Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 02: Ian

Now I was sucking them both off on a daily basis, for duty with Dean, and for pleasure with Ian. I get to know both their bodies as intimately as I know my own, probably more intimately than they know themselves. Ian smoothly pale, with almost translucent skin, near hairless - except where it counts. Thinly-veined, clean and fresh to the tongue. Dean more solid, with darker pigmentation - especially in the genital area, his skin glistening with powerful energies, and a rich bouquet of odours. He's always big, even when flaccid, when erect it merely assumes a vertical stance without becoming significantly bigger. Even their sperm tastes different. Ian's clear, thin, almost tasteless. Dean's richer, thicker, more copious, and pungently intoxicating. I get to know the way their bodies move when they cum, the way their bellies contracts, the way their balls retract in preparation for launching their creamy loads, every tremor and secret tremble of that most naked, most intimate, most vulnerable moment. There's nothing more to hold back.

When you admit, give in to, accept your vulnerability, it can be a liberating thing. My fear had left me, and I feel oddly secure. I feel safe and stable. Almost for the first time in my miserable life I was confident with what I do. For once in my life, I knew I was in the right place. I've never been much good at anything, but by the reactions I'm provoking I know without doubt I'm good at this one sexual service.

I'd begun to associate the sex act with security. For as long as I'm useful to Dean, I'm protected from the victimisation that was endemic. The bad guys know us, and they leave us alone. So I had to satisfy him. It was as simple as that. There was never any element of threat or force, it wasn't necessary, it was merely a contract we both know and accept, one that is far from uncommon in the Hall. I'm sure there are many who would find the trade-off arrangement totally unacceptable. Indeed, they'd rather fight tooth and claw, or endure any amount of beatings, rather than submit to it. Me, I've learned you get nothing for nothing. You want protection, you must earn it. It might be less than ideal, but this way I earn my protection, even if others might consider it demeaning or repellent.

Oddly the fact that I'm now considered Dean's 'property', and as such under his protection, provides a certain feeling of security. It's a binding agreement, a secret arrangement, a mutual bargain of shared intimacy. And this shalt be the whole of the law. I go to his bed, and I suck him off, meekly and totally obedient. If that's the price I must pay to survive, then I accept it fatalistically. Don't complain. Don't make a fuss. Don't attract unwanted attention. Get through this period of time as inconspicuously as possible. Stay invisible. Don't get noticed. Don't make things worse. Maintain a low profile. Don't drawn trouble towards yourself. Be nobody. Know nothing. Keep schtum. Don't rock the boat. These are the survival-rules you must abide by. Do this, and it'll work out tolerably OK. All I know is that if it had been presented to me as a binding legal contract - blow-job to be performed as and when required in return for protection, I'd sign it freely and without hesitation. And whatever, it works.

Never, throughout my incarceration, was I assaulted or bullied. Not once. It bought me immunity. As Ian had told me, the authorities won't help, it's unrealistic to expect them to. Their only concern is with the maintenance of order and discipline. So the meeker jail-bait youths buy immunity from pressure by providing a sexual outlet for the more assertive. It's a kind of collusive coercion, a system that serves the dual purpose of reducing sexual tension by providing an escape valve, and lowering the perceived level of disruption. Even if the authorities know what's going on, they tolerate it, give it tacit approval as an effective instrument of control. I'm on my own. I can't expect help.

Ian delights in telling me lurid stories, tales, things he's overheard, exaggerations maybe... about how one pretty effeminate guy he knew, called 'Frenchie', was particularly prized and had been 'head-hunted' by a powerful and ruthless guy as soon as he arrived, to become a virtual sex prisoner of his 'owner'. He'd been made to earn his 'protection' through constant abuse and was 'traded' as an object of barter in direct commercial transactions negotiated by his 'owner', in which he had no say at all. A good 'spunk-junky', Ian said, could be a profitable earner for an astute owner. Then there was supposedly another young guy owned by a syndicate of three 'Protectors' who devised and drew up a rota for him to attend to their sexual needs in strict order. He signed a contract of agreement.

"Did the rota involve all three guys each night, or three guys across three separate nights?"

Ian didn't know. But as I rapidly grew to appreciate, I was lucky with Dean. I was expected to suck him off with skill and enthusiasm, and swallow his emissions, but there was never any brutality or pain involved in the relationship, as there was in others. At any time I was free to stop, or to refuse - but then I'd lose his protection, and I feared there were other youths eager to replace me. We all have choices. So long as we can live with the consequences of those choices. I couldn't allow that to happen. Without him I'd be scared, miserable, withdrawn. With him there, I don't need to be strong. He's strong for me. All I have to do is ensure that it stays that way. But I was still unsure, still uncertain of my status. Instead of resenting it, each time I suck him off, I ruminate about it. Could I, should I have done it better, sucked slower and longer, or harder and faster, more devotedly. How long had it lasted? - it seemed like fifteen minutes, maybe less, should I make it last longer to extend his pleasure, or make him cum more quickly, more intensely? It was very important to make sure my mouth is somewhere he wants to put his cock into again, and again. A warm welcoming place in which, without hesitation, it feels welcome, whenever he feels the urge to spunk off.

So, pragmatically, I seek him out and pleasure him whenever I can, and experience an increasingly sexual thrill as I do so. And that's how I begin 'paying my debt to society' through what Bryan would call my 'penis servitude', one blow-job at a time. I was locked up for nine long months, and at least once a day - often more, throughout that period I would suck cock. Oddly, those long months of enforced closeness constitute the longest associations - I'm wary to call them relationships never mind friendships, that I'd ever known. The longest period of what you might call stability in my confused and ever-changing life. I'd been so lonely. I'd been so alone. I'd felt so isolated I'd cried myself to sleep. Now I find I have an identity. A role. A... companion who I'm bonded to in a secret tryst so intense and intimate that it roars through me with a power that is scary.

I become erect in anticipation of the evening's sex, sometimes hours before it happens. I can't believe these things are happening to me. Not me - the misfit, the loner. Yet here I am, breathlessly anticipating the hour, the moment, when I'll be naked, and scared and cold and apprehensive. I go to his bed and climb in beside him, without either of us speaking, but both of us sharing the experience of my surrender, my humiliation, my emotional storm. The absolute certainty that I'll squirm down to his groin, so fiercely aroused my head and my genitals aflame, seeking out his penis with trembling fingers as he merely lies there and allows me access to him.

It is big, intimidatingly bigger than any cock I've ever known before, but if it's soft, I can make it bigger still. I know how. Bending my head in breathlessly, without hesitation, to feed it into my mouth. It responds almost immediately, expanding to fill my mouth, stiffening up against my palette, scarily activated in a way that determines there can be but one messy outcome. My bare legs writhing together as I concentrate on giving him pleasure, sucking slowly, sucking faster, extending it to maximise his pleasure, but not so long that he'll tire of it. But also - in a sickening disturbing way, giving me pleasure too. My own burning arousal refuses to be denied. I cup his balls and caress them gently, already moist with saliva and fat with sperms that will soon ejaculate into me. The moment I've been dreading, and yearning for all of the day, replaying it in my mind over and over again when I should have been thinking of other things. This precious time when he sunders my throat, and I suck meekly and submissively.

No-one else does this to him. He probably assumes I do this to no-one else. I know every contour of his cock and balls, his every reaction as I suck, the familiar taste, the same warmth and aroma. The way his hips undulate when he orgasms. That he allows me to do this, that he wills it to happen, is his acknowledgement of the bond. I have to do it well. I have to suck him off properly, this is my opportunity to prove myself. Or I'll be alone and scared and vulnerable again. I'd be lonely and isolated. What I'd once thought of as debasement and humiliation, this shameful submission to vileness, this filth and squalor, is what I have to do.

Of course, I was disturbed at what I'd become. By now it must be common knowledge that I'm a spunk-eater. They all must know, there's no possibility of such a thing remaining secret. There were even very pointed whispered jokes, in my presence, about 'Miss Goodhead, the boy from Cockermouth' or 'Invercockisucky'. Of course, I know what they mean. But oddly, it no longer bothers me. I even allow myself the indulgence of a secret smile. (Fortunately, it stays different with Ian. Our secretive antics stay secret. Of course, they all know that we're friends, they just don't know how friendly we get when we're alone together!) But with Dean it's also a source of pride because it's in this way that I survive. I accept and benefit from my position as Dean's protected property. It gives me an identity and status that I've never before known. His role is to provide the cock. My role is to be the cock-sucker. It's an exclusivity that defines us. I began to think 'what the hell'. It's a closed-community, there are regular medical check-ups, so there seems to be no fear of infection, of a sexually-transmitted nature or otherwise, so there's no reason not to.

"Do you like the taste of spunk?" Ian asks.

I wrinkle my nose. "It's alright I guess, some I like more than others." Then "I kinda like the taste of yours," immediately regretting my honesty. As if maybe I've gone one admission too far. Said too much.

He just laughs softly. "I'd kinda guessed that."

There aren't many things in the world I was good at. But I was good at this. On that very first night Dean had told me 'c'mon, suck it, don't pretend you don't know how to.' My orientation was obvious to him, even then. Perhaps I was a cock-sucker? Others seem to think so, what right have I to disagree? That's what I am, no two ways about it, no point in denying the obvious, no point in arguing the toss. I can't even protest that it's circumstances that have forced me into it, circumstances may have concentrated it, focussed it, made it more central to my life, but after all - the truth is, I have prior history. I'm guilty as charged. If this is what I do, then this is what I am. I am what I am, that's all there is to it. Spunk is my dietary requirement.

And what would I be doing if I wasn't doing this? I'd be the shy timid friendless kid that no-one ever notices. Hopelessly fixated, mooning over boys who don't even know I exist. Lying awake at night inventing friendships, building impossible fantasy scenarios of relationships that would never happen, to fill this aching void. What kind of life is that? Better this.

Unless that is the real truth, confess it, that I am that sad lonely kid, and what I'm describing here is one of those 'impossible fantasy scenarios.' You, reading this now, you'll never know. But wait, think this through, if this narrative is all nothing more than some sad masturbatory fantasy written furtively in the corner of the day-room, if it is just wish-fulfilment, why are there failed incidents that don't resolve into sex - the encounters with the priest, or the warden? Doesn't that argue for the reality of it all? Not quite. Maybe they're placed there deliberately as a way of retaining the edge of credibility? To bolster and reinforce that impression of reality. Again, you'll never know. But if this does not convince you, if it does not read as a true-life history, at least you must admit that it's the most beautifully beguiling of lies!

Days are still long and difficult. There's no drama. No tense and hazardous schemes devised to get out of this place. Not even any escape intrigue, no plotting devious plans involving disguises or falsified documents. No concealment in the laundry truck, or the grocer's delivery van. No hair-raising derring-do. None of the 'Count Of Monte Christo' heroic escapology, or 'Papillon' Devil's Island Alcatraz legends of relentless unquenchable drive for freedom against all odds. This is not that kind of narrative. I am not kind of guy. That's altogether too decisive, too assertive. That's not my style. There is no out. There is only within. And instead, I escape in other ways. I am able to cut myself off by reading, or watching TV in the evenings.

I have psychiatric sessions with therapists or remedial interviews with social workers a couple of times a week. The analyst seems to sense my growing ease and confidence. I'm more self-assured and calm, answering their questions clearly and easily with none of my usual blustering and nerves, with a degree of articulacy I've seldom before achieved. The shrink seems impressed. I'd even stopped stammering and gnawing my nails. He sees it as a sign of rehabilitation, my coming to terms with my situation. Which - in a sense, is true.

There's a Priest who comes in to offer spiritual counselling, but I decline to take advantage of what guidance he offers. I don't need that sanctimonious mumbo-jumbo crap. Sometimes we are allocated to be part of a group detailed to work in the grounds. I was quite content doing that, digging or raking leaves. Even the roughness and verbal crudity of the talk and horseplay no longer bothers me quite so much because I feel safe from their assaults. They strut and swear and shout. But I'm protected, after all. In one corner of the grounds, beyond the cultivated plots we work on, there's an overgrown tangle of trees and bushes that affords some degree of privacy, and there are outhouses, and the old potting shed musty and always dimly lit where I can hide away for twenty-minutes or so when I need to be alone. Sometimes, I go there with Ian, and we play-act games and fantasies. It was always gentle and consensual with Ian. I grow to enjoy his body and his closeness. Even when I'm alone I often find myself thinking of him, and the things we do together.

And Dean, I almost swagger. I even attempt to ape Dean's mannerisms to emphasise my acceptance of his 'ownership'. We never talk about it... or about anything. We never exchange words. He's always darkly intense, with a compelling strength. Something deep about him that, in itself, invests him with a certain authority. Since what Ian told me I was frightened, above all else, that Dean would tire of me, replace me with someone else - or perhaps even return to using Ian for his sexual relief. I've have first-hand evidence of just how good Ian can be with cock in his mouth. And without Dean's protection I'd be helpless and vulnerable all over again. The uncertainty keeps me on my toes, to use an anatomically incorrect metaphor. More specifically, I value every new opportunity to prove my worth, to show how compliant I can be, and I feast on his cock as though I enjoy each moment and every inch of it. With my physical reactions bearing out that I'm not entirely faking.

I reason that you have to satisfy your 'owner' and cater to his needs, otherwise he won't stay your owner for long, and he'll be taking those needs straight up the smooth bottom of the next boy. My only plan is to make it as obvious as humanly possible my enthusiasm for sucking his cock, my eagerness for it, and to fervently hope against hope that he stays satisfied with the way I do it to him. It gets so I experience panic attacks if I imagine an evening is going to pass without sex, if - for some reason he isn't there, in his bed, at lights-out, as I lie there in the twilight at my most vulnerable, then an incredible sensation of relieved peace and contentment when the waiting and the tension is over, he's there, and I finally manage to slide his erection safely into my mouth. The only doubt left in my mind concerns whether he is using me, or I am using him? Would the situation have persisted if I'd not ensured that it did? Probably not. So doesn't that mean mine is the greater need...?

My friendship with Ian becomes more intense. He's so sharp, funny and streetwise in ways that I've never been. He has an inner confidence I envy. Yet he's chosen me to be his friend. I sometimes find myself wondering why. I can't believe my luck. I trust him in ways I've never trusted anyone else in my life. He makes everything we do seem so cool and natural. As if, hey - everyone else is doing this thing, why shouldn't we enjoy it too? And I have no counter-argument to offer. Sometimes his cock tastes of dried come, and I wonder what else he's been doing. I'm almost scared to ask. The thought occurs to me that before our first time together he'd obviously sixty-nine'd with other guys. He'd known what to do, how to do it, he had experience. The thought brought a twinge of jealousy. Illogical of course, but nonetheless real. What we had, I thought, was special. We use the laundry room as a refuge, to be together whenever we want to. Which tends to be quite a lot.

"How is it you have the key to this room?" I ask him, as we lounge together.

"I've been here longer than you. You won't remember. There was a Fitness Instructor who was quietly 'retired' for interfering with inmates. A Fitness Instructor who looked like a slug in a track-suit. Well, this is where he used to bring us for a little pervy 'interfering', or for what he preferred to call personal 'work-out' sessions. Not that I minded. He wasn't very demanding. He liked to stand at the foot of the stairs, and watch a nude boy descending the steps, so he could see the way his cock flipped from side-to-side. Usually he tended to want two of us together, and he'd watch us with a cheesy shit-kicking grin all over his stupid fat face. He got excited telling us how ancient athletes at the Olympic Games competed without clothes, or with their bodies glistening with olive oil, to honour the perfection of the human form. But it was with less aesthetic motives that he liked to watch our bits bounce as we did naked star-jumps, press-ups, or watching us bending over to touch our toes. He liked two boys wrestling as well. Naturally we were nude, as in his Classical ideals of physical health, although his idea of 'wrestling' involved all manner of unconventional genital holds, fondlings, suckings and penetrations which he would direct. 'Do this to him. Now let him do that to you. Now do it to each other at the same time'."

Ian assumed a ludicrously husky accent for his impersonation. "Sometimes, if we hadn't come off already through all this skin-to-skin contact, or sometimes even if we had, he'd finish things by tossing us off, one stiff dick in each hand. Purely as a therapeutic release of unhealthily repressed energies - he told us. Stuff like that. But everything's legal, so long as you don't get caught, right? We got privileges - such as use of this key, which I happened to hang onto when he left."