Cock Worshipper

by Jason Kason

 

Part 3

Philip liked my last journal entry except for the bit about making this one all about the very first blowjob I gave to another lad.

He says this one should be about when my dad used to take me out after my mam and him got divorced.  Those godawful Tuesday nights when my dad had no idea what to do to entertain a kid and so took me to the ‘Black Horse’ and gave me enough 10p coins to while away a couple of hours on Galaxian so he could sit and chat with his mates.

The highlight of the evening, for me at least, was when the two of us went for a piss together before he drove me home.  I loved that bit because I got to see his big thick cock as he stood next to me at the wide trough that acted as a urinal in the back yard of the pub.  I loved how he always rolled his skin back when he peed so that I could see the huge pink head of his knob, feeling exited but at the same time scared as his piss squirted out of it.  And I loved how fat the shaft of the thing looked: surely mine could never possibly grow even half as thick as his.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Jason,” Philip asked, “that it’s relevant that the only times you looked forward to spending with your dad was when he had his penis out?  You came to associate the occasion of having a guiding male figure around with your admiration of his genitals.  Surely that points to some connection between your need for a father-figure in your life and your fascination for the male organ?”

I smiled and waved a dismissive hand.

“I was born with a fascination for cocks, mate… I’ve told you that before!  I’ve always felt it.  The whole thing with my dad in the pub loos was just an expression of it – it didn’t cause it, like you’re trying to make out.  It was a symptom of it.”

“So give me an earlier example of your interest in penises,” he requested.

I thought back to my childhood.  I’d always love willies, hadn’t I?

“A lad at school used to say I was a girl – make fun of me all the time calling me Shirley Bassey and stuff – so one day in the boys’ loos I showed him my dick to prove I wasn’t.  And I really liked doing it, having him look at my prick.  Liked it enough to remember it all these years later.”

“That’s just a natural exhibitionist tendency found in a lot of children,” he said.  “It’s not the same as the problem you’ve got now.  It stems from a totally different part of your brain.”

“Okay,” I said, accepting his professional view.  “Another lad, way back in primary school, used to like to strip off for the girls.  One day I was watching through his dad’s garage window with loads of girls giggling and squealing but they all got really shocked when I started egging him on and telling him to pull his pants down.”

“Did they call you any names?” he asked.

“Yeah, they said I was a puff.  But that was okay because for loads of years, with all these other kids calling me it, I just thought it was like a puppet character on a kids TV show or something like that.  I didn’t know it was an insult and hadn’t the first clue that it was anything to do with me wanting to see other lads with nowt on.”

He nodded.  “Well, maybe you’ve got a point.  If your interest goes that far that back, it’s possible that it was caused by some trigger in your very early childhood.”

“But you won’t go so far as to say I was born with it?”

“I think that’s physiologically impossible,” he asserted.

So, the blowjob story.  I hope it’s not a disappointment after all this build-up.

Our mate Pally (his nickname was shortened from Darren Pallister) lived in a street of terraces across the railway line on the edge of town.  For some reason on the afternoon this happened, I’d followed an older lad called Bulmer to the level crossing on my way back home from school.

By the way, the whole nickname thing doesn’t work on some names.  Paul Bulmer was always just called Bulmer because Bulmey would have sounded a bit daft.

Anyway, I have no idea why me and Bulmer were at the level crossing together that afternoon.  Philip would concoct all sorts of bullshit theories as to why that was so, but I genuinely don’t remember the reason.  Maybe I’d gone along with Bulmer because he was a couple of year-groups up from me and I thought it would be cool to tag along with an older lad.  Or maybe Pally had offered to lend me a tape of some band that I liked and I was hoping to copy it off and the whole thing about Bulmer being there was just a coincidence.

The thing is, I really can’t remember why I was there that afternoon and Philip would have a fucking field day with it if I told him.  He’d go on and on about suppressed memories and just when I thought I could get a word in edgeways he’d spout for another whole ten minutes about unconscious self-denial.

I once said to him that he had a degree in bullshit and waffle.

He looked hurt and said that wasn’t true at all.  “The waffle part was only a subsidiary,” he told me.  “My main degree was bullshit, coupled with bollocks and with a major in quackology.”

I’d laughed but he’d looked at me totally straight-faced.  He’s dry as a bone, that one.  Makes out like he’s oh-so-serious but really he’s up for laugh.

Anyway, getting back to the level crossing.

The barriers had gone down and Bulmer had said, “Hey, tek a look, Kasey, and I’ll give all them posh fellas on the train a show!”

He’d yanked the front of his trousers and pants down and, as the London-to-Edinburgh train had rattled past, had waggled his big floppy knob at its passengers, bobbing it up and down along with his hairy nut-sack as he’d gawped and giggled at the blur of windows.

“Aw, yeah, that is fucking well cool!” I’d laughed once the train had gone, hoping I’d sound pretty cool myself by admiring his daring.

He’d pulled his clothing back up and said, “Maybe I’ll cause indigestion for some of them in first class.  Seeing a Geordie’s big fat knob while they’re tucking into their salmon en croo-it or whatever the fuck it is they eat.”

“It’d be better still if you had a hard-on,” I said.  I don’t know what possessed me to say that: as soon as the words had come out of my mouth, I was wondering whether I should really have said them.

Bulmer turned to look at me and I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t treating my quip as anything like a joke.  I expected him to come out with something like, “What the fuck are you, Kasey?  A shit-stabbing puff?” but he didn’t say anything at all.  Instead, he just eyed me up and assessed how he could use, to his advantage, the opportunity that had just presented itself.

After a short time, enough for me to be regretting having said what I’d said, he came back with, “Okay, but you’ll have to help me get hard.  Standing around like this in front of a train-track isn’t exactly my thing, know what I mean?”

“How do you want me to help you get hard?” I asked.

“I dunno,” he shrugged.  “D’ya wanna, like, touch me or something?”

“You want me to touch your dick?”  My tone wasn’t one of shock: I couldn’t believe that this sexy older lad – and he really did look drop-dead horny with his crew-cut haircut, pierced ear and school tie halfway down his shirt like he didn’t give a fuck – would want a young dork like me to touch his knob.

“Not really,” he said.  “But if ya wanna see it hard, you’ve gotta do some o’ the fucking work.”

“D’you want me to wank you off?” I asked him.  I thought he’d be impressed that I knew how to talk dirty.

He didn’t seem like he cared that much.  “Ya can touch it a bit, but it’ll need a bit more than that to get it hard.”

I looked at him and his face was sneer.  It was clear that he knew the kind of lad he was dealing with here and he intended to make use of me as fully as he could.

The barriers went back up on the level crossing and the two of us walked over to near the railings, half-obscured by some bushes in case a car happened to come along.

“Ya gonna get started then?” he asked me impatiently.

I couldn’t believe this great big, cool-as-they-come lad was asking me to play with his knob for him.  Even before I’d done anything, I knew I’d have to remember every detail of what we were about to do; that I’d want to think about this many times again.  And I succeeded: the number of times I’ve relived all the tiny minutiae when I’ve tossed off over the years, I know everything that happened next to those rusting grey railings off by heart.

I asked him, “Are you gonna get it out, then?”

“No,” he said flatly and for a second I thought he was going to turn on me.  Instead he said, “You’re gonna get it out.  That’s the part what’ll get me turned-on.  Having you lob my dick out for me.”

I smiled at him; I liked him.  He had an active imagination: within a year or so I’d be seeking out many more lads with good, healthy imaginations.

I bobbed down in front of him and faced his bulging crotch.  His zipper was pressed outwards by the size of the junk he was packing.  Remember this was back in the eighties, when tight trousers and skimpy shorts were at the height of fashion.  Happy times for a lad like me.

I reached up and pulled his zip down, all the time expecting him to either laugh and tell me he’d been having me on or otherwise call me a skanky little bumboy and give me a kicking.

But he did neither: he just let me have my fun.

The big mound his dick and bollocks were making his briefs bulge outwards from his gaping fly.  They were a faded light blue, the colour mostly washed out, and the material had seen far better days as it had become all bobbled underneath his nads.

“Hurry up, Kasey.  We haven’t got all fucking day.  The next train’ll be along in a minute.”

“How long have we got?” I asked.  For some reason having a timescale by which to get him hard seemed important.

“How the fuck should I know?” he laughed.  “I didn’t memorise the bloody train timetable on the off-chance ya might wanna play wi’ me knob!”

I undid his belt and button and eased his trousers down to the tops of his thighs.  I could see from how much bigger his cock looked in his underpants compared to how had been when he’d flashed the train, that it was already getting stiff.  In spite of him making out this wasn’t a big deal for him, he was clearly getting excited at the thought of having another lad fiddle with his dick.

I looked up at him and asked, “Can I have a sniff of it?”

“What, wi’ it still in my keks?”

I smiled naughtily.  “Yeah.”

He smiled back.  His was more an amused grin.  “Go on, then.”

I pressed my face to the front of his faded blue briefs and inhaled the incredible smell of his cock and balls after a day’s confinement.  I know it sounds daft, but it really was the most amazing smell I’d ever experienced until then.  I’d always liked the smell of my own knob and my pants after I’d worn them, but Bulmer’s much stronger and more manly odour was simply incredible.

Better still, I could feel his cock starting to grow harder against my face as I sniffed him.

“D’ya like that?” he asked, and I looked up at him and smiled again.

“You’re a dirty little sod, d’ya know that?” he said.

I didn’t know whether to agree to it or not so I just pressed my face back into that mesmeric and odorous bulge he was packing, moving my nose around to find the best bit and stumbling on a small but tantalising patch of material which reeked harshly of the piss which had dribbled from his lovely big cock.

“Have a sniff o’ the real thing,” he suggested.  “It’ll probably be even better.”

As I unpeeled his underwear from his stiffening cock, the barrier buzzer sounded and the red warning light started flashing on and off.

“Don’t worry, I can flash the one after this,” he told me.  “You don’t need to rush.”

I released his thickening organ and it half rose upwards in front of my face, like the hand on a clock pointing to eight.  It looked utterly beautiful to me: the skin pale and flawless, the foreskin pulled back enough for me to see the pink head underneath it and a slight ridge where the base of his bell-end was slowly fattening.

I stared at it in awe, desperately trying to remember every detail.  I needn’t have bothered: the little camera in my brain had definitely been set to record.

“Why were you so concerned about being able to recall the experience?” Philip asked me when I told him the story in one of our early sessions.  “Apart from for masturbatory purposes, of course.”

“I’d never done much stuff with other lads up until then.  Only Mr Barrass at the caravan site and then Edgy up in my bedroom.  I guess I thought that stuff like this was pretty rare and that might not happen many other times in my life.”

Philip nodded and I laughed, “How wrong I was!”

He didn’t laugh back.  Back then he was a lot more formal with me.  Those sessions were part of what they called my ‘rehabilitation programme’ so it was like I was a convicted criminal, forced to see him in shackles, but these days I keep on seeing him through choice so he’s not so serious with me.

“Pull the skin back and have a whiff of my bell-end if you like it so much,” Bulmer said.

The barriers went down with series of noisy clunks.

I reached forwards and pulled his foreskin back.  His cock was rising further upwards from how horny he was getting.  Since then, I’ve sometimes wondered if maybe I wasn’t the first lad he’d played around with.

I didn’t need to do anything else for me to able to sniff it.  It slowly rose up in front of my nose and the foreskin steadily retracted backwards, revealing the full helmet of his plump, purple cock head.  I let it come to me and then inhaled its intoxicating scent: sharp and a bit pissy but with something else about it that was oh so fucking sexy!

“Wank it off a bit,” he said.  “Get it oozing stuff.  You’ll like the smell o’ that.”

I did as he said as the tracks on the railway line started hissing the way they do when a train is on its way.  I wanked him off much faster than I’d done with Mr Barrass.  He was younger and more impatient: it just seemed right to yank his dick more like I would enjoy doing it to myself.

“Ah, yeah,” he called out, the hissing getting louder and more high pitched.  “Ya know how to wank a fucking cock off, I’ll give ya that, Kasey!”

I kept jerking it as it reached full-size and found it difficult to take in its sheer beauty as it curved upwards in front of me.   The head of it was breath-taking: red and glistening like an opulent, shiny jewel.  The huge shaft was also stunning, its skin smooth and flawless, and seemed about twice the size of my own.  It was even bigger than Edgy’s, or at least it seemed that way with my face right in front of it.

“Sniff it,” he commanded, as the train started thundering past.

I did and I loved it: it smelt like mine did under the covers when I jazzed off at night before sleeping, but his smell was so much stronger; a bit like that really powerful cock smell you sometimes get in the fellas’ loos but not pissy or nasty, just so manly and sharp with a lovely musky kick to it.

Smells are difficult to describe, especially sexual smells.  I’ve probably made his knob sound like it was a right stinker but it wasn’t.  It was the most erotic thing I’d ever smelt until then and still stands out as really important moment for me in spite of what a total knobhead Bulmer was afterwards.

When the train had gone past and while the railway lines were slowly calming down, still hissing and squealing but their noise steadily getting quieter, he said, “If it smells that nice, Kasey, maybe ya should taste it.  Ya never know… ya might like that too…”

I looked up at him in surprise: not by the fact that he had suggested I lick his cock; more from how daft I felt that the idea hadn’t occurred to me first.  After all, with Edgy, I’d been gagging for a suck of his knob.  Now, with Bulmer, who seemed like he’d up for just about anything, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

Misunderstanding my reaction, he said, “Up to you, mate.  I’m not gonna force you, but I reckon you’d like it.”

I didn’t need further coercion.  I ducked my head back down and started feasting on his prick like it was a melting ice lolly.  I lapped his thick, sticky dribble off his bell-end and then put my mouth right over the head of, suckling at it like I was feeding from it.

Seeing how much I liked it, Bulmer grabbed my head to hold it steady and started thrusting his cock in and out of my mouth, hard and fast so his big hairy knackers whacked against my chin.

“Suck it you little fag!  Oh Jesus fucking Christ!  Suck it hard!  Right down your throat!”

I slavered and slurped on it, so aroused by the sensation of having it slam back and forth into my mouth.

“Ah yeah!” he was calling out.  “Ya fucking love it, don’t ya?!  Ya love having my big knob in ya dirty fucking gob!”

With my right hand, I reached down and got my own dick out.  I desperately needed to wank off while I was doing this to Bulmer.  I wanted to spunk up when I felt his cum squirting down my throat.

I’ve got to make it clear at this point that these days blowjobs something I put a lot more artistry into.  I don’t want you going away thinking that I consider what I did to Bulmer as the pinnacle of oral sex with a guy.

Jesus Christ, no.  As blowjobs go, it was a total car crash.  I didn’t have one hand on his bollocks, the other massaging his arse with a finger sliding in and out of his butthole.  I didn’t use my tongue on his cock head while my lips were pumping his shaft.  I didn’t even tease him by rubbing his hard-on all over my face, something that’s now really important to me.

What I’m saying, basically, is that didn’t show his cock sufficient worship.

Maybe that’s why things turned out a bit nasty afterwards: Bulmer’s big meaty cock didn’t feel I’d appreciated it enough!

Yeah, I should say that one to Philip, but like I really mean it.  The cock is all-powerful and punishes those who don’t pay homage at its altar.  His eyes would light up; he’d have that doctoral thesis he’s struggling with pretty much written for him.

So, yeah, the blowjob was a bit basic.  I just sucked his cock like I was slurping away at a dummy, wanking my dick off but keep stopping in case I brought myself off too fast.

The barrier didn’t go back up but stayed down and soon the lines started whistling again as another train approached from the opposite direction.

By now there was no pretence from either of us: this wasn’t about me making him hard enough to flash his boner to the London-to-Edinburgh lot.  This was about me giving him blowjob: that’s what he’d wanted and that’s what I was giving him.

I felt his hot, thick spunk hitting the back of my mouth as the second train started roaring past, rattling over the lines with a pulsing deafening throb.  I sped my hand up on myself and pushed myself to orgasm, my own cock firing off as his was still squirting its desperate load down my eager throat.

When the train had passed and I’d pulled off his knob, his first reaction was to be apologetic.

“Aw, fuck, Kasey… what the hell was I thinking of, mate… I’m really fucking sorry… I just got carried away…”

I think – if I hadn’t wanked off with him shooting in my mouth – that I’d got away with it.  He’d have thought he’d pushed a younger lad way too far and apologised over and over which I’d have accepted and then we’d have gone over the level cross and on to Pally’s house.

Nothing more said, no harm done.

But when I stood up with him saying he hadn’t meant to knob off in my gob, he saw that I had white splodges down my trousers.  Saw that my fly was open and that my dick was still poking out from it with thick strings of goo hanging from its red end.

And that’s where things changed a bit between us.

He said, “Ya fucking enjoyed that, ya dirty little butt-fucker.”

“I didn’t!” I said quickly, even though my cock and the spunk hanging from it and the state of my trousers would kind of say otherwise.

“You’re a fucking pervert, you,” he said.  His face was now a snarl: whatever feelings he’d had when he was encouraging me to make free with his cock, were now firmly directed onto me.  It was my fault, entirely, that we’d done what we’d done.  “Ya shouldn’t be allowed out.  You’re not fucking normal, pulling lads dicks out their trousers and then sucking them off so ya can shoot your dirty fucking jizz all over.  You’ve prob’ly got AIDS…”

I was about to point out that he’d also spunked up, but I thought it wise not to provoke him.  The mood he’d suddenly got himself in, he could quite easily have punched a few teeth out of my face to make himself feel better; punishing the dirty scum who would prey on sweet innocent lads like him.

Still mouthing off at me, he stuffed his big softening cock back into his blue undies and pulled up his trousers, struggling to zip them up over the big mound of his bulge.  He made some final threat about what he’d do to me if I ever so much as spoke to him again, spat in my face and then walked away from the level crossing as the barriers started rising again.  Neither of us got to visit Pally that afternoon: he was too wound up from the blowjob to go making house-calls and my main priority, while I wiped my dick off in the bushes, was to give him enough time to get well away from me before I skulked off home the backroads way.

Of course, the talk in school the next day was that Kasey liked to sniff other lads’ cocks and then go down on them.  Everyone was laughing about it and in every class there was some smart-arse joke about me liking a knob in my face.

“When it says ‘economic bottleneck’, sir, is that the sort of thing Jason Kason would want to get his mouth around?”

“Miss, do you think one of the lads in our class would be despo to see what the male flower parts smelled like?”

Why no one thought to ask Bulmer what he’d been doing getting his cock out to give a younger lad the chance to go down on him, I don’t know.  Maybe he was just too popular and well-liked for anyone to ask that kind of question to.

I was the pariah of the school for a few days.  It seemed like longer to me, of course – it seemed like half the year – but after Sandra Travers had announced she was preggers and some lad in the third form got suspended for trying to give himself a tattoo in metalwork, the whole blowjob story kind of faded into insignificance.

Except that PE lessons always remained dodgy after that.  Lads having to show their cocks and arses off in the showers in front of ‘Kasey the cocksucker’ turned out be an ongoing issue.

“Sir,” one lad Pearcy piped up.  “There’s a changing room for lads, and one for lasses.  Where do the gay-boys go, though?  Which room is for those dirty little bastards?”

Cue laughter and embarrassed shuffling from me.  Mr Parker telling them to settle down and trying not to make eye contact with the lad they’d all been talking about in the staffroom.

Fucking Bulmer, I kept thinking.  Why did you have to do that?  Why couldn’t it just be between me and you?

Given time, though, there turned out to be an advantage in what he’d done.  My granny used to say that: give it time and even the worst predicament will come up trumps.  Just give it time.

She was right on this one.

A lad in my PE class – we had some right ones in there because it wasn’t set like our other subjects – used to keep quiet when the rest of them were taking the piss.  He was called Hutchy (a nickname from his surname, Hutchinson) and when all the rest of them were pretending to drop the soap and then grabbing their arses like I’d been about to try and creep up and bum them, he would stay quiet and sometimes even throw me a sympathetic smile.

He was a rough little sod – he must have been in the bottom set for pretty much everything and would kick the shit out of you as soon as look at you – but as far as taking the piss out of me went, he always kept himself out of it and would hang around and ask me if I was okay when they’d all fucked off.

Then one day he caught me up on the way home from school.

He said, “I heard about you and Bulmer, Kasey.”

I turned and glared at him.  Who the fuck hadn’t?

“I just wanna say, that if ya want a bit more fun, maybe you’ll want to come to the back of Fishburn Street at about six.”

“Why, are you and your mates gonna beat the crap out of me?”

He smiled.  “They’re my mates, yeah, but you’ve seen I’m not like them.  I don’t like what they say about you but… ya know… I’m just one lad against like ten or twelve or them… what d’ya think I can I do?”

I stopped and turned to look at him.

I asked him, “And you want to me meet up with me… tonight at six?”

“Yeah, if ya wanna.  Just me and you.  Have a bit of fun.  The kind of stuff ya did with Bulmer… only maybe a bit more…”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Please yoursel’,” he grinned, giving the front of his trousers a suggestive squeeze.  “But it’s there if you want it.”

I turned away from him.  He was just trying to catch me out.  I’d start sucking him off, the way I had with Bulmer, then all his scabby mates would appear and I’d get kicked to Wheatley Hill before I could get the fuck out of it.

Walking away, he called after me, “Come on, Kasey, I’m not like Bulmer.  As long as ya don’t tell no-one, I won’t either.  That’s God’s honour, that is.”

That made me prick up my ears but I didn’t let him know.  I just kept on walking, wondering what the fuck he was on about; thinking about what sort of hard-on he might have and what I’d like to do with it if it turned out he was kosher.

“So your mind went straight to his cock?” Philip asked.  “You were in this very threatening position, potentially deadly if you were right and you’d been set up by ten or twelve other homophobic lads, and yet all you could think about was what sort of cock he might have?”

“I’d seen his dick limp in PE,” I said with shrug.  “It was a bit small and he was blond so his pubes were really light.  It was the sort of cock that would probably stay small when he was hard, but there was chance that he could have a real donger.  You never know with these things…”

Philip shook his head in irritation.  He doesn’t like what I’d call ‘cock talk’.  “I don’t really care what sort of penis he might or might not have had.  The point is that your mind went straight there, even though you were in a potentially dangerous situation.”

I got home and I thought through my options.  I could just go out and walk the dog as usual in the woodland near where we lived, or I could tell my mam I needed something from the library to help me with my homework and take a walk up the back of Fishburn Street.  My stepdad could take the dog out for tonight.  It’d do him good to move his arse once in a while.

Hutchy had seemed quite serious when he’d said we could have some fun.  What if he really did like the idea of having me suck his cock; what if that was why he’d kept quiet in the showers after PE all this time?

Or what if this was a trap?  What if Pearcy and his mates had set him up to pretend like he was on my side when the rest of them were taking the piss out of me and saying I was a stinking queer?  What if that’s what the plan was: for Hutchy to get my trust and then the rest of them walk in while I was on my knees in front of him and start kicking the shit out of me?

But what if it wasn’t?  How great would it be to go down on Hutchy?  I mean he was a scrawny lad with a face like a rat, but think of the cock on him… think of how nice it would be to have his nice blond-pubed hard-on working in and out of my gob!

Sorry, but that’s the pattern with me.  A fella could look like a total ugger and I’d still be on my knees in front of him as long as he had at least a half-functional cock between his legs.

So that’s where I’m gonna leave you now.  Right on the point of figuring out what I was going to do with Hutchy.  Not because I’m wanting to keep you in suspense (if you’ve read my first journal entry you’ll know full well what Hutchy was after behind Fishburn Street) but because the learning centre was supposed to close at nine and the woman who runs it is glowering over at me because it’s five past.

So I’ll leave it there for now.

I can’t swear that my next journal entry will be about Hutchy.  Philip might want me to talk about the ‘grief experience’ I had to ‘work through’ when my pet rabbit died when I was six.  You know the sort of shit.

I’ll try and keep it me-focussed, but I can’t promise.

 

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