Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 02: Ian

In point of fact, no, it didn't happen quite like that. Not exactly as I've described it. Truth is slippery and relativistic, caught somewhere between reality and wishful thinking. Fantasy can be kind-of true, not factual, yet nevertheless not untrue either. Things tend to happen in an undifferentiated blur, a feverish mindless cauldron. It's only later, as you think back, remember and reconstruct what happened, embroidering detail, rationalising motivations that were instinctual rather than reasoned through, that they assume shape and definition. There's the high-adrenaline rush of doing it, then the considered reflection of it afterwards, and my memory probably distorts that reality out of shape. Writing things out, like this, can help to do that for you. Takes you through sequences in minute detail impossible in the messy heated confusion of actually doing it, allowing the luxury of pause and consideration.

Perhaps my life hadn't been quite like that? Certainly there was misery and tears too, which these unreliable memoirs don't really consider. Which memory edits out. But by now my perspective was changing. It was the world outside that had become confused, dangerous and threatening. The walls were now a securing barrier that kept all those complications and horrors out. Here inside, the rules are clear and simple to understand. I knew who I was, and how to survive. People such as me, and Ian, are what - much later, Bryan would describe as 'catamites and ganymedes.' We know that cocks must be sucked not only for the obvious sexual release it provides, but as a casual and routine assertion of ownership on the 'protectors' part, and an act of submission to that ownership on the sucker's part, a mutual contract that it is in both partner's interest to have renewed frequently, and to be seen to be renewed frequently.

Indeed - if it was not demanded, it's up to the boy to seek out his protector and insist on sex. If you wait to be asked, you're too fucking slow. Even when he says 'not tonight, I'm not in the mood, sod off,' you can't accept refusal, you worm your way down even as he shoves you away, you lay claim to your territory, once you've wangled that cock safely into your mouth and you feel it stiffen in response, as you suck him to full attention you know you've won, by then he's past the resistance point and his natural physical inclinations will be persuaded to allow it to run its full course. This is your moment to shine. To make sure he wants it. So he'll remember and never refuse you again. Once the action has been performed - at least once a day, once you've sucked your partner off and been rewarded by a mouthful of spunk, you know that your safety is renewed, you feel safe, secure, reassured. Ian once wrote 'property of Dean' along the length of my stiff penis with felt-tip, to show him later as I knelt to my task, Dean laughed, but seldom showed any interest in my body.

There are no more postcards from my mother. I hope she's happy with her new creep. Every now and then I stand at the top of the stairwell where the window looks out over the grounds, the outbuildings, the wall, the circling crows, the wire, the surveillance cameras, and the endless bleak moor beyond. And looking out in that way, it's so easy to believe that there's nothing else beyond that moor. That she, and the world she's a part of, are gone, that this place is totally isolated, the only realm that exists. Is there really a world out there? I sometimes doubt it. Only an endless nothing, a flat earth that stretches away to infinity, a primordial world made up of just a blue-grey yonder of sky and green hills.

In the entrance foyer there's a glass-fronted display panel illustrating the Hall's history. A benighted Victorian Industrial entrepreneur, Giles Fotheringay, had chosen to construct his manse out here. He must have been warped and misanthropic, perhaps disgusted by the polluted iniquities of the squalid overcrowded cities that had generated his wealth. But to then build such a high wall clear around the property to further keep the world out is conclusive proof of his serious weirdness. How much suffering and weeping these enclosing walls must have concealed since then. Sinister sadistic butlers beating and sodomising orphan stable-boys and kitchen-maids. Madmen chained to the walls howling and lumbering in the night, as if in some haunted Gothic Bronte novel. There must be wailing phantoms even now stalking these dark environs trapped in endless time-loops of their torment.

Before it was acquired by the authorities, who extensively refurbished it into a totally secure environment for us deemed maladjusted unstable-boys. What had likely been stables had been converted and re-equipped as gym-facilities and workshops for occupational therapy and skills-training. Cellars for boiler rooms and laundry. But here, looking out from the landing, it's apparent that above us there's at least one other floor, studded with attic-space and garrets that, so far as I can guess, remains unused. What frightful things go on up there? An extreme punishment chamber for the unbreakably intransigent? A place where cruel and unusual devices and instruments are employed to inflict pain, away from intrusive prying eyes?

Behind the benevolent façade of liberal reform my fevered imagination conjurs visions of a radical disciplinarian group of brutal wardens indulging their perverted desires on their helpless charges while they're strapped spread-eagled and naked into metal frames, safe in the knowledge they'll never be called upon to account for their actions. No-one cares about us here. No-one gives a damn if we slip off the register, get lost in the bureaucratic files. Only the mournful wind soughing over the bleak moor will ever hear their victim's whimpering cries. Of course, such fears are irrational. Those things don't happen. Not here. Do they? But watch your step, don't make waves... just in case.

It seems that throughout the period I've spent here I've existed in a continual fug of arousal, an openness to erotic possibilities I'd never have otherwise contemplated. Seeing a naked guy in the shower, or the changing room, no longer constitutes a threat, but an opportunity. An opportunity to check them out, eyeing those down-dangling dongs slyly. To see those shy modest snail-like peek-a-boo cockettes sheltering discretely in nests of pubic hair, those brash swaggering penes with the permanent suggestion of angry arousal, stout stubby ones as blunt and solid as the bodies that bear them, graceful artistic curves of cock, others hung like pendulums weighed down by gravity, tight hooded tulip-heads and slender darts with heart-shaped crests caressed in soft downy blonde pubes or sheathed in hosepipes of foreskin, bringing to mind the fire hoses coiled along the corridors. Some hang to the left, others to the right. I watch the angle of the dangle, and note them all, mentally scoring them, contemplating sin.

While I become less self-conscious when I notice some other guy slyly watching me naked, furtively appraising me from the corner of his eye. I have nothing to hide. Let him look. Believe me, there's no-one more obsessed with cock than a young sexually-active guy. Gay, straight, or all the gradations between, it makes no odds. They look in fascination or in jealousy, they look derisively or covetously, in awe or out of prurient curiosity. But they look. And there's no cure for it. For women, they say, sex is more diffused around the body. For the male it's concentrated down into that one very singular organ. Some might say size doesn't matter, but it does, it does. It's the one endowment that earns instant respect. No matter how gifted or wealthy, no matter the academic smarts or social status, good looks or charm, the natural aristocracy of the big cock takes precedence over them all.

That was me. My entire world had begun to revolve around cock, and my next opportunity for what Bryan later tells me is called 'fellatio'. If I'm with Dean - or Ian, and they come off too soon I feel cheated, and only want more. Why that should be so, I don't know either. In retrospect it's impossible to explain. I was there for nine months, and had sex at least once every day of that time. Do the maths - seven nights a week. Twenty-eight to thirty-one times a month. Times nine months, plus the more casual daytime encounters, which totals something like three-hundred blow-jobs I gave! And the guys - keeping score, there must have been eight, maybe ten of them, from 'regulars' to furtive one-offs.

Perhaps they put something in the water? Maybe it's the heightened sexualised microclimate generated by all that confined testosterone energy? Or - an idea I almost consider as jest, yet have seriously fought with. The idea that was kicked off by reading the battered copy of 'Man In A High Castle' in my locker drawer. The novel of an alternate history, an alternate world where things are different. That when I first crossed beneath that chill shadow of darkness through the main outer gate, I was also passing through some kind of Science Fiction dimensional interface into a Bizzaro alternative reality where things are different, and happen differently. Where different physical and behavioural laws prevail. I've seriously wondered if that might not be the case. I'd travelled instantaneously through a black-hole singularity, through a wormhole, into an altered contra-Earth. An undiscovered country of the mind somewhere beyond time and space.

And if all of that is possible, that the cosmic radiation levels here, or aphrodisiac intoxicants in the constituent gases that make up the atmospheric mix, perhaps they contribute to our weird animal obsessive compulsions. And that I will be marooned here forever, subject to its disturbing influence. I'd at first feared I was being incarcerated in the school of hard knocks, only to find nothing but hard cocks. Oddly, that thought no longer frightens me. It's a philosophical conundrum I'm not competent to answer.

In the laundry room we get naked.

"I got an idea" he says before we start. "A new game."

I'm a little annoyed, eager to get to the sex-play. I watch as he fishes a stopwatch out of the pocket of his discarded pants. Where'd he get that from? Who'd he nicked it off?

"Its like this. I suck you for one minute, precisely. You suck me for two minutes, we time it on here, no cheating. I suck you for four minutes, you suck me for eight... and we go on like that, doubling up, OK?"

He doesn't wait for my response, just hands me the watch and nuzzles down into my groin as the seconds start ticking by. I count out the time, pass him the watch, then go down on him. It works out, giggling and sniggering as we do so. I manage the full eight minutes, but half way into his response things start getting jittery, we curve round into sixty-nine and forget the stopwatch as the mutual spurting begins.

Some time later I say "No sign of a pree-pyuce yet?" to Ian, who is lying sprawled between my legs.

Dipping in closer to investigate, he begins examining it more closely while wanking it leisurely. It feels titillated, it warms and swells appreciatively.

"No, but your cock's definitely getting bigger, it's bigger now than it was when I first saw it."

"You really think so? Honestly? But how?"

He nods emphatically, moving it in a lazy circle to demonstrate, stretching it up towards my navel, then pointing it down towards my knee.

"It's like any other muscle. The more you exercise it, the bigger it gets. And let's be honest, you're a sperm-digester. You're Sir Spermalot. No offence intended."

"No offence taken."

"We drink spunk. Spunk is pure hormone isn't it? It contains protein that stimulates genital growth and activates sexual desire. It must have an affect. Your body gets used to its regular dose, your mind get psychologically conditioned to the adrenaline rush that goes with it, you become an orgasm addict."

I watch him lapping at a bead of juice oozing from its head, his tongue exploring the crown-ridge, then delving, trowelling, probing, scooping into the slit eye, as he squeezes the shaft delectably to coax every last glob of emission from it. He smoothes the clear pre-come fluid across the flat plain of the glans contemplatively, then takes it gently back into his warm mouth to suck it clean.

A little while later I venture more seriously "Could it really be true, all that stuff you said about regular spunk-eating being addictive?"

"It is, I'm sure of it. When you suck cock, it makes you hard, right? The longer you suck a cock, the more you get fixated on it. Even thinking about doing it, even the anticipation of doing it, makes you hard. Then, when the guy comes in your mouth, you come too, right? Sometimes doing it gets you so horny it's you who comes first. What that means, in simple terms, is your mind has inextricably linked the two things, it's grown to associate the activity with the orgasm. Pleasing sensations flood your bloodstream with endorphins, those pleasure-giving chemicals, the body's natural opiates. So you're programmed to accept that your orgasm, psychologically, is the reward. So that if, for some reason, you don't do it, your body misses out on the adrenaline, the release of endorphins, and the protein. You get sperm withdrawal. But when you do eat spunk, your cock gets bigger. So you swallow more. That's the way it operates."

And the more I think about it the more it makes sense. Later, I begin to examine myself regularly. Posing naked in the mirror, preening from different angles and perspectives. Yes, it is bigger, I'm certain. I feel pleased and proud with the result. If semen-consumption into the digestive tract can be so beneficial, whatever qualms I'd once harboured evaporate completely. Every sex act I perform is not only buying me immunity, but helping my genital development too, making me almost keen for more. And while I continue to enjoy Ian, I begin to associate Dean's bigger cock with greater virility and more hormones. It's in the light of this renewed enthusiasm that I go to Dean's bed every night, even when he effects boredom or impatience, as if merely allowing me to do it to him. The sexual rush is worth the price I pay.

*****

(Look out for 'Testimony Ch. 03: Wolfie', when things get stranger and more extreme...!)

by TRISTAN TROTSKY