The Craving

Roland dithered in the shadows opposite the dimly lit window, shuffling from one foot to the other indecisively, eager to cross the wet street but cautious, looking left and right to make certain nobody he knew would recognise him in such a place: unlikely as that may be but he took no chances. His colleagues at the bank would be amazed to even imagine he visited such a place and his friends and family would be equally astonished to see him in such a sleazy part of town, and his wife ... well, she wouldn't believe it even if she saw it. She only knew the loving, responsible family man who didn't drink, never smoked and appeared to be the embodiment of the All-American Dream: rich, handsome, successful, with everything a man could ever want. Up to a point, she was right, their marriage had survived the stresses and strains of having noisy kids and busy careers, bending but never breaking under the tension that every family has to endure at some time or other and she was proud of what they'd achieved without stepping on one another's toes too often. She gossiped within an intimate coterie of friends over coffee and enjoyed a discreet affair with a well hung neighbour to ease the tensions of daily life and Roland, as far as she was concerned, passed the time in the confines of a dusty old club with fellow members of the banking institution, which was actually true - he did visit the club several times a month - but although Roland never smoked drank or did drugs of any kind, there was a particular addiction he'd developed since meeting a certain man at the club: an addiction he'd tried hard to break but couldn't find the willpower to stop. There was no support group for those afflicted by this terrible need and after the first hit it became harder to ignore the craving.

'This is ridiculous', Roland thought and bit viciously into the palm of his hand in a futile attempt to prevent the feeling sweep though his body. 'I'm a happily married fifty-two year old man with everything to lose. Why must I do this?'

He already knew the answer to his rhetorical question and was crossing the street before the inevitable answer stirred in his mind: 'Because you need a fix.' His hand stitched, patent leather Italian shoes splashed heedlessly through a large puddle, kicking up a small storm on the pockmarked tarmac before gaining the other side where he strode to a faded door and pushed it aside.

A bored, scruffy youth glanced up from a dog-eared magazine and jerked a thumb over his shoulder in response to the card Roland held up in his right hand, indicating he could go on through. Whatever gets you through the night, dude. Enjoy. He went back to his magazine and absently fished another camel from a dog-eared pack, lighting it as Roland made his way past and sending a cloud of smoke after the older man to obscure him from the view of the next man through the door: Friday night was always busy.

It wasn't often that Roland found the opportunity to indulge his secret passion at the end of the week; making do with a snatched hour on a Tuesday evening or a furtive quickie at lunchtime but seeing as his good lady-wife had gone to meet an old college friend who was in town for the weekend he'd decided to sample the atmosphere when things were more urgent.

The first two doors he passed shone red through a peep-hole like a baleful eye warning whoever was there to move on and Roland did so, found the third door on his right unoccupied and scuttled inside like a hermit crab finding a shell of security from any prying eyes. He flicked the switch to announce his arrival to anyone on the other side of the thin partition and rapped three times with his knuckles for good measure. Almost immediately, an erect penis thrust proudly through a perfectly round hole and throbbed urgently, demanding attention. Roland felt himself respond in time honoured fashion and, pausing only to remove his coat and tailor-made jacket, he moved to kneel in homage to the hot muscle, kissing the tip with a moan of anticipation.

His moan echoed back from behind the wooden barrier and a deep voice whispered; "suck it ... suck it, gooooooood!"

Not many men talked at the hole and Roland felt a thrill of excitement harden his puny endowment to bursting: he loved it when they talked frankly and called him names. It made him feel so ... so, slutty. So, dirty. And so,

fucking

, horny. He took the strangers cock deeper in his mouth and moaned louder, letting him know he liked the style and taste of the potent meat.

"Fuck, yeah!" The stranger growled and thrust urgently towards the moist heat. "Skin it... suck it raw!"

Roland loved uncircumcised tools and this one was a particularly superb specimen: at least eight inches long and as thick as his wrist, with a network of small veins snaking off from a broad tributary that throbbed with vitality. He peeled the smooth skin back and felt his mouth water at the sight of the large head pulsing on top of the tapering shaft. A powerful wave of musk swept up his flared nostrils, bringing a desperate sense of desire for this virile man who he'd never met, and probably never would know him if he did. All that mattered was the moment they shared, here; now. His finger trailed along the underside of the shaft while the tip of his tongue teased around the distended slit on the purplish head. The hot taste of cock filled his senses and drew him inexorably deeper into the sensual act of fellatio as it always did, ever since his first experience of, dare we say, forbidden fruit.

The first visit had been in the company of a regular client at the bank who had offered to second his application to join an 'exclusive' club. When he'd thought to ask his client how he'd known that Roland would be interested in joining such a place he'd merely smiled and said he thought Roland had 'the look' of a man who enjoyed the company of like-minded men who expressed certain desires society required them to suppress. Roland had naively examined himself in the bathroom mirror that night and saw nothing to indicate his secret craving but couldn't deny his client was correct. He

wanted

to taste the secret flavour of a man's flesh so badly he could almost, well, taste it.

It wasn't, as Oscar Wilde so eloquently put it, a

love that dare not speak its name

for he had no other desire than to wrap his lips around the fount of all that salty goodness and suck and suck until every hot, sticky seed had slid down his throat. He had tasted his own juices, of course, but still it didn't slake the unnatural thirst which burned in his throat. His wife (God bless her) would never countenance such a perverse act of love and although he yearned to taste their mingled secretions after consummating their mutual fondness for each other, the actual act of worship at her most secret place was out of the question.

If he wanted to keep his place in respectable society - and he did - then he must play by the rules of that society which meant denying his base desires until they threatened to burst out regardless of his need for the comforting illusion of security that the bank bestowed upon his family.

His client, however, had provided a way to satisfy the animal urge without compromising his dignity (to the outside world) or his layer of respectability. Roland was fairly sure his first taste of man-flesh had been the client but he never knew (or cared) for certain. He had simply accepted the bulbous head that protruded through the specially designed hole into his mouth and closed his eyes in sheer bliss. Roland knew he would never forget the first taste sensation that danced across his tongue like a nubile nymph, enticing him to follow the exotic flavour down the thick, throbbing length into the dense undergrowth surrounding a pendulous pair of swollen rocks which exuded a natural odour that he didn't find offensive; quite the opposite, the aroma excited a flood of anticipatory saliva which drooled from his pursed lips, slickening the hot meat in his mouth to make the natural conjugation move smoothly - although, if they but knew, his close friends and family would call his actions unnatural in the extreme which puzzled Roland - how could something that made him feel so good be so wrong?

The answer to that question had caused a prolonged period of sleepless nights and a ruined appetite (for food, at least) which his personal physician had diagnosed as overwork and recommended taking the cure at a well appointed spa. It did nothing to staunch his craving - far from it - the close attention of superbly muscled attendants had stiffened his resolve to sample the hidden temptation of such well packed trousers that seemed to assail him from every direction. Everywhere he turned, it seemed, a blond Adonis or a dark Satyr tempted him to (suck me!) come out and savour the salty arousal that pressed so close (yet, so far!) to him on the massage table or in the heated pool. Every night he masturbated furiously to release the tension and by the end of his stay, due to the strict regime of diet and exercise more than the amount of spilt semen from his swollen sacs, had lost twelve pounds - but not the urge to cradle another man's flesh in his hand.

Roland took the strangers fat shaft in his hand now, stroking it slowly and running his tongue along the weeping slit in the beautifully shaped helmet, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a hiss of approval at the deft movement of fingers and tongue.

"Yes! Yes, stroke it harder and lick it - lick it all the way down to my balls!"

The hole in the wall was just large enough for the man's scrotum to bulge through and Roland took each hairy nut between his lips and gently nibbled on the tender flesh without cracking its soft skin. He could feel a seething load bubbling underneath his tongue and felt his mouth water at the thought of receiving the sticky contents. Soon. He could feel the strangers urgent, pent-up passion spilling onto his tongue with salty droplets and harsh, rapid breaths announced the imminent arrival of a fresh delivery of creamy sperm ... or spunk, as he'd come to know (and love) it.

Spunk!

He loved the sound of that word as much as the substance it described; far more arousing than sperm, the only term he knew of before coming here. Coming - cumming! Another term he'd been introduced to - among others. It was another world behind closed doors; doors that only opened to initiates of a cult so secret that its name wasn't even whispered among the echelons of polite society.

A long drawn out groan announced the imminent arrival of the salty gush he'd come to adore so much and quickly he clamped the pulsing head between his lips, creating an air-tight seal to ensure every drop fell into his mouth, onto his tongue, and down his throat; slip-sliding down in a thick sticky flow which never failed to give him such a thrill.

"Yes! Yes!

Yessssssssssss!

"

A thin stream of precum trickled teasingly over his tongue and Roland moaned deep in the back of his throat; exciting a rush of thicker juice which swiftly burst over his tonsils, down his throat and into his stomach in one long salty wave. Roland smacked his lips over the knobbly plum-head, gathered an errant stand of cum from the slit, and sat back on his haunches with a sigh - of satisfaction as much as regret at the sight of his first-of-the-night slipping back through the hole out of sight into the darkness beyond. He had once been tempted to try it for himself over on the other side of the hole but found himself too disassociated from the experience to find any real pleasure other than a fleeting thrill at spending the contents of his testicles into the void without ever seeing who took it: a little like the way he gave money to his wife who spread it through a wide and varied network of stores in the city.

Roland licked his lips clean and savoured the slightly nutty texture of the man's ejaculate, wiped a strand of precum from his own bell-end, and looked up in time to see the next customer appear at the hole. 'Dinner is served', he thought and smiled quietly to himself. This one was just as long but slimmer with a less pronounced head. He took it in his mouth, unconcerned about size: as long as it was stiff, clean and ready to go Roland would be willing to relieve its owner of all the spunk he could get - which didn't take too long in this instance: the man gave a small sigh and spurted a dollop of fresh cream onto Roland's tongue then departed as swiftly as he'd came. The next man was even smaller; perhaps four inches long, and was so hairy that Roland had to stifle a sneeze when his nose became buried in a thick black patch of wiry hair. A potent flood of hot white juice made up for the lack of flesh to suck and Roland gagged slightly on the acrid flavour.

"MMMMMMMM ...('More!' Roland thought, rolling the creamy spume over his tongue and...) he moaned loudly at the sight of another length of rock-hard meat pushing decisively through the hole-in-the-wall towards his waiting mouth.

This one had a silver-steel ring around a distended pair of smooth-shaven balls and dripped with anticipation from an enormously swollen nob. A single sinuous vein running up the thick shaft throbbed rhythmically to a distant beat; unheard but certainly obscene in its hypnotic power over Roland's libido. He had heard the saying; 'bitten off more than he could chew', before and, although he had never before had cause to use it himself, felt it very apt for the mighty muscle now jutting pointedly at his face: the soft carapace rolled back and exposed a virulent purple head that shone in the soft light, exuding a faint, unmistakable odour of musk. The smooth head nodded at him in a friendly, almost conspiratorial, way and brought Roland to a fever-pitch of excitement. It had to be at least the length of his forearm and was supported by a stout leather holster at the base. At college, he'd read a first edition by Herman Melville about a White Whale called, 'Moby Dick', and Roland was reminded of it as he gazed down the length with an expression of awe. This monster was not exactly like Moby Dick, however, for it was black; jet black, like a moonless night on the common where he sometimes walked in the hope of an illicit rendezvous with a like-minded lover.

It was also curved like a Moorish blade, though blunt at the tip where a gleaming white pearl hung poised to drop, and Roland ran the tip of his finger over the throbbing vein, feeling every ripple in the flawless beauty and power of the mighty member as it quivered to his tender touch. He tapped the white pearl gently and pulled back; stretching the mucus out before smearing it over the hot nob-end to liberally coat it until it gleamed with rude health. It vibrated violently and the musky odour became a palpable presence, drawing Roland's tongue towards the heat of the mighty black pole like a moth to a flame. A deep groan behind the wall echoed Roland's gentle sigh as each felt the other connect, lip-to-tip, increasing the sexual frisson between them. The huge hot pipe thrummed with power and began to seep a steady stream of brackish liquid from the bulging head as Roland lapped all over it like a kitten while taking a rough measurement of the whole length by rule-of-thumb: thirteen inches from stem to stern - a titanic challenge for him but one that Roland was determined to rise to. He had already risen to his full length during the prior events which, Roland realised, were nothing but preparation for this colossal cock, and he stroked himself slowly while his tongue savoured the texture of each inch.

This was turning out to be a dream come (cum!) true and a surreptitious pinch on his thigh dispelled the concern that he would wake up and find it

was

just a dream - a wet-dream - and he was alone in his own bed with only a persistent erection for company. It had been many years since his good-lady-wife had shared the same bedroom - an arrangement that suited them both admirably.

No, this was real, as real as it got: a hot hard chunk of reality which throbbed in his hand. Roland had heard stories, rumours, about black men possessing an above-average endowment and thought such notions the product of over-active imaginations, the fantasies of eager men, like anglers, keen to show-off their prize catches and boast to all-and-sundry of how they came to bag such a rare specimen. This was something just for him, though, and not to be shared among the common herd.

Roland held onto the prize with both hands, although there was nobody around to take it from him, and guarded every inch with a feral awareness, 'like a dog with a bone'; he thought and smiled at the analogy. His smile became a grin as he felt the enormous cock brush his lips and he opened his mouth wide to take the dripping bell-end inside. The heat of the meat branded his tongue with brazen lust and made his heart pound with a desperate passion to take all he could before the moment passed: he had never seen such a vision of fertile probity before and didn't know if he'd ever have the chance again to experience so potent a beast and he determined to seize the opportunity, literally, with both hands.

The ebony giant groaned again as he felt Roland rub along the full length with both hands and bathe his flesh in moist, hot breath. Not a word passed his lips but a wide range of sounds fluttered forth and danced in the air, rising up towards the single red flame on the wall above his head. He didn't know (or care) who was on the other side of the wall: all he wanted was to be worshipped and wanked of every drop of spunk in his tightly bound balls.

Another inch of thick, black cock stretched Roland's lips wider than ever and he gagged on the bulbous head filling his mouth, nourishing his desire, his

craving

, to taste the fruits of this magnificent beauty. He tried not to think about it, the sheer scale of the task ahead of him was daunting enough, but he couldn't help wondering how this freak-of-nature found a suitable mate for sexual congress: such an act would surely split any normal-sized hole beyond endurance and render anybody who got in its path incapable of movement for many an hour after. Roland occasionally thrust a tentative finger between his (rather large) buttocks when he masturbated but found it uncomfortable to maintain such a grip in the throes of orgasm and rarely thought about another man doing it to him: his pleasure was strictly oral - which suited most of the people he met here. Only once had a man suggested such a bestial act and had profusely apologised after Roland refused him so vehemently that he almost begged to be relieved by hand. Eventually, Roland had relented, mostly due to his craving for spunk than any sympathy for the man it belonged to. All he wanted was the hot white juice each man could give to him through the hole in the wall.

There was something beautiful and unique to every cock that he came across. Some were long and thin, others short and stout. Some were a combination of the two. Often hairy, always horny and ready to burst forth with creamy goodness every time. His obsession, for that is how it was now, knew no limits to the size and shape of each individual but this was his Everest, and he was determined to climb as high as possible by going as far down the throbbing shaft as he could. The furthest Roland had ever gone was nine inches, or so the owner claimed, and, although it had been a struggle, Roland had eventually crammed the entire length down his throat by gulping convulsively, as though swallowing a pitcher of ale in one draught. He felt a thrill of fear at the very notion of taking so large an object down his throat but also a tingle of pleasure at rising to such a challenge. The secret, he had found after much experience, was to relax his throat and simply accept it, timing each peristaltic contraction to coincide with a forward motion of his head and easing the larger member's down gradually until they could use his mouth like a woman's vagina: fucking his face to their satisfaction.