Cock Sucker The Rakes Progress 04

Part 4: In which every good thing must end with a come ...

My experience with Bruno dented and skewed my self-confidence. He'd used me. I'd let him use me. I'd willing allowed myself to be used. Then he betrayed me. But before Georgio threw me out, I'd laid my plans. I investigated his contact book. I know all about his gay friends. Now I follow up on the leads it indicates. Whittle the names down to a short-list of five possible contacts. Research them through internet profiles and the financial pages. From now on, I tell myself, when it comes to potential patrons – first I look at the wallet. From my list I select and focus in on just one name, a guy called Sergé. He's in future's consultancy, whatever that is, and he lives very well from it. So, once targeted, I draw up my schemes against him.

Stalk him. Observe him. Watch him coming and going. Reconnoitring my terrain. No sentiment this time. I've wised up. I've toughened. This is an astute commercial calculation, a career-choice. This is the switcheroonie – I've become the predator, me! Does he already have a boy? A partner or live-in 'friend'? No. He lives alone, in considerable luxury. I bide my time, then make my move. At the reception desk of his office I leave a 'For Your Eyes Only' manila-envelope containing a sheaf of the A4 photos taken at Luis' instigation. Moody black-and-white full-frontal nudes. And my mobile number. How can he resist? I'm a little disturbed to notice he has a smart attractive young male personal assistant. Is he giving him a good seeing to? No. I see him meeting a girl in a bar. She's all over him like a cheap tart.

Then, hesitantly, Sergé takes the bait. He calls me, unsure about my motives. He agrees to meet, no, not in the café near his office. He's known there. In the hotel-bar a block away. He's being discrete. That's good. He's not especially physically attractive, a dapper man of fifty wearing gold-rim spectacles, thinning strands of hair slicked cross-wise over the dome of his skull. He wears a tweed suit with matching grey-green tie and a small sapphire ring. But although he's small in stature too, I feel at ease with him. I start by smiling shyly, acting bashful.

I'm polite and respectful as I spin him my tales. 'Yes, I was with Georgio. But no (with a small sob of regret), we're no longer together. At the moment I have no gentleman to satisfy my healthy and natural needs and appetites. To guide and discipline my unruly desires.' Meeting his gaze with deep soulful eyes. 'Men have taken advantage of my gullible and trusting nature.' I start flirting with him, finding myself extremely turned on by the thought of acting like such a slut. This is my revenge on all the users and betrayers.

We click, he's had the forethought to book ahead and reserve a room in the hotel. That's good. But once there, as I prepare to get naked, to make sure he gets a sweet taste of what's on offer, I've no intention of making myself cheap. Act coy, as though to imply, I don't do this with just any guy (although, check my record, I pretty-much do!). I wear a T-shirt, it's hauled up and off. And tight distressed jeans, that slip down and off. There are a couple of memory-techniques I can use to produce an erection when required. The memory of my first double-date with the Belgian Hans, his friend, and fellow 'escort' Jean. That always turns me on. And the sordid incident with the truckers, as they take me from both ends as the guy walking his dog stops to watch the gay sex-action. In my line of 'work', it's a useful technique. So now, when I do a slow reveal for Sergé, taking my cupped hands away from my groin so he gets to feast his eyes on my hard-on, he gets the full benefit.

When he moans 'oh, dear boy,' with such emotion, I know he's mine.

Guys are so self-centred and egotistical they automatically assume your arousal is a direct result of your eager anticipation of sex with them. He spends a long time just feeling me up, squeezing and caressing, first with me standing, then jacking me off in long strokes as I lie on my back on the bed. He holds my cock as I ejaculate, bucking my hips to emphasise my pleasure.

'Gay spunk is one of the great wonders of the world', he breathes softly as he fastidiously wipes it clean with a monogrammed handkerchief, 'it's not intended for procreation. It exists purely for pleasure.' He ensures he detects and wipes up every trace of spilled semen, the intimate brush of the silky material on my already sensitised nerve-ends setting off exquisite ripples of sensations, before carefully folding the handkerchief and placing it on the coffee-table. It later occurs to me that he's doing it for analysis, checking me out for communicable infections. Although, at the time I'm more concerned I was going to be denied the opportunity to demonstrate my sexual expertise. He's remained clothed throughout, which is not exactly unprecedented, there are guys who get off on just tossing-off a comely boy. But this might be my one chance to be with him, to show what I can do.

Should I initiate...? Should I say 'you've given me pleasure, may I reciprocate?' But it's not necessary. Disappointingly when he undresses, his slight corpulence overhangs not hugely impressive genitals, yet we have spontaneous and satisfying sex. I make sure I'm good for him, working hard with all the skill and experience I've gained, to please. Sucking him deep, as though it's the one thing in the world I desire more than anything else. Smiling up at him adoringly with his sperm smearing my lips and chin, as though grateful and breathless with passion. Let me kiss it again, please. One more lingering suck. Now, if you please, my bottom requires attention, urging him to take me anally, bending to receive him, groaning a welcome as it slides all the way in. Making sure he can't help but notice my own fierce erection bobbing appreciatively. Saying 'Merci Monsieur' once he's done, as Luis had taught me. I can be convincing when I set my mind to it. I come again in long white strands up my gut as he humps me. He watches as I shower.

Two days later, as I'd anticipated (when the Lab-analysis of the handkerchief comes back), he phones me, asks me the question, and I move in with him. It's a warm perfect day as my new 'owner' drives me to his villa, somewhere beyond Arles in the Camargue. I'm overjoyed. I'm leaving my problems and bitter memories behind. This is the start of a new phase for me. Sergé has left his pa in charge of the business – Mr Bradley-Martin, and for the first month I spend in that luxurious villa I never wear a single item of clothing.

The climate is such that clothing is hardly necessary, and anyway, Sergé prefers me to be as naked as nature intended. That way he can watch as I sunbathe on the mosaic patio-area beside the ornate terra cotta arbours, or as I swim in the infinity-pool. All of which is much to the interest of the aged groundkeeper who leans on his hoe and also watches me keenly with bright beady eyes, my state of undress either reminding him of promiscuous adventures from his own distant youth, or else envying the freedoms I enjoy today. Let him look, let the sad wrinkled old perv dream.

And of course, my nudity means that when Sergé requires sex there's no encumbrance. It amuses him to casually reach out and masturbate me as and when the mood takes him, as I lie on my back on a lounger beside the pool. I give him a good show, writhing and bucking in response to his clumsy attentions, but never failing to rise to the occasion, lifting my hips so as to project further and always delivering a white-fountaining arc of ejaculation to make him chuckle. He traces the rounded curve of my bare bottom possessively with the palms of his hand, tracing the course of the valley between the soft cheeks with his trailing fingers.

'Your ass is mine' he's soft-voiced even as he leers 'bought and paid for, I say suck, you suck until told to stop, and not a moment earlier, I say bend over and part your legs, you do it, whenever, and for whoever I say, right?'

I smile my acceptance of his terms. After all, we both know that's what I'm here for. I'm always respectful, do his bidding as obediently as a good slut-boy should be, and call him 'sir'. I enjoy his luxury, and make a show of enjoying his sexual attentions. Even when he has me stand bent over to spank my bare bottom until it reddens, it's not really stressful. I guess I must look pretty cute and sexy-as-hell like that, on the pool-side with the round curves of my bum raised. He likes to watch my genitals bob with each smack. Of course, I'm already hard, the slightest attention has that effect on me, so it's no problem. And when he's finished those preliminaries and decides to ass-fuck me I'm more than ready, he goes up my ass as is his right, and my delight, but it's like having a stubby pencil inserted, or maybe a slender finger stuck into me.

I make all the required moans and 'yes-yes-yes, give it to me, oh, you're the best, you're the best' gasps of pleasure as he thrusts and sweats, but it falls way short of the experience I need. I think back wistfully to Bruno, and wish it was him giving me a full length. My time in the villa should have been a kind-of rest-cure, a rehab, a chill-out period with probable therapeutic benefits. We dine well. Sometimes – if infrequently, at an out-of-town bistro. More usually there's a lady who comes from the nearby village to cook, with a couple of female domestics. I avoid them. I learned by Madame Bovery's disapproval at Georgios'. They don't like Gay Boy-Toys. Maybe they see us a threat to female sexual power? While, how to describe my shifting moods? I'm incapable of analysing them. But to be honest, after the eventful sex-life I'd been used to, life here is a bit – whisper who dares, boring?

I swiftly realise what his major turn-on is, he's given to voyeurism. He likes to watch me with other guys. And that's fine too. At the end of the first week Bradley-Martin arrives in a red open-top sports-car. Idly, I watch him park. He's smartly dressed, in reflector-shades and suit, despite the heat of the day, his blonde hair close-cropped. He's here to update Sergé on the latest business developments, and they go indoors to spend hours together poring over detailed files and documents. None of which is any interest to me. I sunbathe beside the pool, naked, little knowing that it was to be a day of testing and discovery.

Eventually they emerge through the slide doors. Sergé is dressed in shorts and loose floral shirt. He sits on a lounger a little way opposite me. Bradley-Martin wears a kimono bathrobe with, as he unfastens the sash and opens it down the front, nothing underneath. He crosses to stand over me, his hands arrogantly on his hips.

Sergé indicates impatiently, 'see to his needs.'

I glance up. Although Bradley-Martin doesn't meet my eyes, and in fact, never addresses me directly, I'm pleased to notice he's in good physical shape, and impressively hung. I need no second bidding. I raise myself sufficient to lick it the full length from base all the way down to the heavy sheathed glans, feeling him tense as I take its fat head into my mouth, tasting it, and it gets bigger. He betrays barely a tremble of emotion. It was the first time I'd performed with another guy for Sergé's entertainment, so I make sure he gets the full benefit. Slavering my teasing tongue around it, sucking and pumping it, feeling it throb. Cupping and manipulating his balls with my other hand. Squirming around into a better position, my mouth sliding up and down the full length of his stiffening split-glossy shaft, making little sexy fuck-thrust undulations with my thighs as my hand moves down to squeeze and caress my own fierce hard-on, my balls jiggling.

He's aloof and fairly unpleasant, but with a nice body. I'm happy to ignore the former, to enjoy the latter. The air is super-charged with erotic energy, on an orgone high, as Sergé watches gleefully. Glancing across I can see him slyly rubbing the groin-bulge in his shorts. When I feel the intimate pulsations going into overload, I draw back, mouth wide open, so he bursts directly in between my teeth, long jetting strands of white drooling from my upper lip slithering down across my tongue, blowing spit-bubbles of cum, and Sergé can see its messy excess dribbling down my chin, before I engulf the bright twitching cock again with a moist gurgling slurp, and suck it clean, he winces with suppressed reaction as my saliva drips and trickles down onto his balls, matting the tight pubic hair. Careful not to compromise his haughty dignity. Sergé could have participated. He preferred to watch us. And – to be honest, he should never wear shorts.

I spend most of the remaining evening crouched sucking it. We break off only to swim in the pool, the taste of fresh chlorine on his cock each time, and after the inadequate dimensions I've been used to here, it's more than satisfying. He stays over before returning the following morning, and I'm despatched to his room with a complimentary bottle of wine. Naturally I go nude – as I'm obviously just another executive perk. Pacing the tiles with my bare feet gratefully absorbing their coolness. Clothes get in the way. Clothes hinder the action.

He's wearing the kimono bath-robe again. I know what it's concealing. Wordlessly, he beckons me in, and I stay for more than wine. I'm pleased to notice he has lubricant ready. He's professional at all times, snapping his fingers to indicate the positions I'm to assume. I crouch, he takes me from behind, so he can't see my face. He wants anonymous sex. Raw sex. An orifice to fuck. Nothing more. Which suits me. I'm amused, aroused. Little more. If I'm being treated like a cheap street-boy, no such slight can hurt me any more.

He casually lines his erection at my anus with one hand, a subtle gyration and my puckered pink sphincter-mouth yields to the slight pressure, opening and accepting its blunt insistent head, then closing in around it, drawing it in, a tight fit, a snug fit. I'm aware that Sergé has the house wired, and we're being closely observed onscreen. So I make it good for our unseen audience (it's probably an effective way of ensuring employee-loyalty too, having all this potentially explosive gay sex on film).

This is the telling of my life. This is real, it's not something intended for sad jerk-off jockeys. It's not as though Bradley-Martin has one of those eleven or twelve-inch monsters that Gay porn glories in. Yet, as he feeds it into me inch by incredible inch I almost cream myself instantly, my back undulating with pleasure, it feels so richly satisfying. The sweat coursing down my spine is not entirely due to the humidity. It's me doing all the gasping, no faking necessary. Regardless of his supposed orientation, he knows what he's doing. Holding my thighs, steering me, riding me expertly until it's me he's reduced to groaning and mewling out my joyful ejaculation onto the bed-covers, long before he chooses to climax.

Maybe I was wrong about his inclination. Or more likely he's just taking advantage of the situation. You can bet he won't get his girlfriend to act this way! She won't do all the dirty little things I do! Oh well, her loss is my gain. Eventually he slows his thrusts, presses in impossibly further, shuffles in as deep as he can get, as I brace to receive him in a wriggle of pleasure, his balls – fat with cum, squashed up against me, and I feel the eruption of sudden spasms as he comes off inside me in a mess of tortured nerves and spouting semen.

He extracts abruptly and leaves me momentarily, goes into the en suite. I can hear him taking a piss and the sound of water as he freshens up. Unsure what to do, I remain where I am, on all fours. When he returns he pours wine for himself, but not for me. I smile hopefully. But he ignores me. I want him to notice my own lolloping hard-on, at least to the extent of giving it a fondle, but no, despite providing every encouragement, my feverish efforts are studiously ignored. This is not a reciprocal arrangement. I'm here to be fucked. Nothing else. I'm not a person. More an organic extension of the fixtures and fittings. A furniture-boy. I find his cool neutrality, his ridiculous elitism more amusing than offensive. As though we're role-playing a 'master and servant' thing. As he sips his wine he indicates me to suck him back to firmness, which doesn't take me much time or effort, I'd have contentedly stayed down there enjoying the taste of him, but he's impatient to fuck me again, slower and longer this time.

Bradley-Martin returns with fresh reports each weekend, and keeps me well-fucked each time. I look forward to his visits. But there are other occasions too, and other visitors. When Sergé has a guest to stay over I was prepared for his use. My arms crossed behind my back and secured there. Sergé uses a felt-tip pen to draw an arrow across the curve of my bare bottom pointing to my anus, with the instruction 'insert penis here'. As we both giggle infectiously, another is inked across my right cheek to my mouth with same instruction. It was a masquerade, extravagant play-acting. As an afterthought he inks 'Spunk-Slut' across my forehead. Finally a ribbon is tied tightly around my penis and testicles making them stand out more prominently, with a tag 'A gift for you, please do not return unfucked, no limits'. A dog-collar fastened around my neck, with a leash, by which I was led.

'Be good for him' cautions Sergé, 'put him in the right mindset, I'm hoping to close a deal with him'.

I was the novelty dish to be served up at the evening meal, the extra garnish. A complimentary amenity for the amusement of the guest. When I'm presented to the stranger in this state, beside the pool, his eyes are like saucers. A soft-faced fleshy guy, his pupils flick unsteadily in their sockets. He seems more nervous than me. The guest's clammy fingers nervously reach out to untie the ribbon, glancing questioningly at Sergé as if seeking confirmation. He simply smiles and nods approval. And he takes full advantage of what is offered, as is his right. I stand perfectly still and allow the guest's fingers free reign, he's in total control of my erection because it's not my place to refuse anything, and the idea never occurs to me.

'Is it a bottom feeder?' he enquires tremulously, 'does it eat meat?'

'It does whatever you want it to do' assures Sergé 'it's the complete sex-bot, totally programmed to please'.

I extinguish thought. No thought. No decision. No self-consciousness. No shame. Instead, my stunt sex-double emerges from some shady region of my psyche, comes out to perform as he impales one wine-lubricated finger up my ass. My pinioned palms are growing clammy, sperm is churning through my scrotum. The force of penetration jerks my hips forward and forces a single bead of clear fluid to ooze from the eye of my cock. They both laugh as he smears the glistening cum-tear around the surface of my glans and uses it as a lubricant to begin wanking me. My whole body trembles, I bite down hard on my lip and clench both fists. A tingly shiver runs up and down my body like needles-and-pins as he tosses me off, tension ebbs from my body, I go weak-kneed and giddy with orgasm as he milks my spouting ejaculate into a wine-glass of Chateau de Valfaunes. He swirls it round into the wine-dregs although, of course, the blobby white strands don't dilute, and he gets me to drink the glass dry. It goes down smoothly.

'That's what I call a cocktail' he laughs, a little over-excitedly as I swallow.

'What a divinely naughty boy' says the guest, 'and so obliging too. I do trust you punish him exquisitely for his wickedness?'

'I try' concedes Sergé, 'it's just that so far I haven't yet been able to devise a punishment he doesn't enjoy, one which does not, shall I say produce those visible indications of pleasurable arousal that the young and decadent are so prone to, I am forced to conclude that he is beyond redemption.'