Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 01: Dean

"No, not that way" he whispers derisively. "If I wanted that I could do it to myself, you know how."

Reluctantly I pluck up courage to humbly shuffle forward between the splayed 'v' of his legs, docile and submissive, my own erection awkwardly and embarrassingly hard. Wriggling down, my mouth nervously seeks out its moist tip. The burden of choice having flown the room along with my conscience, there's no sound, no-one else will know. I slip my lips over the salty smooth arrowhead of flesh and suck it into my mouth, easing my pyjamas off as I do so, anxious not to soil them further. I suck at it gingerly, he's big, circumcised, his glans impossibly smooth as my tongue traces its rim, my saliva making its seamless texture slick. Then I plunge it deeper into my mouth, surrendering all will and resistance to his dominance. It swells up against the roof of my mouth at my attentions.

It is dangerous. But if I don't do it right he'll be displeased, I can't risk that, so I begin massaging his balls gently, and ease more cock into my mouth, sucking more aggressively. His body reacts. And when he grunts I take it as a sign of approval, feeling an odd sense of relief. My head bobs up and down impaled on him, sliding along its length, sucking with greedy abandon, as my own cock wobbles and burns hotly between my crouching legs. I'm aware of his stomach undulating above me, the sound of his breath rasping, his hand laid lightly on the nape of my neck. I've got nothing left to lose so before he has the chance of exerting pressure I gorge myself on him, sucking as much of his cock into me as I can possibly take.

It's a weirdly erotic situation, my closeness to his hard arousal, the animal sex scent, body heat and wiry public hair. The strange contours of the pulsing cock filling my mouth with its direct eagerness. My own cock bobbing up and down with the motion as I feel my own excitement building uncontrollably, until agonisingly I cum first, spurting up over my gut. It drives me to suck harder until he moans softly. This time I'm more prepared. I detect his sperm-duct swell as I close my eyes, his shaft seems to fatten up against my lips. I hold it as deep as I can, fingers clenched and toes curling with anticipation, the beat of my heart counting out the seconds, and he shoots into my mouth.

Even though I'm prepared for it the force of its eruption comes in throbbing waves of shock. I swallow immediately this time, to get it over with, but keep sucking long after its finished its final spurt, until he irritably shoves my head away. For a moment I crouch there, all I can see is the glistening tower of his erection aimed at my head, strands of liquid silver still connecting me to it. A teardrop bead of his goo dangling from my nose. He grunts 'shit', and gets up. I see it bob and quiver as though it's hypnotising me. He swings his leg over and down, stands, and I watch the curve of his naked bottom as it recedes into the dark. And he's gone.

What did he mean 'shit'? Was I no good? Didn't I do it right? Or was it an exclamation of satisfaction? Was he conceding 'good', so breathily? Did I do as good as I hoped against hope I had? Either way, it's over. I lie still. I'm not used to praise. I've never been good at anything. I feel almost flattered by his apparent approval. There'd been no coercion, it hadn't really been - own up, that bad. And my own aroused response, and spontaneous orgasm, while still disturbing, was undeniably pleasurable.

What happens the following day helps alter and alleviate my fear. Ian again tries to strike up a conversation.

"Dean isn't bad, y'know" he whispers to me, in a conspiratorial way. Does he know? Surely not. "He'll look after you, you know, if you look after him."

I pull away. "I don't know what you mean, leave me alone."

Later, as I'm descending the stairs, my way is blocked by three aggressive retards in an arrogant mood. One braces his boot across the stair, hard up against the barrier, blocking my way. I'm forced to stop, scared. I feel colour suffusing my face. Why is everybody always picking on me? They begin to shove and jeer, the usual bratty 'D-U-M-B' stuff...

Until one of the shifty-looking creeps says "Hey, don't you see who he is? He belongs to Dean. We'd better leave him alone."

And they back off abruptly, let me pass, leaving me alone. I'm still confused, relieved sure, but confused too. What did he mean when he said I 'belonged'? I've never belonged to anyone, or anything. Ever. I've always been the loner, forced to look out for myself. Through necessity. 'Belonging' is not something I've subscribed to. But ideas begin forming. As before, throughout the day there's been no mention of the sexual activity that had taken place, but I realise with a shock that they all know. There seems to be an understanding that Dean has 'claimed' me, that I'm his property and subject to his protection. I was not bullied, I was even treated with a surly deference that I've never known before. I'd always been a target for manipulation, now at last I was being treated with respect.

That night he doesn't even speak. I hear him approach, slip out of my pyjamas, and crouch bashfully ready in submissive expectation. He just lies beside me on the bed while I obediently dip my head into his groin. Mouthing it immediately. I'm still the victim, fairly obviously, none of this is my choice. But this time I know what's expected of me, I understand the limits, I know what I have to do, and do it without a whimper, worming my way down and around as he splays his legs accommodatingly to give me greater access. There's the stiff hot-throb of his cock in my mouth and an iron-hard bar protruding between my own legs as my straining lips delve down towards his pubic hair. His hips rising to meet me in response. I don't gag as it forces its way further in, something that makes me feel oddly smug.

Taking the initiative I reach down to fondle his balls lewdly, taking their weight in the palm of my hand and softly rubbing the fleshy ovoids upwards, sucking all the while. I lose track of how long it goes on, it seems to extend indefinitely - how long? an hour? surely not. But subjectively it seems that way. It seems like forever, but probably isn't. And then, when he finally spews I drink it down in a gushy spit-saliva cocktail, coming myself spontaneously as I do so. I reach down desperately to seize my cock in an attempt to staunch it, squeezing it hard for as long as I can bear it, then gasping out loud as it explodes in long gooey streaks up across my stomach. If this is the worst this hellish place can do to me, I can deal with it, I can do it and survive.

Next morning, as I wake, I try to meet his eyes, and smile. In the same way that apes assume submissive postures to acknowledge the dominant male. But he just blanks me again. When I get out of bed I do it in such a way that I'm certain he'll glimpse my bare bottom, and, shyly, exposing my cock to him as I turn. But he doesn't react, he just ignores me. Whatever we have, it isn't a relationship. An arrangement, an understanding perhaps. But no more than that.

I'm disappointed. What do I expect? Friendship...? Recognition? What we do under the covers in darkness after lights-out is obviously intended to be a scuzzy secret beyond words that can never be acknowledged in daylight hours. Even though everyone already seems to know anyway. I shrug. If that's the way he wants it. But deep down he can't deny a connection. I'm intimately familiar with the contours of what he has in his pants. I can taste it still. That's a bond, even if unacknowledged, even if it's one that can never utter its name. And everyone here knows that for a fact.

Later, there's another card from my mother. She sends her best wishes and hopes I'm managing alright. Yeah, Mum, fine and dandy. She's moving in with her new boyfriend, her last chance at finding happiness, and she says please don't think badly of me. Later still there's a remedial class given by some writer-in-residence. I don't recognise his name, and can't remember what his name is immediately afterwards. But I've nothing better to do than 'take advantage of the Learning Resources.' Ian is there and keeps making stupid faces and gestures that crack me up. The writer looks at me as though he can't understand what's so funny, then gets on with telling us whatever it is he's telling us, and setting us projects. If we want to participate, he says, it would be positive. Prat.

Ian has a talent for drawing, rapidly sketching ribald cartoons with a few fluid strokes of a black ballpoint, then under-handing the results around the class. His breathtaking dirty caricatures spoof instantly recognisable figures, provoking gut-guffaws. Figures with grotesquely exaggerated sex-organs and expressions of startled shock as they're menaced by giant phalluses. And as if what he's illustrated isn't obvious enough, he adds arrowed names, captions, speech-balloons. 'Attack Of The Dicky-Birds' - a social worker surrounded by flying penises. 'Oh dear, I'm All Mouth And No-Trousers' - a counsellor confronted by one discorporate cock while another threatens his bare bottom, trousers around his ankles.

During a recess lull I deliberately seek Ian out. Shy, but determined, I cough and shuffle awkwardly. Opening up, "I like your pictures, they're brilliant."

"Thanks. Glad you approve."

Then, a little bolder, "What you said the other day. Does Dean... do things to you?"

He smiles, as though glad my reserve and evasion have melted a little. "No. Not now" he admits. "I'd do it like a shot if he wanted me to. But he's got you now, and I go with Solomon instead, and do what he wants me to do."

"Do you... dislike it?"

"With Dean? At first I guess. But you learn quick. Sol likes it different. But it's not so bad, and it's better than the alternative. Without a protector it can be very bad in here, without a protector you're shark-bait. So you find a protector. Then the bad guys have to start showing you respect. Even if it's by proxy. You were fortunate, a protector found you first."

"Fortunate? You call it fortunate?"

"Sure. You think the screws care? You think they'll intervene? They don't care what goes on so long as discipline isn't disturbed. They won't help us. It's up to us to survive. They all know what goes on. It's impossible for them not to. Some of them actually enjoy it. But no matter what you are, or claim to be outside, no matter what your orientation or sexual preference, in here it's a different world. An enclosed world. We all have physical needs that must find an outlet. It's only natural. Only human. And there's so many good ways to be bad, so many bad ways to be good."

I'm scared to meet his eyes. Don't know quite how to ask. "What do you do with Sol?"

"He puts it up my bum."

The thought so terrifies me I'm frightened to ask any more. But by then the class is resuming, and things are clarifying in my head. Everyone is hurting here in the Big House. There are undercurrents of violence and intimidation. But there's a microclimate of pent-up sexual frustrations too. Simmering hormones coming to the boil in a pressure-cooker of massive lusts screwed down hard, one that offers no escape, except through each other. It seems that - although not universal, some try to stand out against it, some aren't seduced or tempted by it, some fight against any form of involvement, some go brain-capering on (un)controlled substances instead, but in the hothouse enclosed environment of frustrated sexuality, 'pair bonding' is far from uncommon, and is tacitly recognised as being advantageous to both parties.

I see young guys in the breakfast room, sitting quietly in the corner, or talking in whispers to each other, and try to imagine what they've been subjected to at lights-out the previous evening. How those faces look scrunched-up in the throes of orgasm as they're being used. I can't help but wonder. And imagine. And I've got a vivid imagination. There's rumour and gossip. There's always rumour and gossip, and secrets that remain unspoken. If you keep your eyes open and your ears sharp, you pick up on suspicions, but can never know for certain who was bonded, who was keeping furtive trysts, and who was sexually involved with whom. Who was gobbling, and who was being gobbled. Who was 'the bitch' and who the bum-boy. But oddly, the awareness that others are being mouth-fucked, being subjected to the same treatment, some even more so, and that Dean's cock had regularly been forced down someone else's throat before mine, was a thought both reassuring, and even erotic. Mixed in with a kind of possessive jealously.

Perhaps there's a greater degree of mutuality at work than we dare suspect? That to be used provides just as much of an erotic outlet as to use? That we unconsciously seek out those who are equally complicit in what we do by a kind of sexual telepathy? We are soft targets because all we need is the excuse for it to happen, even when we daren't admit it to ourselves? Perhaps Dean had sensed my answering need? That he somehow correctly sensed my true nature from that first night, even before I did? Is that what he'd meant when he said 'c'mon, suck it, don't pretend you don't know how to'? Was it so obvious, even then? Was it written on my face? He saw the need, I saw the supplier. After all, there has to be something there, surely, for me to even accept what was happening?

Other boys are more - or perhaps less fortunate. If Ian is forced to accept anal in turn for his protection - something that horrifies me, it made me realise I was lucky that Dean only seems to want a gob-job. While other youths - unprotected, represent rough temptation, not only open to random bullying and intimidation, but also to casual sex-assault by whoever takes it into their heads. I saw it happen in the showers.

Coming in unexpectedly there's a group of them, three glistening-wet naked bodies crammed up together. One boy is holding another down, bracing him, forcing his legs apart, while a third is gleefully soaping himself, using the cheap soap as a lubricant in preparation for penetration... I don't stay long enough to see it all. I get out quick. Although I can't help but notice that the victim is merely putting up a token struggle, as though - like me, he's decided resistance is futile, concluding with a kind of bleak acceptance that it's going to happen anyway, and fighting back will only make it more unpleasant for him. I also can't help but notice that all three of them - victim as well as assailants, are powerfully erect. I hear the grunting moan as I hurriedly leave, imagine the penetration slamming home. There's a Care Worker supposedly invigilating - Mr Reed, but he's deliberately looking in the opposite direction, he watches me pointedly as I emerge, but he's not noticing what's going on behind me. As though he doesn't want to get involved. Chooses not to interfere. Or maybe he's even part of it...? Perhaps he even gets off on it...?

To survive alone you have to be tough, and you have to be prepared to fight your way through. I'm not tough. I don't know how to fight. I'm a target. I need a friend to protect me. Without one I'd not know a second of peace. I'd be terrified. I'd be lost and scared. I must have a protector, and because nothing comes free in this life, a lesson I've learned by bitter experience, I must pay the price for that protection. If I submit to Dean's physical needs... it will bring me peace of mind. It's my magic ticket. My free pass. All this makes me stiffen my resolve to ensure he remains my 'protector'.

I was determined that, this very night, it was in my best interest to please him so much that he'll never spurn me. The evening seems endless until at last 'lights out' arrives and I'm already stupidly erect in scary anticipation of what I must do. Sick in the pit of my gut. Then - he doesn't come. I lie waiting, tensed ready for him. Nothing happens, and a mix of emotion rips at me, relief at being spared the subjugation, but unease too. To my left I imagine I hear Ian and Sol, a grunt and an obscene exhalation of breath. They're already doing it - so why isn't Dean coming for me? Perhaps he preferred the way Ian had done it? Maybe I'm not good enough? What if he no longer wants me, which leaves me without protection? I'm more scared of that prospect.

I'd already shucked off my pyjamas in anticipation of his visit. So now I take the initiative, slip out of bed, nude, steeling myself to cross to where he's lying. Towards his bed beneath the window, which is outlined by faint moonlight. My cock swaying, tight testicles dangling like two heavy stones. The air seems tense with sexual charge and the linoleum is chill on my bare toes, the cold canvas sensual beneath my feet. I cat-pace past the end of Hooch's bed, towards Dean's in the half-light.

Half-way I freeze as I hear muffled laughter from somewhere in the dark. My will almost dissolving, I'm being observed, and the sense of being watched makes me itch all over, like ants crawling beneath my skin, but then it comes to me that the more overt my dependence on Dean the more securely under his protection I become. I turn in the direction of the laughter and stand proud, let them see me like this - going to his bed, let them look, then I continue across the floor. I can hear Sol and Ian clearly now. The thought of anal penetration scares me. I'm lucky Dean only wants oral. I'm lucky I tell myself. Lucky to be doing this.

I stand still in chilly nervousness beside his bed. "Do you want me to do it tonight?" I whisper hoarsely so no-one else will hear, a quaver in my voice, my palms sweaty, blushing furiously, heart pounding.

No reply. Only the rhythmic rasp of his breathing. I can still return to my own bed. I can still back out. But tomorrow I'll not know if my status remains. He might find another boy. I lean forward, lick my lips nervously. "Can I suck it for you? Your cock, please can I suck it?" a little louder, a little more urgently.

At last he turns to look at me, eyes travelling up and down my embarrassed unmissably blatantly aroused nakedness. He grunts in a tone of bored exasperation. "If you must, you know what to do, so do it," and he lies back.

He's making me do all the work. I can turn and go, save myself the humiliation, but lose Dean. I thought of the youth in the showers - imagining me as the victim of that assault, thought of Reed the Care Worker, hadn't he eyed me up and down a little longer than was strictly necessary? I'm trapped here in the madhouse of 'Do-The-Boys Hall'. I'm the New Meat, and they'd all want a slice of me - or am I just getting paranoid? Then I thought of Dean's cock lodged in my throat, what's so bad about that? It's been there already, this is nothing I've not done before - do it, and I'm safe from all that madness. Just do it. He's granted assent, he's given me permission, hasn't he? So get it over with. Suck the damn thing. Suck it!

I purposefully draw the covers aside. He's lying on his back. I pull the sheet further down, feeling like a wanton as I fold the material away, reaching out to fumble clumsily at his pyjama chord, my own genitals bobbing and dancing. I can see it now, lying flaccid over his hairy abdomen, as frighteningly ugly when it's soft as it is when erect. It's not fair, I'm supposed to be the reluctant victim, yet he's still limp, while I'm erect. Why isn't he aroused at the prospect of what I'm about to do to him? Doesn't what I do turn him on? Am I doing it wrong? I sit down lightly on the edge of the bed, glance up towards his face seeking some kind of approval, but he's taking no notice, he's looking away, so I force myself to lean low over his thighs, gathering his loose cock into my fist, aiming it up towards me, and - greatly daring, set about the task, dip in to suck on its soft pliable head.