Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 01: Dean

There, I'm doing it, it's not too bad, a little sour, that passes, so I gulp more of it, then - because he's not erect, I manage to get all of it into my mouth clear down to the hairy base with my nose nuzzling flesh, and feel it stiffen magically, reacting satisfyingly to my attentions, swelling and expanding as I suck until it begins forcing me back, forcing me to relinquish it. Impaled on the now-fiery and towering member, cheeks caved in with the force of my suction, I can glance up over his stomach and chest. His arms are folded behind the back of his head and, less casual now, he's watching me with an amused smirk as I debase myself. Good, I'm forcing him to take notice of me. I've tongued and teased it to full arousal and it's much too late to stop.

This is the fourth time it's been deep in my mouth. It no longer seems strange, no longer quite so terrible. I'm adjusting to it. I know what I'm doing, and what is about to happen. I can deal with it. Come on - own up, how long did it take? Four nights. Four nights to go from self-pitying victim to brazen initiator. Tonight, I'm not being forced to do this - no, in the face of his indifference, I'm the instigator. It took just four nights to break down the resistance, to overcome revulsion, to become reconciled to the inevitable - does that seem reasonable? Reasonable - yes, but only in the sense that I'm now colluding in it all. Somehow, I'm less victim that I imagine myself to be. How else to explain the iron hard-on in my groin? How else do you explain the spontaneous ejaculation I'm struggling to hold back? Not now, not yet, shame on you! Yet I await the anticipated semen-gush to fountain into my mouth with meek moist acceptance.

His body is warm. As I suck I can hear his heart beating. Feel his stomach rise and fall as he breathes, sense the movement of blood and muscle beneath his skin. I move around to gain better access to it, lifting myself until I'm nearly crouched over him, deliberately trailing my sensitive knob-end across the cool coverlets of the bed, drooling strands of glittering clear fluid in excited anticipation, my balls dangling and swaying up against my legs, sensually, moaning and slobbering over my meaty mouthful. I release it long enough to tongue into the 'v'-shaped cleft where the underside of the head meets the shaft, then lick up and down its full length, sinking low to suck each swollen testicle, rolling those tender ovoids into my mouth while I squeeze and wank his now-wet cock, raw and slimy with my saliva, I hear the catch in his breath and - not daring to leave it unsucked a moment longer than necessary, luxuriously sink my lips down over his dick-head again, biting and tonguing my way down, feeling the heat from the blood pumping through it up against my softly caressing lips, my own cock dipping, weaving and juddering.

Then his back arches and he groans, I feel the tightening of his retracting testicles as he begins spouting, pulsing and spurting deep into me for long moments. Spurting. Spurting again. Then again. I can take no more and I'm coming too in great creaming jets leaping up splashing across stomach and legs like wild mercury. I've never known such a volcanically powerful orgasm wracking me from end to end, a totally stunning vortex of spasming energy that floods and kicks into my mouth while I'm twitching and spitting and gushing from my own thighs in wave after wave of jism. I'm gagging and moaning, choking and whimpering. It's swallow or drown.

There are five-thousand taste-buds on the human tongue, his spunk doesn't miss a single one of mine. I continue to hold it between my smudged lips, feeling its tremors lessen. Until at long last I allow myself to release it. Only to suck it instantly back in again. Release it, kiss its messy tip, lick it, then suck it back in again. Hold it deep for a long moment. Then release it. There's another bead of goo oozing from its eye. Greedily I hood the glans with my lips, use my tongue to lavish it. Breathing heavy, until it slips free.

He lies still, barely stirring, while I stay crouched an inch above him, teeth gummed together with the spunk that's dribbling and cooling down my chin, my breath visibly rippling wet strands of his pubic hair. Wracked by the aftermath of overwhelming emotional response, at that moment I've been reduced to a mindless thing, just gazing at his spent cock in awe for an eternal moment totally mesmerised. I've done it. I've sucked this brute dry. I've won. And I'd contentedly do it all over again. I know now that whatever he chooses to do to me, I can take it, and still want more. Already I'm about to slurp it back into my mouth... then the spell breaks in a mutual relaxation.

"Fuck off now you dirty perv" he says, more kindly.

"Thank you" I blurt stupidly and stand up, shakily nervous. "Thank you, that was amazing" I rasp hoarsely, realising stupidly I'm no longer lying. If he'd looked, which I don't think he did, he must see the glistening gloops of fresh spunk streaking my body. Outlined by faint moonlight through the window. What the hell. I pull the sheet back into place, and only then stagger back to my own bed. Someone sniggers in the darkness, but oddly I feel empowered by what I've done. And yes, the more who know, the greater my protection. I've earned it, and fall immediately into fulfilling sleep. Orgasm assures deep sleep better than any tablet. The long night that once held only crawling terrors, no longer threatens me. I'm safe.

No card from my mother. I sit in a corner of the day-room, out of the way, and begin writing a long letter to her, explaining what's been going on here - an edited version of course, how I hope she's well and happy, and how I'm looking forward to getting out. Then I realise I don't have her new address. I check the two cards she's sent me, she says she's moved in with this sleazy new boyfriend, but there's no mention where that is. I look at the letter I've written, and it suddenly seems idiotic. I tear it up. I've still got blank sheets of paper. That writer-in-residence said about 'writing what you know', so I start writing this, for no particular reason. After some time I notice Ian hanging around, and he smiles at me, so I smile back.

"What are you writing?"

"Nothing, something, you know, just stuff."

He starts reading. My first urge is to cover it up, but I fight the impulse. Let him read it. Let him know.

"This is fucking good" he breathes.

I wait another moment, then steel myself to ask "You know, when you do it, when Sol does it to you, when he puts it up you, do you get, y'know...?"

"A cock-stand?" laughs Ian, "Why. Do you when you suck-off Dean?"

"No, not really."

Ian smiles teasingly. "I bet you do, it's impossible not to. I did when I sucked him off, you can't control it, it happens naturally and it feels good. And now - when Sol does it to me I'm so hard I go crazy with it."

"Well, yes, I get a hard-on too, I guess. But you don't actually... you know?'"

"Cum? Shoot off? That's the best part. That's the pay-off, the reward. That's when it's hard to concentrate on what you're doing, when you're spurting all over the place. Don't you think so?"

I smile in shy complicity. "I thought maybe it was just me. It feels so strange."

"Strange - hell no. It's just sex. It's a normal reaction. I mean, I'm stiff now just talking about this stuff. Want to see?"

He turns towards me secretively and begins to carefully unfasten his fly. I look around wildly. As if at some prearranged signal the room has emptied, there's now just me and him, and he's about to unzip and expose himself to me. I panic. I'd actually been warming to him, enjoying the conversation. His easy and relaxed manner set me at ease. It was the first intimations of friendship I've experienced here. But this unexpected turn of events startled me, because no. I'm not like that. I do what I do because I have to. To survive. Not for any other reason. Not because I'm... like that, not because I'm pervy. In a confused blur I tear myself away, push past him, and almost run from the room. Are they all randy predators in here? Am I utterly trapped in a dissolute realm of sexual madness?

But that night I can't even wait for Dean. I find myself fidgeting with restless impatience, already erect with thoughts of what I'm about to do, my fingers irresistibly drawn to my swollen cock, pulling tweaking and squeezing it, psyching myself up, until the moment the lights go down. I count to ten 'one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five-and-six-and-seven-and-eight-and-nine... and ten', now I'm out of my bed, naked, scuttling across the brief space to his bedside, wordlessly worming head and shoulders in and under the covers without waiting for an invitation, seeking his cock shamelessly.

No words. No build-up. No preamble. He's lying on his back. I've found it. It's in my hand. Soft, but I can change that, drawing it up. I breathe hard into his groin and nose down to gulp as much of it into my throat as I possibly can, sucking so hard he grunts and doubles up, cradling my head in shocked and amused surprise, his stomach flexing with reaction.

As his breathing returns to normal and he relaxes back, it swells to fill my mouth to capacity, and I suck more contentedly at him, wriggling my bottom so my own cock quivers and my balls jiggle with shared excitation. His cock now slippery with saliva so I can hear audible slurps escape as I work, surely others can hear it too? But I'm already lost in concentration. It's warm and getting warmer down there, so stifling I'm getting lightheaded, hanging onto his balls for stability, my other hand down between my own legs, coaxing and stimulating, the feelings racing through my body like some kind of new drug all the way from my head to the tip of my cock, his legs moving and his back arching in response to what I'm doing to him. I'm now tensed to swallow his spermy mouthful. Working purposefully towards that end.

Imagining how comical my startled expression must have appeared that first time as it deluged my mouth and slithered down my reluctant throat. Now it's familiar enough for me to tell he's already close yet again, and the prospect doesn't bother me at all, let it come, I'm ready, I can take it... he gives one long low sigh as he empties into my mouth. I close my eyes and take it, until the pulses subside. With the blobby trickles of spunk coursing down my leg from my own ejaculation, the after-tingle pleasantly fading. Later, I'm lying back in my own bed with the taste of him in my mouth, I feel smug and pleased with myself. I've done it. I'm already thinking of the next time I'll do it. Maybe I'll take it slower next time. Make it last longer. Use my tongue more. I lie awake with my mind swirling around a dozen impossible things, unable to sleep, my body still hyper from the continuing dull ache in my groin. Crazy thoughts and ideas racing through my head.

I can't be the only one here feeling this way. There must be others. Many others. Then follow insinuating thoughts of all the sperm that must be ejaculated within the confines of this building each lights-out. All the sweaty hands furtively jacking themselves off, or jacking each other off, in the warm secret darkness beneath the covers. All the deep moist blow-jobs, all the grunting ass-fucking, some of them sixty-nining, in all the dorms. I'm not alone, I'm part of a huge fetid wave of simultaneous orgasms of multiple hungry cocks, all reddened stiff with urgency, all bursting their pent-up sexual energies at once. It's an intoxicating thought, a huge tide of jism, of which mine - and Dean's, is but a part.

If scientists could harness those hormonal energy-levels they could power a rocket-ship to the stars. Even those who try so desperately to stand out against the temptations of the groin, who strive to stay pure, are betrayed by their own body's lustier urges, as they succumb to the guilt-ridden wet-dreams in the night that they're unable to control. So why try? Why fight it? It's going to happen anyway. Then I begin thinking, the very stones that make up the walls of this place must be irradiated by generations of rampant testosterone from all those frantic bodies, from all that furious erotic activity, the warped wooden boards of the floor must be riddled with male hormones and impregnated by congealing body fluids. Sweat, saliva, careless arcs of sperm.

For a moment I have this terrible vision of all those DNA-spores dribbling in long glutinous strands down through the gaps in flaking mortar and ill-fitting joists to drip-drip-drip through cobwebbed foundation buttresses and musty dry-rot earthworks, down past where rats scamper and wood-lice scuttle, down way beneath us into the deepest bowels of the hall, where it eventually accumulates in a spreading pool of proto-life-stuff, a seething primeval soup rich with nutrients where coiling spermatozoa interact and procreate in a copulatory double-helix dance of self-fertilisation, cells fusing and multiplying mutationally, generating hideous malformed half-embryo things that squirm and slither in their viscous womb-darkness, weeping and moaning from their half-mouths set into their half-faces. Things never born, incomplete, cursed to a kind of monstrous half-life, conceived from all that concentrated sexual-energy spurted thoughtlessly into limbo. The nightmare image spooks me, so that for weeks after I imagine strange scratching sounds coming from far beneath the floorboards in the deep stillness of night, and I hold my breath with a chill of unreasoned dread...

(Part Two - 'Ian', will follow shortly)