A gay indie boy living in suburban South West London recounts his trials and tribulations dealing with sex, sexuality, growing up and getting older

Friday, August 30, 2013


"Are you free today?"

That was the usual message I'd get rom Zak, and no matter how many times I would tell him I worked Monday to Wednesday and I was off Thursday and Friday, without fail on Tuesdays I would always get that message.

He found me on OK Cupid: he was a student and lived in France, but was back home with his family in London for summer. He is 20 and studies Media Communications, or something like that. It wasn't until he gave me his French number and messaged me on What's App that it started to get really saucy.

It was on an idle Monday in early August that I got a message:

"Hey sexy"

"Charmer," I said. "How's your Monday?"

"Quiet and lonely. You?"

Well, if that isn't a hint, I don't know what is. The conversation progresses. He tells me how naughty he is and how he was willing to do any 'nudge-nudge, wink-wink' jobs that I wanted. That he was very naughty.

"You know what happens to naughty boys," I said.

"No?" he replies.

Oh come on! I think...

"They get punished"

"I would love to see that," he replies.

I bet he would. I knew from the off that Zak was looking for something more than just an older man... Before I go on, can I just point out that my preference is not for younger guys at all. I have always liked older guys, but for some reason I seem to attract a certain 'type' who want me to completely dominate them.

"I like being dominated and bad words. Rude words. Little smacks on my ass," he says.

He decides to come to my place and asks if I will dominate him. When we meet at the train station he is smoking a cigarette. He seems a bit dismissive and speaks with a strange French accent. He has big quiffed blonde hair with designer stubble that almost forms a beard. He wears a stylish mac and vibrant shirt – I note it and tell him I have many great shirts at home. He is dying for the loo and the 7 minute walk back to my house seems long as he struggles to keep it in.

He goes to the toilet and comes back out.

"Take off all your clothes," I tell him.

He undresses. He has a solid stocky – but not fat – body and is very hairy. I find this very attractive.

"Get down on all fours."

Again he complies and looks at me with innocent blue eyes. I have a feeling these 'eyes' are designed to hit somewhere between the fact that I was corrupting him and as a slutty turn on – like a puppy dog who wants to be sexually abused. I do find this power play arousing, especially because he is younger and I do want to corrupt him. I think it was Baudrillard who said that innocence is the best aphrodysiac and I could feel the full effect of this.

"Now crawl and put your face on my shoes, but don't do anything."

He comes towards me and presses his face on my shiny black winklepickers.

"Do you like these shoes, boy?"

"Yes, sir," he responds.

"Do you know how lucky you are to be with me right now and for me to allow you to touch my shoes."

"Yes sir. Very lucky, sir."

"Well, I want you to show me how lucky you feel by kissing my shoes."

He complies and kisses them softly and gently.

"Now, bitch boy, I want you to lick my shoes very carefully and very lovingly. And if you do it wrong, I will punish you. Do you understand boy?"

"Yes sir"

"Good boy. Now I'm going to allow you to worship my shoes."

Where was this coming from? I thought to myself. I could see that he had an erection. He really enjoyed this abuse of power as he tongued my the leather.

"Good boy," I said.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

"Now come towards me and put your head on my lap."

He crawled and nuzzled his head against my dick, which was hard at this point.

"Now I want you to undo my trousers"

I get the feeling that Zak has this mixture of contempt and excitement. That he hated me for doing this to him, that he hated himself for complying with my wishes and yet he was inexplicably turned on by it all.

"Put my dick in your mouth and suck it, boy. And look at me while you're doing it."

Those big, blue puppy eyes that looked almost as if they were about to cry looked into mine. Yes, there was something in this that I could see. part of me wanted him to cry, to be hurt, so that the pleasure would be increased. I thrust my cock into his mouth and he gagged.

"TAKE IT, BOY, TAKE IT!" I barked at him. Instead of jerking back or spitting out my dick, he obediently waited until he could take it and continue to look at me with a hurt look in his eyes.

After a few minutes, I told him to stop. "Good boy," I said, "You do that very well. Have you had a lot of practice?"

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"Are you a cock-sucking slut?"

"Yes sir,"

"I thought so, slut. Now come across my lap."

He lay on my lap and I spanked him. "You're a slut, boy. What are you?"

"A slut," he replied.

I spanked him hard and then we stopped. I lay him on the bed. I undressed fully, put on a condom and bent his legs back. "Now I'm going to rape you hard like the dumb slut you are," I said.

I pushed my dick inside him with no regard as to if it ws painful for him and fucked him hard and fast. He moaned. "Oh you fuck so good," He said.

I pinched his mouth open and I spat in it. "Shut up, bitch," I said. Then I carried on fucking him. He looked pained as he masturbated, again like he was about to cry. I wanted him to cry.

"I'm going to come," he said. He ejaculated – again with that pained expression and those troubled puppy-dog blue eyes – in a state close to ecstasy.

I withdrew, took the condom off and masturbated vigorously into his face. I came – and those big blue eyes looked at me, asking why I had just done what I had done to him... Which perversely made it all the more pleasurable.

He stayed the night, lying in my bed telling me how disgusted he felt with himself after he had sex with men, but that I had fucked him really good and he really wanted to do it again. I was a different person. Back to normal, laughing and joking... Wondering how I had been driven to this sadistic mode of operating. When he fell asleep, I wanted to take a photo of him to remember him, knowing I would probably not see Zak again.

In the morning, he barely spoke to me. We got dressed and I dropped him off at the station. We parted not having said much.

Sometimes Zak still messages me asking when we can meet up, but is always reluctant to follow through. I think that perhaps he is scared of his own sexuality, of who he really is in bed.


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