Cock-Sucker: The ‘Cock-U-Like’ Code

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Athletic

BY 2069 THE BLOWJOB IS NOT ONLY LEGAL, IT IS COMPULSORY!

Swallow slopes into the sumptuous room where the three-member Tribunal is ready for him. The high luminescent ceiling is rippled coral. He slumps down into the chair facing the desk-curvature.

“Ah yes, Swallow” says the central of the three, the tone of her voice making something of an attempt to put him at his ease. “You understand that an issue has been raised which demands a resolution. We are here to explore the circumstances. Not yet to apportion blame.”

“Nevertheless, the complainant had every constitutional right to request a blowjob from you. You had no legitimate right to refuse him.” The interrogator to the left is less sympathetic. He’ll need to watch out for him.

“We’d like to hear your explanation, Swallow. Please” she coaxes.

He squirms uneasily in the chair. His hair shaved to a shadow across his head, emphasising his fine, almost delicate features. He’s lean, wearing only contoured straps of leather. The white flash of his specialisation flared on his shoulder where the thong crosses down over his hairless chest to link up with the waist-belt. His bulging cod-piece decorated with studs and beads, forming a wide thick-lipped mouth. “With respect, I would prefer not to say.”

There’s an uneasy silence. He looks around. There’s an art-collage of naked men in heroic poses engraved across the mirrored inner wall, blurring and diffusing the reflection thrown back at him. Behind the tribunal the glassine curve looks out over the sprawling city.

“You have an enviable service record, Swallow. It seems most unfortunate to jeopardise your status at this stage in your career. We’re here to help you. We want to understand.”

“You know perfectly well what’s at stake here. Since the wide-scale introduction of what is commonly termed ‘The Cock-U-Like Code’ the incidents of social violence, rape and sexual abuse have fallen to virtually zero. What our departments do is provide a vital civilising influence…”

“Yet, for no reason that you’re apparently prepared to divulge, you refused this perfectly-reasonable request for oral sex. What if, due to the pent-up repressions your refusal allowed to remain unexpressed, this man was compelled to commit a sexual attack? You would have been responsible. And the department would have been brought into disrepute. I fail to understand your attitude…” The left-interrogator has a brown shoulder-flash, anal.

Madame Chair holds her hand up in a censorial way. She has a pink shoulder-flash. “We are your family. Since you volunteered to join us, we are the only family you have. Let us review random glimpses from your career to date.”

She thumbs the trigger and a holo nebulates in the space between them, the dialogue muted. Swallow is approached on the street by an agitated-looking oldster in a dismal grey drape jacket. Swallow’s lean height and dark features contrast strongly with his florid tubbiness. There’s a hurried exchange between the two, Swallow nods, after which they retreat into a nearby booth. Space is restricted within, but Swallow courteously indicates the client to sit, and busies himself unfastening the catches on the man’s loose pants.

As he stoops, pulling them down to knee-height, beneath a white hairless chest and flabby folds of stomach, a limp length of cock droops free, into clear view. The oldster bites his lip in nervous anticipation, trying to control the flow of blood to his cheeks – and his groin, as Swallow bobs his head down to suck it efficiently into his mouth.

The three members of the tribunal watch critically as the holo-scene develops. His practised skill soon results in the cock stiffening and erecting, he works it with tongue and lips, slightly back, then taking it deep, clear down to the sparse white tufts of pubic hair. Holding it there. The oldster’s sagging ball-sac crawls and flexes as the sucking intensifies. He throws his head back in ecstasy as the sensations begin.

Swallow scarcely pauses, holds the pulsing organ firmly in his mouth as it spurts its load, then resumes sucking more gently. At length the oldster’s porky sausage fingers indicate completion, and Swallow stands, wiping the man’s groin free of saliva conscientiously. The two shake hands, a little self-consciously, casino oyna emerge back into the street, and separate. The transaction satisfactorily fulfilled.

“Exemplary. So let’s spool back further. This is the Ocean City Convention, remember?”

The holo shifts dizzyingly, zoning in low over the Eurasian megacity where the global trade-conference was assembling. Private enterprise concerns were moving in intent on making a commercial killing. There are low-end ‘dalek-bots’, squat mobile units within which unseen suckers are concealed, indeterminate in age and gender. Simply insert penis into the appropriate glory-slot, to have it sucked to completion.

There are high-end sex-cyborgs and awesomely beautiful GM-Ladyboys with the fully-functioning sexual organs of both genders. Others have been genetically-modified to include extra sexually-penetrable orifices, mouths with clits, vaginas with tongues, lubricating rectums and extra organs that have yet to be named. And endless after-hours parties to explore every tantalising variety. Naked copulating bodies swim across the fish-eye of the holo curvature. Central to it all Swallow is there, taking cock after cock, sucking each one with every appearance of pleasure.

They’re watching. He’s lying naked on his back across a Perspex table. An enthusiastic group of party-people chant and applaud as a guy slides a massive cock into his throat. It’s obviously plasma-sculpted, can’t be that big naturally, surely? But it slithers in between his lips, into his mouth, past his epiglottis, into the trachea, and just goes on, feeding in all the way, without causing apparent discomfort. Of course, he’s been trained and tutored in deep-throat techniques, it’s standard procedure. Nevertheless this performance is singularly impressive.

Fat testicles crushed up across his nose, the guy is sweating with effort, greased muscles seeming to roll in independent motion like fat snakes beneath his naked skin, grunting and humping as Swallow merely responds with undulating ripples of muscle-spasm across his cheeks, adam’s apple bobbing as he takes it down, his own erection swaying, dribbling strands of enthusiastic drool across his groin.

“Beyond the novelty of science, there are many who persist in believing that no cyborgasm can ever equal a genuine flesh and blood blowjob” states Madame Chair, with just a hint of pride. “We buzzed in teams of operatives to meet the excess testosterone-overload, enabling rational decisions to be logically argued through without the distraction of alpha-male jousting. You were part of our team. The operation was one of the department’s greatest coups.”

Swallow nods.

“You sucked twenty-one cocks to orgasm. It’s on record. And you’ve never used narco-implants or synthetic body-modelling. Am I correct?”

“Yes. Everything I have is my own, in its original state.” Eight-inches of penis is optimal, big enough to impress, not so big it scares those about to be on its receiving end.

“So I don’t understand. Why refuse to suck this one particular cock? It makes no sense.” Favouring him with a piercing glance, an attack-dog ready to seek out and find fault. Cold stone eyes in a stone-cold face.

“I prefer not to say” replied the seated man.

She paused. Killed the holo. “Very well, we’ll call adjournment, to resume at a date to be specified. You may leave.”

Swallow nods acknowledgement, stands, and leaves the suite.

After a suitable pause Lady Chair indicates, and another operative enters. She looks up to greet him. “Ah Lola, we have a special assignment for you…”

Swallow drops a hundred floors in the non-grav elevator, strides through curved shining corridors warm with pink-marble softness, resembling the intestinal passages within a living body, to emerge out of the phallus-shaped sky-sweeper down a cascade of wide white steps. A noisy fundamentalist demonstration by prohibitionists is yelling and waving placards. Retards, determined to force the clock of history back to the dark old days. Back to before the ‘Cock-U-Like Code’, back to when sexual desire was repressed, denied expression, compelled to fester and mutate into cruel and frequently violent obsessions, erupting into unrestrained perversity. All the world’s psychosis comes from frustrated sexuality. All the canlı casino tyrannies, imperialist delusions, mad dictators.

He shudders. The socialised implementation of the Reichian orgasm has saved humanity from all that. There must be no going back. Yet oddly, if the media-fax spikes get hold of this feed, his case could seriously embarrass it all, it’ll only add credibility to the prohibitionists. And it could destroy his career. He could get shipped out to service the less-demanding sexual needs of the Ceres or Titan colony, safely away from prurient media attentions.

He hopped a solar-flitter and glided low between the thousand glittering tower-facets towards Boystown. Climate-jolts had created these new seas, with stilt-cities above the site of submerged cities. Climate-migrants blending seamlessly into a wonderful diversity of skin-tones. It was mardi-gras… or something. It’s always party time in Boystown. Outrageously camp in feathers and tat, sparkle and sequin, or nothing at all. Snake-dancing in the street, lissome movements to fast electro-beats. He shunts the flitter. And watches the wild cavorting with a grim smile, easing his weight from one foot to the other as he stands at the edge of the crowd. Giant holos rear among the revellers. Screens and hover-slogans proclaiming ‘It’s Sapien To Be Homo’. That’s the current tagline. It works well enough.

He heads for the shade of the nearest bar – the curiously-named ‘Charles Beaumont: The Crooked Man’, avoiding the sinuous groups of hedonistic dancers, shaking off the opportunistic hands of predatory Bears at the tables, and signals for an inhaler-flask. The Barboy’s tight gold lamé shorts, picked out in silver piping, contour the smooth round cheeks of his pert rump. His hair a glistening mass of tight black cherub-curls, framing a bee-stung lip-glossed fuck-me-mouth pursed invitingly. When Swallow makes it obvious he’s only interested in the flask the Barboy flounces off, a careless rapture moving in a swaggering glide. Swallow slips into a side-booth where the flesh-coloured light glows softly, and concentrates on the flask. The first snort, an aroma of lavender and frangipani, simultaneously numbs and arouses his senses. It feels great.

A good-looking guy across the room is winking and leering at him, his French Maid costume distorted by the pronounced tenting at the crotch of his frilly white panties. Swallow returns the smile. But there’s no formal approach, so he stays where he is. Not up to him to take the initiative. He answers need. He does not initiate them. The gay colonies of Boystown are superb places to hang out, with state-sponsored homosexuality purposefully-targeted to counter overpopulation-growth. Gays don’t breed. So it’s helping resuscitate the tired planet. It’s safe, with signature drug combos targeted to cure everything. And it’s fun.

It’s later, as evening draws in and the sing-song syrup of camp voices becomes more falsetto and excited, as perversions blossom like flowers of luring evil, that he encounters Lola, apparently by chance. Rising from his stool to go when he feels the light touch on his shoulder. He turns his head piercingly.

“Stay a little longer” coaxes Lola. “Party with me.”

They find an alcove.

“You know me. I’m Lola with an ‘A’. ‘A’ for amethyst. And I respect your stance, Swallow” he opens. “I don’t necessarily appreciate what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it, but we’ve known each other long enough for trust – right? For me not to have to ask. I’m here for you, always.”

“Thanks. That’s a good thing to know.”

“You’ve been a bad boy. But I’ve seen you with guys. I know you’re good. If there had been some special requirement demanded by that guy you refused the blowjob to, you could have called in specialist units – bondage, Bear, Legal-Twink or black-flash S&M, you know that. You must have known that. I don’t understand you, but I’m not here to judge, I’m here for you, should you need me. That’s all you have to know.”

Swallow ogles into his deep turquoise eyes. Enhanced by subtly shadowed mauve make-up. Some kind of lenses too. Implants. He’s younger by a few years, and in good shape. Pretty, in a feminine kind of way. Athletic, but aesthetic too. Maybe a little work on the pecs and abs. Smooth and well-muscled beneath the black kaçak casino net of straps. His sequinned cod-piece a thrusting rooster, a cockerel. The white flash of his specialisation flared on his shoulder. Oral. Swallow inhales with approval, and feels a stir of desire, only partially stimulated by the narco-contents of the flask. Perhaps this is just what he needs? After all, sex is the perfect antidote to stress, isn’t that what his role is all about?

“Are the contents of your cod-piece pouch untouched by surgery, Lola?”

“Not entirely. You wanna find out?”

“Flatterer. OK, so fashion me a dream.”

They laugh together. Outside, in the warm evening air, gaudy revellers are dancing and carousing, there are tangled bodies along where the waters-edge curves. The night is luminous with exploding constellations of light. Contagious dance-rhythms sluice around them. Butterflies of the gutter in sweet bedlam.

“I’ve got a room…?” suggests Lola, smiling like a boy let out of school early. “I’ve always respected you. I’ve seen you work on film, and I’ve always hankered to experience sex with you.”

And they gravitate there. The fourth-floor apartment opens out onto a balcony overlooking the bay. The tide sparking beneath a sky crazy with stars. They caress each other’s leather-webbing off. Lola looks good naked, sprawled back across the divan. As sexy as hell. When Swallow does some eye-filling he can scarce tear his gaze away. Lola’s rearing cock, colouring like ripening fruit, is exquisitely attractive, natural or enhanced, darkly-pigmented with large tight balls. Repetition dulls you to just how jaw-droppingly awesome raw cock in its natural state can be. It draws him more powerfully than gravity.

They lie together, kissing and licking bare skin, up and down, across the smooth curves of chest, circling nipples, down across the solar plexus, warm, vibrant and soft, the gentle heart-thumping undulations of stomach, circling and dipping into navel, down to lavish tongue-tip around stirring virile manhood and balls. Sensing the build of a different kind of tension. Tracing the raised sperm-duct ridge up its length, to the underside cleft at its crimson crown.

Lola locks his mouth around Swallow’s flared cockhead, looking up at him, meeting his eyes, and slowly sinks the full length deep into the moist warmth of his throat. As though he’s worshipping it. Swallow fishtails around, seeking cock, and swallows it greedily. It tastes intoxicatingly good. Some say the glans is an arrowhead, he prefers tulip-head, or heart-shape. Taking that flesh-heart into your vulva-mouth, feeling its steady pulse-beat seducing your senses. For a long moment the only sound is their mutual slurping.

Then they uncouple. “Maybe it’s time we need a brown flash?”

“We can diversify. Versatility is good.” And first Swallow crouches on the divan and Lola slips his length into the puckered raised arse. He bites back a groan as it slides in with one long thrust, tight and smooth, its warm solidity filling him, trembling faintly, his every muscle drawn to the limits of its tautness, then a steady pounding into his body, pounding, resting, then pounding again. Moaning together in sweet pleasure, beads of sweat running on bare skin like condensation on a window.

Then they switch. Lola bends to be fucked. The sheer physicality of lusty sex sluicing away all the pent-up tension in a tide of pure sensation. The fucking extends into the night, across the divan and the floor, into the bedroom, squirming and oscillating bodies sweat-glistening in the faint light. Eyes gleaming, alive with passion. Heaving out powerful mutual orgasms, immaculately timed, into each other’s greedy mouths, gulping down thick cloying ejaculate with the rich taste of cloves, in quivering pulses. Then sucking each other into quiescence.

They lie together. Bodies touching. The surge of intimate afterglow washing through them…

Lady Chair and the two gentlemen of the Tribunal watch through the lens-implants in Lola’s wide lambent eyes.

Lola reaches across and licks Swallow’s lips. “That was amazing. You’re a wonderful cock-sucker, totally divine. But I still don’t understand. You can confide in me. Tell me, tell me, why did you refuse that guy?”

Swallow lies perfectly still. His every muscle tense. “I had to refuse him. You see, I recognised him. He didn’t know me, but I knew him.”

“Who? Who?”

“He was my father, Lola. He was my father…”

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın