Monorchid

[Sorry it's been a while, life gets in the way... Please remember this is set in the 1970s, as there's a character who talks in the vernacular of the time which is not really acceptable now...] We sat with them and chatted over a beer and spliff for a while, Boots in just bleachers with his braces down, me naked between his legs using them like an armchair. It seemed the most natural place to be, the feeling of his bulge against the back of my neck when I leaned back to look at him. Finally, the spliff was done and we’d finished our beers, “Well, I’m taking this one to bed,” Boots kissed the top of my head, squeezed me between his legs, then nudged his bulge into me from behind as he stood up. I scrambled to my feet and we left with a chorus of goodnights and have funs. I sat on the bed, helping Boots peel off his bleachers and pulling his balls and cock through his Y-fronts. There was a pool of liquid in his foreskin, “Have you cum already?” “Fuck, no! That’s just dick tears.” I leant in to taste, but he put his hand in the way and shook his head. He pushed me back to lie on the bed then lifted my legs to his shoulders. When he lined up to my hole and pulled his foreskin back, I felt his dick tears flow over me and he started pushing slowly in to me. I groaned at the slight burning pain, and he rocked back and forth. Just the head, rolling his foreskin back and forth. Each time some more tears and a little deeper and harder. The pain was ebbing away as he began to drive full length, still taking slow easy strokes. “Ohh, Rabbit…” He jabbed right in to me and I reached up to pull him close while he gyrated inside me. Slowly, we shuffled up onto the bed and I started massaging his cock with my arse muscles. I found I could ripple them along his shaft and he definitely seemed to like it. “Just … keep … doing … that,” he panted, staring down and spearing me with his eyes. I rocked as much as I could on his cock and carried on massaging. He dropped his head to my neck and started licking and kissing, his panting getting ragged, “Aww… Fu… Aahhh…” He pulsed inside me when he came and moaned into my neck. It was several minutes before he pushed up onto his elbows and stared down at me, “Where the fuck did you learn that?” I grinned up at him, “Just now.” He leaned down and kissed me hard and deep, pulling us up to the pillows and throwing the blankets over us. Soon, we were spooning, him behind, still hard inside me, until sleep came. Saturday, I went to halls to get my books and stuff after Boots said I could stay all week. I got back just after lunch and there was a queue out the door of the shop. After dumping my bags in Boots’ room, I went back to the shop, “Can I do anything?” Boots thought for a second, “Er, yeah… Take the customer’s ticket and if the tag on the shoes is green they can take them, anything else I’ll sort out.” I got to work, and we managed to clear the queue in time to shut up early. When Boots had locked up, I told him I could definitely use the buffing machine and key cutter, “I worked Saturdays and holidays in my dad’s engineering factory. I’ve run much more complicated machines than these.” He had me buff the rough boots I’d been polishing, then gave me two keys to cut, “They’ll be your keys for the club and the back door.” He gave a half smile, but when I went to kiss him he pulled away, giving a stern head-shake and nodding to the window, “Don’t want everyone knowing what goes on here.” “Shit, sorry. I didn’t think.” After an hour or so sorting out the club, Boots and I spent the rest of the night finishing off my bleachers and boots. We were already in bed, me milking another load from him, when we heard the others go upstairs. After breakfast, I spent Sunday working in the old workshop – it was the room above Rat’s shop. There was a large work table in the middle and several old, floor-standing sewing machines along two walls. I’d got a plan for my essay sorted by the time Boots came to get me for lunch. John followed me down after we ate and I was a little nervous when he followed me into the workshop. “Don’t worry, Rabbit. Just wanted to look at the machines.” “Er… OK.” I got back to my work while he looked over the equipment. John came over and looked at my work, “You’re at the university? What are you studying?” “Yeah, I’d doing Engineering Control. But it’s a bit boring if you’re not in to it…” “I work there in the computer lab.” My stomach fell and I must have gawped at him ’cos he laughed at me. “Not going to say anything, mate – apart from anything else, I’d lose my job.” He leant over my work and thumbed through the pages, “Hmmm…. Jacquard, eh? You know we program the computers with cards developed from his system…” We spent the afternoon talking about punched cards and control systems and all sorts of stuff none of the others would be interested in until Boots came to get us. “Come find me in the lab next week and I’ll show you some books.” John winked at me as he left. Boots took me in his arms and squeezed me hard, “Hope you weren’t talking his ears off,” he smiled. “Nah, he’s OK.” “Right, you ready for tonight?” he squeezed my arse a little and kissed me deep. “Will be soon,” I grinned at him as I headed off to sort myself out. I arrived down in the club wearing my new bleachers and the cleaned up rough boots and found boots sitting at a makeshift shoe-shine booth polishing a guy’s boots. There was a barber station next to him where Clipper was giving a Rudeboy a trim. I grabbed a couple of beers from the bar and went to sit by boots. When he finished the guy’s boots, he turned and kissed me. I looked confused at him, “It’s fine down here – nobody cares. It’s not people in the street, eh?” “Sure, no…” Another guy had sat at the shoe-shine and Boots nudged me, “You want a go?” “Er. Yeah.” I swapped placed with him and he showed me where the different cloths, brushes and polishes were. “It’s 50p for a basic shine, a quid for a lick and polish, two quid for the full works.” He looked up at the guy in the chair, “What’s it to be?” He looked down at me, “Lick polish, I think.” He shifted on the seat and put a boot on the footrest. Boots talked me through it, “So, give the toecap a lick … That’s it … Now polish on and brush off … And another lick before buffing off … Great, I’ll let you get on with the other one. I need to piss.” Boots came back as I was finishing off and the guy pushed a pound note through the slot in the money box. “Good job, boy,” he said, stroking my head as he hopped down. The Rudeboy Clipper had been barbering hopped up on the chair, planting his right boot on the footrest, “Full works, bwoy,” he said in a heavy Jamaican accent. I took in his scuffed Dms then looked up at him – short, maybe 5’4”, tight trousers with a clear ridge down this left leg, white shirt, black tie, jacket and pork-pie hat. He was clean shaven with very short hair under the hat and his ebony skin almost glinted in the club’s dim lights. Boots whispered, “That’s a full bootlicking to start…” I looked at him briefly before leaning forward to lick over all of this guy’s boot, lifting his trousers as far as I could to get up the boot sleeve. When I’d thoroughly wetted as much as I could, I put the polish on and brushed off before repeating the thorough licking and finally buffing it off. Boots and the guy, whose name I gathered was Leroy, chatted while I worked, and when I’d finished both boots, Leroy pushed a folded up five pound note into the money slot. “It’s only two quid.” I said, but Boots nudged me, “It’s a tip.” “Ah…” Leroy leaned down to me, “So, honky, you suck nigger dick?” I looked at Boots, but he just shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Not yet,” I said as Leroy got down from the chair. He stuck his hand out for shaking, but when I took it he pulled me close and bent down, “Find you later to sort that out, bwoy.” And he let go and strode off. “Fuck, Rabbit, I hope you know what you’re doing.” Then he grinned and we laughed. Nobody was waiting for bootshine so we headed off to the booth for a beer with Loz Rat and John. “Rabbit’s going to suck Leroy’s dick,” Boots announced as soon as we sat down. There was much leaning over of the table and slapping of my back and shoulders. “You’re fucking honoured.” Laughed Loz, “Leroy doesn’t let just anyone…” Boots and I went off to the shoe-shine a couple of times before the music started ramping down, and eventually most of the punters had left. We were waiting for the stragglers when Leroy came over, stood at the end of the booth next to me and grabbed his cock through his trousers. “You suck my dick now, bwoy.” It wasn’t a question. I leant forward to press my face against him and he grabbed the back of my polo shirt, pulling me up and then pushing me into the other part of the club. He sat in one of the easy chairs there with his legs spread and his arms on the arms of the chair, “C’mon honky bwoy, know you want some nigger dick.” I dropped to my knees and pushed my face into his groin, moving around to rub his balls and the shaft I could feel against my cheek. I reached up to open his belt but he slapped my hand away, “No touching, bwoy.” I carried up rubbing my face against him and stroking his thighs, which he didn’t object to, but avoided touching his dick. He smelt different to Boots and the others somehow, more earthy, but the musky sweat odour had the same effect. After a few minutes, he pushed my head aside and opened his fly – he didn’t wear underwear and hauled his dick out in one swift motion until it slapped my face. When he leant back, I started licking the length of him. He was about 10 inches, and when I got to tip I wasn’t sure I could open wide enough to take him comfortably in my mouth. When I looked up at him, he had his head back, eyes closed, with a small smile on his lips. I started licking over his head and sucking under his foreskin, gradually taking him further and further into my mouth. The first time I choked on him, he sat upright, “No bwoy!” I relaxed and started licking and sucking over his knob end and shaft. I’d been working him over for about 20 minutes before he became vocal again, “Yeah, bwoy, that’s it… Gonna feed you my nigger spunk…” He kept up the vocals, I was his biatch, a batty-bwoy cocksucker, I loved it. With every insult, his cock got harder in my mouth until finally he growled and thick cum pumped from his cock. “Eat my nigger cum, bwoy.” And I did, every last drop. He abruptly stood up and stuffed himself away. I looked up at him, “Do you fuck honkys, too?” He slapped me hard on the side of my head, “Me ’int no batty man.” And off he went, slamming the exit door behind him.

Welcome back Assmunch! So good to read you again

To me, the blanket banning of words is the most crass censorship. Don't get me wrong, I understand why you do it, but there are stories and experiences which cannot be discussed as a result. I myself have abandoned a story I have been writing because to fully express it would need the use of a (potentially) 'banned word'. Here, very much, context is very important. Speech patterns and usage are very different across time and place and simply saying 'you can't use that word' stifles debate, creativity and development/education. A system where a post containing a contentious word was moderated, with input from the poster via private message and some kind of explicit context ('this is a story from 1970s England and this character would self describe as this',) would be far better, in my opinion. And there must be a list, you simply choose not to make it available, meaning we cannot avoid using them unless we notice the automatic censorship in time.

I always suck my partner clean after he's fucked me. It's especially good when he reminds me what he just did, "Suck the cock I fuck you with, Queerboi."

I got the meaning of your screen name straight away - I've played with blind and deaf guys several times and found them to be very sensual. I've learnt plenty from them.

Mine is a literal description... I have one testicle... Not that it affects my sex life at all 😜

Your basic premise is over-simplified. Active-passive, sub-dom and top-bottom are three, different, intersecting continua - it's quite possible for someone to be Active-Bottom-Dominant or Passive-Top-Submissive, for example. For me, I'm mostly bottom, fairly active and hover around the neutral of sub-dom. With my partner, I can be a dominant active bottom, or a submissive active bottom depending on our mood. I'm never a passive submissive bottom - that would seem to make me no more than a sex toy, which isn't what we're up for (although I appreciate others go for that...) Overall, the situation is more complicated than your original question implies.

Yes and no... I'll suck any (clean) cock and he can fuck me after, too. Part of what I get off on is making him feel good and receiving his cum. But I need a certain size if I'm going to really get off, and give him my best. Long enough to choke on and thick enough to feel him fuck. I've taken over 10" (once) and given my best to 4" too, more than once.

There's a special sore throat I get from taking cock in my throat, which I really like - the slightly hoarse voice and tickley cough... Anyone else get this and enjoy the reminder of what you are?

I definitely like it when my partner goes at me hard, especially when he's wearing a larger PA. The sore throat and arse the next day (or two) is always a nice reminder, too. As for marks and bruises - I love them too... I have a bite-mark tattoo taken from a real bite and the next tattoo is likely to be based on the scratches and bruises I get from my partner fucking me.

I went to meet a guy and he didn't look away from his phone from the moment I arrived. After about 2 minutes sucking his limp cock I said "sorry mate, you're obviously not interested" and left. When I got out of the Tube there were a pile of messages - starting with sorries and ending with insults. Needless to say he got blocked.

Sehr richtig!

Not viable as a business any more...

These are the boots I bought from the sale (one as is, the other after one polish) - they're going to have been hanging from the ceiling for 20+ years...

The Backstreet, London’s last remaining gay fetish club worth the name, closed its doors for the last time in the early hours of Sunday 17th July 2022. I first went in 1998 when I came to London as a mature student. It was a regular Friday night with my new friends, and I was enjoying exploring the kinkier side of my nature. I’d come from a Conservative (Big-C) city where the scene, such as it was, was pedestrian at best. We sat by the DJ console, chatting with the other guys in the club. It was always social, much more so than other similar London clubs. Yes, you could suck cock at the bar – get fucked there, even – but that was never the prime focus of The Backstreet. The venue had an identity beyond its existence as a fetish club – it had a personality of its own and gave a place for communities to develop. That friends group drifted apart and I got involved with SM-Gays, so I started going to the more heavily fetish oriented clubs in Vauxhall and Bow for a few years, then dropped out of the scene completely for a while. I’d started preferring saunas – the same social atmosphere in the small independent places, and I found I liked being naked. I met a new group of friends – a gay nudist group who met at a sauna on Fridays and went to the Wednesday night Boots Only sessions at The Backstreet. This was yet another community The Backstreet was supporting – a diverse group of guys, all shapes, sizes, ages, disabilities and social positions. It could only exist in such a non-judgemental place. The owner and staff always supported and looked after their customers, and their regular customers were (still are) fiercely loyal. I went to the closing sale – I’ve got a boot fetish, and anyone who knows the place will understand I had to have a pair of boots from The Backstreet (the ceiling was hung with boots of all types.) I had hoped I’d find a pair (or even one) I could make into something suitable – a doorstop, maybe – but I found a pair which fit me and I’ve started restoring them. Every time I wear them, I’ll remember that time I got fucked over the bar while ordering a drink, or the discussion of jam making while sitting naked out the back smoking cigars, or any of countless other memories. I was so glad to be able to personally thank the owner and manager. The Backstreet will be missed.

I used to regularly get fucked in public - parks, beach, night, day... I never cared and neither did my fucker

there was an early 20's guy used to live a street over from me. We first met and cruised in the street, and then on some contact site - this was before apps. He just sent me a pic of his hard cock and if I was free I'd head round and suck him. No chat, no hands, just suck and swallow. He disappeared after about a year - new job? Graduated? Who knows.

I hope there's more of this - I could be The Stud or The Prey in this...

Reckon it's a bit of both 😜

Anywhere he wants, really - do like walking round a club or sauna with cum on my face, though. Tells everyone I'm a cocksucker...

Indeed - there wasn't quite so much fucking, of course...

Cheers Medwaym 😀 I'm sort of basing it on the guys I hung around with at Rabbit's age (about 15 years after I've set the story.) They were great guys.

As soon as we got to his room, Boots threw me face down on the bed and plunged in hard, Loz and Rat’s cum squelching between us and soaking his Y-fronts. “Arhg, Boots!” I sighed as we bounced on the mattress. “You like it, eh, Rabbit?” “Fuck yes!” He sped up, and soon pumped more cum into me. When he pulled out, I span round to clean him but he palmed me away, pulling his Y-fronts off and wiping his cock with them. “Damn, how do you stay hard like that?” “Just do. Can cum at least three times before I go down. But tonight I’m just gonna sleep in you and fuck again in the morning.” With that he hauled the blankets up, slid in behind me and eased in as we fell asleep. True to his word, I was woken when he started plunging into me. I just whimpered, clamping and wriggling on his shaft. It wasn’t long before I was taking my fifth load of spunk since last night. He got up, wiped his cock on yesterday’s Y-fronts and tossed them to me, “Souvenir,” he smiled, and quickly dressed. I sniffed the pants then pulled them to head upstairs for breakfast. “Great wankpants, there, Rabbit!” Rat grinned, and groped me as I went past. “Hmmm, still wet.” He licked his smiling lips and headed out. Once we’d eaten, Boots let me out by the shop, giving me a hard deep kiss on the way, “See you later, Rabbit!” he called after me and I practically floated back to halls. As soon as I got in my room, I stripped to my new pants and pulled my aching balls and rigid cock through the Y like they’d showed me. It took only a minute or so for me to soak them with my own load. Needless to say, I didn’t get much work done, but there were no assignments due. I wore my wankpants for the rest of the weekend, only showering on Monday morning before lectures. At GaySoc on Tuesday, Russell droned on about something about age of consent and legal shit, but I wasn’t paying attention – I could smell Keith’s sweat and just wanted to get in his pits and on his cock. When we got to the bar, I couldn’t help openly sniffing him. He looked at me a bit awry but I just smiled at him. As we finished our second pint, I leaned closer and said, loud enough for the rest of the group to hear, “Let’s go to my room so you can fuck me.” His face went beetroot, but I saw his bulge twitch and nudged him when I stood up, “Well, you cumming or not?” He scrambled after me and five minutes later we were on my bed, my face in his pits and his cock in my arse. Luckily, I’d managed to use the shower to douche earlier, but it had been awkward. There was a letter from my mum in my pigeon hole the next morning – they were visiting at the weekend and we were going for dinner for her birthday. I’d planned to go to the club Friday, but figured it’d be a bad idea. Turned out, the visit gave me a chance to get some new clothes. I told them I needed jeans, T-shirts and boots for the machine shop classes starting after reading week and they were only too happy to buy them. When they left I had two pairs of jeans (one black, one blue,) two polo shirts (black with yellow detail, and dark blue with white,) and a respectable pair of work boots. When the next Friday came round, it was the start of reading week. I had quite a bit of catching up to do, so planned to go to the club then work the rest of the week. I got myself ready – douche but no shower – and pulled on the wankpants (now significantly more cum-stained,) blue jeans and polo and the new boots. I’d been wearing them all week to get used to them and make them look less perfect but they’d given me blisters and my feet ached. I hoped Boots could help me break them in. It was chilly, so I threw on my green canvas snorkel-parka and headed to Boots’ shop. “Just a minute!” he called from the back. “It’s Rabbit!” I called back, and he practically ran to let me through to where he was working on a nasty looking pair of high heels. He sniggered, “Yeah… But that’s the job and these aren’t the worst things girls put on their feet.” He bundled be up in a hug even before I could get my parka off. He got back to work and I sat chatting while he finished off. “I got my parents to buy me jeans, shirts and boots.” “Yeah?” he was intent on his work, but still listening. He looked up when I took off my parka and hopped off the stool so he could see me full length. “Oh, nice. How are the boots?” “Uncomfortable. I’ve got two blisters on each foot.” “You’re wearing them wrong, or they’re not quite the right size. We can do something about that. I’ve got some of those boots and they’re good. You’ll have to learn to care for them, too, ‘cos I ain’t doing all the polishing.” He stabbed me with his eyes wearing a twisted grin, then went back to the shoe. I sat silently watching him work. I realised the odd tangy smell he had under his sweat was glue and shoe-leather. A few minutes later, he tied a tag on them and I followed him through to the shop where he slid them into a rack with a load of other women’s shoes. A second rack had men’s shoes and boots. When he turned to look at me, there was a concerned look on his face, “There’s just one problem…” he said as he came towards me, then he scruffed my hair and laughed. “You look so worried. Gotta do something with this.” “Whoh…” I realised I’d been holding my breath at least since he’d said ‘problem.’ “I wanted to shave, but I’d make a mess of it.” “Come on…” he turned on his heel and left the shop. When I went out, he was standing outside the barber’s next door. We went in and he called out, “Oi! Blades! Got space for a shave?” The two barbers looked round – a plump skinhead, and slim punk with black spiked hair, both a bit shorter than me. “Yeah, take a seat. This the lad you been harping on about, then?” Boots smiled at me, “Rabbit, this is Clipper and Blades.” He indicated the punk and skin in turn, each nodding to me. Blade was snipping away at a guy in his 50s and Clipper was working on a punk with dye and bleach and who knows what. The guy already waiting got seen next for a quick trim, then I sat up in the chair. Blades quickly clippered off my hair then wrapped hot damp towels round my face and head, patting them down. I watched him deftly hone and stop a straight razor, then work up a bowl of lather with his brush. Removing my face towel, he lathered me up and swiftly got rid of my stubble, all the while stroking my cheeks and neck. It was intensely erotic and I was getting uncomfortably hard in my jeans. He slapped a very cold towel on me, then standing behind, lightly slapped my cheeks a few times. He repeated the same on my head, until I was completely shorn. He whipped off the bib and set about cleaning his kit while I looked at myself in the mirror. Then he did the mirror round the back of my head, thing and said, laughingly, “Can I get you anything for the weekend, sir?” and winked at me in the mirror. “Er… No, that’ll be all, thanks. How much…?” he waved the question away and I hopped down to let the next customer in. Outside, I stroked my scalp and felt the breeze over the smooth skin. I was grinning like mad when I went back in to Boots shop. When he finished the brogues he was re-soling, he took me through to the back stairs and stroked my head and face before giving me a long deep kiss. “It’s a while before the shop shuts so go up to the den and get some tea going.” He kisses me again and I headed off upstairs. “Oh,” he called after me, “go see Rat next door, he’ll sort you out with bleachers, then get your boots and socks off and put some salt and vinegar on your blisters. It’ll hurt, but they’ll dry up nice and fast.” I ducked through the back door to the clothes shop and Rat nearly fell of his stool behind the counter, “Rabbit?!” “Hi, Rat. Boots said to come get sorted with bleachers.” Once we’d found a pair that fitted, and a pair of light blue braces, I went up to the den with instructions to wash the jeans in the bath. When I came out of the bathroom, Loz was making tea and getting dinner. He looked me up and down and smiled, “Well, well, ain’t you the fast worker.” He grabbed a shallow enamelled gazunder, dumped some salt and vinegar in it and poured water from the kettle in, “Get your feet in that, Boots’ll deal with the rest.” I took the gazunder, and a mug of tea, into the den and bathed my blisters in the stinging water. Rat came in while later with a skinhead I didn’t know. He was a couple of inches shorter even than Rat, and a bit podgy, “Oi! Rabbit, this is John. How are the jeans?” “Hanging over the bath to dry.” Rat was already stripping to his wankpants as the new bloke sat down. “Let’s go see.” I followed him to the bathroom and he had me strip and put the wet jeans on, then sat me on the hearth in front of the fire in the den to dry faster, “We need to get bleach on these tonight if you’re going to wear them Sunday night.” “What’s Sunday?” I asked, turning to warm the back of my legs. “Special night at the club. Skins, punks, rudies, all sorts really. It’s ska, reggae, twotone, northern soul and stuff.” “All gay?” “Nah. But all friendly. The NF fake skins and their mates wouldn’t dare come.” Just then, Boots came in carrying a bundle of boots by the laces and some socks. “How’s the feet?” “Bit better.” He dropped the boots by the fireside chair and the socks at my feet, “Put the thin ones on then the heavy ones over the top and over your jeans, and try your boots on. Won’t be a mo.” He went off to the kitchen, returning with tea and a cloth drawstring bag. As he sat in the fireside chair, he nodded at my boots, now laced up on my feet, “Better?” “Much, but don’t think I want to be wearing them much for a few days.” “Don’t worry about that,” he laughed, “we gotta get them polished up yet. Might as well get them off. You need a pair of rough boots.” We spent about half an hour trying on the boots he’d brought in until I’d chosen a comfortable pair I liked the look of – these had cleats up the sleeve instead of eyelets, which I thought looked the business. “Grub up!” Loz called from the kitchen, and we all piled in for a bowl of stew. After food, Loz, Rat and John headed down to the club, “Take it you two will be bust up here tonight,” Loz smiled at us. “Yeah,” Boots nodded, “boots to shine and jeans to bleach.” “OK. I’ll buzz if we need you,” and he left. We sat by the fire that evening, Boots showing me how to polish my boots. Warming the old polish over a candle to wipe it off, melting in new polish, brushing and buffing, then just a thin layer, brush and buff. I’d gone over the rough boots and my new ones twice each an hour or so later when Rat came in. “Those jeans dry yet?” he said, stripping. “Yeah, pretty much,” I told him. The three of us headed to the bathroom and Rat showed me how to wet areas of the denim and put bleach crystals on to make a pattern. I went for a wide white streak over the bum seam, with drips going down the back of the legs, and random patches on the front and lower down the back. It tok another hour before they were hanging over the bath drying off. Rat disappeared again and Boots and I went back to polishing, drinking beer, having a spliff and listening to music until the others came up at the end of the evening.

My partner gets quite rough in my throat sometimes - he's 7 1/2" with a heavy PA and really gets off on me choking, gagging and retching round his cock. Always have a sore throat and scratchy cough for a couple of days after. I love that some guys know why my voice has gone raspy.