To recap, my name is John Thomas, dude’s name is Eric Svalberg. I had agreed to go to his home in order to masturbate him, because I had caused him great shame and embarrassment (as he saw things; for the details, refer to the previous chapter,) and because agreeing to that was how I was hoping to not get a severe beating from him and his friends.
The "face fuck" will be the subject of later chapters.
Eric and I walked West along Walnut Avenue, past the intersection with California Street, finally arriving at Mission (which was also Highway 1, one of the major thoroughfares.) We had to wait for the ‘Walk’ signal before we could cross. We hardly spoke along the way.
We continued West on Walnut, past Cleveland, King and Dimond Streets. We’d been walking for what seemed to me to be about 10 to 12 minutes (I hadn’t thought to use my watch to time it, although I did do that a few days later.) At that point, I began to wonder how much further we’d need to walk; it was already farther than my walk home would have been.
“How much farther?”, I asked.
“Maybe five more minutes,” he informed me.
We continued past Sherman Street, and then turned left (South-West) at Escalona Drive (a T-intersection.) Two to three minutes later, we finally arrived at his house. It was a very nice, large house, situated in a hilly area, with a view looking South East toward the bay. I was impressed; my mother and I lived in an apartment complex, in the lowlands. His (parents’) house had two stories, and a garage [Additional details withheld to protect privacy.]
As we walked up the inclined driveway towards the front door, he mentioned that his parents would probably not be home until 6:30 pm at the earliest: His father worked as a professor of Psychology at a college in a nearby city (about an hour’s drive away; I knew the travel time to/from that location without having to be told,) and his mother worked as a law clerk at a law firm in a different nearby city (also about an hour’s drive away, but in the opposite direction from where his father worked.)
We walked to the front door. He took out his key, and then unlocked and opened the door. I followed him into the foyer. The place was very nicely furnished, but I’ll spare you the description: It’s not relevant to the story, nor is it what the audience for this sort of story would be interested in.
“Are you hungry?”, he asked. “I usually have a snack when I get home from school.”
“Sounds good,” I replied.
“The kitchen is this way,” he said, walking to the right down a hallway which connected to a dining room on the right and a kitchen on the left. We entered the kitchen. He walked to a cupboard from which he retrieved two mid-sized plates, then retrieved two forks and a knife that looked like it was for cutting pies or cakes, then went to a table on which there was a mouth-watering chocolate cake with a glass cake cover keeping it fresh. He removed the cover, cut two slices of cake, put them on the plates, went to the sink to wash the knife, put the knife in the drying rack, picked up the plates and forks, said “this way,” and then walked into the dining room with the plates and the forks, placing them on the dining room table.
Eric then looked at me, smiled, but said, “Oh! We need milk, yeah?” He went back to the kitchen, saying “Be right back!”
He soon returned with two glasses of milk, which he set down for the both of us, and then sat himself down to eat. I had already sat down in front of one of the plates.
While we were eating, he struck up a conversation:
“So, how do you feel about this, now? Still game?”
“I’m OK; actually feeling much better about it. You no longer seem so angry and upset. You’re actually being polite and friendly,” I answered.
“Well, I could say that I no longer believe you were trying to shame or embarrass me. But that wouldn’t be the whole truth.” He let that statement hang in the air.
After giving that some thought, I replied, “So, you were putting on an act? It was a ploy to get me agree to do what you wanted?”
He grinned, and replied:
“Not quite: I actually had been rather upset at having been so shamed and embarrassed. Still am, actually. What’s changed is just that I believe that you had no ill intent; I now understand why you did what you did. So I forgive you.
What hasn’t changed is that I’m generally horny as fuck, and you’ve made yourself my next target.”
“Why are you admitting that now? What if I decided to put a stop to this, knowing that you’ve forgiven me?”, I replied.
“Because I know you won’t. You want to do this. You know that. I know that. And my friends at school will know that, too, after I tell them how things went down after school.” And again, he just left that statement hanging in the air between us, while I “did the math.” He was basically saying, “Nice reputation ya got there; be a shame if something happened to it.”
After about a minute of my shocked silence, he continued:
“I’m betting my left nut that you’re far too curious to want to stop now. After all, all you have to do, is to do just enough to push your own boundaries a little bit more each day, to satisfy your curiosity about yourself, about what you want, about who you are sexually. Would you really miss the chance to finally play with a dick like mine? To find out whether or not that that’s something you’d want to keep doing? Why not give it a try? If you ever want to stop, we can have that discussion then.
If I gave you a choice: Either give me a hand-job whenever I want one, or walk away and never be allowed to see, let alone touch, my dick again, would you really go back to keeping yourself locked away from at least trying to do what you’ve been fantasizing about?”
Eric’s father was a professor of psychology. I was beginning to realize the full implications of that.
And Eric was right, and he knew it, as did I. So I said, “Well…I guess I’m still game.”
We had already finished our cake and milk, so we both stood up, and he started back towards the foyer, saying, “Follow me.” So I did.
From the foyer, there were stairs going up to the next level, and also down to what I thought was probably the basement. He surprised me by heading downstairs, explaining that the basement had been converted into his bedroom, and that two of the four upstairs bedrooms had been converted into offices, one for his father and one for his mother.
“So, one of the upstairs bedrooms is the master bedroom?”, I asked, hoping to seem less nosy by not directly asking about the fourth bedroom.
“Yeah, and the last one is my sister’s. She’s currently away at college,” he explained. And then added, “So we’ll have lots of privacy: The parents won’t be able to hear us, and also won’t be able to sneak up on us.”
I soon saw what he was talking about: It was impossible to walk down the stairs to his basement-bedroom without the stairs making noise, and the “bedroom” door was not the flimsy construct typical of inside residential doors; it had a serious lock, which he opened using a key. Once inside, he closed the door, and locked it.
“Just in case,” he said.
“Let me guess: You’ve done this before.” I stated.
“Right you are,” he said. And then: “So, this is where we get down to business: Start undressing me. You need to own this, to take full responsibility.”
As I started to undress him, I began to realize several things: 1) Removing his clothes was getting me aroused; 2) By being the one who was voluntarily taking positive action, I was preventing myself from seeing myself as a victim; and 3) He actually was “experienced,” and knew what he was doing.
On the one hand, it was exciting to finally expose his first-class maleness to my unhindered gaze. On the other, I had already seen him, thanks to the show he had put on for everyone in the showers. The difference was that I was now the one who had exposed his nakedness, and so, even though I had done so at his invitation, I was the one in control, the one responsible, the one to blame.
Once Eric was fully nude, he said, “Wouldn’t you like to be able to do what you just did whenever you wanted? And then to be able to touch me to your heart’s content?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. I had secretly wanted to be able to do such things to worthy male specimens for years at this point, and there was no point in denying that fact to him.
“Well, that privilege can be yours. But you have to earn it,” he said, with a mischievous smile. I was beginning to fully understand how he intended to fully seduce me into being his fuckboy: One small step at a time; a slippery slope. The idea was both terrifying and seductive, sort of like watching a horror movie that both scared you shitless and also drew you in, so that you couldn’t look away. I realized much later that Eric was like a vampire whose victims simply couldn’t resist, in spite of knowing the consequences—but that analogy didn’t occur to me then. Weaponized psychology.
Eric then sat down on his bed, and motioned for me to come stand in front of him. He then instructed me to get on my knees between his legs, and told me to start jacking him. I started by taking hold of his dick, observing what it felt like, how heavy it was, how it responded to my touch, his facial expressions, and my own reactions to holding his dick in my hand.
But soon, I started to actually jack him. He got fully erect rather quickly. It seemed to me to be even bigger than I remembered from earlier in the showers. So I asked him, “How big is it, actually? Have you measured it?”
“Sure have,” he smirked. “Almost 11 inches.” I would eventually get to measure it myself: 10.85 inches in length, 7.4 inches circumference. It was uncut, although I did not know that term at the time, and had only very rarely seen other uncircumcised penises previously; never when erect.
I realized that I was really getting into jacking Eric’s dick. So I just kept doing it. Eventually, he said, “You don’t have to do any more than what you’re doing today, but you can do more, if you want to.”
“Like what?”, I replied.
“Well, you could kiss my dick. Or my balls. Or you could lick them. Or you could put the head of my dick in your mouth, and suck on it. Or any combination. Or perhaps you have some other idea. How fast do you want to find out whether you like doing stuff like this, and how much? Up to you,” he said.
Sneaky bastard. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t begging. He was just planting seeds, appealing to my own curiosity, my own fantasies, my own desires. And it was working: A few minutes later, I bent down and kissed the head of his dick. He gave me a huge smile. I decided that that wasn’t so bad: In fact, I wanted to do it again, so I did.
And that broke the dam: I decided to try licking his dick, so I gave it a single lick in the middle of the shaft. After processing my reaction to that, I proceeded to start licking his dick all over. And then also his balls. I would also be jacking him from time to time.
After about a half hour had gone by since I had started playing with his dick (no, I don’t really know the exact time,) I realized that he was lasting longer without cumming than I thought I would have, so I asked him whether it usually took him this long to cum. He said that he hadn’t cum yet mostly because no lube was being used, and that he had deliberately refrained from using lube in order to last longer.
That made me realize that I actually wanted to make him cum. And that gave me the idea that sucking on the head of his dick would make that happen sooner rather than later. However, giving the matter some thought, I decided that before I wanted to actually go that far, that I should instead suck on his balls—both to help me get comfortable with actually sucking on the head of his dick, and also because I had a ball fetish. So that’s what I did.
And that’s when he began to get verbal: Moaning, groaning, praising me. It wasn’t long before he warned me that he was about to cum. As soon as he said that, I stopped: Then and there I realized that I wanted him to cum in my mouth, so I engulfed the head of his dick in my mouth, and began to suck. Before a minute had passed, he came. I swallowed it, because the idea of doing so excited me.
One he was finished, I removed his dick from my mouth, and sat there on my knees between his legs, in shock at my own desires, and at the actions they had caused me to take.
“Wow John! You made more progress today than I was really expecting!”, Eric told me, smiling hugely.
“So, now what?”, I said.
“Now, we keep going: I usually come several times before I’m done, and my parents won’t be home for at least another hour, so get back on my dick.”
An hour ago, I would have reacted badly to being spoken to like that. But now, I found myself actually being turned on by the display of dominance—although, as I would eventually discover, it was a very tame display, compared to what he would show me in the days to come. Sneaky bastard.
So I sucked on the head of his dick for the next hour so, during which time he came twice more. I swallowed both times. After the second time, he announced that, as much as he would have liked to keep going, there probably wasn’t enough time before his mother would probably be home. So he and I got ourselves cleaned up in the basement bathroom connected to his bedroom. Then he got dressed, unlocked the door, and we both headed upstairs.
He took me into the living room, where we both sat down: He used a reclining chair, I sat on a couch. He asked me, “How do you feel? Are you OK with what we just did?”
I realized that I was more than OK with sucking on his dick, and swallowing his cum. And I told him so. He looked like a cat who had just eaten a canary.
“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said. “We’ll have to find somewhere else to mess around: My parents will probably be home all day, both Saturday and Sunday.”
“Hmmm….Well, we could go to my place: My mother works weekends…as a cosmetician at [the major department store] downtown,” I replied.
“Perfect,” he said. “It’s a date.”
I gave him my home address, and directions on how to get there by foot, and he said he’d be showing up at my place no later than Noon on Saturday.
After that, we made smalltalk until his mother returned home. After being introduced, I excused myself, since it was getting late enough that my mother might begin to worry.
On my walk home, I had much to think about.
When I got home at around 7 pm, my mother was already home. She didn’t ask where I had been: It was my usual practice to play pool at the community recreation/party facility that was made available to all residents of the apartment complex where we lived. She didn’t usually serve dinner until about 7:30 in the evening. She was already busy making the meal. She was an excellent cook, by the way.
Over dinner, I decided to let my mother know that I had made a new friend. Whether he was actually a friend I hadn’t yet decided, but there’s no way I would let her know the actual situation. I realized, even then, that I would probably be spending more time, over the coming days, with Eric, so letting her know about my “friendship” with Eric was a smart tactical move.
If you’re wondering about my father, I didn’t have one anymore: He had died almost a year previously, due to a heart attack. That was the major reason we had moved over the previous Summer; the other reason was because my mother was absolutely determined to get me through college, and that goal could be far more easily achieved in this new city: It had a major state university (although that’s not where Eric’s father worked.)
My introspection over the day’s events continued late into the night. I was both apprehensive and excited about what would happen tomorrow.
