It is like the station in High Noon. Two platforms, grass.

I step off the train onto the boards of a vacant platform in the early afternoon.

I should be afraid now but too many attempts have sapped my fear. In hindsight, not to my advantage.

John waits for me at the bottom of the steps. Somehow we connect. No pictures or phones.

I must have described myself well.

23 (a lie by 10 years), brown hair and eyes, denim top and bottom - so to speak.

He looks old. Bald, Missing teeth. Vaguely repulsive even. We walk to his house - not far.

Small talk.

A can of lager each. The house is tidy, quiet. There are no clues, no pictures.

So he is married as well, but to each other we must pretend otherwise.

Sit on the sofa. Hand on leg.

Shall we go to the bedroom? Yes.

He says he does not want to draw the curtains because the neighbour will deem it suspicious. Like I care.

He touches me - at the front - tentatively.

I ache to be taken.

I am virgin behind.

Immodestly, I undo his black cords, unzip and pull down.

Now I will know fear.

Chris - the fair haired young lad with the blue eyes who pissed into the beer glass for me in my student digs. We wanked together but pretended we were

straight. He was banana.

Peter - he was courgette, maybe even slim cucumber - the thing I sucked in the wood outside Barnsley, until the wasps got us.

Fit lads at pool - fat German sausages.

But this.

I had sought the fattest carrots at Morrissons. The fat end pointed slightly with a knife. Lots of baby lotion and then very carefully, very slowly forced

it into my back passage, held it there while I played a bit - but never all the way - too uncomfortable.

But this.

I had not seen bigger. They say 'hung like a donkey'. I wouldn't know. His foreskin had rolled right back - his glans naked, obscene, oozing and rampant.

I held him, slid my hand, soon oiled with his secretions, to his balls and back, and again feeling him ever stiffer - I took him in my mouth - well the top

bit anyway. Salt.

As if by some dark sorcery, I was naked, his hands on my buttocks. Our manhoods pressed together.

Me S to his XL.

What did I want to do?

'Will you fuck me?', I said.

The bedroom cabinet revealed its condoms ... and some lotion in a pump dispenser - O, I was so grateful for that.

I had to lie on my back, then put my feet over his shoulders. I had expected to have to bend over something or lie flat on my stomach in the manner I liked

to take my wife.

He took charge. Enrobed His Majesty and annointed me. It pressed against my entrance. Up to now, no-one else but me had touched me precisely there. That was

why I was here.

We had practised for this, me and my arsehole. But nothing this big. John pushed, I opened, back, pushed again, harder, I opened wider. More lotion.

'I just have to get the bell end in'.

He did. It hurt.

He pushed it all the way in. I put my hands down on his thighs and tried to stop him pushing too far, as he started pumping into me. My legs hurt.I felt sick

and like I was desperate for a crap.

I could have asked him to stop. But I needed him to satisfy himself on me. I was not even hard any more. But I needed him to use me and so make me useful. I

needed to submit, serve and suffer.

It did not take long. There was no dramatic groaning, no sadistic thrusting. He just stopped, pulled out, divested himself of the condom filled with milky

fluid and stained on the outside with my shame.

We dressed. I sat on the loo for a while but could not poo.

We walked back to the station and waited for my train.

The usual goodbyes. Promised to keep in touch. Did not.



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