Cock-Sucker - Testimony Ch. 03: Wolfie

But now the dream is changing again, I'm crouching on the worn carpet in the flat I once lived in with one of my mother's creepy boyfriend. I can hear the street-traffic moving outside. He sits in the threadbare armchair, trousers around his ankles. He smells of stale tobacco and alcohol. He leans forward to wipe a blob of sperm from my chin with the corner of an off-white handkerchief as he hisses, "Don't tell your mother about this, this is our little secret, don't tell and I'll give you a shiny shilling, how about that?"

Then I wake and feel the insistent heat of Wolfie's bulbous cockhead nudging my lips again. Is this part of the dream, or is it real? It's real. Some time has passed. Hours probably. It's still dark, darker. His knee is up against my chest. His hand resting on the back of my head. My breath is warm in his groin. I daren't move. Instead, I lick my lips and try to taste what's around me. The moist salty darkness. His dried sperm on my face, mine on my stomach. A dampness of sweat and spit. The silence above and around. My mouth opens and his slimy cock slides back in, familiar now, slippery-sheened with my own saliva. It lodges there. I suck at it. I tease it with my tongue. There's the sound of breathing coming from other beds and I wriggle myself around, trying to curl into a more comfortable position. Settling in. This time the sucking goes on at a more leisurely pace, and it lasts a long while, maybe half an hour, before he comes.

He's ejaculated into me three times now, each time more copious than the last, leaving a persistent aftertaste that lingers all day as a genetic marker establishing his ownership, his erection never subsides for a moment, never loses its rock-hard rigidity. My own cock trembling its own messy pulsating climaxes matching his in each exaggerated posture. The night extends. I drift off again, until first dawn-light. It's a case of 'wake up and smell the pheromones'. Even the sheets have a stale funk of sweat and sex, like I'm inhaling a narcotic mist. I'm rising light-headed, my blink-eyes glazed from sperm-intoxication, sticky with perspiration and semen - his and mine. I ache, I've got a crick in my neck from the different positions he's contrived for me to accommodate him. As my bare feet contact the floor, I have trouble maintaining my balance. As I make to go, unsure of my status, I turn back. Will he reject me like the others? Has all this been for nothing? He lies on the rumpled bed, the creased sheet covering his lower body.

I hesitate. "Is it alright if I... do you want me to come back tonight to do it some more?"

He knuckles his eyes blearily, raises himself up on one elbow, and says nothing for a long heart-stopping moment. "You wanna come back tonight to do it some more?"

"Yes, I do, if it's alright, please" I mutter stupidly.

He draws the sheet back, revealing his heavy cock slumped across his thigh. His wiry pubic hair still matted with my saliva. I swear that if for one moment it just twitches, if it so much as stirs, I'll be down on it again in a flash.

"You really want to?"

My attention is fixed on it, licking my lips unconsciously, feeling my own body involuntarily reacting even as I watch, my down-hung cock beginning to flesh out with an increase in blood pressure, swelling, if not yet rising. "Yes, very much so, more than anything, please'"

He laughs low in his throat. "OK, who am I to deny your grubby little pleasures? I grant you your wish. You get to suck it another day."

I exhale a big sigh of relief. "Thank you," and turn away quickly, hoping he won't detect my slight tumescence - my cock has no shame, but his mocking expression tells me he has. Nevertheless, moving away like a brain-dead robot, heavy-limbed, nothing else matters, I've earned my status, I've acquired my new protector, and he's recruited a highly biddable, malleable, and conveniently complaint oral repository for his regular spunk emissions. That's all that is important. Mission accomplished. I find myself pathetically content. Already, I'm looking forward to tonight.

As it happens, I don't have to wait that long. I breeze around all morning as though I've grown wings, constantly running my tongue around the inside of my mouth, seeking out traces of the musky flavour of his seed that still lingers there, its scent in my sinuses. Just to prove to myself that what happened, really happened. Yes, I've got myself a well-hung new protector. Everything's going to work out fine. Mid-point in the afternoon I'm approached by 'Dread', a guy from Wolfie's dorm. Perhaps he's mixed-race? He has his hair in tight corn-row braids. I think I recognise him as the guy leaving Wolfie's bed the previous night, moments before I arrived.

He says "Hey, Wolfie wants you. Now. In the dorm."

I nod, and follow him with a chill of nervous anticipation, up the creaky wooden stairs and along the corridor. Willingly, knowing what I'm about to do. Not brave, but resolute. If last night was the rehearsal, the run-through, the audition, this is the verdict. I've never passed an exam in my life. This is like waiting for the most important exam results in my life. Dread stays at the door, keeping guard, as I go on in. Wolfie sits on the bed masturbating, pants around his ankles, each long slow upward wank-stroke of his fist hefting the huge ball-sack hung between his parted legs up and down.

He looks up at me. "You want to do this? You're cool with it?"

Too late, I'm already doing it. Even as I nod, "Yes" I'm crouching down in front of him, between his splayed legs.

I pause only to tug my own pants down - I've long since dispensed with the encumbrance of underwear, and extract my handkerchief to lay it ready before I begin sucking him. It's daylight this time. The closer I get, the more I can see everything more clearly now. And it's more fiercely impressive than ever. Big. Firm. A slight muskiness. I feel daring. I feel sexy. Horny too. In awe of it, even as the fat smooth head slips into the embrace of my warm wet lips, past my teeth, its blood-engorged size distorting the shape of my mouth, bulging out my cheek, until it lodges at the back of my throat, gagging slightly as its strong taste floods me. Determined it's going to stay there, I glance up at him.

Sucking air through his teeth he says "You swallow this and it's a binding contract, understand? Spit it out, you walk away, and none of this ever happened. It's your choice. Understand?"

Afraid of unmouthing him I just nod as best as I can, my lips forming a perfect seal around it, and begin working on it, using all the skill and technique I'm capable of mustering. Squeezy-suction tricks I've learned from Ian, busy tongue-things I used to do with Dean, which he always liked, never allowing it to leave the hungry clasp of my mouth for a split-second. He holds out and lets me do it, for a very long time, with remarkable stamina. While, caught up in the urgent intensity I'm so hard I'm permanently on the brink, trying to hold back, but it's impossible. Trembling, fumbling too late for the handkerchief, moaning, using it to catch my own spontaneous emission as I begin spurting off.

Some time later, when he eventually cums in pulsating waves of warm jets, I meet his eyes deliberately, holding the rich spunk in my mouth, making sure so he can see as I swallow it all. So he can be in no doubt at all of my intention. I hold his cock in my mouth as long as I can, releasing it only reluctantly. Even so, it's still horizontal, still pointing directly at my brain, slippery-dripping with my saliva. My eyes fixated on it. Of course, I'm faking this adoration for his benefit, aren't I? Sure I am, but if that's the case why am I still sprawled between his legs, lapping, licking, sucking, kissing and tonguing it long after it's strictly necessary, and why is my own erection, even though webbed with strands of drying jism, still firm as though saluting my total submission to the alpha male? At this moment, strung out in blurry post-orgasmic afterglow, this is what I want more than anything else in the world. And over the coming weeks I'm going to get to know every aspect and pulse of this cock, every vein and throb, better than he knows it, better than I know my own...

"That's it. You can go, but don't stray too far, I might need you again later" he says gruffly.

"Thank you, I do hope so, Wolfie" I reply, wiping my mouth in my most vulgar tarty way. He laughs. On the way out I pass Dread with a haughty smile. Oddly defiantly proud.

I've passed the test. He's accepted me. He wants me to do dirty business to him. I've got a new protector, and he's as mean as a junkyard dog. So all you bad guys out there, you can just go fuck yourselves. You mess with me, you mess with Wolfie, and believe me, you don't want that. In my head I'm chanting, almost like a mantra, saying 'yes, I'm Wolfie's cock-sucker now, that's what I am. I put his cock in my mouth and I suck it until the spunk comes, that's what I do. He spunks off in my mouth and I swallow it, that's what I do. That's what a cock-sucker does. That's what I am. That's what I do. I'm a cock-sucker. I'm Wolfie's cock-sucker. That's what I am. And I'm good at it. It makes me hard, which means I like doing it. Doing it makes me cum, which means I like having his cock in my mouth. I enjoy sucking his cock. I like swallowing his spunk. It makes me hard and makes me cum. I sucked Dean off. I suck Ian off. Now I suck Wolfie's cock. I'm a cock-sucker. That's what I do. I suck cock. Wolfie's cock. I'm a dirty spunk-swallowing cock-sucker with his warm spunk in my gut, yummy-yum. I'm a wholly-owned subsidiary of Wolfie.'

"You've had other boys doing this?" I venture to him one night, after I've swallowed his cum and am still busy sucking and licking his softening man-meat. Making long mouth-strokes with my cat-rough tongue.

"Sure. I had a regular cock-sucker for nearly four months. He was pretty damn good, until he got paroled. Since then I've tried out a few, but they didn't quite measure up. The selfish brats choke on my spunk then act like I should be grateful to them for sucking me off, can you imagine? Me - grateful to them! Remind me - who is it doing who the favour here? Who - I ask you? Then Ian suggested you. Said you were a dirty cum-sucking slut who loves cock. That you've been broken in, were experienced, and would appreciate the opportunity of sucking me off. I guess he wasn't wrong."

"I know how fortunate I am to be here doing this, Wolfie" I whisper hoarsely. "I won't let you down, ever. I shan't make that mistake."

Telling him what he wants to hear, sure, but not entirely untrue either. No-one messes with Wolfie. You need a protector? He's the best there is. Because of him, the bad guys know me, yeah, and they leave me alone. That's all I need to know. I go back to contentedly sucking his soft cock, detecting the first tremors of it stiffening again. Good.

Sometimes, my life is so eerie. There are times when I stand in the sidelines watching my own life with a sense of amused detachment, as though it's a movie or an absurdist black comedy. It's a game I don't mind playing, so long as it keeps me distracted from the things I'm actually doing. And as for Wolfie, it was some time later that I rationalised it. I now realise it's absolutely possible to like the organ, to be enamoured by the cock you're eagerly sucking, yet dislike the man. To separate the two, as though they're independent species. I might be infatuated with his penis - a magnificent beast with amazing recuperative powers, a masterpiece of obscene cock-meat, but I never much liked him from the offset, he has a sneery attitude that revels in his power over me.

Within a week it became apparent that he's a different proposition to Dean - Dean was happy to lie back and let me do the work. Wolfie enjoys forcing me to extremes, but by then I was too broken to consider backing out of the arrangement. I now appreciate exactly why Ian had been dubious about hooking us up. Me? I felt I had little cause for complaint. He was uncouth, but I'd got the protection I so desperately yearn for. I can deal with it.

During those regular trips - nights and mornings, to and from his room, I grow to recognise the other transient figures in the corridors, becoming familiar with their furtive bodies and sweetly nodding genitalia, their nudity moonlight-whitened to a silvery alluring sheen, as they, presumably, grow to know mine. There are a couple I'd have quite happily tarried with and exchanged bodily fluids, but we have more urgent encounters to fulfil, other erections awaiting our intimate ministrations. So we smile shyly with long lingering gazes, and pass on.

For the three bleakest months of December, January and February, rain falls in relentless deluge, making it impossible to escape into the vegetable garden. Instead there's always the gym, and I was occasionally assigned to work in the kitchen - something which came near to putting me off the thought of ever eating here again. I was preparing vegetables, clearing up and washing implements and utensils after they'd been used. It was boring, humid with steam and oven-heat, but not particularly demanding.

There were two trusties in charge, and a younger guy - Phil, who assists them. They call him 'Chuckler', with some irony. At intervals, during break-times, they take him into the store-room where there are racked shelves lined with cans of beans, drums of coffee, packs of breakfast cereals, loaves of bread and sacks of potatoes, shutting the door behind them. Some time later they emerge looking pleased, but with young Chuckler showing evidence of tears. What they're doing to him in there I can only imagine. Is he being forced to suck them off? Or something worse? I never ask, and never find out. Whatever it is, none of them wash their hands afterwards, which worries me. Because I'm very particular about what I put in my mouth - at least, I am when it comes to food.

I smile at Phil encouragingly, to show my support, but he doesn't seem inclined to respond. I imagine him down on his knees as they take turns shoving their stiff cocks into his mouth. I suppose I could have volunteered to help him, offered to go into the storeroom with them in his stead, just once, to save him from whatever indignity he's being subjected to. The thought of me down on my knees as they take turns in my mouth is amusing, and not without its elements of stimulation. But I don't. While the two trusties leave me alone to get on with my tasks, apart from making stupid joking innuendos. They know I'm 'protected'.

We also endure long remedial courses, although my mind is usually elsewhere, my concentration drifting into vivid daydream, thinking impure thoughts. Always my problem, my benign disease. I've never been very sociable, and despite my best resolve I stay introverted, living in my head. Seldom in the real world. Even here - in the Big House, I'm living a weird blend of the two. On the tantalising borderline of fantasy where a sense of surreality holds sway and I frolic with mind-creatures. The other - more physical escape I get, is the pleasures I take in the laundry room with Ian. And even that assumes a dreamlike quality, a suspension of time.

Perhaps this is the fantasy I'm writing now, in preference to the sad shabby reality. I'm an unreliable narrator. 'Write what you know' the writer-in-residence had said, and all I know is fantasy and daydreams. And perhaps that's the saddest thing of all. That none of the sexual content of this story is true, and that my life is so stiflingly dull here that I'm forced to concoct such extremes of pain and fulfilment to give it meaning? If real life doesn't match up to your fantasy, live the fantasy, until that fantasy becomes your life.

There's a small what-passes-for a library. Little more than a tall unit of dog-eared and faded books. Intimidatingly dour hardbacks at the top. Rows of yellowing thumbed paperbacks below them - horror, SF, crime-detection, westerns. Then, on the lowest shelf of all, there's a stack of ageing comic-books, but most of them are American Super-hero titles, something that's never really interested me. So I begin reading quite a few of novels, something I've seldom done before. Perhaps it's because of the pressing need for some kind of escapism, into the alternate worlds of fiction. Perhaps that's where I began formulating the ideas about having crossed over into this 'parallel reality'?

But there are also publications of a more dubious nature circulating, and inevitably I wind up engrossed in them too. Nastily-printed underground porn-novels. One that particularly appealed to me was 'Maximo Urge's probably pseudonymously-written 'The Random Rod', a kind of Victorian pastiche of Charles Dickens, Henry Fielding, and the Marquis de Sade, in which the impoverished peasant farmer of a large country estate falls behind on the rent for his hovel, and offers the sexual services of his slow-witted but enviably well-endowed late-teenage son - Roderick Random, in lieu of payment. After being debauched by Squire Fleshpole, his disreputable family and staff, Roderick escapes from the great Country House, into a sexual odyssey of strange adventures. It's around this point that the novel takes a stranger turn. From a kind of debauched Henry Fielding, into a darker more-Gothic realm, with De Sade overtones. This scene leads them to yet further satanic debauchery. Roderick soon loses the will to escape, forgets everything else, and obediently accepts his new submissive sex-slave role.

With so much rollicking dirty-minded fun, I enjoy the fantastic tale immensely. Every character and plot-motivation revolves around sex. Every crisis is precipitated by a sex-act, and its solution provided by yet another. It is relentlessly single-minded. But then, as all pornography is priapically cock-centric, obsessively concerned with erections, penetrations and ejaculations, gay porn must be its purest distillation. Because it consists of nothing else. Wouldn't it be wonderful to write something like 'The Random Rod' myself, made up of breezy action with the barest smattering of sense and substance? Both comic and erotically stimulating by turn, a story that both has the physical effect of inducing arousal in the reader, while being amusing, literate and readable too. Perhaps that's precisely what I'm attempting to do here, with this rambling narrative? The scurrilous novel also makes me identify with its innocently picaresque hero - after all, are my own present circumstances that much different to his? Both of us compelled by nature or circumstance to kneel at the altar of what Bryan would term the twin deities 'Baylock & Testiclees'? Perhaps my situation is not as unique as I'd imagined? And throughout history, and literature, there are youths doing pretty much what I'm doing? The thought conjures up suggestive images in my mind.

Sometimes Wolfie sends a message out to me during the day - delivered by some bratty kid with much sniggery knowing innuendo.

"There's something Wolfie wants you to do, now" or "Wolfie's got a position for you."

And I breathlessly scurry obediently to wherever he is, anxious not to keep him waiting, and we use some quiet corner while a leering friend - usually Dread, keeps watch, or we go into a dusty store-room, or find somewhere secluded in the grounds, or I follow him into a toilet cubicle to suck him off without hesitation. Even when others watch us enter the cubicle, knowing full well what I'm about to be subjected to. For Wolfie, my discomfort is part of his pleasure. He's always rock-hard, I'm always ready. And again, it all happens without a word spoken. Once together, without being told, I crouch straightaway, unzip him, extract it carefully and do what I have to do. He looks down at me with such a leering unpleasantly possessive 'I've got you exactly where I want you' look as I suck him. I hate that smug self-satisfied expression. But I'm able to detach him from what I'm doing, separate the face from the cock, they are separate entities, he's somewhere up there, I'm down here dealing with this monster, as I wipe it clean, fold it back in and zip him up. Then wait until he might nod, or say "OK" - the only verbal transaction, which means I'm free to go back to whatever I'd been doing.