Cock-Sucker: Weekend Ch. 02

I make a move to withdraw, but his hands, tight-circling my buttocks, restrain me. "No, leave it in, it feels so nice, I like to feel it there."

His eyes moist and gleaming. I relax, my cock still buried inside him. This calm togetherness is amazingly good. I close my eyes, more fully un-tense now than I've been for many months. It's like I've soaked his twitchy energies in through the pores of my skin. A little voice inside my head goes on and on telling me how he's incubated the Gay-toxins that are now coursing freely through my skin like some new kind of drug, from sated cock all the way to the pleasure-pathway neurotransmitters of my mind. And I'm grateful for it. This is about as good as it's ever got. Eventually he reluctantly allows me to draw back. Extracting slowly.

From where I crouch above him I can see through a gabled alcove window looking out over the quadrangle courtyard. My attention momentarily snags. What? Wiping myself as I stumble to my feet I snatch a gaze out across the grounds. There, on the gravel is the car we arrived in. There's another car, the antique one we'd used in one of the movies, belonging to the chateau itself. But there's a third car too. Men are talking in deep conversation. What's going on now?

There's François, with Mr Jules from Paris. What's he doing here? But even more frightening is the other men they're engaged with. One is definitely Mack the Knife – a short overweight slob in a slouch hat, and the others are his goons! My whole objective in being here is to escape their prying and probably injurious attentions. My heart leaps into my throat, my heart beating like a Paris Metro train. How have they tracked me? My mind racing. On that first occasion, when I'd met Paul in the Bistro, he wrote down Mr Jules' address on a napkin. I'd taken that napkin with me. What happened to it? I must have dropped it in my haste to get out of my ransacked room. That was it. They'd found it there, followed the leads. And now they're here, after my hide. Shit!

Is there still time to escape...? Some back entrance out into the rear grounds, and the woods beyond? Leaving Paul baffled and confused, I start my stealthy way down the curving staircase towards where I can skirt the entrance hall out through into the kitchens... when the door explodes inwards, and there stands Mack the Knife with two of his bullet-boys. My stomach drops a long long way.

Paul watches from the top of the staircase, tarrying uncertainly, not sure what's going on.

But a beaming François is there too. "Ah, dear boy, excellent" he gushes as he pushes his way towards me. Hand on my shoulder he guides me into the lounge. Mack and his heavies follow us. He sits me down in plush upholstery. They're all fully clothed. I'm the only one naked. They seem to enjoy my self-conscious nervousness.

"This is wonderful, wonderful" gloats François rubbing his hands in glee.

"What's wonderful, I fail to see anything wonderful here?" I pout unhappily.

"This gentleman from Paris is the answer to our prayers, dear boy. He's seen what we're doing here, and he approves. He's explained to me in detail how he sees commercial potential. So he's agreed to financially sponsor the films we've done, and several more. This is what I've always wanted. This is our big chance. Oh, our films are going to be so wonderful. For you, I understand, there's a certain debt involved? Well – he's prepared to accept your total and future earnings in exchange for repayment. So there are no losers... isn't that wonderful?"

I glance from him, to Mack – who nods sternly, and back again. Yes, I guess. This lets me off the hook. I should be relieved. I am, temporarily relieved. There'll be no violence. Limbs will stay intact. I'll escape the beating. But I do all these gay movies, suck all this cock, get my bum multiply fucked... and come away with nothing! Except my life. My freedom. Does that equation add up? Is that right? Is that morally justified? I shrug. I can work out all the implications later. For the moment at least, I can breathe.

A month later and I'm still living with Paul. We are still a duo, penciled-in for further movies together with François. He promises that the elusive Jean-Claude will be involved in the next shoot. Although in the clear and certain knowledge this means I'll be fucked orally and anally by a man I only know by reputation, I feel only intrigued anticipation at the prospect. And why not? Mack the Knife showed me the balance-sheet, I still owe him two movies, so it seems I've waved the straight-life goodbye, at least for now.

We share Paul's flat, and his bed. It's almost like a romance. Except it's not a romance. He helped me out of a jam, from that first moment when he approached me outside the Bistro. Now, as a result, I've never been involved in so sexualized a relationship, the more cock I feed him, the more appreciative he is. I've never been so sexually satisfied. His Uncle Vanya was entirely correct, he has the most amazing self-lubricating arse, as I've discovered on a number of subsequent occasions. And I've always enjoyed a blow-job, what healthy adult male doesn't? Paul does it better than just about anyone else I know, and if that means I'm obliged to reciprocate every now and then, I'm more than content to settle for that. Until something else comes along. And if I need finance in a hurry, I've got an antique diamond ring on my index finger that must be worth lots...

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY