Cock Sucker The Day Of The Gay

THE WORLD TAKEN OVER BY SEX-ZOMBIES

It starts with a sound. One shrill long blast of sound...

I was lying on the bed with Mark. He was sucking my cock. Not that urgent kind of frantic build-up cock-sucking, but the slow leisurely self-indulgent cock-socking that comes some time after climax. In that warm afterglow of sex. And he's so good. Which makes it all the more difficult to tell him, as tell him I must -- sooner or later, that I've got to leave him.

I make to get up. To move to the window of our shared apartment. To draw back the closed curtains and look outside, maybe find out whatever caused that strange long blast of sound. But he holds onto me by my cock.

'Hey babe, don't be selfish. I haven't finished with this thing yet. I got some serious mouth-action to perform. Give me a break.'

So I pause, and smile, and let him have his way. He has his way for a delicious twenty-minutes of flickering tongue and succulent lips, the slightest teeth-nip, the loving cosseting ball-sucking and lubricious attention to all the secret pleasure-centres of my appreciative glans. Looking down as his blonde head works expertly in my groin, the full length of my cock disappearing between into his warm throat, it's so great it gets me seriously wondering why I'm going through agonies of this build-up to telling him I'm leaving. Where else will I get head as good as this? But I'm young. Who wants to be tied up in domesticity at twenty-one? I've got new worlds to explore. I've got adventures to live. I've got hearts to break. We'd met at college. The mutual attraction and sexual-chemistry was instant. I'd readily agreed to spend summer vacation with him. For now. Whereas Mark seems content with this affectionate cohabitation long-term.

At length, after the extended sucking has reached its natural conclusion, and we've lain together with sweat cooling on our naked bodies, I resume my attempts to investigate that sound.

'Hey Shawn, best cover up before you pull the curtain back' laughs Mark, 'don't want to scare the neighbours.' He's right, of course. I pull my shorts up. Drawing the drapes apart allows a bright shaft of daylight into the sex-musty bedroom gloom. I shield my eyes, looking out.

At first everything seems normal. Old Man Grosden is pausing while cutting his lawn next door. Leaning on his hover-mower. Mr Simpson pruning roses in the adjoining garden, also taking a rest break. I smile over my shoulder at where Mark is sprawled, with it all hanging out on tasty display. Delightfully wicked. Mr Grosden and Mr Simpson are both in their late-fifties, set in their ways, staunch pillars of the local community. Their faces sour as desiccated fruit. They don't know for sure what we get up to in here, but they're suspicious. And they don't like it. They don't approve. There's not much they do approve of. Not the European Union. Not immigrants. Tattoos. Female vicars. They don't even like each other that much.

It's only as I grab a second look that I realise no, everything is not normal. Both of the neighbours are not only pausing for a respite, they're standing stock-still, as if frozen in a shared trace, with strangely creepy-blank expressions. They've not moved a twitch since my first glance. There's a silence. A stillness. A sense that normality is momentarily suspended, as though a cosmic hand has hit the 'pause' button on reality. Just as suddenly the freeze-frame animates, as if someone's hit 'play' again. But wait. Mr Simpson has dropped his secateurs and has begun shambling towards Old Man Grosden. Not around the neatly-paved garden pathway and through the gate. Instead, he goes directly through his prized shrubbery. For less than a moment the low fencing halts him, then it gives, nails pinging explosively, wood splintering, and he tramples over its fragments, shuffling like an automaton. Grosden turns slowly in his direction, and also shambles forward. Something very odd is going on indeed, I watch with uneasy fascination.

Their arms extend, seizing each other, as though grappling. Tugging at each other's clothing. With morbid horror I watch Grosden struggling with the belt of Simpson's pants, while Simpson does the same to Grosden's pants. The trousers tugged down. The white flannel underwear ripped clumsily down. Two menacing sets of genitals swaying free, and fiercely aroused. The struggle continues, with an altered objective. Until Grosden relinquishes, his legs buckling away beneath him. Grotesquely, he goes down on all fours, turning to present his raised arse to his neighbour, who moves in behind him.

I can't believe what I'm seeing. Grosden howls once, like a beast as Simpson slides his fierce erection up between his bum-cheeks and rams it home. Rough, abrupt. Buggering him, there on the neatly-trimmed lawn. At the same moment I see the postman. He was also frozen into immobility on the pavement beyond. Now he paces in through the gate and up the garden path. As he shambles towards the copulating couple he's unfastening his pants, slipping them down so they fall entangled around his ankles. He kicks them away, his erect cock springing up beneath his uniform top. As he reaches the two on the lawn he bends his knees so his cock pokes into Grosden's sweaty face. Despite straining with the effort of being butt-fucked, he takes the offered cock in his mouth and begins greedily sucking, as Simpson continues fucking him from behind.

'I don't believe this, Mark, come and see.' Mark joins me at the window in time to see the mismatched trio shifting positions. Now Simpson is crouching down so he can suck Grosden's cock, as the postman assaults his raised bottom.

Mark tugs his shorts and 'T'-shirt on and together we venture outside. As we emerge into the access-way we can hear the grunting of their breath, the fleshy slap of naked bodies ramming into each other, as a series of triple-orgasm rips through them. It's scary. And even as we watch, their sluggish attentions shift towards us.

'I guess the postman's emptied his sack' jokes Mark nervously.

The three outlandish figures, their expressions equally blank, begin shuffling towards us. Their trousers gone, despite their coupling they're still erect, with three quivering cocks preceding them.

'Let's get the hell out of here' urges Mark. He's mounting his Lambretta scooter and kicking it into life. I straddle the pillion behind him.

'We're not wearing helmets. The cops might pull us over.'

'Those three sure as hell aren't bothering with protection' yells Mark as he pulls away and the three obscene predators close in on us. Their intention obvious. And obviously vile.

Mark accelerates the scooter out onto the road. There's a gradually curving incline down through an arch of trees into the Little Humping village centre. Passing a row of unnaturally quiet cottages. I hang onto Mark, my mind in a confused turmoil. I can't comprehend what I've just seen. This is too totally weird. The world has gone crazy.

'Watch out.' Mark swerves to avoid a group of naked men, four of them, slouching across the road with that same slow gait, shambling as though the swaying of their engorged erections is affecting their posture. They were emerging from the bank, its doors left wide open. Mark slows to a stop outside the building. We can see inside. The bank manager is sprawled across the counter, his trousers crumpled up around his ankles. Splashes of whitely transparent fluid across the fleshy curves of his flabby bare buttocks.

'Looks like he's had all the insertions and withdrawals he can handle' quips Mark, with that same nervous humour.

He kills the scooter's chuckling motor and props it up on the verge.

'I recognise those four beauteous beasts and beastly beauties' I tell him. 'Those naked guys run the corner supermarket. I always quite fancied the swarthy young guy on the checkout. Must admit he looks even cuter unclothed.'

'Down boy, you're with me, remember.' That's Mark's chiding possessive tone, I don't like it. I resent his assumption of exclusivity.

I bite back a response. 'But those vacant expressions are scary. Like no-one's home. What's happening here? This is stupidly dumb.'

'You know what it reminds of? It reminds me of that movie, 'Day Of The Dead'.'

'Yes, except they were zombies, sucking brains. These are sex-zombies, sucking something else entirely. This is more 'Day Of The Gay'!'

'Whatever it is, whatever's causing it, is it purely local, this village, this county? Or is it the world? We don't know. We can't tell. And why is it they're affected and we're not?"

My hands are moist with sweat. 'So what do we do now? Will this Gay Plague pass naturally, or is it a permanent behavioural shift, caused maybe by spores from outer space? Or cosmic radiation, or an evolutionary mutational response to overpopulation?'

'This is a small community, with lots of repressed guilty secrets and desires. I'm guessing maybe Old Man Grosden and Mr Simpson glimpsed each other naked in the school showers forty years ago, and have been guiltily carrying that image across the decades. Scared to express their attraction, even to themselves. Until now, something has unlocked the social restraints. You heard that noise. The one long blast of sound. That must be the start of it. We can try the Police Station. They might know something.'

It's located further down the street, across the square, past the grocers and the newsagent. We head warily in that direction. There are more shocks. The Maypole stands on the Green, across from the village pub. We become aware of the sound of frantic breathing first. Hesitating, we sidle more cautiously until it opens out before us. A long loop of naked women. Looks to be every woman in the village, lying in an undulating circle, each licking the vagina of the woman ahead of them. Young marrieds', grandmothers, the hair-stylist, the schoolmistress, the florist, the District Nurse. Some I can identify, others have their faces so buried into the next pubic bush I can't be certain.

They ignore us. We hurry past. At first, the Police Station seems to be empty. The CCTV screens flickering in uncanny monochrome silence. The files have been ransacked and scattered across the floor. We circle around the desk, hunting clues.

'Look at this' says Mark, his voice husky, on edge. He's scanning the screens. I follow his attention. One of the cameras is located in the holding cells. And what it shows is horrifying. The only way to tell the naked men apart is that the constables still wear their helmets. Nothing else. Just helmets. Some are handcuffed to the cell bars while others, presumably prisoners, are taking them from behind. Others are still in the cells, sucking off standing constables. Except they switch and alternate, police and thieves, cops and robbers, fucking and sucking each other at frantic whim, in turn, together or individually.

'I fear that's somewhat exceeding their authority' says Mark grimly. He moves off as I continue watching the developing orgy in the cells, unable to look away. In one cell two cops are spit-roasting a shifty-looking inmate, but all three are urgently erect, and when the cops begin spurting he's down there sucking and licking them both, swallowing everything. In the adjoining cell a hunky naked cop is sitting on the fold-down bed hemmed in by three prisoners who are jostling their fat cocks into his face as he attempts to mouth them all simultaneously. He's sucking them one after the other, then they're forcing his mouth out of shape as they try to cram two cocks in at the same time. He chokes and blubbers but takes them as best he can. There's a crawling gut-fascination about it. Foul, but compelling.

Mark takes a more practical approach. 'See these emails?' On the desk, the computers have been left on, unattended. Tapped out of sleep mode it's easy to access the last duties they were tending to before... before whatever happened had begun. 'The last email they got was concerning an explosion at BioTech.'

'What's BioTech?'

'A company out on the new enterprise Business Park.'

'So what? How does that help us?'

'Makes sense to me. And it's the only clue we've got to what's going on. I vote we head out there now.'

I couldn't think of a reasonable counter-argument. So I give a shrug. Sure. Why not? What's to lose?

The cell orgy is getting crazier. I shudder. I've watched enough Gay porn to know what it's all about. But this is real. This is people I've seen in the local store and pub, people I've talked to. That makes it more crazy than I can deal with. The street outside is deserted. Except for the never-ending circle of lapping squirming moaning women.

'Ouroboros' says Mark obscurely. Sensing my disconnect, he explains. 'Ouroboros is the mythical serpent devouring its own tail in an endless circle. That's what they remind me of.'

Yes. I get it. I'm not impressed. We head back for the scooter, keeping a wary lookout for predatory males. He straddles the scooter and guns it to life, and I climb up behind him. He accelerates away. There are small groups of men here and there. Most of them too concerned with each other's bodies to notice us as we speed past. The business park is a little distance beyond the village itself. Soon we've left the last cottage behind, with only fields and trees on either side. Mark reduces speed sufficient for us to talk above the slipstream.

'I've been thinking, Shawn. The reason why they're Gay sex-zombies and we're not. Maybe it's because we were there already. We were doing it before they were.'

'And that's why we're not affected?'

'Well, we're not entirely unaffected. There's the libido-raising effect. By the way you're sitting tight behind me, I can feel your hard-on pressing into me. Don't deny it.'

True. I slide my hands around his slim waist. My fingers crawling into his crotch. He's hard too. Raging hard. I slip my fingers lightly up and down his length, then coddle his balls. 'We can't continue in this horny state. We've gotta pull over and mutually relieve the condition.'

Mark laughs without restraint. The nervous edge no longer there. He slows to a halt. Suddenly there's an urgency burning in my throat. A desperate need for him. He dismounts and turns towards me, his shorts tenting with an answering need. There's no time to find a place to be together. No need either. Hell, they're fucking each other clear across the village. One more couple will make no difference. We pull off each other's clothes there on the grass-verge. He sits sidesaddle on the scooter-seat, his legs spread. I squat down. I've seen his rearing cock so often, but it's like I'm seeing it for the first time. So pale and tall. The pattern of veins so fine its like hairline cracks in bone-china. His sparse downy fringe of pubes so blonde they're near-invisible. His tight balls like some idealised nude from a classical painting. I feel an overwhelming need to cradle those balls in my hand, to reach up and kiss his glans, to search out his perineum with my tongue.

I go in and suck him with a powerful appetite for his cock, too urgent for subtlety. Taking as much of it as I can take straight away. It flexes and pulses in my mouth, vibrant, a living thing. A thing alive. It swells to fill my mouth and tastes so good. I've never enjoyed sucking it so much. I take it still deeper, so it's nudging my throat, closing my eyes the better to concentrate, luxuriating in the sensation of total submission. My tongue lashing its underside, lathing its embedded length as best it can, saliva trickling down my chin with effort. Reluctantly, at his urging, I relinquish it too soon so we can switch, he stays seated as I stand up so my dribbling cock's level with his face, his warm lips smear the pre-emission around my glans a second before his mouth envelopes it so every cell in my body is screaming, his breath whispering soft in my inner groin, and all the while his hands are first cosseting my balls, then cupping the cheeks of my bum, drawing me deeper into his greedy maw. It feels ecstatic. Like sinking it into warm liquid honey, surrendering to a flood of tingly feelings that sets my nerve-ends on fire. My legs are weak, my vision blurred.

Drawing back for breath, we tumble down the slope of the verge, over groundsel, speedwell and chickweed into the shade of spreading elm where it melts into a grassy field. We lie together, giggling uncontrollably. I roll over, raising my hips so he can fuck me, and he slides the full length of his saliva-wet cock into me in a gentle indulgent fuck that takes us both to the edge. Then he pulls out, turns, pushes his ass back towards me, inviting me inside him, and the gift he presents is breathtaking. My eyes transfixed by his smooth almost hairless bottom, the texture of his skin a wonder to me, the tight puckered hole, the balls poised gracefully between his parted legs. My cock is aching with need, drawing me in, it can't wait to fuck him, it guides me in, slipping its moist length half-way deep, each little nudging thrust taking it deeper, and once satisfyingly all the way in, his back undulates in response. He moans out his pleasure as I gasp out mine. I pick up pace gradually as he moves back to meet me, his tight anal sphincter flexing, holding me in, then I pause a moment before it's too late, delaying the climax building in my gonads.

We roll over and over together caught up in a fierce passion, warm in each other's arms, I can feel his heart pounding up against my chest, his cutely protruding nipples beneath my fingers, feel the muscles of his stomach flexing as he inhales, until orgasm overtakes us in a series of ferocious convulsions. Spurting long jets of silky-white semen across each other's bodies, catching it in our mouths and licking its salty smears off each other's genitals. I'm lapping his balls, sucking each fleshy testicle into my mouth in turn. The taste of his jism is intoxicating. I ooze it between my teeth, then suck it back in and swallow.

Afterwards we lie together in the grass. 'That was incredible' breathes Mark. I'm lying on my back. He raises himself up onto his knees so he can look out over the fields towards the business park. His cock stands out. Still erect. Still heart-poundingly beautiful, tall and clean. A pearl of clear fluid oozes from its tip, as perfect as a tear. I feel that same overwhelming desire to reach up and kiss it away. So I do. The semen-taste is nectar dissolving on my tongue.

'Yes, that was incredible. We should do it more often' I agree, my tongue circling his glistening glans. And at that moment there's nothing I believe more. Nothing more true in the known universe than the sex between me and him. Leaving Mark had always been an absurd fantasy. This is all and everything I ever need. Or is that the... the condition speaking? Whatever contagion it is flowing through my veins? Whatever force it is affecting the village and transforming them all into ravenous Gay sex-zombies? How can I know what is true, and what is lies?

'It's humanly impossible for us to do it more often than we're already doing it,' breathes Mark. 'I could stay here forever. But we should go on.' The sweat pearls on our naked bodies. I reach over and lick the curvature of his stomach, tracing all the way down to the indentation of his navel. Tasting his sweat. His laughter is a delight to me. The hazy sunlight trickles over our bare skin, warming us. It has been a long lazy hot summer, but storm-clouds are building in the northern skies. If I believed in symbols, which I don't, it's as though it's signifying an impending ending. Eventually we stir. Birds are singing in the elm, as though everything is right with the world. I watch him pulling his shorts back up over the perfect curves of his rounded bottom. I will remember this moment for as long as I live.