Regression
by David Heulfryn

 

I was nervous as I walked along the pavement, passing the old Victorian houses which had since been converted into offices for lawyers, accountants and recruitment agencies.

Remembering my childhood, I had to stop myself from running my hand along the black wrought iron railings which fronted each house like I had done so years before along a similar street.

As I rounded the corner onto the street I was looking for, my steps slowed. I was unsure that I wanted to go through with this and wondered why my mates had clubbed together to get me this present.

Chris declared ‘It’ll be fun’ when I looked bemused at the contents of the envelope he handed me with a cheery ‘happy birthday’. Only expecting that my birthday would merely mean an extra hard night out drinking, I asked why

I never thought I was unnatural, as Chris had said. I knew I was different, but I thought my mates had accepted that. What they had difficulty grasping is that I do not like one-night-stands. Each Friday we would go out, and they would go home with some young bird in tow, ripe for a shag; whereas I would make out but never shag any of them. Not at first anyway, I would go out with some, and once we were going steady, we would become more physical. I suppose I was, and still am, old fashioned.

For years I had taken their jokes and jibes about me, and I give as good as I got, joking about them shagging anything in a skirt, regardless of what they looked like. And boy did they shag some right ugly tarts sometimes.

Because I would keep my dick in my trousers, they would all joke that I must have been a monk in a past life, and it has taken this long for me to get over the celibacy. They supposed that it would take another three or four more lives before I could classify myself as a normal, well adjusted straight man.

And that was the joke behind the present. My mates all thought it highly amusing to have me regressed to prove their pet theory. Reluctantly, and after much badgering, I agreed to go but insisted that they do not come with me. Chris had spoken with the clinic, and they had mentioned that I could have a friend with me for the session to make me more comfortable. Those jerks had my birthday humiliation all planned, but I put my foot down. Alone or never.

My nervousness increased as I walked along the street, glancing from the piece of paper in my hand, confirming my appointment to the company plaques and signs adorning the thickset front doors. Surely we didn’t need this many accountants, I thought, as I finally stopped dead in my tracks. The plaque on the wall by the door stated, “Dr Hilary Smith – Hypnotherapist”.

Climbing the few stone steps, I pushed the door open. A ‘Reception’ sign pointed to the door on the right, and I walked through to be greeted by a smiling young lady.

“Good morning, Sir.” She beamed.

“Morning, I have an appointment with Dr Smith. My name’s Stewart Mason.”

I was shown through to a plush adjoining waiting room and sat in a soft armchair. As I waited, I stared at the maroon, flock wallpaper, tracing the swirls of the pattern from their centre to the next curl. My feet gently tapped the floor as I tried to control my nerves.

 

Doctor Smith was a middle-aged woman with a warm smile. The moment I saw her I relaxed and as she led me to her office, we spoke of the weather, no doubt to put me at ease.

She spoke very soft and evenly as we discussed what would happen and what I hoped to gain from the experience. Not mentioning my mates, I merely stated that I was curious and often dreamt of people living in the past. It was a lie, but I felt more comfortable with the fiction than have her think I was here for a joke.

Softly, she told me to lie back on the couch, close my eyes, and we would begin.

“Just empty your mind of everything.” She began.

I wondered how difficult it would be to clear my mind, but the silence and her dulcet tones made it easier with each sentence she spoke. I became almost light-headed as I felt my mind clear.

“Now picture yourself in a long bright corridor.” As she spoke the image drifted into my mind. “There are many doors leading off this long corridor, each one leads you to a past self. Search around and feel the door which you feel most strongly attracted to.”

Hundreds of heavy wooden doors led from my minds corridor as I drifted along its length. I stopped and turned to face a door. It was this door drawing me in. My fingers grasped the handle and turned.

I gasped.

“What do you see?” She asked.

“It’s dark, night time. I’m standing on grass, it’s slightly damp.” Looking around, I could see I was in a park and walking across London. I could hear the patter of horseshoes on some nearby street and the rattle of carriages.

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes. I’m Nicholas Banner.” My voice changed and became lighter.

“Do you know what the date is?”

“Of course I do, I’m not stupid. Although some of the other Postboys are. It’s the twelfth of March 1722. Nearly the New Year. I turn sixteen next year.”

The Doctor looked confused. Later research explained that back then, the year started on Lady Day, 25th March. It was not until 1752 when we changed from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar and the New Year began on 1st January.

“What are you doing now?”

I was in Hyde Park, taking a small detour from my route. I was a Postboy, and it was my job to take the night mail across town, I often went through the park to avoid the smells of the street. I really enjoyed this job as it meant I could sleep until twelve in the mornings. It didn’t pay well, but I had ways of supplementing my meagre wage.

Many people prowled the park at nights, like me, they were eager to meet someone who could help them. Walking towards a bush, I saw a man. He watched as I got nearer and I heard the sound of him making water as it splashed onto the soil. It slowed to a trickle, and he turned to me, his dick still out of his breeches. I watched the remaining few drops fall to the grass, he tucked himself away and refastened his breeches. The light was not too good, but I could make out his youth, mid-twenties, with light hair flowing down to just above his shoulders.

“How do you fancy a drink?”

It was part of the ritual, so I went up to him and hooked my arm around his. “Sure,” I said as he led the way.

Nearby was the Talbot-Inn, a well-known Molly House, well known to those who need to know at least. I often used to drink here and find a companion when the park was too busy, or it was raining. He ordered a pint of wine and asked for a private bed to be made ready.

Placing my satchel of letters and parcels on the floor, we sat at the bar, drinking our wine.

Around me, I saw the usual assortment of camp men, drinking and belching loudly. Some patrons even partially dressed in female clothes. I watched as an old man came down the stairs, his arm around a young boy, probably my age, a massive smile on his face with his breeches clumsily fastened. I recognised the old man; I had seen him not four weeks earlier in the local Pillory for attempted buggery. I knew the stories that were going around, the Mollies would tell you the cautionary tales of the old gent who was set-up by a young boy and his Father. That particular night, they had arranged to meet and fuck. The Father and his friends burst through the door to see his son, naked, and the old man trying to penetrate his fundament. The boy resisted the invasion, so when the case went up before the Judge, he could only be found guilty of attempted buggery. I thought the old man must have been well-to-do to come out of it so lightly, sometimes poor little boys like me were hanged for such crimes. So far, I had been lucky not to be caught.

At the top of the stairs, the old man came down, were rooms, places where men and boys like me were taken, willingly of course as there was no other way of satiating our appetites.

The young man next to me swiftly drank his wine and was babbling. I wasn’t really listening to him, and I didn’t even know his name. I supposed he’d told me, but he’d said so much that I hadn’t yet seen him draw breath.

Taking a sup of my wine, I smiled at him. Placing his hand on my thigh, he ran it up my breeches to feel my warm and soft bulge. Gently rubbing it, my soft bulge expanded and, turning to the barman, he demanded to know if the room was ready. It was.

Kissing me on the lips, he grabbed my hand and pulled me off my stool. I grasped the handle of my bag, and we ascended the stairs to the dingy room that I’d seen the old man vacate a few moments ago; the bed still unmade, it had the scent of sex, a mixture of cum, sweat and shit.

As soon as the door closed, the man was on me, pressing his lips against mine, frantic for his pleasure.

Fumbling at the twine on my breeches, he ripped them down to my ankles. Still soft, he tickled the end of my foreskin with his lips as he struggled to suck my dick into his mouth.

Slowly, I began to harden as he clumsily sucked me; his haste ruining my pleasure, but no doubt, his was heightened. His mouth slathered along my length, leaving a trail of spit which ran to the base, down my balls, and when it had nowhere else to go, dripped onto the wooden floor. His hands gripped my cheeks and pulled them apart, hard, the skin between stretched to the point where it almost hurt. Easing up on my backside, his fingers eased their way to my fundament and pushed until they were inside me. He was not my first, so his entry inside me was swift and painless. Realising this, his face smiled as it sucked on my cock.

The initial intensity had subsided, and he was now more at ease. I was thankful as I felt his teeth less, and I could now start to enjoy his mouth on me. My young cock was now very hard, and with his fingers inside me, massaging my innards, I felt my orgasm rise. I have always been very quick to cum, and the subterfuge enhanced my pleasure.

I could hardly breathe, and so gave no warning, but if the man had had many such encounters, he should surely see the signs. My balls ached, and my dick became very sensitive as it pulsed and ejected my cum into the man’s mouth.

As the first shot hit his tongue, he spat my dick and the glob of cum from his mouth. He continued to spit onto the floor, emptying his mouth of any trace that may be left as my dick spewed more cum which congealed between my feet.

“Ya, bastard!” he said when he saw sure his mouth from clean from cum.

“Sorry.” I breathlessly said as I recovered from my orgasm, my hand now replaced his mouth to rub and tease the last few drops from within me.

Standing up, he barked at me. “On the bed!”

I kicked my breeches aside and, still clothed in my shirt, lay on my back on the bed. I watched as he unfastened his own breeches and stepped out of them. His dick was rampant and pointed to the ceiling.

Grasping my ankles, he lifted my backside off the bed and shifted himself between me. My legs now rested on his shoulders, and his hand grabbed his cock to pull it down and aim it at my fundament. With one quick thrust, he plunged his cock inside and began to fuck me. My innards burned with each thrust, and my limp cock began to flail and slap against my stomach.

Watching his face, all I could see was his concentration as he fucked me, keeping the rhythm going and silently breathing. The strain soon began to show as his face reddened and sweat beaded, rolled down to his neck and under the well laundered and starched shirt he wore.

His breathing became louder as I lay inert beneath him for him to use me. I was bored by his mechanical fuck and wished he would let someone like me fuck him to show him how it should be done. Thankfully, I knew he would not last for much longer.

The loud breathing gave way to grunts as he thrust with a renewed vigour, and then I felt his cock pulse against my muscle. He stopped his fucking and expelled a long and vocal breath.

Pulling his cock from inside me, he jumped off the bed and climbed into his breeches. Rummaging in his purse, he pulled out a few coins and threw that at me.

“Next time, don’t fucking cum in my mouth.”

As he walked out of the room, I picked up the coins thinking, ‘what makes him think there’ll ever be a next time’.

When dressed, I went back down the stairs but could not see the man anywhere; I supposed he had left to go back to his wife or betrothed. I left too and without a glance to anyone in the room.

The night felt colder now and had a damp smell as if it was about to rain. Securing my satchel around me, I heaved a sigh and with a sore backside, continued my walk, and my job to deliver the night post.

 

Something snapped in me and the dark surrounding, the noisy revellers and the smell of horses faded. My eyes opened, and I was looking at the ceiling.

“It’s all right.” A calm voice spoke. “You are safely back.”

Gasping, I looked around her office. I felt my groin straining against my trousers, and I looked to see that I had a hard-on. It was obvious, and I felt a pang of embarrassment for getting hard in the presence of the middle-aged woman. Everything I saw and described felt like it was happening to me, it seemed real, and a part of me wanted to go back. But our time was up.

The hypnotherapist gave me a tape of our session, commenting how unusual it was for it to start with something so sexual.

Pocketing the tape, she extolled the virtue of further sessions. Still shaken from the encounter, I merely said I would have to think about it.

Walking out of the office and down the street, I was in a daze. Confused. One thing I was sure about, I was not going to tell my mates the truth.

 

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