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The Clearing in the Woods,
by Skorpio
Part One: Undercover Faggot
Preening before a mirror, thirty-five year old Brock Weir was vain enough to believe he looked at least ten, if not fifteen, years younger. But mere vanity was beside the point. Brock had to pass as a much younger man so he could indulge in his fetish for straight men of a certain age. Heterosexual males at the cusp in their lives when they are no longer boys but not yet full-grown adults with mature goals and principles. Brock liked hanging out in places like locker rooms, strip joints, concerts, arenas, camping trips, the YMCA. Wherever men convened to have a good time, Brock found ways to insinuate himself into their company. It was harmless really, at least that's what Brock convinced himself. He never made a pass at a straight man. All he wanted was to bask in their masculinity, laugh at their pranks, and pretend he was one of them.
One oppressively hot August afternoon, Brock stood in line for cigarettes at the liquor store, behind four scruffy young men in their late teens and early twenties. They were searching their pockets to come up with enough change for a six pack of Old English tallboys. After they made their purchase, Brock got his Newports and followed from a discreet distance as the four men disappeared into the woods behind the store. He knew exactly where they were headed. A winding path led through the woods to a small clearing, a popular drinking spot judging by the litter and makeshift chairs. Brock came across it earlier in the week while prowling the neighborhood. That was where they would be. He had a knack for finding men.
Twenty minutes later, shouldering with some effort a case of Old English, Brock stumbled into their midst, making enough noise to announce his arrival. The crew of four looked up with concerned surprise. They were squatting on milk crates and rusty lawn chairs around the charred remains of a long-dead campfire. "Mind if I join you dudes?" asked Brock. "I was supposed to meet up with some friends, but I guess they're not gonna show. Hey, anyone want a beer?" It was a shallow ploy that never failed. Brock thought he could smell testosterone sweating from their pores under the broiling sun, but it was probably his overactive imagination.
The freckle-faced redheads in wifebeaters were the Barlow brothers, Buddy and Sonny, seven years apart. Both had tribal bands like barbed wire encircling their biceps. Perched on an upturned milk crate with a Marlboro dangling from his lip was shirtless Frank with a mane of dark brown hair, affectionately called the Beast by his friends because the his torso was carpeted by hair. His square jaw and cheeks were stubbled with a permanent five o'clock shadow. Omar was the only black guy, bantam weight, fresh out of high school (same as Buddy), draped in a long black tank top, and sporting a sideways cap with the label sticker on the flat brim. He eyed the interloper without blinking. All four men wore similar loose-fitting, faded jeans with holes at the knees, and orange work boots.
Brock paid little attention to Omar. It was hunks like Buddy and Sonny who usually caught his attention, skater types with the their tattoos and attitude. But it was actually Frank the Beast's hirsute chest and stomach, lush armpits, and hairy forearms that interested Brock the most. As far as Brock was concerned there was nothing sexier than a hirsute man with muscles, and that was as good a description of Frank as any. When this little adventure was over, Brock mused, when he was home alone jerking off to his heart's content, it would be the Beast he fantasized about. He yearned to bury his nostrils in Frank's armpits and inhale, run his fingers through the curls on Frank's chest, follow with his tongue the furry trail from the Beast's belly button to the forbidden fruit. That was never going to happen, of course, but a faggot could dream.
Frank motioned to an available dirty black crate. "Cop a squat, dude." Brock set the case of Old English on the ground in everyone's reach, and positioned his crate in order to look directly at Frank without being conspicuous. The more furtive glances Brock stole, the more persuaded he was that Frank bore a resemblance to a twenty-five year old Burt Reynolds. As for the Barlow brothers, Brock rather thought the eighteen year old, Buddy, favored the actor who played Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter films. Red hair hung in his eyes, and his soft face bore adolescent features yet to reach maturity. Twenty-five year old Sonny looked like Prince Harry with a buzz cut and sullen disposition. The Barlow brothers were hot, but again, nothing like hairy-chested Frank, the Beast.
Cold beers were guzzled down, followed by another round, when Buddy tugged two fat joints from his cigarette pack, and offered one to Brock. "Spark it up, dude." Brock sniffed it first, taking in the sweetest, funkiest aroma he had smelled in ages. This was some good shit, but Brock never knew how pot was going to affect him. Sometimes it made him silly, sometimes paranoid, sometimes horny. Mostly it made his imagination run away with him, which happened when he wasn't high, so Brock figured smoking cannabis was worth the risk. After the first toke, it no longer mattered. Brock started giggling with delight at the thought of being in the woods with these hot young men. It made him giddy. He tried to stifled himself, but it was okay because Frank was also giggling after taking a hit off the joint.
"Damn that is some good weed," said Frank. "Where did you get this chiva?"
"Got it from Omar," said Buddy.
Buddy and Omar both graduated from the same high school, but had never hung out before. It came out that Buddy and Sonny ran into Omar before they hooked up with Frank and headed for the liquor store. Omar gave Buddy two joints for free, samples of what he had to sell. That's how Omar joined the little drinking party. Omar was the man of the hour. His herbal magic had all of them totally stoned, which called for more beer. Frank raised his can of Old English and made a toast to Omar and Brock for their contributions. Brock nearly swooned at the sight of Frank's hairy armpit.
In the gay erotica at Nifty.org which Brock read addictively, scenes like this always climaxed with someone or everyone getting a blowjob. Of course that was porn. Brock prided himself on knowing the difference between fiction and reality. Some things simply don't occur in real life. That's why they are called fantasies. Straight men don't really get blowjobs from gay guys. It doesn't happen. That is why Brock was a thirty-five year old celibate virgin. He had never sucked a cock a day in his life because the only sexual organs that interested him were those of young straight men. Brock had many opportunities to have sex with other gays, but that was repellant to him. Not even straight-acting gays or fake masters playing BDSM games passed his test. Brock liked guys who liked girls. That was his orientation. And guys who liked girls did not get blowjobs from faggots except in stories. Brock was resigned to masturbating over the unattainable fruits of his imagination without hope of ever tasting them. That was a pathetic way to live, but Brock was a pathetic sort of homosexual to begin with.
It had to be the hottest day of summer. The sun sizzled like a pat of butter in a blue frying pan. The shrill buzzing of cicadas was louder than ever. Only the male cicada sings, vibrating the air to arouse and summon his mate. Honeysuckle perfumed the leafy glade along with the skunky, funky smell of cannabis. Buddy peeled off his wifebeater to wipe the sweat from his brow, giving Brock a good look at the eighteen year old's lithe, smooth torso. More beer was consumed. Brock listened and agreed as the four men talked about cars, mixed martial arts, and girls, subjects he knew nothing about. But these guys were easy to fool, especially drunk and stoned, Brock decided. His secret was safe. The ease with which Brock was able to pull off this charade gave him a high estimation of his own intelligence and a low regard for theirs. When Sonny took a piss at the edge of the clearing, Brock caught a fleeting glimpse of the long, thin, pale member in the redhead's hand. That snapshot was etched in Brock's memory banks for all time. Frank got more virile looking with every passing minute. Sweat made the thick hair on his chest curl and glisten. Although Omar did not talk or drink as much as the others, he could hold his own when it came to cannabis. He smoked half a blunt by himself without ever looking stoned save for an occasional mineral glint in his dark, unblinking eyes. Brock bore men of color no ill will, and he never used the forbidden word any more, but sexually he was indifferent to them. White Anglo-Saxon red-blooded and rebellious American boys feeling the first thrusts of young manhood were his types, studs like Sonny and Buddy, and especially Frank the Beast.
As the sun westered, its beams saturated the clouds and trees with an orange-golden light. A warm breeze stirred the heavy air. The case of Old English tallboys was nearly finished. Only two cans remained. After staggering to their feet, the Barlow brothers announced it was time to head out. Buddy said to Brock, "Take it easy, dude!" Sonny grunted, "Thanks for the beer!" "No problem," said Brock, getting a last look at their broad backs and narrow hips, both shirtless now, milky skin gleaming in the waning light. Without uttering a word, Frank stumbled drunkenly after them along the winding path out of the woods back to civilization. That left Brock alone in the clearing with Omar.
It was over, Brock decided. The game had run its course. He would think about Buddy's lithe physique, Sonny's thin, long cock, and especially Frank's hairy chest and armpits when he jerked off later. He wished he had seen Frank's cock. He had to remember all their names in case they met again. That was something to look forward to. Suddenly, an abrupt, assertive voice stopped Brock's reverie.
"They're not coming back," said the young black man in the black cap and long black tank top. "You can get busy now."
"What do you mean?"
"What is it about gettin' busy you don't understand?"
"All of it."
Brock was genuinely puzzled, not to mention feeling a little intimidated.
"I don't know if you are just a stupid fuck or you think I am, but we're gonna find out. Answer me one question. Are you a cock-suck-er?" Omar pronounced the last three syllables with deliberate, unmistakable contempt.
Brock froze like a deer in the headlights. He did not know what to say. But the intense way Omar was looking at him with dark penetrating eyes as if peering into his mind, compelled Brock to blurt out the truth. "I'm... I'm... g-gay," he stammered. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Brock had a sick, scared feeling he was about to get bashed, but for some reason he did not make a run for it. He could have gotten away. But he stayed.
"I'll ask again," said Omar. "Are you a cock-suck-er?"
Brock hung his head in shame. There was only one correct answer. Even if he had never actually done the deed, he was a cocksucker. That was what he was born to do. Even if he had no hope of doing it because no straight man was ever going to let him suck his cock.
"Yes," admitted Brock, surrendering to the inevitable. "I am a cocksucker."
"So get busy then and suck my dick. I don't got all night."
Omar leaned against a tree, and lifted his long black shirt to reveal a chiseled six pack. His other hand deftly unbuttoned and unzipped his torn, faded Levi's, tugging them along with his boxers down to his knees. Brock gulped when he saw the size of Omar's cock, like a black banana, and low-hanging satin testicles the size of plums. It was like looking at a man's goods for the first time. He was a fool to have discounted black men as sexual beings. If Omar was any indication, they were sexual gods. The black boy's cock was five or six inches long and not even hard. It was impossible not to gape at in amazement, if not stunned into absolute submission to its beauty, strength, and purpose.
"How did you know?" asked Brock, instinctively dropping to his knees.
Snickered Omar, "How did I know you're a cock-suck-er? Are you kidding me? How old are you? Thirty-eight, forty? You're almost as old as my dad! What kind of loser parties with guys almost half his age?"
"I'm thirty-five," Brock somehow mustered the will to speak up.
"Huh, you look older." That comment stung, but Omar had more to say: "I knew you were a stone faggot the minute I laid eyes on you. But I guess you had them whiteboys fooled. Can't believe they didn't catch you scoping them out. Especially Frank. What was up with that? Think I didn't see you drooling over him? You should have said something. I figured we were all getting blowjobs. Trust me, if you had told them you were a cock-suck-er, they would have let you do your thing. Buddy would have been the first one to pull out his dick and let you take care of it. That cat's got a swagger you only see on dudes who get laid or blowjobs on a regular basis. Sonny, I'm not so sure about, but Frank is a horndog, for real. I'm pretty sure he's used fags before. Threesomes, orgies, fags, yeah, Frank would have definitely let you chow down on his sausage."
"I didn't know..." said the cocksucker. What Omar claimed went against everything Brock thought he knew about straight men. It sounded too good to be true, and yet Omar's pendulous black member hung inches from his face, waiting to be sucked, proof of the impossible.
"If you weren't such a big pussy, you could been blowed all three of those guys," Omar went on. "But you know what's better than three white dicks? One black dick. So you lucked out after all. You like what you see, don't you. That's a big dick, ain't it. I know. It gets a lot mo' bigger. You're gonna take care of it for me with your mouth, you know why? because that's your job. That's what your mouth is for. That's what you are for. Sucking dick. You're a cock slave. So stop staring at it and make yourself useful!"
Long before he ever heard about blowjobs or even knew gay people existed, Brock daydreamed about taking a cock in his mouth. Cautiously, he wrapped his wet, warm lips around the bulbous head. It tasted good, smelled good, and made the flickering tip of his tongue tingle with sensual electricity like a clitoris. He took more cock into his mouth, a few more inches, still soft, but heavy and thick. He bobbed slowly on half the length of the meaty shaft, producing saliva as if those glands were intended for sexual lubrication. Even as Brock's thoughts spun in different directions, his mouth knew what to do. It was an innate skill neither age nor disuse could diminish. Omar spoke: this is what a cocksucker's mouth was for, sucking was a cocksucker's reason for existence.
"That's right. Do your job," said Omar, slipping out of his tank top to free his hands and get a clearer look. "Everybody has a job to do. Your job is sucking dick. That's what you do. That's what you are. Get it hard, bitch!"
Omar's black banana began to expand inside Brock's mouth, doubling in girth, lengthening with every plunge. Brock's lips opened wide until his jaw ached and his eyes watered, but he could not stop sucking. He was determined to take that cock all the way down his throat in order to bang those big, heavy balls with his dimpled chin. But the youth's erection was too huge. Brock started choking, gasping for air, sputtering spit.
"You were doing real good for awhile there," Omar smirked. "Better than most. Don't feel bad about choking. I get that a lot. It turns me on. I like hearing a bitch work hard to take my dick. That how I know you're trying. I gotta know you want this dick. How far are you willing to go to please me, that's what it's all about. If you're a good faggot, you will do everything you're told. But you gotta want this dick. Tell me why you want it."
"Becush ish beeg," said Brock, lisping almost to the point of incoherence because his stretched, puffy lips and swollen tongue forgot to enunciate correctly.
"Now you're talkin like a faggot supposed to talk!" Omar roared. "I like that. Keep talkin like that. It's funny. It's what you get for pretending to be straight. You should talk like a faggot all the time. Don't be talkin like a man no more, because we both know that ain't true. And you can start calling me Sir. Let me hear you say it. Like a good faggot!"
"Yeth thirr," said Brock, helplessly compelled by the teen's dominant personality. Omar grabbed Brock's ears like jug handles and told him to open his mouth, relax his jaw, before driving his dick all the way down the cocksucker's throat. He kept it there, buried deep, and then pulled it all the way out.
"See, you can take it," said Omar. "You just have to relax and breathe through your nose. This time you go down on it, and when your nose rubs my crotch, count to three. Then slowly slide up and hold the head between your lips. Count to three and go back down again all the way. Count to three. Up and down. That's I want you to suck my dick. I will tell you when to speed up or slow down. Got it, bitch?"
"Yethh, thirr."
After taking pains to pass for straight in public, it was very humiliating having to talk like a gay stereotype. But that was what Omar wanted, and Brock wanted Omar's cock, so it was a small concession to make. Not that Brock had a choice. He did not know it yet, but his choosing days were over.
"Get back to work," said Omar. "Suck it like I taught you. Do your job, faggot."
Brock's jaw relaxed as his concave cheeks and gripping lips provided ample suction. Drool flowed. Brock was made for this. Performing fellatio came as naturally as eating, sleeping, or shitting. With sudden clarity, Brock realized he was going to require a dick in his mouth on a fairly regular basis. Every day would be nice. Every morning, noon, and night would be better. All day, all night. Now that he had his first taste, Brock knew that he would never get enough.
"Goddammmm... yahhhh, that's wassup, you're suckin that dick right," Omar growled with satisfaction, before launching an all-out verbal assault. "Yahhhh, boyeee... just like I taught you... there you go... count to three... Mmmmnnmm... yahhh... that's right, like that there... slide your lips up to the head nice and slow... there you go... like that... unnhhhhhh.... yahhh... Lick the head!!! Count to three!!! Take the plunge!!! All the way... hard!!! Yeah... oh shittt boyeee... yahhh you suck that dick... I knew you could do it... Now you're doin your job cock-suck-errrr... Don't you never let me catch you pretending to be straight again...
"From now on you need to act like the cocksucker you are... talk like a cocksucker... fuck... you even need to start dressing like a cocksucker... I know you can hear me bitch... You can't talk with your mouth full, but you ain't deaf... why you slowin' up? Keep doing what you're supposed to, faggot... You can listen to me and suck my dick at the same time... Like I was saying, you are gonna be yourself from now on...
"Tomorrow, you're gonna meet me right here at this spot, same time, same place. I'm gonna be here with the fellas. You are gonna bring two cases of beer and a carton of smokes... You're gonna apologize to Bud, Sonny, and Frank for not telling them you're a cocksucker. If they give you any trouble, I'll tell `em you sucked my chunk like a champ. Heh-heh... Once the truth comes out, I got a feelin you're gonna be a busy little cock-suck-errr... That's what you've got to look forward to... Nod your head if you understand... yahhh... think about it... tomorrow you might be suckin the Beast's dick... would you like that? Or is my dick enough for you? Nod your head from side to side if you would rather be blowin Frank tomorrow. Nod up and down if my dick is the only dick you want from now on...
"You sweet little pickle pleaser... for real? You just want to suck my dick? Good cocksucker. I know you wanna blow Frank, but you made the right choice and I'm gonna tell you why. One, the dick in your mouth is always gonna be your priority. Don't be thinkin about no other dicks but the one you're takin' care of, understand? That is the only dick that matters. Two, you made the choice I wanted you to make. A dick-slave always agrees with the Man in Charge. Nobody cares about what you really think. That's not your function. If a Man tells you one plus one equals three, you live by that equation. Yahhhh, bitch...keep suckin that dick like I taught you... don't stop... I like to run my mouth while I'm getting head. It's like fucking your brain with words. You need to hear this shit.
"Why do I get the feeling this is the first dick you ever sucked? Doesn't make sense... you're suckin like a pro... am I right? Give me a nod if this is your first dick, cocksucker... I knew it! Old as you is, you never sucked a dick before tonight. Damn, you're pathetic even for a cocksucker. I bet you were too scared, weren't you... you weak-ass pussy... Guess it's a good thing for you I came along. A faggot's first dick should be unforgettable, like your first love... oh, shit, you're not fallin' in love with my dick are you? Yah, you're sprung... but that's okay. I get that a lot.
"The important thing is you're gonna do whatever I tell you from on, aiiight? You got that? That's the price you gotta pay for dick. Total obedience, you feelin' me? Because if you're not down with the program, you can stop nursing my shit right now, right this minute. This is the last decision you are ever gonna have to make... If you're not ready to be one hundred and fifty percent obedient, stop what you're doing. I got no use for a cocksucker who doesn't know his place... I notice you're not stopping. That's good. Yeah, that's good... a non-stop dick sucking machine... that's what you are... a slave to the dick... yahhh, that's the way I like it sucked... Get it all wet... make some noise... never stop doing your job...do whatever you're told, and we're gonna get along just fine... sucking dick is what makes you happy... all you needed was someone like me to explain the rules.
"It's fucking ironic don't you think... here you are, an old fag giving your very first blowjob to the colored kid you blew off... because all you could think about was that white meat those cats were packing. You might not wanna blow them after you get done sucking mine. But you know what? You won't have a choice. Just make sure your ass is back here tomorrow for your coming out party. Yahh, you gonna be here. I own you, bitch.
"Aiiight, start sucking fast and hard... work your mouth like a cunt... yahhhh.... like that but faster... harder... make daddy cum bitch... faster...faster!!! Suck that dick! Yahhh, suck it!!! Work for that nutt... Suck it you subhuman freak cocksucking sissy faggot piece of shit, suck that dick! Get it done!"
The young black man's words pummeled like fists leaving invisible bruises, pain which only served to feed the flames of Brock's cocksucking fever. He was driven to bring this man to orgasm, but not sure if he could satisfy such a humongous cock. It had to be at least nine inches, which Brock knew from so-called scientific studies was extraordinary. Maybe it looked that long because it seemed disproportionately large compared to his compact waist and narrow hips. The magnificent horse cock of a young black stallion pounding his throat, fucking his face, about to explode with stallion seed.
Without warning Omar ejaculated. His sperm shot in half a dozen violent spurts. Thick gobs of salty, savory seminal fluid, coating the cocksucker's gums, oozing from the corners of his mouth. Brock swallowed eagerly, gratefully, and desperately, licking his lips to capture every precious drop. He did not think anything could taste so good or so wonderful as this foaming nectar like ambrosia from a god.
"Open your mouth. I'm gonna wash that skeet down for you."
Omar directed his member toward Brock's open mouth and began pissing like a racehorse. Yellow urine quickly filled the faggot's oral cavity and spilled over his lips like a flood. Omar shifted his aim, drenching the kneeling cocksucker from head to toe, soaking his shirt and pants, wetting his hair, splashing his face. Piss dripped from Brock's chin like raindrops.
"Now you know," said Omar smugly, "if you don't want get showered in piss, you're gonna have to learn to drink it. We'll work on that. Maybe you can practice tomorrow with the fellas. You are gonna show up, right? Use your faggot voice whenever you're talking to a man.'"
"Yethhh, Thirrr, I promith to be here t-morrow thirrr."
Brock did not know if he could ever speak normally again. The salty urine made his lips swell up, already puffy and stretched from sucking. His tongue was worn out. His mouth felt empty without Omar's heavy, long cock inside, like a holster missing its pistol.
Before Omar bounced, he asked to see some ID. Brock took out his wallet, which Omar snatched to examine. Driver's license, credit cards galore, library card, social security card, and about thirty dollars in cash. Omar pocketed the latter.
"Good to know where you live, faggot. Give me your phone number too. If you don't show up tomorrow, we're gonna come lookin for you, and you're not gonna like that. You won't be suckin no dick, that's for sure. Not for a long time, catch my drift? Only way you're gonna suck dick again in life is by being here. Tomorrow. Same time, same place. With two cases of beer. Don't forget. Wait until the fellas find out they've got a full-time, non-stop dick-slave. Yahhh, your mouth is about to get real popular."
Omar started to walk away, and then stopped as if something fresh had occurred to him.
"You gonna be here awhile? You should stick around. If I see any dudes on my home, I'll tell them where they can find a good cocksucker. Get some practice in before tomorrow, know what I'm saying?"
With that, Omar laughed and sauntered down the winding path, leaving Brock on his knees in the middle of the clearing. A full moon glimmered through the humidity. The chorus of frogs and insects came from all directions. Brock did not know what to do. He remained on his knees for a long time, barely thinking, battered and bruised in spirit. After a while, the stale reek of his urine-soaked shirt and pants brought Brock to his senses like smelling salts.
He paced in a circle before lighting a cigarette. There were two cans of Old English left. They were warm, but helped numb the soreness of his ravaged throat. It was a good soreness. Brock loitered in the moonlit clearing for an hour, maybe two. Thinking about Omar's cock, he lost all track of time. The things Omar said, all of it was true, undeniably, inescapably true. What he was, and what he was not, would never be. And the importance of being obedient. Brock got that. He really did. He had to obey. It made him feel good doing what he was told. He needed to be used. Why did it take so long to realize such an essential thing about himself?
With a sigh of surrender, Brock headed home in the dark, wee, lonely hours, knowing when he woke tomorrow his new life as a cock-slave would begin in earnest.
TO BE CONTINUED
in PART TWO: THE COMING OUT PARTY