Cock-Sucker: The Rake's Progress 02

Part 2: In which I consider leaving Luis and going solo...

As I told you last time, I'd acquired a manager to market my sexual expertise. Then there was a week when Luis leased me out, or maybe traded me -- I never learned the full details, to a massage parlour called 'Le Homme Libre'. When I protest I know nothing about giving a massage he laughs. The clients are business-men who need a little stress-relief -- y'know, stress is just so... stressful, so they need relaxation, usually of the erotic kind, nothing I'm not familiar with. It's a sleazy place up a flight of narrow stairs. A couple of cubicles, a cramped sauna and shower-room, an extractor-fan that rattles mournfully as the wind blows, and three other young guys who work there on different shift patterns, from what information I can gather.

There's some raucous joshing. I get undressed. We wear only short white towels which allow the client's access, free rein, should they choose, and are easily removable as required. I quickly learn that mine spends more time on the floor than it does around my waist! We purge and lubricate, and while doing it I catch a glimpse of another of the youths doing the same. And he's huge. I've seen big cocks. This is bigger than anything I've ever seen before. It was mesmerising, I can scarcely believe my eyes, although I see only the briefest glimpse. Business is slow at first. A couple of guys arrive and are taken into curtained-off cubicles. I sit and read a magazine.

Then the next customer, dressed only in a towel, is assigned to me. We enter the tiled cubicle. There's a wall-mirror and a low couch. He lies face down. I smile, squeeze oils on his back and do the best I can at massaging him. Inevitably he rolls over and I start on his chest, then lower, to his paunchy stomach.

I hesitate, ask 'you want extras?' as I've been told to.

He says 'yes,' so I unfasten the towel. He's genitally unimpressive. I dribble a little oil over it, and begin concentrating my attentions on his stiffening cock. It doesn't seem to take him long as I flex up and down its slippery-glistening length with one hand and coddle his drooping ball-sack with the other, rolling it with the palm of my hand. He merely lies there, his hands behind his head, watching. I'm not sure how to finish him. Wiping it with a towel seems a little unkind, and there's laundry bills. I can't just allow it to shoot off. So I duck my head down towards his groin, hesitate, look up to catch his eye. He gulps and nods. My lips close in around the ridged bulb of his cock, and with only the slightest lapping flick of my tongue he begins to come. After all, I can always spit it out later. If I decide to. I don't. I keep his stubby erection in my mouth for what I consider a tactful period, then release and towel it dry. He seems embarrassed now it's over, clutches for the towel, and smiles at me nervously. But he leaves a tip before he goes.

I say 'thank you, sir, come again,' emphasising the word 'come.'

There's another wait between clients. I sit and talk to the masseur I'd noticed earlier. He says his name is René 'The Log'. He brings me a coffee in a Styrofoam cup and says 'drink this, it'll wash the dirty old-man spunk-taste away.' I laugh, it seems to be the expected response. But how does he know? is there CCTV, a camera hidden behind the mirrors? Or is he just surmising from what he knows about the clientele? Judging by the gutteral sounds I hear from behind the curtains of the other cubicles, they all seem to be doing pretty much the same. He seems happy to chat. He tells me some of the 'visitors' like their boys pubically shaved, so that the 'dirty buggers' can pretend they're with pre-pubertal Twinks. He laughs. I laugh too, although I'm more intrigued to see what I know is lurking beneath his towel. Is that monster shaved?

Soon there's another client. He takes me into the cubicle and even before I've begun the massage, his hand goes up my towel to squeeze and explore what he finds there. I smile encouragingly and part my legs. My towel comes adrift, so does his, and all pretence of massage ceases.

'You ready boy?' he demands.

'Yes sir' I say, although my state of arousal surely says as much.

'Then show me what you can do with that pretty mouth.' He sits on the edge of the couch as I crouch to suck him, slathering my mouth up and down his bloated length, suck-suck-suckity-suck, giving attention to the tip, then the shaft. He squirms in the way that some guys squirm when they're getting sucked, indicating he's not quite as in control as he pretends to be, but guiding my rhythm, pumping up to meet me as I take it deep, moaning on every stroke. For me, I've been here before, there's not a lot he can do to me that others have not already done.

He lets this go on for some time then pulls me up, turns me around and bends me over the couch, forcing my legs apart with his knee so that he can slide up into me. I stoop, to be conquered. I must be getting used to it, it goes in so easily. We can see what's happening in the mirrors, and once the fucking begins the sight of my erection flipping up and down to the rhythm of his thrusts is a turn-on, and I grunt and ejaculate in long milky-white streams, which amuses him. He smacks my bare bottom, squeezes my spermy cock. Then slows a little, pauses, then begins again, slows, then restarts, stringing out the process as long as he can, until he's spurting warmly deep up inside of me. At length he slowly extracts and gestures me to lick and suck him clean. Again, once I've done, as I'm wiping him and myself, and mopping my sticky spunk-smears off the couch, I thank him. Although this time there's no tip.

There are other clients. Some of them simply go into the sauna where I'm certain they're shagging each other, which seems a little unfair, after all -- that's the service we're here to provide! The pace speeds up around lunchtime, then as the first day becomes the second, then the third, and I become increasingly used to the routine, and their expectations. I sit and wait, with the disturbing awareness that the next stranger to come through the door, whoever he is, whatever he's like, within moments I'll be on my knees sucking him off. And most cocks are not as aesthetically beautiful as porn would lead you to believe. In fact there are tiny pathetic ones, and downright ugly ones too. No-one really wants a massage. So I start from that premise. Focus on servicing the cock, ignore the often-unpleasant guy who owns it.

'The Log' seems particularly friendly, and its good to talk. He's blonde, with a wide easy face and generous mouth. We exchange increasingly frank intimacies. He says 'all these guys, we wouldn't be doing this if we weren't getting paid for it.'

'No' I agree, 'not all of them.'

He picks up on my words, 'but some of them, you mean?'

Why lie, what's the point, 'well, I was going with guys before just for the hell of it, or for small-change, until Luis suggested I could put my talent to work. Career-Opportunity, cock-sucking for fun and profit! So that's what I'm doing.'

He looks at me intensely, 'yes, I guess so. For me, with my particular talent' -- he indicates his groin, 'I've always been targeted by guys. It's what everyone wants, isn't it? a big cock. But I tell you it's as much a curse as it is a blessing. That's all anyone sees. That's the only way they can think of me. 'The Log'. The guy with the big cock. They've always been coming around me wanting to see it, to touch it, to suck it, to get fucked by it. They never see me as a person. I've got regulars who come here just so I can fuck them, having a big cock up their arse reminds them of how it felt the first time, when they were at boarding school or something, and it felt so big it hurt. That's what they want to experience. They never think that just maybe there's a thinking human being behind the cock-meat.'

He smiles bashfully after his tirade. I smile back. But all the time I'm thinking of what lies beneath his towel. It's impossible not to. Think of all the things men strive for most in the world, wealth, prestige, power, cars, mansions, women, social status -- they'd trade it all for that one thing he has, a big cock. Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of two business men. One selects me and we enter the nearest cubicle, pulling the curtain behind us, the other seems uninclined to indulge, and sits reading a financial magazine. Soon, he's undressed, reclining on his back on the couch as I stimulate him erect, my towel is yanked away and I lean over naked to suck him, doing my best to please. Taking him deep in my mouth and working it efficiently, while fixing the image of René in my mind.

It goes on for some time, until the man outside the cubicle gets impatient, and says 'hurry up, we gotta get back to the office'. When there's no response he pulls the curtain aside and walks in on us. Ignoring me crouching over his friend's groin, head bobbing making slurpy squelching sounds.

He starts saying 'y'now that Nin & Miller file, I've been thinking...' and they start discussing the assignment awaiting them in their office. The guy I'm sucking raises himself up on his elbows and begins trading figures and equations, as I continue to mouth him. Eventually he reaches down, unnecessarily, to hold my head in place as he wiggles his hips, flexes and squirms, and starts erupting thick spunk into my mouth. As I make throaty choking noises, it's as though his colleague notices me for the first time.

He looks down, 'this boy's good?'

He smirks, 'you know something? You wanna get your cock sucked real good, cheap and no-strings? Trust me on this. I'll tell you, truth is, forget about the chicks and the cash-pussies, find yourself a gay-boy. They enjoy doing it, it's in their nature, queer-boy spunk-monkeys love dick, can't get enough. They're all salacious cum-sluts, they're hard-wired that way, they suck you off and they're grateful to you for it...'

Although I'm in no position to argue back, I feel a sense of resentment welling at his presumptions, even as I gulp back his spicy sperm-load. But then he says, 'just check out this boy's tackle, it tells you all you need to know.' And sure, as I release the cock and step back they can both see that, not only am I achingly stiff, but I'm dripping pearly pre-com like a leaky tap. There's no way I can argue back, even if I'd intended to. Laughing, he dries off, dresses, and they leave. I feel oddly confused, not only by his hurtful accusations, but by the betrayal of my own body which seems determined to confirm everything he'd said. Perhaps he's right, it is in my nature...?

My fascination with René -- or at least that one particular aspect of René only intensifies, it draws me like a homing beacon. I take every opportunity of letting him see me naked, hoping he'll pick up on the casual nudity and respond in kind. He doesn't. His towel remains firmly in place. I even sit beside him, talking as I toy absently with my cock, pulling it this way and that, stretching it, drawing attention to it. I can see one of the other masseur-boys watching, smiling with obvious approval. But René seems immune to my overtures.

It's the third day. Word seems to have got around about the compliant new whore, I've been kept busy. Then, towards the end of late afternoon, I'm called through to the office. The sleazy boss is there with one of the clients. There's a fan whispering on his desk.

He looks up as I enter. 'Did you commit an act of fellatio on this gentlemen?'

I'm confused, what am I supposed to answer? I just say 'what?'

'This gentleman, did you suck him off?'

I nod, 'yes, I did.'

'And did he ask you to?'

I glance down embarrassed, 'no, I just assumed.'

'Oh, assumed did you? You just assumed, so you went right ahead and took your dirty pleasure without even asking. Is that so?'

I shuffle uncomfortably, 'I guess so, I'm sorry.'

'You should be sorry. This gentleman is now entitled to the refund he's demanding, because you can't control your dirty mouth.'

Again I apologise, 'I'm sorry.' Although I don't recall him protesting too much or fighting me off as I was gobbling him.

'Apologise to the gentleman.'

I humbly apologise as he smirks, 'don't be too hard on the boy, he was understandably overwhelmed by his natural desires. You know how weak these cock-hungry young sluts can be, when faced with the temptation of so attractive a package.'

'Get the hell out of here.'

Glumly I retreat back up the stairs to the rooms above. René is waiting, in his towel. He sits beside me. 'I heard what happened' he said, 'and I think it's damned disgusting the way you were treated. It's obvious that guy was just a cheapskate, wriggling out of paying his bill. The evil bastard. He had no right speaking to you like that.'

I smile at him, grateful for his sympathy. He leans across and puts his hand on my shoulder supportively, 'you know, me and you, we're alike. We're both exploited here. We don't need this. We can do better. We should get the hell out here and set up on our own. We don't need the pimps and the bullies. We can do it together, just me and you. Me with my... my special talent, and you with yours. What do you think?'

I was overjoyed, and could feel his masculine presence so close, so close it was setting off reactions. It seems the most natural thing in the world to respond to his attention, a waste of sin not to, so I slide my hand up his towel and wrap my fingers around his cock. And what a handful, my fingers barely meet around the thickness of its girth, I'm thrilled by the heavy heat of its weighty firmness.

For a second he doesn't react. Then abruptly he stands up, as he does so the towel becomes trapped and comes loose, and as he stands over me his cock swings loose inches from my face, and it is magnificent. A thing of terrible beauty. I can't believe how amazing it is. Just seeing it makes my heart jump, and so does my cock. My mouth gapes in stunned shock and awe. I had mistaken his intention -- as invitation, as a come-on. So, almost despite myself my head goes in and my lips slip over the lower part of his bulbous cock-head, inching up to take more, too much to take in at one eager gulp, I'll have to work it in gradually, slowly...

But he's shoving my head away -- 'No, no, what do you think you're doing? You're just like the rest. You're just like the others. You don't see me as a person, you just see me as so much cock-meat, don't you, don't you? I was wrong. I was mistaken. I thought you were different. I was wrong, so very wrong.'

He scoops up his discarded towel and storms out. I can see one of the other masseur guys watching proceedings from the corner, laughing to himself. I was confused. I was hurt. I'd messed up. I'd blown my big chance. My own lustful desires had betrayed me so that I'd lost out the opportunity of gaining a real friend. What I'd always wanted. What I'd always needed. But I was bad. I was corrupt. I was flawed. My own evil side had intervened and destroyed what I'd wanted most. Sometimes the depths of my stupidity can be truly tragic. All the cock I've had today, but I wanted more. I wanted his. And I couldn't wait, couldn't bide my time, couldn't wait until the right moment. But I'm not to blame. It's not me. It's my cock. It gets stiff, and it takes over. I can't argue with what it's telling me. I have no control. It floods my bloodstream with raging hormones. I can't fight it. It blinds me, beffudles my reason and rational senses, I can think of nothing else. I'm doomed to always follow its primal impulses. But it's not me that's to blame. It's what's between my legs, always aroused, persistent, compulsive, single-minded, irresistible. A raging one-eyed monomaniac. I don't stand a chance against it.

The arrangement with Luis goes on for a number of months after my time at 'Le Homme Libre', but the experience with Rene had unsettled me badly. The things he'd said had seeded ideas, planted a deep discontent. Until one of my clients, Julian, invites me away for a week of high hotel living in Tuscany. He was cultured and considerate, I was polite and respectful, all I had to do was make myself available for him whenever he wants sex. Which is no problem. In truth, I was ravenous for experience, I was hungry for all the wickedness he could give, and was always more up for the dirty stuff than he was.

I remember details of the excursion, the leather-smell of his car upholstery, the heat of the sun as we cross the Piazza Della Signoria in Florence, the sharp tang of wine, the Renaissance art and statuary he seems so very knowledgeable about. When I observe that much of the art seems to take a particular interest in the anatomy of the male nude he explains that, back in those Renaissance days, those who weren't busy shagging their own sisters were seducing every pretty boy in town. That no cute bottom was left unmolested and no cock unsucked. And even earlier, in Roman times -- according to the 'Satyricon' of Gaius Petronius, there wasn't even what we now think of 'Gay' and 'straight', instead, every young man of education would be expected to be skilled in the erotic arts of pleasing all genders. I agree that seems a most sensible arrangement. And then, once the talking is done, I recall the warm insistent pressure of his greased cock sliding into my ass as I groan appreciatively, squirming my nude undercarriage up against the silky sexiness of the luxury designer sheets as the muscular reflexes shock through my body. The expression of concentration on his face as I sit splay-legged on the edge of the Jacuzzi so he can jack me off, to fountain in a spurting arc into the water where the white ropes of sperm float. He likes to watch me take a piss, which I think a little odd, but if that's what he wants I'm more than happy for him to do it. So I drink a lot of water. And it amuses him to sit on the balcony of the hotel suite looking out over the people below, greeting them and waving, as I crouch unseen beneath the low parapet, sitting on my heels naked, to suck him off long and slow. I enjoy the perversity of that too.

But after the weird extremism of Luis and some of his 'clients' I was grateful for his consideration, and demonstrate my very real appreciation in the way most appropriate. His isn't the biggest or most beautiful cock I've ever sucked, even then, but by the slavish attention I lavish on it I strive to deceive him that it is. With him sitting out on the balcony, and me down on my knees between his splayed legs, starting with slow short sucking actions on the head, then long strokes of my well-trained mouth worthy of the best Porn-DVD's, slurping lasciviously, then gazing up at him with huge eyes filled with grateful adoration. I feel content and warmly sated.

'I need to cum now' he says abruptly moving out from under me and leading me back into the bedroom. 'Lay down with your head on those pillows' he says and I flip over on my back and wriggle up, my own cock swaying and bouncing with each move, aiming the ceiling in perky eagerness, my legs spread, knees slightly raised, until my head is propped up on the pillows, unsure what he intends. He straddles my chest and pushed his cock back down in line with my mouth, moves his hips forward to feed it to me, using short, quick strokes as he holds the back of my head to face-fuck me. I feel its urgent power as he saws himself back and forth into my mouth. 'OH FUCK...' he shouts -- and I'm ready for the imminent explosion, but startled as he pulls his throbbing cock out of my mouth.

My confused mind is all over the place, I look up just as he wraps his fist around his cock and rapidly milks while pointing it directly at my face, holding onto the top of my head with his other hand. I see his piss-slit flex and open and then the first massive shot of pearly cum jettisons itself onto my face, hitting me just below the eye. It's followed by another gigantic dollop which hits me square in the nose and upper lip. Julian continues pumping, directing shot after shot onto my face, until I'm a mess.