Cock-Sucker: The Anything Box

"It means strong sexual desire" she explains carefully. "So think. The way he writes it. The narrator - him, does not actually participate. Is that right?"

"Sure. So what?"

"Think about it. He's structuring it the way he likes it. He's the voyeur. He just watches. What's he like, y'know, to talk to?"

"Very witty, smart. I dunno, I guess it takes a while to really get to know someone."

"You should always get to know your target. Do you think the old goof can still even get it up?"

"I wouldn't know for sure. Eventually, I guess." A snigger. "Like, only just. It's like, he probably needs a two-week advance notice and a Gay Porn DVD before he can get it to stand to attention. Then it's a dribble too soon, if you get my drift. That's OK, I'm cool with that, but..."

"But you need more than that, you need a real dick-fix?"

Yeah, like demure-not. "I endeavour to please."

Pureheart sums up. "As repellent as the thought of his naked body must be to you, our own naked ambition is something I can't help but marvel at. And I just have a good feeling about this guy. As a target. As a human being worthy of our collective attention, as a target. And when I have a feeling of that sort it usually works out very well."

"Can you handle all that naked ambition?" I laugh at Lori.

"His nakedness I can deal with" she smiles back.

Sure, this is just another giant step along the twisted path that leads towards our goal. "Anyway, I gotta get back."

"Perhaps we should all go" says Lori. "He's provided the theatrical directions. We put on the show..."

Now it's back to now I'm curious. Too much so for my own good. After I've done my lazing and preening for him, diving and gliding. Washing the world off my back. He watches me from his poolside chair. As though nonchalant, but drinking in my youth, my body, the smooth nakedness, the sheer male beauty I'm flaunting at him. He might have been like this once. He might have been desired, lusted after by potential lovers. He might have fucked with them, and been fucked by them. But that was a long time ago. Face it, the tables have turned, I have that power now. He wants what I've got, wants it so bad he aches... good, so he's got to give out to get more of it.

I sit beside the pool and watch him work, and against my better nature, I'm curious. What happened earlier - the Glide flash or whatever it was, had made me a little wary, but it fascinates me too, like the hooded eyes of a snake. It's evening now. I've spent what seems like several years in stillness. The lights have been dimmed and the house is candlelit with glowing lanterns. Long swatches of muslin draped to blow ghostly in the breeze.

Eventually, unable to resist I get up and pace across to stand beside him. Still naked, leaving a splash-trail of footprints along the pool-edge. I stand over him, touching-close. He feigns not to notice. I lean over. A tear of pool-water drips from my body and spatters his keyboard. Only then does he grunt acknowledgement.

"Tell me Jason, how come you find yourself here?" he asks.

I shrug expansively. "Weird world, huh? I often think that. You know, you grow up with all those big plans. I was lazy, very lazy. My folks expected me to get good grades, and when I didn't get them it created problems. I wasn't always totally honest. It comes and goes. If somebody'd told me, like, five years ago, that I'd be out here, doing this, I wouldn't've believed them. I'd have laughed in their faces. It seems you've got your whole life mapped out, you spend years conniving and struggling and striving. Then you find the easy way. Makes all that studying seem so meaningless. Then you get to that place, and you're like, there's always another place you're trying to get to. In the meantime I'm here enjoying your generosity, your hospitality, your pool, and whatever else you have in mind. End of story." How much more explicit can I make it?

But he pointedly ignores my broad invitation by parrying. "So what place is it that you're hoping to reach now?"

"Hey, I can play this here guitar, and I won't stop till I'm a star."

"Oh yeah, and all the stars that never were, are parking cars and pumping gas."

For a moment, our eyes meet in a startling way. "Why did you set out wanting to be different to the rest?"

I shrug. "Why settle for wanting to be the same? Normal is not something to aspire to. It's something to escape from... so yes, I've told you stuff, can I ask you a question now?"

"Fire away."

"Is it true...?"

"Is what true...? what they say about Dixie?" He removes his glasses and begins to polish them in a precise circular motion.

"The story. The story you're writing. Is it true?"

"No dear boy, it's just a story. That's all. It's true that cocks have given me a great deal of pleasure over the years. My own, of course. And others. Those of close friends, and casual acquaintances. Now, yours does too. The penis is constructed of a mass of sensitised nerve-endings the only function of which is to provide pleasure. That's what they're made to do. That's their purpose. The orgasm is nature's gift to us all, and it costs nothing. But largely, I now just watch. And I like to watch them large. But sometimes when I watch I yearn with such an aching intensity it feels like it becomes real. Fiction is all about the supernatural power of artifice. The manipulation of fantasies, the creator, and the subject. It's not meant to be real, but sometimes it becomes something much more than just that."

I'm listening, but he's speaking to me from somewhere out beyond the Kuiper Belt. It was like living through a perfect storm.

"What're they like, the friends you hang out with? The girl Lori, and the other guy, why does he call himself 'Pureheart'? Describe them to me. Do you all sleep together?"

This is it, time to tell him what he wants to hear, so I say "sure, we do everything together. Know what I mean?"

"Lori?"

"She's just a total spunk-slut. And I mean that in a good way."

"And he is... generously endowed, in the way that you are generously endowed?"

"Man, like you wouldn't believe."

"Perhaps they would like to join us here and - y'know, frolic, by the pool, like you do?"

"Sure they would. We'd even frolic together by the pool, if you get my drift."

"That'd be nice. I'd like to see that. You know that thing they say about youth being wasted on Juvies? I guess you three must be more well-wasted than most. So trashed your youth is near-pointless. Know what I mean? But at least you're pretty toys to provide us with a little harmless amusement."

I don't much like the way this is going, and decide there's something reptilian about him. Something alien. There's stubble on his lean tanned face. They say you should never trust a guy with a beard.

"Then, if the story you're writing is not true, is it something that's personal, to you, or even... perhaps, to me?"

"Personal? No, it's not personal. This is nothing to do with personalities. Bodies. It's just about bodies. Some are born with big brains and small cocks, just be grateful that in your case, you were born the other-way round. You are that primal being giganticus erecticus, that's all, nothing more. Minds, personalities, don't come into it."

He's talking with his hands, talking with his eyes, and most of all he's talking with his mouth. But I understand. His is a physical involvement never to be fulfilled, except via its patient conjuring on his laptop screen. There will be no physical enactment or resolution in real reality. It's all a fantasy of his invention, working from the possible into the impossible. Fictionalising real lives in different ways. Taking the raw material of other lives, and transforming them into something that is no longer life, but text. He's some kind of screenwriter, and it is the way of screenwriters to animate and manipulate their characters.

I read over his shoulder, the words on his screen. And the more I read his words, the more the walls and floor are breathing pulsating membranes, in eerie ripplings of space-time. A small pulse of panic begins to beat in my temples. I'm weak and incapable of coherent thought, my mouth dry and salty, under some all-pervading influence... I read more...

"Pureheart scuttling on all fours, comically towing me by our phallic connection, the bare soles of my feet raising faint moth-sounds as he stumbles me across the narrow court within the house, the enclosed garden of white tiles, towards the cool sanctum of its colonnaded perimeter, where other moist bodies lounge interlocked with much giggling and sniggering. In its shade the sunglare dims a little. Once delivered in this way, Pureheart releases my cock - no longer horizontal, it swings instantly upwards, striking him on the nose.

Then his eyes never leave mine as he uncoils slowly back onto the lounger beside the pool, his smoothly-muscled body sweat-glistening, and he keeps going, his splayed legs raising, presenting the cleanly puckered crater of his anus for my appraisal, inviting my penetration. I ease forward, I have no choice, hypnotised almost against my will, my desire, to do what I've never done before. As if drawn by an invisible hand I nudge my inflamed vermillion penis-head into the receptive groove, spit down additional lubrication, and apply gentle pressure, the orifice expands effortlessly, and it glides smoothly out of sight into flesh like a hot knife into butter, into the tight sphincter's clasp, dry, his muscular contractions exquisitely welcoming. My scrotum tightens with anticipation, testes and spermatozoa have their own dark imperative, their own compulsions. We move together, adjust trajectory intuitively, he writhes back as he's impaled inch by incredible inch, until I've fed in all eight and there's no more. We've become one flesh..."

But of course, this isn't real. It's his fiction. His sleazoid narrative. From his frail imaginings of age, imposed upon the pliable directionlessness of our youth. Like in that movie, where the willing victims of the vampire Count must enter his lair by free choice, I've invited this by suggesting we 'frolic naked together by the pool', if you get my drift. He's a puppet-master taking the impossibility and grotesqueness of moving across generations, and making us do this. He taps the keyboard...

"Pureheart grunts. His stiff cock flicks across his gut, trailing a spider-strand of pre-emission, as I pause to savour my total engulfment in him, his stomach flexing. My bell-end must be lodged in some alimentary channel, pulsing somewhere beneath his navel - is that possible? Then, just as it seems I can hold my breath no longer, there's a flurry of blonde movement, a head going in, forcing its way between us, a wriggling litheness insinuating into the restricted space between our interlocked bodies, trapping his waving cock eagerly..."

It's her... Lori - where the hell's she come from? From me, that's from where. She's always wanted to do this, from the first time she joined us. I've never seen her naked - her tits are bigger than I'd have suspected from behind the T-shirt, with large protruding glacé cherry nipples, and sparse blonde pubic thatch, not sure I want to see it all now. And "she's gorging herself on a big mouthful of cock, with more enthusiasm than skill or technique, the slurping throaty noises she's emitting are pure filth, gloating gurgles and greedy garglings. Cupping and squeezing his balls possessively. I could do it better. I'm jealous, it should be me. I can't deal with this. This is too crazy. I rear back, his anus puckering as I pull out..."

I'm beside the pool. He's observing me coolly, his fingers moving almost without conscious thought over the keyboard. By now, the pulse in my temple is beating quicker, I'm more than a little scared, a swelling lump of repulsion clogging and bubbling in my throat. I step back, then back again. In a sick panic, I move faster and more clumsily than I should. Hauling on my clothes without a word. Into the convertible, revs coming up at me through the floor, screeching back up the drive, reversing into the exhaust-noise, then spinning it round, the stick-shift sticks - as it always does.

"Sheee-it", I look down at it all fired up. And when I glance back all I see is the arbour wall hurtling at me. The impact explodes the world into blackness. Drenched in my pain, I can see it all, like a crash-test-dummy animation. As though I'm hovering somewhere above it. See the wreck stabilise, the radiator steam-hiss dancing. The front-right tyre spinning. The only thing that still moves. But it stabilises. For a long moment of stillness. Then, with a splintering sagging lurch, the weakened overhead arbour trellis-work comes loose, trailing vines flailing, metal brackets sprang, exploding away as the structural crossbeam collapses.

Without support, the jagged shaft of shattered timber lunges - and holds. I watch it hang precariously on nothing but air. Until it rips clear, and hurtles down, down, deeper and down, smashing into - and through my face. Splattering it like pulped fruit. Spiking me into the upholstery. My spine snaps, the shock rips my brain-stem. Nothing now, apart from the seep and gout of blood pulsing from my wrecked body. I'd lived fast. Died young. Left a mangled corpse.

A long slow breathless pause until the paramedics show. They stretcher me up, shaking their heads at each other in slow negatives. Draw the cover up over my head. And I'm screaming "no, I'm still here, still here," although there's no air in my lungs to scream with. I feel myself dropping into nothingness, drawn down into unknown deeps of darkness and sound. Feel my mind begin to crack under the pressure of unseen forces. The deliciously disorientating hint of teleportation. Like a swimmer in deep waters, I'm drifting down to a final drowning. But somehow, I'm in the close proximity of another presence, great dark space-debris forces that pick me up and haul me sideways, then oblivion. Time passes, and sooner or later - I hope it's not later, an awakening. Lost in another time, another place. And it feels as if my brain has been vacuumed. Warmth on my skin. Vivid sunlight.

"...He's creepy-crawling towards me fast, like a cat, on all fours, his sinuously naked body glistening. He's moving around the fountain towards where I'm standing breathing hard, I've already come, and need a few moments to catch up. My sex-machine waiting to reload. He's eager for more. I lean up against the cool marble, warm sun on my body, aware of the fine drift of moisture falling on my naked skin, the rich perfume of jasmine and bougainvillea intoxicatingly heavy on the air. My cock is now horizontal, its eight-inches glistening with saliva, the pubic hair over my balls also matted with spittle. He kneels down to kiss my feet, his tongue slithering in between my toes. His moist tongue licking a glisten-wet trace around my ankle and all the way up to my knee.

Now he pauses, looks imploringly up at me - and it's Pureheart. I can't believe what I'm seeing, his face already streaked with sweat and tears he's not bothered to wipe clean, spunk-white body-fluids glistening on his nose, on his cheeks. His eyes burning with the intensity of twin bright suns. He's squatting on his haunches now, his legs splayed, then he reaches out to kiss the tip of my cock, reverently, like a lover. I feel the whisper of his hot breath playing on my knob like a revelation. He's so real I can feel his eagerness. It's impossible to look away.

"Please, if you'll allow me, sperm tastes so good when it's coming from you." Then he opens his mouth, lips drawn back, unsheathing those perfect white teeth to delicately bite down on the taut swollen bulb of my glans, the sharp intimate punctures so shocking a stimulation my head goes back in delighted surprise, and he holds me imprisoned there. For a moment there's nothing. Then I can clearly see his tongue extending to slide around the trapped mauve flesh, tongue-whipping and flickering around it. A snake's tongue dart-darting every-which-way. I can hear my inhaled gasp as though it's someone else.

Forcing my eyes away I can see the old Jurassic guy watching us. He sits in his poolside chair, pecking at his laptop. Engrossed in his work, sure, but all the time watching us. Unable to divert his lascivious covetous shit-dirty attention elsewhere. A sneery smile on his face. And I know for certain that he's controlling all of this.

I'm dead, but I've somehow become snared into his imaginary fictions. Whatever he types into that laptop is what we will enact for his amusement. For as long as he chooses. He'd said that fiction is all about the supernatural power of artifice. The manipulation of fantasies, the creator, and the subject. The intensity of his yearning, perhaps compounded by Glide, has made this so. No matter what debauched stuff he conjures, I'm physically trapped into his fantasy, and I'm unable to escape... but what really scares me is, what happens when he logs off, and folds the lid down...?