Cock Worshipper

by Jason Kason

 

Part 10

“While it was an interesting diversion for you to write up about the first time you masturbated,” Philip began after we’d exchanged our usual small-talk, “I’d much rather find out more about what was going on between you and your step-dad.”

See?  I told you he’d get straight into that.

“Nothing was ‘going on’,” I told him incredulously.  “He would blush scarlet if my pyjama bottoms so much as gaped open a bit first thing in the morning.”

“I mean how he coped with the abrupt change to your sexual habits,” he clarified.  “It seems to me that you went from merely peeping at men in the showers when you were on holiday to becoming something of the school bike, for boys of the right persuasion.”

“I’m not sure I’d agree with ‘school bike’,” I asserted, looking past him through his blinds at the dying tree.  Some well-meaning soul must have planted it out there to create a soothing and therapeutic view for Philip’s office but no-one had bothered to water the poor thing.  “I mean, bikes don’t normally like to switch places with their riders and have a turn for themselves.”

“Okay,” he agreed.  “But my point is about your step-father.  How did he cope with your escalating interest in other boys and did he ever again have the sort of conversation with you that he had in the caravan after the… er… spit-roast incident?”

I grinned.  “Spit-roast incident.”  Philip could come out with the most dorkish things sometimes.

My step-dad used to refer to the stuff I got up to as my “antics”.  Not that he spoke of them often, and if he did it was always when my mam wasn’t there.  Stuff like that wasn’t to be talked about in front of ladies, you see.  Ladies would blush and swoon if they heard about the stuff dirty lads like me got up to.

So I’d get in after school and he’d be there sprawled out watching ‘Danger Mouse’ on the sofa and he’d say without looking at me, “Careful wi’ your antics, Jason.  A bloke in the bettin’ shop today said he’d seen you sniffin’ ’round the layby near Dobby’s garage.  Keep away from that place – everyone knows what goes on ’round there.”

And I’d nod and say, “Okay,” and that would be that.

Except for a couple of times when he really did get pissed off with me.

But those were times when my ‘antics’ directly affected him.  As long as my cock fun didn’t encroach upon his everyday life, he was quite prepared to leave me pretty much to it.

He once said it was my ‘weakness’.  That was in the car when he was giving me a lift somewhere, and he said to me, without even taking his eyes off the road, “You can’t change whatever weakness it is you’ve got, Jason, but you don’t have to give into it.  You could fight it, like everyone else ‘as to.”

Which made me wonder if he himself had harboured an attraction to his mates’ cocks in his youth.  Maybe he had and, after struggling with his feelings, he’d managed to control such thoughts, so that’s why he thought of my own ‘antics’ as a weakness.

“Did he ever give you any indication that he might have had homosexual tendencies?” Philip asked.

“Not in the slightest,” I replied.  “But I’ve often thought that bloke who talk about being gay as some sort of weakness – from Ronald Reagan to that Russian fella Putin – must have had to, at some time, suppress the same feelings in themselves.”

Philip smiled.  “That doesn’t really stand up to scrutiny, Jason.  You might regard – I don’t know – say, for example, a tendency to over-eat as a weakness of willpower, but it doesn’t mean that you must have struggled with such temptations yourself.”

I shrugged.  “Well, maybe.  But he should have just accepted that was what I was like.”

“Quite so,” Philip nodded.  “But let’s not get side-tracked.  Tell me, if you will, about the occasions when your ‘antics’ directly affected him.”

He looked up at the clock behind me.  “We’ve got a good forty minutes left: that should easily be enough time as long as you manage not to get waylaid with the sexual aspects of the recollections.”

And that’s what he wants me to write about here.

So much for giving me free reign with my journal, eh?  I think, in spite of what he said, he wasn’t that impressed with the ‘My Very First Wank’ story.

Okay, so let’s get the ball rolling with story number one, which happened during the autumn after what Philip now calls the ‘spit-roast incident’ but which I would more descriptively refer to as the ‘well good threesome in the campsite showers’.

It was a Saturday afternoon and me, my mam and him had all gone off in the car to Sunderland.  Now we never, ever went to Sunderland – you hardly dared speak the name of the town in the house – because Sunderland football club were arch-rivals to my step-dad’s team, Newcastle United, and stuff to do with football had to be treated with utmost respect.

He wouldn’t even have things in the house that were red and white, Sunderland’s colours.  That put a real limit on Christmas decorations and meant we couldn’t get the ‘Daily Mirror’ but had to make do with a local paper instead.

There wasn’t a lot he got excited about in his fat, lazy life, but football was something that he truly loved.  When I’d been younger, he’d tried to get me into it by taking me to some matches but I’d never shown any interest whatsoever in the game, only in the grub they were selling from little kiosks around the stands.  It’s a good job he took me before my cock worshipping days.  Who knows what the fuck I’d have been up to if he’d taken me when I was a bit older.

Anyway, Newcastle were playing Sunderland – which was quite a rarity – and my step-dad had been going on for months and months about looking forward to seeing the match.  My mam was chuffed because she got to go shopping somewhere she didn’t often get to go, and I was brought along because if I went for a swim in the leisure centre, we got to park for free in the car-park which was right near the footie ground.

So far so good; everyone comes away happy with their Saturday afternoon.

Except how was I to know the swimming pool changing rooms were going to be an absolute hive of depravity, with countless fellas bonking away in the little tiled cubicles behind waterproof plastic curtains?  I mean, I’d only agreed to go for a swim because I’d figured there’d be a few opportunities to check out some Mackem dicks, but I had no idea that the place would be crawling with horny blokes out for all they could get.

It must have been the footie match that had brought them out.  All the Sunderland lads who were into football must have gone to the match, leaving their mates to go along to the pool and spend the afternoon finding willing backsides that needed a good stoking.

“Haven’t we done changing rooms to death?” Philip asked.  “Is there really any point in re-treading for the twenty-third time this already over-trampled path?”

“You asked about my step-dad,” I shrugged.  “This was the first time he got really pissed off about the stuff I was getting up to.”

Philip looked perplexed and glanced up at the clock behind me.  “You’ve already used ten minutes and you haven’t even got undressed,” he pointed out.

“I’ve got to contextualise,” I told him.  I knew he liked that word.

He shook his head with irritation and said, flatly, “You’ve got five more minutes.”

The thing is, though, changing rooms just happen to be really good place for cock worshipping.  Changing rooms and toilets: places where guys can lob their dicks out and check each other out without anyone who’s ignorant of such things taking a blind bit of notice.

So, yeah, changing rooms feature pretty heavily back then just as toilets would take on a special significance in later years.  It’s just the way the story goes and I can’t do much about it.

Anyway, there were two adjoining men’s changing rooms at the Sunderland leisure centre.  The first big room I walked into was the outer one, but I didn’t realise that at first.  This long, tiled room was really busy and full of dads with screaming kids, young lads being raucous together and old men with saggy arses who always seemed to be bending over.  I was going to set my bag down there on the only patch of bench that was free from stuff, when I noticed that an opening at the far side led through to another room, one which was much quieter and where the guys kept glancing furtively around and were disappearing off into the curtained cubicles that were on both sides of the room.

That was where I wanted to be.

I picked up my stuff and walked through the doorway with some of the blokes looking at me.  Some kid said, “What’s through there, daddy?”

And the dad said, glaring at me, “That’s where the dirty lads go, son.”

Well at least I knew I was heading towards the right place.

I quickly stripped off and got into my cute little Speedo trunks which I’d bought especially from the market, and then stashed all my stuff into one of the 5p lockers.  And then, before heading off to find the swimming pool, I thought it would be interesting to take a little wander around the curtained cubicles on each side of the room.  It was obvious what was going on, the way that blokes were emerging red-faced from cubicles and then curtains were swiftly pulled shut behind them, but I didn’t want to risk walking on some fella who happened to just getting undressed and end up getting a smack in the teeth for being a peeping tom.

So I sidled up to one of the curtains where I could hear noises from inside that I knew could only be sex.  A gentle slapping sound: the rhythm of hips against buttocks.  The lads inside were shagging: this was something I wanted to see more of.

I let myself in, pulling the curtain shut behind me, and smiled gormlessly at the two of them, both eyeing me up suspiciously, right in the middle of a nice, steady butt-fuck.  They both had their swimming trunks yanked down and were side-on to me with the lad behind banging away like the clappers.

My little black Speedos instantly tented upwards.

The lad doing the fucking – he looked about twenty – didn’t look too impressed.  Without so much as slowing his rhythm, he snapped, “What d’ya want?  Can’t ya see we’re fuckin’ busy?”

I grinned at them both – I couldn’t believe how hot they looked having proper bum sex right there in front of me.  Remember I hadn’t actually seen two guys shagging up until then: I’d always been the one bending over or the one looking at the back of another lad’s head.

The fella in front smiled back at me.  He was a similar age to the one who was fucking him, but had short sandy-coloured hair whereas the lad behind him had longer hair which was dark.  He had both hands outstretched on the partition between the stalls, supporting himself as he worked his cute, round arse back against his briefly-acquired friend.

I said, “I could suck him off while you fuck him.”

The one behind threw me a distrustful look.  He said, “Gan on, then.  If ya must.”

I pushed my way between the front bloke and the wall, crouching down before him, and he yanked his trunks down a bit further to give me access.  His cock was rock hard and streaming with goo: it hung from the bright red bell-end in long drools that made my mouth water.

With my face down there, though, I could smell his arse being fucked really strongly.  The cock slamming away up his poop shoot was just inches from my face – I could see the base of it pumping up and down between his legs with the big bollocks underneath it jiggling about – and it stunk pretty bad if I’m totally honest.

Even so, I went down on him and did my best to offer right and proper praise to his cock, working my lips and tongue up and down up his throbbing shaft and drinking down the precum that was literally trickling from the end of it.  It was nice but I had to try hard not to breathe in, the smell wafting forwards from his arse being shagged really was like a bog that hadn’t been flushed.

Did my bum smell like this when I was taking a cock, I wondered?  Was that what Squirrel had been on about that afternoon when he hadn’t been able to spunk up inside me?

I didn’t think so: Hutchy was hardly so well-mannered that he wouldn’t have said something about it.  In any case, I was always careful to go to the loo if I knew a fuck might be on the offing, so maybe this lad – the cute-looking blond lad – had been caught by surprise.

Or maybe for some guys getting butt-fucked makes a really nasty stink.  Maybe that’s just how it works and I should be thankful that for me it doesn’t seem to.

“Do you think that is actually how it works?” Philip asked.  “That some guys are just smellier than others.”

I nodded.  “Yeah, with some guys fucking them has the two of you wincing from the stink they kick out.  You can never tell who might give you a really whiffy fuck.  A total grubster might give you next to nothing, while some cute and clean-looking bloke, like the blond lad in the cubicle, could stink to high heaven.”

“Doesn’t that put you off?  Having anal sex with strangers, I mean?”

I shrugged.  “Naah.  You get used to it.  Kind of get to like it.  It’s actually pretty horny to have a really stinky fuck once in a while.”

Philip grimaced.  He certainly didn’t share that view.  If he was gay – and I really did feel that he was – he and his bloke must be meticulously clean and well-perfumed on that score.

Anyway, the blond guy with the whiffy arse started spunking down my throat surprisingly quickly and the bloke behind him was really pissed off.

While blond boy was stashing his well-licked cock back into his trunks, the dark haired fella hissed at me, “What the fuck did ya go and do that for?  I was just enjoying that, you spacka.  What am I supposed to do now?”

Blond boy fucked off out through the curtain and I yanked my trunks down and took his place against the partition, sticking my butt out and wishing I hadn’t left my Vaseline in my jacket pocket which was now in the locker.

Dark haired lad didn’t acknowledge my offer, but just tore open another condom wrapper and rolled a fresh johnny down the length of his cock.  I noticed as he was doing it that his dick looked a lot bigger than average.  I was going to need a bit more than just the johnny lube and a gob of spit to get the thing up me.

I muttered, “Have you got any Vaseline, mate?”

He said, “Ya don’t use Vaseline wi’ rubbers, ya dickhead!  Jesus, do you not know anything about this kinda stuff?”

I shrugged.  “What do you use then?”

He pulled another sachet from his rucksack and tore it open, squeezing the silky liquid onto his condom-covered cock head.  “You ‘ave to use KY lube,” he muttered.  “Condoms dissolve in Vaseline.  I thought even the dippiest little turd-brain knew that.”

He slid his cock into me quite easily – this ‘KY lube’ stuff was well worth getting if they sold it in Boots – and took up the same rhythm pumping in and out of my hole that he’d been using on the blond guy.

I tightened my arse muscles around his shaft as it thrust back and forth into my bowels and the held the base of his foreskin firm by squeezing the puckered ring of my anus.  His cock responded to my deference by swelling up inside me and bestowing on me its full length and thickness, but its owner seemed largely oblivious to my efforts.

“Your arse is tighter than his,” was all he managed to grunt.  And, then pushing my back down a bit lower to push my bum out towards him, added, “And it doesn’t stink ‘alf so bad.”

“You’ve now had twenty-eight minutes,” Philip warned me.  “You really need to try harder to stay on task, Jason.”

“It’s not often a guy says that to me,” I grinned.

He rolled his eyes and the returned to pointedly glare at the clock.

Another guy pushed his way through our curtain and grinned at us both just like I’d done when I’d been in his place.  He was a lot older than the dark haired guy: he was already going grey and must be well into his forties.  Unlike these days, it wasn’t that common for men to dye their hair back then.

He had some little red shorts on that were tight and showed off his bulge beautifully.  They looked drop-dead cute and I wished I’d bought a pair of those instead of the skimpy Speedos I’d gone for.

He bent down in front of me, hoping to suck me off while I was being fucked – I realised it must be a fairly standard thing for the gooseberry to do – but the lad who was shagging me told him on uncertain terms to stop.

“I don’t want him spunking up before me, you knobhead.  If you’ve gotta do something, you can rim my arse.”

The guy looked thankful to be given some small offering and manoeuvred himself around to apply his face to the dark haired lad’s bum.

Better him than me, I thought.  I’d had enough stink for one day.

The dark haired lad wrapped his arms around my tummy and the two of us got into a nice, hard fuck.  His breath was heaving against the back of my neck and his hand went down to hold my bollocks while I wanked myself off.

His cock was really slicing up into me, using its pronounced upward curve to sweep almost vertically up into my bowels with each powerful thrust.  It felt quite different from what I was used to back home: his length and angle made the sensation quite exhilarating.

He muttered into my ear, his breath hot and panting, “Ya like that, don’t ya, you dirty little hoo-wer?”

“Yeah,” I chuckled, squeezing his pounding knob with my ring.

“Ya like ‘avin’ lads bummin’ yer arse, don’t ya?”

I laughed and replied that I did.  And then I added, just to keep my options open, “And I like getting my own cock stuck up lads’ arses too!”

The dark haired guy laughed but clearly had no intention of giving me a go.  Instead he turned to the older bloke who had his face between his cheeks and said, “Did ya hear that, mate?  He wants to dick your arse when I’ve finished wi’ ‘im!”

I looked around at the fella who was going grey crouching down behind him.  He pulled his mouth off his butt-crack with a wet slurp like he’d actually been sucking at the hole.  He grinned up at me and mouthed, “Fuckin’ yeah!” and I realised I might be going to get to fuck an arse after all.

I was hugely turned on by the idea, I have to say.  The only lad I’d got my dick up until then was sweet David Hetherington, although the number of times he liked having it in him more than made up for the lack of activity from any other quarter.

I found that the more I thought about it, the more I loved the thought of fucking this older guy: me, still a scrawny teenager, banging away on the butt of this bloke in his forties.  Him bending over, his with greying head down low at bench level, and me bucking my hips against his flabby arse-cheeks, looking down at my cock driving in and out of the hairy crack that was also going grey.

I was really turned on by the idea and my cock grew rock hard as I was wanking it off.

“Whoa!” called out Philip.  “This bit’s actually interesting!”

I shrugged.  “It is?”

He nodded quickly, his eyes now bright with attention, “It’s all linked in with what I said from the beginning of your treatment.  Your whole condition is motivated by your need for a father figure.”

“He was hardly a father figure,” I laughed.  “I mean, I’d only just met him and the only thing I knew about him was that he was good at rimming other fellas’ arseholes.”

“Yes, but it’s the person he represents to your subconscious that’s important,” he insisted.  “It’s also telling, isn’t it, that you haven’t mentioned worshipping his cock?”

I thought about that.  “Oh yeah,” I agreed.  It had only really been the idea of fucking him that had turned me on.

“Please, go on,” Philip urged me, now far more tuned into what I was telling him.  “Let’s hear the rest of the story.”

Yeah, because now he wanted all the details.  Now that I’d given him a whiff of what he thinks is my father figure fetish.

The trouble is, there wasn’t much else to tell.

We were all getting nicely into it with the dark haired lad muttering back to the older bloke, “Gan on, stick your tongue up me arse, ya horny fuckin’ shit-licker.  Eat me out… yeah, that’s it, nice and deep… keep goin’ ’til I yog off up ‘im!”

But then I heard my name being called.  I was like, “No way!  It can’t be!” but then I heard it again.  Some guy was shouting my name, out in the bigger, busier changing room.

“Is there a Jason Kason here?  Jason, are you in a cubicle?  Jason Kason, are you there?”

I roughly pulled away from the guy shagging me and said, “Oh fuck!  That’s me!”

Still yanking my trunks back up and with my wanger still bobbing around at full-mast, I lumbered out into the changing room and called through the doorway, “I’m Jason Kason!  Are you looking for me?”

A young lad wearing the leisure centre’s standard-issue yellow t-shirt and red shorts came through the doorway and looked me up and down with unconcealed disgust, clearly well aware of what sort of stuff I’d been up to as someone who’d chosen to use the whispered-about ‘inner changing room’.  I suppose the fact I was still pushing my woodie with difficulty back into my tight black Speedos also didn’t make for a good first impression.

He said, looking at my struggles with my cock and then moving his eyes back up to my face, “We’ve been trying to find you for a good ‘alf hour, putting announcements out over the pool.  It didn’t occur to us that you might be… er… in here.”

He said ‘in here’ with utter contempt.

My bum felt really strange like it was full of cum, which was impossible because the dark haired bloke had been wearing a condom.  Not to mention that he hadn’t actually spunked up as far as I was aware.

But there was definitely something slippery and slidy up there.  When I moved I could feel it slithering around inside me and my butt muscles were squeezing like they wanted to push whatever it was out.

I put my fingers into my arse-crack in case whatever it was suddenly came sloshing through my hole and that made the lad in the yellow t-shirt look even more appalled.

“Sorry, I just…” I muttered.  And then, not really able to explain why I was standing there with my hand wedged up my bum-cleft, asked him, “So what do you want?”

“Your step-dad needs to talk to you urgently.  We couldn’t let him in ’cause he wouldn’t buy a ticket, so he’s stood at the front of the pool seating area waiting for you.”

I realised it was the condom that was up my arse.  All my muscular squeezing must have yanked the thing off when I’d bolted out of the cubicle in my haste to answer my name call.

I said, still grabbing onto my bumhole in case the bloody thing started sliding out of me with a rubbery-sounding fart, “Look, I… er… need to use the loo.  I’ll be right there, I promise.”

He shook his head, looking even more disgusted, no doubt thinking I’d taken a large wad of cum up me just before I’d come staggering from the cubicle.

When eventually I got to my step-dad, I could see he was livid.  I’d never seen his eyes so angry or his cheeks so red.  I looked up at the big clock at one end of the pool.  It was already half past three.  What time were football matches supposed to start?

Even in his fury, he kept his voice to a whisper; managing not to shout and upset innocent passers-by.

He surprised me first by hissing, “What the hell are you playing at, Jason?”

For him, ‘hell’ was a pretty bad word.

He went on with a snarl, “I’m stood out here getting them to put messages out for you, while you’re messing around in there with your mucky antics.”

I said, knowing full well how lame it sounded, “I couldn’t figure out how the locker worked.”

“Don’t come that with me!” he rasped.  “I know what you’ve been up to and now I’ve missed the start of the match through you.  And it’s a really good one, as well you know.”

It’s a good job I’d managed to pull the condom out of my arse.  Having it still up me would have just compounded my discomfort.

I just stood and stared at him, my cock now feeling about one centimetre long in my stupid little Speedos.

He continued, a little more calmly, “After you’d gone in, the police said we couldn’t park in here.  Something to do with match-day traffic.  So I dropped your mam off at the shops and parked up in Hintons car-park.  She said I had to tell you so that’s why I came back.  I really wish I hadn’t bothered now.”

I just nodded and felt awful that I’d been dicking about in the changing rooms while he was missing the match he’d spent so long looking forward to.

I shrugged and muttered, “I’m sorry.”  I felt really stupid saying that just stood there looking pale and gangly wearing only my skimpy little trunks.

He said, “Sorry isn’t gonna pay for my ticket, is it?” and then he turned and climbed the steps to leave the seating area, maybe hoping to catch what was left of the all-important match.

“Okay,” said Philip.  “Your obvious guilt is significant.  Do you know if he did get to see at least the second half of the match?”

“I didn’t dare ask,” I replied. “Him and my mam were dead quiet on the way home – normally he’d have had the radio on and would’ve been listening to the scores of all the other games as they came in, but on this particular week he left it switched off.  So I don’t actually know.  I think probably not.  Maybe football games are like movies: once they’ve started they won’t let you in if you’re late…?”

Philip shrugged.  He didn’t seem the type to like football either.

“I think your guilt is interesting but your motives towards the older man are far more important.  It’s interesting that with Mr Barrass, you were also wanted control of the situation.”

I couldn’t see his point.  I’d told him about Mr Barrass at the caravan site ages ago and what had happened with him was a good deal different from what had happened at Sunderland leisure centre.

“I liked Mr Barrass’ cock, though,” I reminded him.  “And I didn’t want to fuck him.”

“Only because you didn’t really know about stuff like that back then.  But you admitted when you told me that story that in retrospect that’s what you would have wanted to do.  This isn’t about gratification, Jason, it’s about your need for control.  Don’t you see that?”

I nodded because his wide-eyed enthusiasm seemed to expect it from me, but I didn’t really.

“Look,” he said, no doubt sensing my scepticism.  “We’re out of time, but I think we’ve made a lot of progress during this session.  Don’t write anything else in your journal before we’ve spoken again, okay?”

I nodded.  “Okay.”

“I think we’re close to getting to the crux of your problem.  We’ll talk about the other occasion you annoyed your step-father next time because somewhere in all this is the key, of that I’m sure.”

So that’s where we’ll pick up from in my next journal entry: from the night my step-dad took me to the working men’s club in town to try and get me into drinking pints and playing darts and sitting around talking bullshit with dull-as-fuck old farts.

Needless to say, things didn’t go quite to plan.

 

Feedback is the only payment our authors get!
Please take a moment to email the author if you enjoyed the story.
jason.kason@manlymail.net