftershave.

I tell him about backpacking so far, the sporadic jaunts and long delays between pick-ups, how last night I'd been stranded and slept over in a derelict outhouse that smells of fungus and piss. Watching dawn come up through the space between the roof-beams. Back in the vehicle the conversation becomes more sexually charged, more explicit, as we accelerate back into traffic, and – sure, I'm getting teasingly aroused by his presence. His hand falls, as if by accident, onto my thigh, and I let him run his fingers down my leg. Smiling shyly up at him.

Later he asks if I have a boyfriend, I tell him – truthfully, 'oui Monsieur'. I'm 'autostop-peuses' down to Barcelona to see Django.

He asks 'are you saving yourself for him?', and I laugh noncommittally. He asks if I'm short of cash.

'Sure I am, why else would I be thumb-tripping?' That's when he invites me to go into the back of the motor-home where I can earn some train-fare. This time his hand falls into my groin more deliberately, to outline the shape of my genitals. I'm intrigued, of course I am. He's attractive. I'd probably have gone with him for the hell of it. The euro inducement just makes it more of a seductive proposition. So I nod, acting coy.

'Do you think this kind of stuff ever happened to Jack Kerouac when he was hitchhiking 'On The Road'?' I suggest.

'I'm sure 'Ti Jean' had his moments', as he pulls off the autoroute. Signs blur D923, Parc des Parelles, Crevant, then up through a small village. Cobbled streets with shuttered windows and inviting patisserie. Then further up through the tree-line to open countryside. Slowing into a dirt-track leading through a copse of cypresses, glimpsing the glittering arm of a wide slow river branching through tall reeds, where he pulls over and slows to a stop. My cool comes all undone. I'm a little scared now. But a little excited too as we climb over into the cramped back beneath the curved roof. I shrug my T-shirt up and off as Emile watches.

He smiles thinly, 'and the rest'.

I obey, dropping my pants and standing nervously naked for his inspection. He's sat on the bed and – me still standing, he draws me near, one hand on the curve of my bare bottom, the other toying roughly with my cock. Soon I'm erect, and whatever reticence I had dissolves. I'll not tell Django aboutthis– or perhaps I will, to make him jealous? He undresses, lies back on the bed and indicates his mouth. He's hugely erect, intimidatingly so. I sit down beside him so I can encircle it with my fingers, its touch is warm, making slow jerky masturbatory movements up and down its full energy-charged length from base to tip.

'No, no, suck,' with obvious impatience. So I tense myself, go down on him. And soon I'm sucking tentatively on him as he murmurs something in French. At one point he runs his hands into my hair, firmly easing my head down, forcing more in until I gag, coming up retching and laughing. He watches my discomfort with an expression of amused impatience, then urges 'more'. I'm really scared now. But at the same time, the situation is oddly arousing. I smile, like I'm seeking his approval, and go back to sucking him, settling to the rhythm. After a while he pulls my head up and rolls me onto the bed beside him. I'm laughing, enjoying his attention. Then he flips me over and I realise what he wants.

I begin to half-protest, 'wait', but already he's got me on my gut, forcing my legs apart brutally. His body-warmth covering me, I feel the hard pressure of his cock on the crease of my arse, dry-humping me not unpleasantly, lingering around the orifice at its lowest pass, then returning to slide up smoothly between my bottom-cheeks, relaxing my tension a little, then teasing around my hole, nudging a little – will he, won't he? Instead, he spears my ass with a moist finger. I grunt as I feel the finger replaced by a more hot insistent pressure.

Before I have chance to protest 'I'm not that kind of a boy,' I am that kind of a boy. Ceasing to struggle as it's obvious I have no choice, relaxing as much as I can. He slides into me, and I squawk against my will, groaning, unprompted. It's like I'm being split apart as he forces its length inexorably in until I can feel his balls crushed up against me. I rear up, my own genitals bouncing and jiggling, painfully erect, almost at once I begin ejaculating. He laughs and begins fucking me hard. It seems to go on forever, until at last he cries out just once, there's an earthquake shaking and shivering inside me, and I feel him flooding me in one long shocking gasp of motion. My heart beating, pausing, beating, pausing. Now I'm trembling and quivering with after-shock reaction as he extracts.

For a long while we lie together in a cooling sweat. As though hyper-sensitised by it I become aware of birds singing outside, the swishing whisper of foliage and the dozy drone of insects, I can hear the gurgling swirl of water around stones in the river, and even occasional traffic rasping by on the road we've left. And when he runs his fingers down my back to caress the smooth curves of my bottom, his touch is electric. I glance away sulkily, determined not to make it easy for him. Make him pay for his lack of consideration. I act petulant. He gets up and dresses without another word. I turn over and wipe myself, refusing to meet his eyes, reaching for my pants. Then he stands over me to cup my face in both hands. Draws my face up to meet his, and I grin stupidly. Nowhere to hide, no pretence.

He says 'tres bon, good, bonne bouche', and then we're both laughing. Back in the front we're driving back through the village where he first brought us, and I feel warm all over again, if a little sore. He was rough, a little aggressive, but it had been great sex. We drive some more, but soon it becomes apparent that no, this is a different village, we aren't heading back towards the autoroute, we're travelling deeper into the countryside. He says 'relax'. We eat in a Bistro, he pays, I eat, then we reach a remote converted-farmhouse hidden in trees and he draws to a halt in its courtyard. I'm well-wary now. Miles from anywhere. But there's no choice. We go inside. A barely furnished suite, but there's obviously wealth here. What now? He expects I'm going to sleep with him. I feel trapped. A squirmy kind of unease. What can I do? Where could I go? Then – hey, what's one night? Can't afford a night's stop-over at a chamber d'hote, and the soles of my feetaresore from all that walking.

He leads me through, shows me the shower cubicle. 'You're hot?' Sure I'm hot, grimed with dust, dryness and sweat. So he leaves me. I strip, my 'T'-shirt so sweat-moist it clings to me, and resists removal. I get into the shower. It feels good, standing in stilled time, just letting steamy-hot shower-spray soothe my face and shoulders, cleansing all the crud the musk and perspiration from my body, sluicing away all the badness from my life, and leaving me purified. Over the sound of running water it's as though I hear voices... no, must be mistaken. Radio perhaps? There's no-one else here. No-one within miles. Then the shower door opens and Emile's standing there, appraising me. Suddenly, stupidly embarrassed I'm instinctively covering my groin. Then smile, shrug, and force my hands away, let him watch. After what we've already done, it's too late for shyness now.

He sits back on an ottoman, still dressed. At length I step out and he begins towelling me in a large fluffy bath-towel. My clothes are gone. My backpack's still in the motor-home. He shifts his attention more specifically, lower, towards my centre of gravity, in teasing circles across my stomach, down to where we both know he's going to end up. I'm erecting in anticipation, until his long fingers breathlessly encircle it possessively. He holds it firmly, and begins to wank me slowly, leisurely, in long moist strokes all the way from tip to root. I stand perfectly still, hands by my sides, almost fearful of his censure, and let him do what he wants to do. His experienced thumb teases around the underside rim of my glans, intensifying the sensation, pausing to squeeze the shaft gently, then his fist becomes a blur, until my balls are bouncing. My head goes back. It's like I have to give him a good show, so I begin breathing heavily. I'm scared of him. His other hand creeps around my waist, his index finger seeking out my anus and spearing it, sliding deep. My hips move uncontrollably under the double assault.

'You like this? I'm pleasing you?' I nod enthusiastically. If I want his co-operation in getting out of here later, I'm going to have to be nice to him now. And I begin spurting uncontrollably all across his gripping fingers. He continues to hold me. I'm still impaled on his finger. At length he wipes the cooling drool fastidiously with the towel, and says 'you want to fuck now?'

I nod. 'I'm sorry about last time' I breathe heavily. 'You're so big. I'm not used to taking anyone as big as you are.'

'And it gets bigger the more you pleasure it.'

'I'll try harder this time.'

'Of course you will. Of course you will.' He leads me by the cock into the bedroom. There's homo-erotic prints on the wall. A mirror, so I can see myself, and him, as he undresses and lays on his back on the bed. I climb over him, crouching on all fours. He's already aroused. I straddle his thighs so my testicles brush up and down his length. I hold my cock and trace it down the length of his much larger penis, kissing his nipples and writhing my head down to his naval. I kiss the fat glans, tasting its salt rawness. Lick him down to his balls. Suck each one in turn into my mouth, one, then the other. And finally slide the full fat bulb of his cock into my mouth and suck it hard, feeling his body tense in reaction. My vocabulary reduces down to grunts. I strain to take as much of its length as I can manage, reasoning that if I don't he'll only force it anyway, sucking furiously with undisguised enthusiasm. I feel in control, and that in itself is a powerful aphrodisiac. His stomach undulating. He seems satisfied, and that satisfies me. If this is going to be a one-night stand, I'll make it a memorable one.

At length, decisively I release it, and immediately turn around, arse in the air, 'baise moi, merci, fuck me now.' He's behind me, I feel it slithering deep. I'm mewling and groaning, it's like my guts are being forced apart, yet bracing myself, grating my teeth, my own cock standing out stupidly raw and quivering. He fucks me long and deep. Pausing with it fully inside me. I'm gasping, my cock swaying, slapping up against my gut, frozen in total erotic impalement. Absolutely possessed by him. Then he begins again, and immediately I start coming, ecstatically. Suddenly, he's drawing back out of me, pushing me around numb and confused. He's targeting for my face again.

I'm mumbling 'no man, no, it's just been...,' trying to push him away, no longer in control. I hadn't anticipated this. I draw away. That's when, it's as though he's going to strike me across the face. I fall back, more in shock than anticipating pain. And he's on me, wrestling me back, our nude bodies entwined, genitals waving ludicrously, then he's sitting heavily on my chest, his weight constricting my breathing, his knees pinning my arms beneath me. He places one hand under my chin and tips my face up towards him, prises my stupefied mouth open and nudges it in, huge and fat, drooling pre-cum and foul with body-odours. I'm almost gagging, but he's ramming it in so hard I'm gurgling and retching, my lips closing around it automatically. No other choice. He's fucking impatiently, holding me by the hair. Blinded by tears and confusion, I suck it, until he floods me in white tides of spunk and seismic shocks like an earth-tremor at the back of my throat, holding my head so tight his fat balls are squashed up against my throat.

Then he's pulsing intermittently. And as he draws back at length it seems to take an age to slop free. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, a froth of sperm and spit-bubbles drooling on my chin. I feel sundered, my anus and jaw both throbbing with erotic invasion, I'm sticky with semen and sweat, gasping like an asthmatic, yet absurdly I'm still erect. Defying gravity, as though my body is denying my distress and disgust. He sits there smirking down at me. Draws his fingers down my face to chuck my chin up to meet his eyes.

'You did well' he whispers, 'but don't attempt to deny me. I am stronger. My will is stronger. Do what I want at all times and we'll be good for each other.' He circles my cock lasciviously, smoothing spunk-trails around the corona of my glistening glans. 'Your body likes what we do. It cannot lie. Why argue with the body's wisdom? We will do this often. Yes?'

I force a smile. He raises his finger moist with my emission, and runs it along my lower lip. I manage 'yes, yes we will'. Absurdly feeling the warmth of gratitude for this man's approval, and slide the spermy finger into my mouth to suck it clean. I almost said 'master'.

We sleep together naked. I have a series of bizarre and disturbingly erotic dreams. I'm with my lover in Barcelona. We lie together in the delights of sixty-nine, so deliciously and lovingly entwined. His body so smooth, pliable and beautiful. Our bodies moving together in perfectly reciprocated pleasure, his taste a perfection to my tongue. But as I look up from our sweet embrace Emile is standing there watching us, sneering. I'm startled awake. It is half-dark. He is sleeping beside me. I could escape, or I could even kill him. But my attention is drawn inexorably to the brutally large curve that hangs within his thighs. The phallus that has raped and violated me. But I'm mesmerised by it.

I lie still, listening to the scratching of the cicadas somewhere out there in the eerie blackness. I like the night. Things clarify in the night. My imagination flows, every idea is available to me at night. All my preconceptions of things go away. Sometimes you're looking for what you need in all the wrong places. Sometimes it can be closer than you dare. Or in your bed, beside you. I settle back and sleep again. This dream-time I'm crouching, giving head to my new lover, submissively, reverently, and as I look up it is Django who is standing there watching, also nude, his penis small and limp. His expression is one of loss and regret. He becomes more and more insubstantial, fading as I pay humiliating oral homage to my new master.

When I next wake I find myself confused and alone. Self-consciously I rise and pace through to the kitchen. He's dressed. About to leave. He indicates coffee and croissants, that I'm to help myself. I'm suddenly overcome with shyness before his gaze. I say 'where are my clothes?'

'You've been travelling' he answers reassuringly, 'your clothes are dirty. You don't need them. I'll have them laundered. In the meantime I'll have you naked. That way I'll have constant access to what I need. You provide the hospitality of your body for my use. I provide you with the hospitality of my home. So are both our needs satisfied.'

'You can't hold me here against my will.'

'I know what is your will better than you do. You are my guest, my lover, my slave. You will choose to leave when I so decide.'

'What if I'm observed like this?'

'We are far from people. The occasional peasant field worker. But they are familiar with my 'guests'.' Emile leaves me, locking the door so I can't leave. I watch him take the motor-home and drive away. I explore. There's no phone, no way of reaching the outside world. Not even an address so I can ascertain where I am. And wherever that is, it's a long way from home. No-one knows where I am. Nobody's going to miss me, or even find my absence unusual. Not for a long while...

His rooms are full of books, many on gay themes. DVD's too. I find a folder of colour photos of naked youths. I recognise the rooms. They've been taken here. The guys are all attractively young and erect, so I – obviously, must be the latest of many 'guests'. I imagine them here, with him, they are dark or blonde. Their bodies smooth and firm, moist with arousal, crouching over to take his erection. Their faces screwed into an agony of sensation as he slides into them. It's such an erotic image I feel both aroused, and oddly jealous too. Some of the later photos are even more hard-core. Pictures of youths in oral and anal penetration. Some are bound. Others are with two or more men.

Suddenly I'm afraid. What began as a road-trip has become a hallucination, a magic realism head-trip into strange-land. What have I got myself into? This could be a sex-cult thing. How will it end? With a snuff movie? I re-enter the bedroom. Affixed to the bed-head I notice, there's a length of chain with handcuffs fixed to it. Their purpose obvious. I raid the wardrobe. There are clothes here. Briefs, silk shirts. I slide the shorts on. They fit tightly. I catch sight of the mirror. Shit, if he could see me like this! I become oddly aroused at the thought, the bulging expansion my genitals create making the appearance even more sexy. At that moment I'd have done anything for him. Then I think of the photos and videos. I have to get out of here before he comes back. I pull on one of his shirts and a pair of loose trousers too big for me. There's even some money in the jacket pocket. So – he's had his pleasure with me, it's only right he should pay, isn't it? Shoes next. The doors are all locked. The windows latched down hard.

For a while I'm sat there in indecision. Am I being stupid? I've never been what you'd call promiscuous, but sure I've been with my share of guys, although it's always been in a warm, mutual, consensual way before, never as intense and scarily unsettling as this. He's going to come back any minute. We'll have some sex. Violent, forceful for sure, but very exciting sex. It's a fantasy situation. An erotic dream. The sex slave, the dominant master. The kind of thing you masturbate about. Shouldn't I take the experience all the way? Enjoy it? Suck it, take it anyway he wants? Then he'll take me back to the autoroute, sure he will... Or perhaps not.