Coc-Sucer: the Rae's Progress 01

Part 1: In which I aquire a manager to pimp my sexual prowess...

I'm not going to pretend things to you. I'm not going to lie. My life is out of control. I've had a lot of guys. A lot of guys have had me. Maybe it's my naughty streak, my devilish grin. As a serial slut I've probably had more men than is humanly healthy. And done things, far too many things and too often, than I should not have done. But it's what I do. I know no other way to live. And, largely, I live well. Sucking cock is a career, and a vocation I'm more than qualified for. I do it well, and... yes, I get job satisfaction from it. When I suck a guy off he knows he's being sucked off by a specialist. I've got the experience, and the inclination – the obsession if you like. I'm more homo than sapien. Cocks are the focus of my life. Sucking them is my art. Norman Bates' mother – in the classic movie

'Psycho'

, harangues her son about 'young men with cheap erotic minds'. That's me.

Since I was younger I was very hard to please, and never knew wrong from right. I was never 'one of the guys', never 'one of the boys'. Always the quiet outsider, the uncommunicative misfit with diminished social skills, the 'black-sheep-boy' who never quite fits in. So I use sex to buy acceptance. On my knees with a cock in my mouth I find belonging, tenderness, surrogate friendship. That's when I first discover I have this hidden evil inner-twin who lives in the dark places of my mind. A presence in my head who takes over my actions and makes me do things, taking me beyond fear or self-respect. As though I'm possessed. This alternate persona. This secret identity. The other bolder, louder, more daring self who is usually skulking around in the deepest recesses of my psyche. He will emerge and take over at moments of stress. He can do all the things I'm too scared to do. It's not me, it's the freak in my head. All that's necessary is for me to switch him on, stand back, and allow him to take control of the situation while I merely watch from inside my head, and marvel at our exploits.

That's when I became the kid who takes candy from strangers, a guy gave me a couple of euros to suck him off in the park. It was so easy, and I realise there's more to this than I'd assumed. I'm a poor boy, so I begin doing it for small change, or just for the hell of it if I like the guy. Although liking the guy is by no means a prerequisite to sucking him off. I was promiscuous through my late-teens, with many lovers, affairs and random encounters. I even get myself an agent. After sex with one guy who pays me a few euros, he takes me to a nearby pavement café, buys me a pernod, and tells me he operates a stable of pretty-boy 'escorts', and with a talent such as mine, hey, I'm so good I'd be a natural. I'm flattered, and more than a little intrigued. No-one has ever complimented me like that before, and hell, I'm already doing it for spare change, what have I got to lose? His name, he says, is Luis.

He asks 'are you queer?'

'I'm not sure. Does it matter?' I reply honestly, 'I'm just so horny all the time I can't think straight'. Unaware of the unconscious pun.

'That's OK, at your age that's perfectly normal.' Luis has a relaxed persuasive easy manner although, as I'm soon to discover, he has a tetchy hectoring side too. He's maybe mid-forties, thinning slightly at the temples, and conscious of it. He wears a trilby and a long coat as though he imagines he's a character from an old pulp novel. He gets me a few 'dates' which go well, and soon I'm so popular and in demand I'm doing it most nights, and sometimes he's setting up one-off lunch-time or afternoon hour-long-stands too.

I know the theory. Avoid the pervs, weirdos and those on power-trips who like to beat on you. Make the punter come early and quick, using fingers as much, and mouth as little as possible. I know all that. But I'm not attuned to rip-off. Usually they're men in the city on business, away from wives or partners and up for a little irresponsible dirty-sex fun, which I'm eminently qualified to supply. In fact, it's the only thing I'm really good at. Mostly, they're sad individuals more nervous of it than I am. Most likely they charge for me on their expenses invoices to the company, as 'corporate entertainment'. One even chortles as he tells me he's paid my bill by charging it to the company as a legal expense, all he has to do is invent a phony case number on a blank invoice copy, and none of his auditors know the difference. This is purely a business a transaction. Feelings don't come into it.

Yet, illogically, I want to put them at their ease, I want them to like me, I need their approval, the trust that they find me truly entertaining! If they consider me a good experience, they'll come back for more. And they do. Oh yes, I'm the original 'tart with the heart'. There's one German businessman who asks for me repeatedly. He favours arse-to-mouth, switching repeatedly from one orifice to the other, which I'm not too keen on, but do it because that's what he wants. He talks dirty as I blow him, calling me all the most disgusting names he can think of, and I just suck him all the harder.

I visit another client in a huge business office-block, as pre-arranged I bluff my way through reception on the pretext of delivering a package, then once inside he closes the suite door so I can suck him off as he sits on his swivel chair beside his desk. He even takes a phone call as I work on him, although his voice is a little unsteady. Afterwards, as he zips up, I thank him politely, and leave. Another 'trick' likes to game-play that I'm the hotel bellboy he's seducing.

I say 'will there be anything more, sir?'

And he says 'well, I have this swelling that needs relieving' as he opens his dressing gown.

'Oh sir, may I? Will I get a tip?' as I fall into a crouch between his legs.

'You'll get more than the tip, do it right and you'll get every inch of it...' By the time I leave his room, I'm licking my lips and his swelling is well-drained.

Luis drives me to each 'appointment', mostly in Hotels or Motels, sometimes to offices or occasionally private apartments or flats, then he waits to pick me up afterwards. To me, this provides a kind of reassuring back-up security, if things turn weird. But for him it might just be to ensure I don't duck out of a fulfilling the contract. As I climb back into his car he gives me a mint to refresh my spermy breath, and a wet-wipe for stains, not for my benefit, but for the next client he's already taking me to. As he drives he insists on me telling him in detail about what just occurred. What service did the client require, oral, anal, both? Did he ejaculate in your mouth? Was he well-hung? What positions did he insist on, anything kinky, was there spanking, did he feel you up, toss you off? Did you enjoy it, were you turned on, did you come? Maybe it was to itemise the services for costing purposes, or maybe a way of desensitising me about what I was doing, talking about it makes me less self-conscious about what I'm doing, or maybe he just gets off on me describing the sex-action?

Whatever, I never see the cash, Luis handles the financial side, and gives me a 'wage'. If we stop at a Bistro for coffee or something he always deducts it from my allowance. But largely, I'm fine with the arrangement. From my point of view, I'm making more money than ever. Then, at Luis' instigation, I flat-share with two of his other boys, Jean and Willie. He sometimes sends clients round who have no other place to do it. They then select which of us to take into the bedroom. Naturally I'm the new kid, a novelty, so you can imagine the flouncing bitch-calling cat-fight jealously when I get selected by three gentlemen consecutively. For me, it just flatters my vanity, I'm popular, I'm desired.

Sometimes I like to think of myself as a gigolo, but at other times I know the truth, I'm just a strumpet. We also double-date, which involves two older guys using two escorts, which leaves me feeling a little cheated.

Luis drops us off, instructing us 'just do as you're told OK? Refuse nothing. Just let it wash over you. At the end we'll have a handsome pay-check and you get a good time!'

Two arrogantly unpleasant Belgians with gelled slicked-back hair, take us out for a meal. When I pick unenthusiastically at my salad in the Bistro my 'date' guffaws, 'he needs some solid meat down his throat' with embarrassing innuendo, while groping my groin in a proprietal manner under the table, establishing his territorial right, 'hey, the himbo's already primed to go' – I'm ashamed to say he was right, despite my misgivings, anticipations of what the night ahead held had got me aroused, and he squeezes my balls so tight it makes me wince. Much to the amusement of both.

The other 'escort' – Jean, dark, surly, and maybe a year older than me, joins in the laughter too, a little uncertainly, as colour sweeps into my cheeks.

'You're a bad boy? You like it rough? Don't worry' resumes the smart well-dressed Belgian, 'we will not harm you, at least no more than that. But you will do exactly as we command, yes?' He allows no possibility of negotiation. He's a control-freak, and he's chosen me to be his target. Already I'm nervous, but in a good way. Then, treating us perfunctorily, back in their dipped-lit penthouse hotel suite with sparkling night city-views, with wine and coke, Jean and I are instructed to get naked. I never wear underclothes, it needlessly slows things (although some guys do like to peel a thong off a willing nubile youth). The heating is up, it's warm, the carpet rich and soft on my bare toes, but a goose-bump chill courses through me. I'm self-consciously erect, Jean isn't. Why is it always me that's dumbly obvious? Why can't I be the cool laid-back one? Why do my trigger-happy physical reactions always let me down? Sometimes my unruly cock speaks a language I don't always understand.

Their suit-jackets come off. 'Want some wine?' he invites, and when I nod he drops his pants. The revealed cock is only semi-hard, but admirably well-endowed, with its size and weight causing it to arc heavily below the horizontal. It's a weird sensation the first time you see a stranger's cock and know with absolute certainty it's going to be ejaculating in your mouth in a matter of short minutes. A mix of curiosity with decadent wantonness, the thrill of nastiness about it, the perverse anticipation, and acceptance – not only that I'm going to do this, but that I'm getting paid for doing it. A sense of the dangerous too, an edgy kind of transgressive danger. A walking on the wild side dangerous. I hate, and love this feeling.

Yet he just dips it in the wine-flute, 'you want some wine? So put your pretty whore-tongue to use and lap it off there'. Again, there's laughter. Naturally I just squat right down, legs splayed, and suck the plumply swollen corona-head right in, that's what I'm here to do, right? That's what I'm being paid for. This is the moment the whole evening has been building towards. And this is where I get to come into my own, I might be useless at using my mouth for witty conversation and repartee, but I'm confident in my ability to use it to suck cock. I feel it pulse and throb as I provoke a rush of blood fattening it out, the electric jolt of an answering arousal roaring through my body so I'm trembling and almost on the point of coming myself.

But abruptly and unexpectedly he slaps my face stingingly and pulls back, making a juicy 'plop' as it jerks out. 'How dare you, did I tell you to do that?'

'No monsieur' I whimper, confused.

'How dare you use me for your own dirty pleasure. Have patience boy. Don't be greedy. Everything comes to he who waits. And there will be plenty of come for you'. He dips it back in the wine and repeats the game a couple more times for his amusement and my debasement, to demonstrate his absolute control. This time I do precisely as instructed, using only my tongue on his wine-moist cock, lapping its length, curling around the crown, slithering underside to tease around the inverted 'v'-valley where they connect. The other Belgian obviously considers it very funny because it cracks him up laughing. Even Jean is smirking.

Until the effect of my tongue seriously inflates and stiffens his heavy erection, by now Jean and his night-partner are both nude, and the cock-sucking begins in a more earnest mockingly competitive way. 'You're a dirty cock-sucker boy' he demands.

'Yes, I am, I'm a dirty cocksucker, monsieur.'

'Due to your insolently presumptive behaviour earlier I don't think you've earned the reward of sucking me off. So tell me. Whose cocksucker are you boy?'

'I'm your cocksucker tonight, monsieur, if it pleases you.'

'I'm not sure I'll allow you the privilege. You crave to suck me off?'

'Yes, I want to, monsieur.' All this while, as I go through the role-play game, it's quivering with charged sexual energy an inch from nose, my attention totally focused on a drooling bead of moisture that might be wine, saliva, or most likely its own juice, and I'm wishing he'd just quit playing games and stick it in my mouth.

He glances across at his companion, 'this bitch needs cock, he's begging for it. Who am I to deprive him?' then down at me 'OK slut, now's your opportunity to show me just how much you want to gobble that cock-meat.' Standing, hips thrust forward, with his cock-head in my mouth, rather than pulling back he pushes it deeper down into my hospitable oesophagus, where it stays, trying to make me gag. 'No hands now, hands clasped behind your perky butt, just mouth, don't worry about breathing, just inhale cock, that's all, just use that sexy well-fucked mouth.' I have absolutely no control, instead, his hands are holding my head so he can fuck as deep as he pleases, while me, still testing out my own limits, am reconciled to letting him.

'There's a good little whore' he laughs, moving backwards a pace, then another, so I'm forced to slither forward to ensure it stays in my mouth. I hear Jean making slurpy squelchy sounds, little distressed sobs and moist coughs, while his guy is grunting, and it sounds incredibly dirty, glancing across as much as I can, I see that his Belgian is seated, and I see the rearing cock feeding into Jean's mouth as he hunches between his legs. It looks so horny I redouble my efforts to take mine deeper and suck more enthusiastically, making little gurgling glutton-noises in my throat, saliva dribbling my chin, my eyes ripply with moisture. The two Belgians are urging us on in the crudest most vulgar terms. They might have money and commercial success, but no culture.

I close my eyes the better to concentrate on what I'm doing. He slows his assault a little, leaves it in, allowing me to work on it, which I do enthusiastically, sucking lustfully. Then, I sense he's on the brink of coming, probably before he does, all too soon I feel his big swollen balls drawing up tight in impending climax, the little pulsations that start at the base of his cock, and the thick vein on its underside throbbing as the semen speeds up his shaft to spunk off with full force into my waiting mouth.

'Bon appétit, slut' he leers. Even if I'd intended drawing away, which I don't, his firm grip on my head keeps his eruption locked in my mouth. 'Wait, I'm not done yet' he cautions as another wave bursts in my mouth. But that's fine, I know what I'm doing. I'm shameless. Even though I have no respect for him. I realise later he'd have preferred it if I'd choked or showed signs of distress when he came, because he seems disappointed when I take all he can give so easily. Sometimes, the more you fight, the more they enjoy it.

Still, I must look foxily enticing, squatting nude at his feet, smiling up at him as great gobs of his pearly seed spill in rivulets down my chin. 'You like that, slut?' he leers.

'Yes I do monsieur, very much, thank you monsieur' I simper, licking my lips, then licking and sucking his inflamed glans appreciatively, taking it back deep into my mouth.

'Well enjoy it, 'cos that's all you're good for.' I can hear Jean making strangulated noises as his Belgian grunts out his ejaculation. He laughs, reaches for a silk dressing gown, and settles back on the couch, obviously drained.

But they're not done yet. After this first bout they insist on Jean and me performing for their amusement, which means us sixty-nining and stuff as they watch and wait to re-stiffen their resolve, for their vigour to refirm. They've obviously done this kind of thing dozens of times before with rent-boys, because they know exactly what they want, and how to direct us. It's pretty new to me, well no, that's not true, I've done this before, just not as part of a commercial package. Not that we need encouraging.

After we've jacked each other awhile, I squirm down to lie sprawled on my back, Jean positions over my head, we're both still hard. I've seen him naked before, but we've never had sex together. I admit I've wanted to get closer to him, and this provides the excuse to satisfy curiosity. He leans over me in a quite matter-of-fact way, I reach up to guide him in, and once located he sinks it deep into my throat, then goes down to trap me in his mouth, and we indulge to full mutual satisfaction. His body is warm and comfortably enveloping, his balls alternately flopping in my eye-sockets or pleasantly squashing across my forehead as he rocks his hips. It's forced a little too deep into my gullet for comfort, my nose buried in pubic hair, but that only adds to the edgy sense that I'm not in control, he is, and beyond him, the two Belgians I can no longer see because of the pressing weight of his body. I am just there to be used. And my throat soon accustoms to the fullness and heat of his shaft.

At the last minute, to make it visual for them, Jean slides it out, poised about two inches above my open mouth and splatters blobby strands of cream all over my face, so that once he's done I can simply raise my head a little to draw its messy tip back in and suck more gently as he just wanks me, fastidiously avoiding further facial contact, so I come in wonderful warm tingling contractions spitting long drooling spurts all the way up my stomach. He milks me efficiently, I feel his fingers squeezing the final bubbles out while arcing it in a wiper motion to spread the gooey-daubs, to ironic applause, as I still contentedly mouth him.

An abrupt handclap signals the next phase, the KY-jelly comes out, and we assume new positions, side-by-side on the bed on all fours, bums poised, raised and ready. I'm not even allowed time to wipe face or gut. They inevitably suggest switching partners, our compliance taken for granted. As they manoeuvre us, I smile up at Jean's guy appealingly, he ignores it, he's not interested in my face. He has a longer thinner cock, so when he noses his swollen lubricated member into me it slides in smoothly all the way, showing no compassion or consideration. I relax my sphincter-muscles as he begins humping me, alternating between short fast thrusts, where he withdraws until only the engorged tip remains in my ass, then slowing to take some deeper long strokes, sliding forward until his groin is pressed tightly against me, slipping still deeper so we merge and his buried cock becomes a part of me. As though his dick has found its home in total sexual union.

Wordlessly, he takes his time, with admirable self-control and I enjoy the sensation of being used for his pleasure, my own hypersensitive cock dancing slap-slap-slappity-slap up against my gut as he fucks me, every thrust into my quivering bottom causing new overwhelming waves of sensations. Every thrust has me gasping for breath. Until his hips buck, and my rectum trembles receptively as he's shooting off deeper inside me than just about any man has ever before, I'm feeling the soft warm gush inside, the sudden moistness. While from the other side of the bed I can hear their perspiration-sheened bodies squeaking together, but from Jean's whimpering moans I get the impression he's enjoying it less. Although he might be employing a little theatrics to flatter the Belgian's vanity? I'm not sure. Maybe I should pretend a little distress to gratify the male need to dominate too?