tagGay MaleCock-Sucker: The Dark Hunter Pt. 01

Cock-Sucker: The Dark Hunter Pt. 01

bytristantrotsky©

Part One: My Wife's Out There Sucking Cock, So Why Shouldn't I?

I'm going to stop sucking stranger's cocks. Next week. Or probably the week after. Maybe. I'd rather not talk of these things. But there's a need to confess, to seek absolution for my sins. Look at me. What do you see? Go on, admit it, to most people, I'm a respectable married man with a well-paid and highly responsible financial position in the city. But I also have a dark secret, a covert life of shame and humiliation to which I'm uncontrollably addicted.

"Perverse and foolish, oft I've strayed..." Once a month, sometimes more frequently if my work has been particularly stressful or my home-life especially claustrophobic, the images start seeping into my mind. Bringing an almost unbearable hunger to my throat. As though every cell in my body is screaming, like a drug-addict in withdrawal, for the next fix. I'll fight the impulse, fight the relentless surging tides of darkness devouring me, stifling the faint murmurings of conscience, I fight so hard it physically hurts.

No! No! No! No! I said I'd never do this again. It's wrong and vile. I promised myself I'd never do it again. Never. But god knows it's difficult. I'll weaken, I know I'll weaken, it's only a matter of time, I'm not strong enough to fight it, I'm too weak. It never goes away.

And eventually there'll come that moment when I pick up my mobile with trembling fingers, to call that special number in Lambert Grove. Frey is my contact. It's probably not his real name, but he's been 'helping' me for a number of months now. At a prearranged time, as we have negotiated, I will drive to his apartment in a fug of nervous anticipation. I am forty-five. He's probably in his mid-thirties. He invites me in and we small-talk for a while. We drink, martinis probably. All the while, I'm aware of the red door leading off his apartment. For me, that door -- insignificant in every other sense, holds the same promise as Room 101 does for poor Winston Smith in Orwell's '1984'. A reluctance and a crawling fear of the moment I must pass through. Yet a dread offset by an equally burning desire.

I pay him. "Do you have something for me?" I ask.

He nods. "Something special. So if you're uncomfortable with any aspect of this, now's your last chance to say so, and back out. You only have to say no."

Instead, I say "How do you want me?"

And he explains. Sometimes I'm just naked, so hurriedly I undress -- usually erect already, in fact chances are I've been hard ever since the phone call, and usually even before, at just the thought of what I'm preparing to do. At times I'll be blindfold or handcuffed, or in a latex pouch. Or he'll attach a tether to my penis and scrotum and lead me by it into the adjoining room where a stranger awaits. Always different. And I do what I must do...

This is how it began. I don't usually read the broadsheets far beyond the financial pages, and the local tabloid even less, but on this occasion a short piece snares my attention, concerning resident complaints about a public toilets on the outer perimeter of the city park frequented by Gays for 'cottaging'. The story sets off imaginings in strange ways I couldn't quite understand. It occurred to me that on the occasions I've taken my lunch-break away from the office, I'd find myself sitting in that very park, or when I take a brisk short-cut across the park, I must have passed that spot a number of times without once glancing in its direction.

In that clean fresh air, with the business hub of the nation thrumming all around me, I'm so close to the heart of darkness, a subworld most people never even suspect exists.

What would happen if I were to find myself there? Would I be set upon by ruffians who'd force me to endure humiliating deviant acts? And why do such vile images leave me breathless with nervous excitement? Sometimes the greatest mysteries are not space-time and destiny, but the unknown darkness that lies within your own deepest soul.

It was a confusing time for me. My wife had just confessed -- well, more boasted to me about having a virile and demanding lover. Deal with it, she's been involved with a colleague for some time. It's only right I should know. They meet in hotel rooms, or sometimes they have torrid sex in his car during lunch. As far as she's concerned the comfortable social and financial stability of our domestic arrangement will continue, as will her affair. She's not prepared to lose the benefits of either.

What was I to do? How was I supposed to react? I know all the Soap Opera responses, rage, anger, jealousy, anaesthetising the pain with alcohol. Yet oddly, my reaction is less of shock or upset, as it is of a curious sense of relief. A responsibility of pretence has been removed. In a strange dislocated sense of timelessness, I feel liberated, as if some kind of repressive clamps on my emotions have eased, and then dissolved away. It's time to let it go, let it all fall away. The parameters of my life have been altered. She'd made the choice. A choice that also releases me.

So am I mourning my cuckolded marriage? No, not quite. The pretence of marriage has provided a structure that's regulated my life for those decades. Now that structure is no longer there. My life is adrift, it's become empty and pointless. She was indulging her carnal needs, now I feel justified in pursuing previously suppressed elements of my own personality. If it's a point of view forced on me by strange circumstances, that doesn't make it any the less true. If you feel yourself floating, dissociated, that's just exactly what you are. So take yourself off. Let the tide surge around you a little.

But how? Regret and remorse for things you've done eats into your soul. Regret and remorse for things you haven't done is even more terrible. For desires that remain unexpressed, for lost opportunities and failure of nerve. Nothing but wasted time. And all you have left is a void of loss.

I've accumulated a backlog of conscientious service that legitimises an easing off, which allows me to spend a long reflective time gazing out of the office windows without really seeing anything at all. Extending out-of-office time so I'm sitting on an embankment bench in the tepid sunshine watching the river flow. I browse contact ads without any intention of responding. 'Men seeking Men.' They entice with '40-plus seeking friendship, maybe leading to more.' Which is specifically what I don't want. I don't need emotional entanglement. I don't want to be drawn into new moral commitments to lonely and needful companions. I don't want attachments. I crave only rawness and immediacy without consequence.

I spend forever sitting alone mesmerised by gay internet porn-sites. There are hundreds, no -- thousands of guys out there indulging in nude consensual guilt-free sex, and all I do is sit here and get off on watching them. Things are different, issues simpler in porn-land. None of this real-world anguished soul-searching, no possibility of disgusted rejection, none of that what-will-he-think-of-me? will he despise me afterwards? Just an exchange of longing looks, and they're deep into each other's pants, bodies coiling together without a moment's hesitation, splashing their casual freedom around like cheap after-shave, along with enough sperm to keep a fertility clinic stocked from here to Doomsday.

I watch two attractive young studs climb a five-barred gate into a field of golden grain, they're long-haired, maybe it's a 1970's thing? They ford their way through to the centre of the field where they crush out a corn-circle, into which they tumble and playfully tussle, until the tussling becomes more pointedly physical. Hawkwind T-shirts are hauled up and off, stone-washed pre-faded denims drop. No underwear to impede their progress or hamper their access. They've obviously come with the intention of 'coming' in mind ('coming' in mind is the only place it happens with me!), and their impatience is a virtue. Hypnotised, I watch as their impressively perky cocks bounce into view, spring-loaded at forty-five degrees. The goods on display, in all their glory, ready for each other's fingers, eager mouths and then bottoms.

As I watch, one of them plucks an ear of corn and trickles it across his friend's balls, then up and down the not-inconsiderable length of his shaft. It moves lazily, appreciatively, as the ear of corn is replaced by fingers. Then by teasing tongue. I ache with yearning as inch by wondrous inch slips between devouring cock-hungry lips.

Not sure who I most envy, the guy getting sucked or the one doing the sucking. Both, if that were possible. The cameraman must be giving them explicit directions because they move from position to position un-selfconsciously, as if smoothly intuitively coordinated, sharing their intimate attentions on a mutually equal-opportunities basis, doing everything to each other, two clean nude bodies fused together by sexual magnetism rolling over and over in the hay, a pleasing blur of rounded bottoms and jiggling testicles as they affectionately fish-tail into each other, while eerily traffic can clearly be seen moving up and down the road they've just left, beneath a cloudless blue sky. Eventually, relaxing in a post-coital sixty-nine, they're mock-shocked by the sudden arrival of the Farmer, pitchfork brandished with all the comic-menace of a silent-movie villain.

"How are you going to compensate me for the damage you've done to my crop?" he demands.

But given the nature of the material, I guess the answer is never really in much doubt. Surprise and outrage rapidly passes as his pants slide down. They are admirably well-hung, as we've had every opportunity to see, but he's even bigger, more generously endowed. And, their eyes are bugging out of their heads so wide it's as though they can't believe their good fortune, the two younger guys set about pleasuring what's revealed to them, working together. One slurp-slurp gobble-gobbles, then the other. It ends with them side-by-side on all fours with the farmer alternating his penetrative attentions between the two puckered orifices so delightfully presented to him, with grunts and moans of delighted pleasure from all three.

You can tell. Long-time porn connoisseurs like myself can tell. Those on-screen who are into doing it, and those who aren't. Those who are just thinking of the cheque at the end of the shoot. Who do as little, make as little contact as they can get away with. And those who are doing it and loving doing it. Who take the opportunity to gorge themselves on fresh cock in the most uninhibited totally self-indulgent way. These two young guys are not faking. They love cock, love sucking it slutty-throat-deep for their own gluttonous needs. Watch them, just watch. Their mutual appetite for each other's bodies just breaks your heart with lustful envy.

I can't help but wonder, were they fuck-buddies who were doing it to each other anyway, and decided to make some pocket-money by doing it on camcorder? Or were they strangers brought together by the website especially for the shoot? If so the pairing is perfectly-suited. The bucolic outdoor setting with the drowsy drone of distant traffic adding to its feel of timeless escapist freedom.

I could never be that free. That's my curse. Instead, I watch them doing things I only fantasise about doing, things I masturbate about doing, with that familiar unpleasant canting in my gut, me, the lonely voyeur, the outsider, angry at my exclusion from it all, bitter and jealous of their easy promiscuity. Yet fearful of human involvement. Unable to open up, incapable of revealing my inner self.

Until, what terrible compulsion drew me that day, to that place? Was it accidental? No. Absolutely not. So okay -- maybe, sort of. Yes, but not deliberately. Instead, I'd kind of stumbled into it all, as you do. Although I resisted the impulse for almost a week I eventually found myself leaving the main Park pathway, off through the sheltering arch of scrubby trees, and entering the toilet. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, or temporary madness. It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life. I wanted to do it so urgently. I didn't want to do it with a horrified dread. I did. And I didn't. Nothing I've ever experienced filled me such dreadful terror or longing, such fear and yearning.

Maybe it was a kind of storming mental-breakdown. After all, my life is coming adrift. Normality, or what has previously passed as normality for so long, is in flux. More likely it was something resembling the vast subterranean pressures that build for a thousand years beneath the sleeping supposedly-extinct peak that suddenly, unexpectedly erupts with the devastating volcanic power to transfigure everything. Whatever... the toilets are empty. Unsure if that pleased or disappoints me. A faint musk in a hazy twilight, the smell of the forbidden, the buzzing of a fly trapped up against a cobwebbed high vent.

I hang around long enough to take note of the lurid graffiti on the walls of the cubicles which only serve to fuel my fantasies. Anonymous writers boasting of nine-inch erections and sucking-offs in this cubicle, there's a glory-hole circled in coarse invitations, others offering their anus to anyone who wants it, some claiming unbelievable prowess in being fucked by groups of strangers one after another.

It's a place haunted with possibilities. Eavesdropping on the ghost voices of imagined encounters whispering in every cubicle. All the dark sounds of sinful man-sex, moaning, groaning, gasping for breath in that special throaty way. My reactions confused by weird revulsions, yet my own tumescence burning in my pants so persistently I can't resists adding my own legend, 'Mouth Needs Fucking, All Comers Welcome.' Why is it those words flow so easily? Why that need? It comes without thinking, scribbled feverishly almost before I realise it. Reading the words back as if someone else has scrawled them. Not me. Until realising what I've done fills my gut with quick-churning terror.

I fled, and stayed away as long as I dared, only calling in one night on my way home, telling myself I urgently need to urinate. A pretext? Fooling myself? Again it was unoccupied. I move to the urinal. It was then that I hear approaching footfall. A skinhead guy, some ten years younger than me, probably mid-thirties, enters and stands beside me, unzips and slips his cock out, but just stands there. I turn, and he smiles at me, my attention drops irresistibly to his groin, and my flesh crawls.

My blood pressure heightens, my throat dry. He has a huge boner aiming up at me, thick and brown with a plum-coloured glistening head. Desirable beyond words. He grins guilessly as I feast on its ugly animal beauty, throat dry, I half turn, my own penis stirring, my fingers poised to reach for him when I freeze. Thoughts of queer-bashing and violence erupt into my head. Suddenly I zip up and nearly stumble in my haste to get out of there, out into the night.

I'd escaped. No-one saw me. Something like that has the potential to utterly destroy my ordered life. A moment of insanity, nothing more. Something that will never occur again. Not ever. Yet all night the vision of that cock haunts and taunts me, I masturbate furiously with the thought of it lodged in my mouth, of me crouched there before him as he ejaculates into my throat, gagging on it. I groan in an ecstasy of fear and desire, terror and yearning. Could I have done that? Should I?

The warp and weft of my world had been snagged, worried at and worked loose. The raw threads of my safe and secure life lie frayed and ragged. Drawn by an urgency I couldn't control I found myself drawn back the following day hoping to find my erotic gay skinhead, but there was only a middle-aged gent smartly dressed -- if slightly down at heel. As though he's seen better days. He's standing at the urinal. Steeling myself I cross to his side and extract my penis, expecting nothing. Tension is almost tangible, but curiously I become conscious that his eyes are directed over the ceramic partition and down at my fly. My first reaction is to conceal myself, but I fight the urge, and instead lean back a little so he can get a better view.

"You're a fine gentleman" he says huskily.

"Thanks" I say, attempting to sound flirty.

It must have worked, a moment later I feel his cool fingers closing around me. Rough worn fingers. I catch my breath fiercely as he squeezes, but let him have his way with me. I was caught in a crossfire of ecstatic dread, an urge to pull away and run -- but I know that if I don't go through with this I'll spend another long night of tormented remorse. I'd passed the point of no return. So I force my hand towards his fly and touch warm soft flesh. He's smaller than I expected, smaller than I hoped, and has a loose foreskin. It isn't properly stiff either, but emboldened by my daring I begin to wank him as he does the same to me.

He's fumbling for my balls, pulling them out, while squeezing and rubbing up and down my shaft as I feel him up, his small cock swelling and stiffening. Then, just as I am building, he groans and dribbles a long strand of spunk into the urinal. Instantly he releases me and zips himself up.

He muttered "ta" and vanished. I was left stupidly with an unrelieved hard-on and a bubble of his sperm on my fingers. I get my handkerchief out to wipe myself dry, but inquisitively raise my hand first to examine the gooey substance smeared across my fingers. I glance one way and the other, then lick it tentatively. It is salty, sticky, and quickly, guiltily I wipe the rest on my hanky, stuff my achingly hard penis away, and hurriedly leave, my heart pounding in my chest. A weird fug of emotions raging inside me, excitement at what I've dared to do, disappointment it hadn't gone further.

The following day I fight the impulse to return, and instead sit on a bench on the nearby path while terrible images burn in my head. I was so preoccupied with my own imaginings I never saw him approaching.

"Hello my friend, it is you, isn't it?"

I look up, it was the man I'd tossed off. I feel a little scared and panicky -- deny it, deny it, say he's mistaken, get the hell out of it. He's only a sad and lonely old queer. The kind of loser I'd not normally consider frittering my precious time on, I have more significant obligations to financial power-brokers and big city financiers. But now he represents something else, a tenuous connection to another world, one that exists all around me, but which I'd previously only ever dreamed about.

Can it be that he was that sad newsagent who'd once come into my office with a loan application, and I'd turned him down? Leading to his bankruptcy. I suspect it is. Only he doesn't recognise me from that time. They never see beyond the desk, the disappointment. I'd been instrumental in destroying his life. And instead I find myself smiling up at him, despite myself.

"You're a sweet guy" he persists. "And so nicely hung. Are you in the mood for more cock-fun today? It's alright if you say no. I'm used to rejection."

But of course, I nod. He leads the way in the opposite direction.

"We used to go there a lot, but the police became troublesome, so now we use somewhere else."

He leads the way downstairs into an underground toilet at the centre of the park. As though descending into some underworld of sin, into Hades itself. As though we've been cast out into the eternal damnation of that circle of hell set aside for pederasts and sodomites. Footsteps echo on the cold concrete steps and the continual drip of water makes it sound empty and clinical. He fusses around me attentively, unpleasantly, his breath tainted with alcohol, his hand strays to my crotch, squeezing me through the material of my pants, giggling as excitedly as a schoolgirl at the state of my hard-on, then hustles me into a cubicle.

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bytristantrotsky© 2 comments/ 29344 views/ 4 favorites

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