Things in the House of Shame get stranger and more extreme.
But there's change here, as well as continuity. My first terror came when - after three months, Dean was paroled, and I was suddenly alone. There was no warning, no advance intimation, I just entered the dorm, and his bed was stripped, his things were gone, the sheets neatly folded and placed on the foot of the mattress. His bed remained unoccupied. The bed in which we'd done so much stuff, it now stayed empty. Hooch left around the same time. His place taken by Ben, an inarticulate youngster who had an arson problem. Troubled, and seriously disturbed, he cries himself to sleep most nights. Turned on more by the prospect of igniting fires than he is by blow-jobs, we share little common interest, and we scarcely communicate. He was more in need of a protector than I was. It was my worst nightmare.
It wasn't that I missed Dean. Not in any real sense. It's not as though we'd ever shared any kind of relationship. Throughout the months we'd not exchanged more than half a dozen words. The only way we ever communicated was around the magic wand six inches below his navel. But by now I was totally conditioned to being 'owned'. That shifty-looking creep on the stair had said 'hey, leave him alone. He belongs to Dean.' And I did. With Dean, I was property. And - as property, well - guys usually have a vested interest in keeping their possessions safe. If what they've got is useful to them, they make sure it stays undamaged. Without Dean I lack that assurance, I feel scared, vulnerable, exposed. My recently acquired self-assurance evaporates like morning mist.
What if I get stopped by those three yobs on the stairs now, by those three aggressive retards in an arrogant mood and this time they know I have no protector? What about the victim guy in the showers... will that be me tomorrow, or the day after? In this overheated sexually-repressed confinement there's always the threat of being abused at best, gang-raped at worst. While I lie awake at night turning over in my head the prospect of being taken by four guys, it might seem quite tantalising and even arousing. But in the hard light of day I realise no, I need protection.
The answer is obvious. Staring me in the face. The best way to get over somebody, is to get underneath someone new. I need a replacement for Dean. I need a new protector. It's a matter of some urgency to me. I give the matter considerable feverish thought - who would want me? What do I have to offer? I spend some time eyeing up possible contenders, appraising their strengths and availability. Then, in a kind of desperation I make myself available to three guys in the space of a single day, in the hope of bonding. It was difficult for me to open up in this way. But I felt I had no alternative, and they were happy to have me 'audition' on a one-off basis, and I was pathetically desperate to please them. Plucking up courage, I approach the first one in the bathroom, operating what Ian had confided to me as the 'code'.
"I'm alone" I mumble, my guts all a mess. "Will you be my friend?"
"What do I get from this?" he grins.
"Whatever you've got in mind" I trace my lower lip with my finger in what's intended to be suggestive invitation.
"Show me" he leers. "Don't worry, the pleasure's all mine."
And we pad back to his dorm. Nervous, but reconciled to what I must do. Fortunately there's no-one there, he sits on the edge of the bed, unzips and pulls it out. Flexing it proudly, brandishing it for my appraisal. Not that he has much to brag about. It's disappointingly smaller than I've grown used to - hell, I'm getting to be a size-snob already! Before I have chance to back out I go down on him, crouching between his knees on the floor to mouth it, but after what I've done with Dean, it presents me with little challenge. Most of it fits snugly into my mouth without causing any hint of gag-reaction. I almost feel more sorry for him than for me. It's oddly unexciting, I suck and suck, but it doesn't even take much mouth-action to bring him off. All too soon he's tensing, gives a little whimper, and I taste the first spurt of his spunk. Once he's come I wait patiently for the spasms to finish, with it resting in my mouth as it pulses to a slow ooze, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. When all signs of ejaculation have ceased I retain it for long enough to satisfy the demands of politeness and etiquette before unmouthing it. Then draw back, looking up at him.
He sniffs. Says "Sorry, but actually, I already have a 'friend' who does that for me. But if ever that doesn't work out, I'll bear you in mind."
Sulkily I wonder why he couldn't have said that before I blew him. But then again, I was relieved in a sense, I couldn't have gone with him regularly, his cock was too small, it's necessary to respect, even be a little in awe of your 'protector'. If you're with a guy, you should be just a little scared of his cock, scared - but in a good way, scared, but in that white-knuckle thrill kind of scared that gets you all psyched up, as it had been with Dean. When I'd been mouth-fucked by Dean, there was no mistaking that I knew I'd been had. And that - undeniably, involves size, which this guy just didn't have.
In all the Gay-porn I've read, and I've read a lot, it always amuses me the way they always quote the exact penis-dimensions of every sex-encounter clear down to the eighth-of-an-inch. In reality, while it's happening, you're too caught up in it to measure. You're aware this cock is bigger than that one, this one is thicker than that one. But the only one I've ever actually measured is my own. And Ian's. We've done that quite a lot.
Later I was delegated to help work in the vegetable garden again, where there's a tall Trustee in charge. As a Trustee he has his own room. I eye him up. Yes, he might fit the bill. Dark in an aloof attractive kind of way. Once I'd whispered my availability and willingness, he consents to take me across the grounds and into the potting shed. Into the musky aroma of moist soil, growing things, and fibrous compost. He acts off-hand, almost irritable, as though he's inconveniencing himself by doing me a favour. He watches impatiently as I strip - it was chilly and I'd purposefully not worn underwear in preparation for this. Soon I'm standing naked and smiling before him, eyes big with a 'please don't hurt me' pleading expression. His detached manner is disturbing, but if I'm wary and uncertain, my cock certainly isn't, it protrudes proudly erect. Let him look, I'm gullibly proud to prove my state of anticipatory arousal is genuine, let him see what's on offer. He nonchalantly drops his own pants, generously gifting me the opportunity of demonstrating my oral expertise.
