My name is John Thomas. The name of the dude with the big dick is Eric Svalberg. In the first chapter, I had agreed to go to Eric’s home in order to masturbate him, because I had caused him great shame and embarrassment, and because agreeing to that was how I was hoping to not get a severe beating from him and his friends. In the second chapter, I perform as agreed, thereby learning some important facts about myself. In this chapter, Erik apologizes, and seeks forgiveness, for the threats he used to get my cooperation, and I get my mouth fucked for the first time. I also get an education that was far more difficult to obtain 50 years ago than it is today.
The next day—Saturday—I woke up just before 10 am. My mother had already left for work. I started my usual morning routine: Voiding my bladder, taking a shower, and making myself some breakfast (Grape Nuts—the breakfast I habitually made for myself at the time.) But I did all of that on auto-pilot; my attention was elsewhere: Who was I, really? What did I want? How did I feel about what had happened yesterday?
I had masturbated last night, reliving the sexually-charged interactions that I had had with Eric. I came more than once, which was unusual for me. And the orgasms were far more powerful than I had ever experienced before.
I seemed to be reaching three conclusions: 1) I wanted to continue to explore my sexuality with Eric; 2) Eric intended to convert me into his “fuckboy”; although I intuitively had a general idea what that meant, I had not actually ever heard the term before. I did understand, based on Eric’s statements, that it would involve letting him fuck me on a regular basis. Whether that was all that was implied, or whether Eric also had other things in mind, I realized that I had no idea; and 3) I was not OK with the threats that Eric had made in order to get me to go along with his project of making me his “fuckboy.”
All of that was on my mind, while I waited for Eric to show up at my door. If he was even going to do so. And that thought made me have to introspect regarding whether I even wanted him to show up, and how I would feel if he did not. So of course, that’s when there was knock on the door of my apartment. It was just after 11 am.
My stomach felt like it would have, were I being called into the Principal’s office. I went and opened the door, regardless. It was a smiling Eric.
He greeted me with, “Hiya, sweetheart! Here, this is for you!”, handing me a Hallmark card. The front message on the card was the word, “Sorry!” Curious, I opened the card to read his handwritten message inside:
“John: I’ve been thinking over what happened between us yesterday, and I’ve decided that I was wrong to have threatened you. You didn’t—and don’t—deserve that. I now realize that I would never have gotten what I want that way—at least not for long. What I want is your enthusiastic participation, your heartfelt commitment to what I strongly believe we both want.
I’ve known you for less than a day, but I can already tell that there’s something different about you. You’re not like any of the other guys I’ve messed around with. You’re really important to me…for reasons I don’t fully understand. It’s not just about sex!
So, can you forgive me? Can we start over?
—Your friend, Eric”
After reading that, I felt some kind of way. He stood there, looking at me, with both hope and concern in his eyes, and on his face. Not yet sure how I wanted to respond, and needing time to think, I just stood back, and said, “Won’t you come in? So we can talk about this...in private?”
He stepped inside, moved past me, and I closed the door. I invited him to have a seat in the very comfy “hug you” chair that I used for watching TV, while I sat on the couch.
Silence: The ball was in my court, but I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t how I felt. But this is what I finally came up with:
“Wow, Eric. You’ve just blown all the things I had been wanting to say out of the water.”
“Yeah, I guess I can understand that. But at least, you’re not saying, ‘No, get lost!’”, he said, with a rather rueful look.
“Honestly, Eric, I’m really not sure how I feel,” I replied.
“OK. That’s fair.
Why don’t we just get to know each other better, then? That might give you a reason to make up your mind. It might also give you more time to process your feelings,” he suggested.
“That…sounds like a plan,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? Let me know who you are, what’s important to you, what things you’re interested in, what experiences have shaped you?”, I suggested.
He proceeded to do just that. But I won’t repeat that conversation here, partly for privacy reasons. What I will say is this: The picture that emerged was of a rather bright, industrious guy who loved his mother, and absolutely worshipped his father. He was not religious, probably because his parents were not; in fact, they were anti-establishment types who would have been right at home on the UC Berkeley campus during the 1970s (and the events in this story occurred in 1974, if you recall.) His career goal was to become a professor of psychology, just like his dad—both because the subject fascinated him, and because he wanted to help people.
Once I had a picture of who he was, I asked him, “So….about what happened yesterday. Am I right to infer that the reason you threatened me was because you had been so upset about what happened in the showers, and then also because seeing my obvious interest in your body, triggered your horniness? You saw an opportunity to get the sex you crave?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Sleeping on it overnight helped me regain my senses, come back to who I really am,” he said. “I’m really, really sorry, John. Please don’t break my heart. Give me a chance,” he pleaded.
I sighed, and responded: “I couldn’t get to sleep last night until after 2 in the morning, struggling with how I felt about yesterday’s events. One of the things that bubbled up from that was the fact that I really didn’t appreciate being threatened.”
He looked stricken, and said: “I probably should also mention that my school buddies egged me on. Without their encouragement, I probably wouldn’t have even approached you. And it wasn’t until you explained why you had been staring at me, that it even occurred to me that there might be a way I could get myself another fuckboy out of what had happened.”
“Were these school buddies present in the gym dressing room while things were going down?”, I asked.
“Of course they were,” he answered.
Ah. That explained a few things. Then I asked him, “I can’t believe you’re attracted to me physically [my self image, I now realize, was much lower than it should have been.] I get the fact that you’re ultra-horny, and want your own, personal fuckboy, but from what you wrote on your “Sorry” card, I get the impression that your interest in me goes well beyond just that. So, what’s the deal?”
“John,” he replied, “you’re better looking, and cuter, than you apparently realize.
More importantly, I may have known you for no more than a day, but there are others at the school who’ve known you—or have known of you, and share classes with you—since the beginning of the school year. And some of those guys also know me, and are actually my friends. I spoke with some of them about you yesterday. I know more about you than you think: Best chess player at the school, genius in language and linguistics, and a general all-around nerd…who wouldn’t hurt a fly; a super nice guy, who’s made no enemies.
And I haven’t seen anything from you in our interactions that makes me think that you’re not a loving, caring person. That’s a big part of what gave me the courage to apologize to you with that “Sorry” card: I felt comfortable throwing myself ‘at the mercy of the court,’ as my mother would put it.”
As you can see, Eric was quite the charmer.
I then asked him, “What sort of relationship with me are you seeking? And I don’t just mean sexually—although I want to know about that, too. For example, how would you define what you would expect from someone who is your ‘fuckboy’?”
He responded: “Well, I definitely want to have you as a friend—even if the relationship were to be strictly non-sexual. I think you’d be the perfect college roommate—at least for me, anyway.
I can’t deny my sexual interest, but I want to also add that, were you female, I’d be strongly considering ‘going steady’ with you as my girlfriend—something I’ve never wanted to do with anyone else. In other words, I think I’m developing romantic feelings for you.
As for what I’d expect from someone who was my ‘fuckboy’—I’ll spell that out so that it matches what I would want from you, specifically—I just want someone who likes sex in general, who really likes having it with me, who is not just willing, but eager, to have me fuck them, in whatever way I might want, whether vaginally, anally or orally.” He grinned, and said, “Of course, you don’t have a vagina, but I don’t care about that.”
I pondered that for a bit, and then replied:
“Yesterday, you said something to the effect that you’d ‘defer judgment on my case,’ or something like that. I’m gonna tell you the same thing. We can see where things go from here. Treat me right, and you just might get everything you say you want.
That said, why don’t we just get on with what we had originally planned? But without the implied threat of blackmail or violence?”
Apparently, that was the right thing to have said: He broke out in a huge, happy smile.
“Thanks, John,” he replied. I could clearly see the relief in his face. “Where should we go for this?”, he asked.
“My bedroom,” I replied. “There’s always the chance that my mother will come home unexpectedly.”
I then got up, and motioned for him to follow me into my bedroom, which he did. I closed the door, and then looked at him expectantly.
He simply said, “I think we should start with a replay of yesterday. We can always go beyond that, if that’s what you’d like to do.”
“You’re the expert,” I replied. So I proceeded to undress him, and then admire the view, once he was fully nude. He then sat down on my bed, and motioned for me to continue. I sat on my knees between his legs, took hold of his dick, and started jacking him. After a few minutes, I began to kiss and lick his genitals. I also sucked on his balls for a while, and then finally I began to suck on the head of his dick—just like I had done yesterday, but taking far less time to get to the endgame.
After I had been sucking on his dickhead for a few minutes, he said, “So John, so far, you’ve been the active one, while I’ve been just passively letting you do what you want. What do you think of switching those roles?”
I took his dick out of my mouth, and replied: “What do you have in mind?”
“I’d like to try fucking your mouth,” he said.
After thinking about that, I replied: “Yesterday, you mentioned ‘face fucking,’ I think you called it. Is that the same thing, or…?”
“Ah, no! I forget how inexperienced you are. Have you ever heard of ‘deep throating’?”, he asked.
“I think so. There’s a movie by that name, isn’t there?”, I replied.
“Yes; I see you’ve not bee completely sheltered.
‘Deep throating’ is when the dick is inserted as far as it will down the throat, not just into the mouth itself. ‘Face fucking’ means to fuck someone’s mouth—and throat—just like it’s a pussy: Full penetration, using strong, powerful strokes. But fucking a mouth is rather less extreme: The dick does not go past the entrance to the throat, and it is usually done more gently,” he explained. I found out later, although he was essentially correct, that fucking a mouth could be just as rough as face fucking.
“Help me out here: Is there any difference between ‘sucking a dick’ and a ‘blow job’? And how do those relate to ‘mouth fucking’ or ‘face fucking’?”, I asked.
“Well, that depends,” he said. “Both ‘mouth fucking’ and ‘face fucking’ imply that the person whose mouth is being fucked is the passive one. As for ‘blow job’ and ‘sucking a dick,’ both of those sometimes just refer to any action where a dick is in someone else’s mouth, regardless of any other considerations, but sometimes ‘sucking a dick’ might mean that one person’s dick is literally being ‘sucked’ by someone else, with the implication that the one doing the sucking is the active participant,” he clarified.
I still like that way of understanding the terms. Others may not agree, of course. I guess that’s an object lesson in the fact that different people may understand—and use—the same terms differently. In fact, the same person may use the same term with different denotational semantics, at different times and/or in different contexts. That’s essentially the reason that words in the dictionary often have more than one meaning, and also how and why the normative meanings of words change over time.
“OK. So then, why would you, or I, prefer a ‘mouth fuck’ to a ‘face fuck,’ or the reverse?” I asked. I finally had someone who could, and would, actually answer such questions for me, and I decided to take advantage.
“Most guys would strongly prefer to ‘face fuck’ someone, instead of just ‘mouth fucking’ them.
Unfortunately, that’s not the case for the other person: Getting your mouth fucked isn’t all that different from what you were just doing, other than the fact that even the head of my dick wasn’t going all the way into your mouth—but it would be doing that, if you let me mouth fuck you—and the fact that I’d be in control, and not you.
But getting ‘face fucked’ is not so similar; for many, even most, it can be a challenge to get used to it, and even more of a challenge to get to a point where you’d at least like it. That’s much more strongly the case if the dick is anywhere near the size of mine. My goal for you, though, is more ambitious than just getting you to like it: I want to get you to a point where you absolutely love it. But that will probably take a while, and you’d have to be willing to go through a period where it would be far from pleasant. On the other hand, you might be one of the lucky ones, who has little or no gag reflex—in which case, I could probably get you to enjoy it pretty quickly, perhaps even in a single fuck session.”
“Is there a way to tell in advance about this ‘gag reflex’ thing?” I asked.
“Not that I know of—other than to try putting dick-shaped objects down your throat, I suppose,” he replied. “But don’t worry, I have experience overcoming a person’s gag reflex. I know what I’m doing—and when it comes to you, the last thing I want to do is to get it wrong. Of course, my size makes that more of a challenge than it would be otherwise—both for me, as the teacher, and for you, as the student. Ultimately, John, if you’re one of the unlucky ones with a serious gag reflex, you’ll have to want to master deep throating badly enough to be willing to make it through the ‘break in’ period,” he explained.
“But make no mistake: The last thing I want to do is risk going too far, too fast.” he assured me.
“Seems like you’re being quite honest with me,” I commented.
“If I want to have a long-term relationship with you—and I do—I don’t have much choice. That’s why I gave you that written apology, to be honest,” he said.
His obvious honesty, his clearly expert-level knowledge (at least, compared to mine,) and his very apparent prioritization of playing for a long-term relationship, all bolstered my confidence in him, lessened my distrust, and assuaged my fears.
So I made a decision: “OK, Eric. Let’s give mouth fucking a try.”
“Great!,” he said. “All you have to do is lie on your back on your bed, and keep your mouth open wide for me. I’ll do the rest.”
I did as he asked. He corrected me: “I should have said to lie with your head at the foot of the bed, but with your head hanging off the edge.” So I repositioned as requested. He walked up to my head, and inserted the head of his dick into my mouth, but just held it there, without moving. He didn’t insert much deeper than I had done, when I was in control.
“I’ll give you a minute to just suck,” he said. So I started sucking.
Soon, he started gently, and slowly, thrusting the head of his dick in and out of my mouth, going a tad deeper than ever before.
“Try not to let your teeth scrape against my dick,” he said. I tried, but not all that successfully at first. He gave me some pointers on how to be better at that. Slowly, I learned. As I did, he slowly began to thrust deeper and deeper into my mouth. Eventually, the head of his dick was hitting against the back of my throat.
The fact that my mouth was being fucked, and the penetration of my mouth so deeply by his dick, was really turning me on. I was fascinated by the fact that the turn on was mostly psychological, not so much physical.
Eventually, I began to realize that the strain of keeping my jaw open, and having to take care to avoid scraping his dick with my teeth, was making my jaw ache. I tapped on his arm, to signal a time out. So he withdrew, at which point I informed him about the fact that my jaw was aching. He told me that that was normal, and apologized for having forgotten to warn me about that in advance. He then told me that, in time, I’d get used to it, and that the pain would greatly lessen over time, but that the only way to get there was to endure the pain until then.
So, when he pushed the head of his dick against my mouth, I opened up for him. He finally came, maybe five or so minutes later. I swallowed. Afterwards, he pulled out.
He commented: “We should take a break: You need to rest your jaw. And, although I could keep going without any break, it’s actually better for me if I take a break, too.” So we stopped fucking.
I suggested a snack. He agreed. I went to the kitchen to get us milk and cookies. My mom had baked the cookies. While we were eating, he asked me a bunch of questions about my life, my parents, my plans for my future, what I did for fun, and how I had become so good at chess. I answered his questions as concisely as I could—not because I was trying to hide anything, but because I wanted him to resume fucking my mouth: I really liked it, in spite of the way it was making my jaw sore. I flagged that fact for later introspection.
Around 1:30 pm, he resumed fucking me orally. He fucked my mouth for about a half hour every hour, and we took a break for the other half hour. That continued until just after 5 pm, when my sore jaw, his sexual exhaustion, and my mother’s impending return, convinced us to stop.
After cleaning ourselves up, and after he had put his clothes back on, I suggested that we go check out the pool table in the apartment complex’s billiard/party facility. And that’s what we did—which is how he found out about my expertise with cue balls and pool sticks. I offered to teach him. He accepted.
But now my mother was probably home, and I wanted to introduce Eric and my mother to each other, so we went back to my apartment, where we took care of that social necessity. My mother offered to cook him dinner—which was totally her standard operating procedure—but Eric declined, saying that his parents expected him home soon.
So, after agreeing that he’d come over again tomorrow (Sunday,) at about the same time, Eric went back home, and I sat on the couch, while my mother cooked dinner. I had a lot to think about.
My masturbation-induced orgasms that night were even better than the ones the previous night.
