Cock Worshipper

COCK WORSHIPPER PART 12 by Jason Kason

I bounded into Philip's office, so excited to hear what it was he had to tell me, but there behind his desk was sitting Helena.

"Where's Philip?" I asked her.

"He's not here," she said. "He's gone away."

I shrugged and said okay and flopped myself down in the cheap padded chair.

"He said he knew how to cure me," I told her. "He said we just had a couple more sessions and I'd be totally sorted."

"He shouldn't have said that," she replied with an edge to her voice. "We offer treatments not cures: that's in the regulations."

She can be a right mardy cow when she's got it in her.

"Okay," I shrugged, "but can you tell me what he was going to go through with me? The stuff about the jigsaw puzzle or joining the dots or something like that...?"

She glared at me from across the desk. She had a proper strop on her today. Maybe she hadn't liked the journal entry I'd written about her; maybe she thought it made sound like the vacuous tart I thought she was.

She said, "Philip didn't leave any notes on whatever it was he spoke to you about last week. In any case –"

"It was about what happened in the club when I went to the john. All the stuff about me calling some old fella 'daddy' – it's all in my journal."

"I don't think any of that's relevant," she said prissily. I bet the lazy bitch hadn't even read it.

"I'm far more interested in your relationship with Gavin Hutchinson," she went on. "I think we have a lot more work to do on that side of your... er... fixation."

"Okay," I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment that I wasn't going to find out whatever it was that Philip had been on about. "If you think so."

"I do," she said flatly. Jesus, she was well fucked off today.

When I just sat there and didn't say anything back, she asked, "So do you and Gavin still meet up?"

I should have got up and walked out there and then. Hadn't she even flicked through my journal? Did she even know what my fucking name was?

But I didn't. I held back. Counted backwards from a hundred in sevens, the way Philip taught me to.

Then, when my breathing was feeling normal again, I said, "It says in my journal – pretty early on, I think – that I looked him up on Facebook... saw his wife and kids and stuff. Kinda suggests I'm not popping round for tea and jammy dodgers on a too regular basis, don't you think...?"

"I just wanted to be sure," she said, glaring at me. Like she had the first fucking clue what was in my journal and what wasn't.

Then, when I just glared back, she said, "So tell me how the two of you drifted apart."

"That's in the journal too," I lied, sure that the silly bitch would say she wanted to be sure about this too.

But she didn't. She said, "No it isn't."

No such a silly bitch. Well played, that woman.

So I shrugged and said, "You're right, it isn't."

"So why did you say it was?"

"Just wanted to be sure."

"Okay," she scowled at me. "So tell me why things didn't work out for you both."

We were seeing each other pretty much every night of the week. If I'd been a girl, they'd have smiled and said we were going steady. But since we were two boys everybody just did their best to ignore it.

He had girlfriends on and off, different names would come and go in conversation, but he'd always make time for me and could be quite affectionate sometimes. Kissing was out – an absolute no-go – but sometimes he'd put his arm around me which made my bollocks tingle and sometimes, rarely, he'd tell me I was "special".

Not special like I clapped when I laughed – at least I don't think he meant it that way – but special like I was different from other boys to him and different from his girlfriend too.

The very last night that I was special to Hutchy, we met up near to where his grandma lived. He must have been running an errand or just seeing how she was, but he told me he'd be at the roundabout near her house at seven o'clock.

It was starting to get dark when we met and we walked over to the little corner shop at the end of Weardale Street, chatting about nothing much as I remember it, maybe him telling me about some scam he was pulling and me wondering if I was going to get to worship his cute little cock any time soon.

He bought a bottle of cider in the shop – he'd looked like he was in his mid-twenties from being about twelve – and when he came out he said he knew a place we could go. In Hutchy speak that meant somewhere he could shag me and I'd smiled and said, "Yeah... about time!"

I don't what it was about me that attracted him so much. There was his 'flaw', of course, which gave him a thing about doing other boys up their bums. He loved being caught like that – having me bent over with my trousers half-down and him standing behind me with his hips slapping dead hard against my arse. He'd choose places where fellas – he always liked it most when it was men – would walk in on us going at it full throttle and start mouthing off at us about how dirty we both were. He seemed to get off on how shocked and disgusted they acted and tried to last as long he could fucking my arse in front of them before he'd have to abandon ship when it got too dangerous.

But he could do all that with anyone; it didn't much matter that it was my arse he had his dick up. There were more slutty boys than me around town and loads of them would be well up for letting Hutchy act his out fantasies behind them while they put their hands on their knees and looked forwards at the wall.

As far as I know, though, I was the only lad he played around with. He had loads of girls on the go, quite often two- or three-timing them in multiple combinations, but mine was the only boy-bum he liked to get his dick up.

The funny thing is – and I only just thought of this – I actually outlasted every single one of his girlie-friends. I met Hutchy when I was fourteen, give or take, and I was seventeen by the time we met up for the last time at the roundabout near his gran's house. I think the longest he dated a girl was about six months, so at three years and counting me and him were real old-timers.

Maybe if we'd met as two teenagers these days, with attitudes being so different and gay stuff all over the place, we'd have ended up shacked up together by the time we were twenty with a nice little house and a couple of dogs. I'd have liked that, I think, being the other half of Mr Gavin Hutchinson, and I reckon we'd have been pretty happy together the two of us, bar the odd blazing row now and then.

But anyway, it wasn't to be like that for us and that very last night he wanted us to go to some old church which was about to be turned into flats. It was empty, he said, and no-one went there so I said yeah okay, sounds as good a place as any.

With the night drawing in, it was getting quite dingy inside by the time we got there and it was a bit of mess, really, with broken glass all over and the pews smashed up.

He gestured to one end of the nave and said, "Over there, up on that step, the floor doesn't look too trashed."

We both knew what he was suggesting we do there. The tiled floor which was largely free of debris would be what I had my hands and knees on when I was splayed out on all-fours.

I wasn't sure it was the right place for doing that. I said, "Come on, Hutchy. That's the fucking altar, mate."

Hutchy just shrugged and took a long swig from his cider. Then he said, after belching loudly, "They'll have de-godded it or whatever the word is. Anyway, there's a wooden fence sorta thing off to one side... you could use that to... you know... support yourself on."

I wasn't sure what the fence thing had been for but I was sure it hadn't been intended for dirty lads like me to bend over so my arse could have my mate's boned-up prick pushed up it.

The thing was, though, we'd done stuff together in much worse places than this. There's a big concrete pipe behind Grayson Road where some underground stream drains into the river, with the inside of it full of old shopping trollies and old mattresses stinking of filth. One night he'd fucked me in there, doing my woozer rough from behind with our trousers round our knees and our boots getting wet. Some kids had seen us and thought we were two homeless fellas bumming each other which Hutchy had found hilarious until they'd started chucking bottles at us.

So in comparison with that, this old church was actually quite classy. Even the broken stained glass window could be passed off as shabby chic.

"D'ya think the vicar might come in and catch us?" he asked hopefully. "He'd be well freaked seein' the two of us havin' arse-sex right where he used to do weddings and stuff!"

"He might think it was a fertility thing," I chuckled, remembering some programme I'd seen on telly about how spring used to be celebrated by folk dancing around stone circles at dawn.

"Fertility thing?" he asked, finishing the bottle off. "What's that about, then?"

"You know, a lad would get a lass pregnant on the altar so that the fields would grow loads of crops in the coming year... the seed meeting the egg would please the gods or... you know... something like that..."

"So how would it work with two lads then?" he chortled. "You reckon the gods would be pleased where my seed's gonna end up?!"

I laughed back at that. "Maybe the ceremony where the boy has to bend over would've been an end-of-year thing... you know... to help with muck-spreading and stuff!"

He grinned over at me. "Well, that's all right 'cause it's October now! Let's see if the two of us can get the slurry pumpin'!"

His dick was hard, I could tell. He smiled in a certain way when it was poking up inside his stinky third-day-on briefs. His only focus when he gets that way is to work the thing up me and thump it in and out as hard as he can. If we went for it now, he'd be willing the vicar to walk in and catch us, hoping he'd give us a stern telling off or maybe preferring him to recite incantations to absolve us of sin. Either way, unless things turned nasty, Hutchy would just leer at him, angling his body to prove that his cock really was pushed up deep between my two round bum-cheeks.

He'd love for that to happen – I knew he would. If it did, he'd be talking about it the whole way home.

"Do you think he saw that my cock was proper up your arse?" he'd eagerly ask, just like he had after some poor sod had stumbled across us doing it behind his garden shed. "I tried to let him see it come out of your anal-hole... show him all the shit stuck to it..."

I didn't mind all that, although I'd have preferred it if it just been the two of us enjoying our sex stuff together, but here in the church didn't feel right at all. I've never been religious – well, only in deference to the immaculate glory of the cock – but for us to squat down together to have bum sex on an altar that had been used for prayer and reverence, didn't feel like something I wanted to do.

I was all for cock worship in all its many guises, but going at it full-whack right there under the stone archway where a vicar had once stood giving his sermons seemed like it might be crossing the line into eternal damnation territory.

So I said, "I'll suck you, Hutchy, but I don't want a shag..."

"You know I don't like that," he argued. "I wanna bit of bum fun..."

"I tell you what, then," I offered, "if you let me suck you and I get horny, then we'll see how I feel after that..."

He smirked at me. He knew how much I liked a cock in my mouth. He sometimes asked me whether I'd slobbed off any fit lads recently and whether anyone had caught us while they'd had their big knobs down my throat.

So he nodded and said, "Yeah, okay then. But I've gotta see your dick after you've done it. If you get so horny your bell-end's all dribblin', you have to let me do you up the browner – that's the fuckin' deal!"

I nodded back. My bell-end was pretty sure to wind up dribbling but I'd have to think my way out of that problem when the time came.

He hurled the empty cider bottle against one of the stone pillars making the whole church echo with the noise of it smashing, and then walked over to the altar unfastening his belt and fly. I couldn't believe I was finally about to get to glorify his lovely thin, stubby erection in the way I most enjoyed. All the times I'd begged him to let me have a lick of it and had been snapped at and told absolutely fucking not; all the times I'd tried to duck down for a sly slurp and had almost ended up with a black-eye for it; and now here I was about to kneel in front of him and pay homage to his manhood in the way it most deserved.

He pulled his jeans and piss-stained tight stripy briefs down and his cock sprung up as excited and impatient as I'd expected it to be. It looked really sweet, poking upwards with its bright red helmet popped right out of his foreskin, and I could tell from the way it kept jerking upwards as its muscles spasmed involuntarily, how much it desperately wanted to push its way up my arse.

He grinned at me, flaunting his cute little dickie for me, and said, "If it goes soft, Jase, you've gotta let it at least have a sniff of your arse crack. The smell of your backdoor will get it back on full-bonk pretty sharp!"

I chuckled at that – I'd fallen for that once before.

One night when my arse was too sore to let him have his way, he'd tried that particular chestnut and I'd agreed to turn round and let his cock have a quick sniffter. I'd even bent forwards for him to rub its single nostril up and down my clacker, and guess what... next thing I know, he's slid the thing right up through my red, puffy hole.

I'd called out, "Aw come on, Hutchy mate! You said you'd just rub your dick up and down my arse crack!"

He'd bent over me, wrapping his arms around my chest, panting against my ear, "I need your chuff around my knob, Jase! I've gotta have proper up-the-bum stuff, my balls are so full!"

"My arse needs a breather, mate!" I'd gasped, finding I was starting to enjoy it even though my ringpiece burned to high fuck.

"Whose big thick cock's worn it out, then?" he'd chuckled against the back of my neck. "Was it that gyppo lad you've been poncin' about with? I reckon he's got a fuckin' tree-trunk of a dick..."

That 'gyppo lad' worked for the fairground that was in town and while he turned his butter-wouldn't-melt charm on with every girl he met, he had a thing for what he called 'pookie-love' and performed it very strenuously on me around the back of the waltzer.

So Hutchy was right, as he usually was – it was indeed the cute carnie-boy's cock that had cleaved me in two – but I sure as hell wasn't going to admit anything to him.

"I don't bend and blab," I'd panted, moving my body against his in time with his thrusting. "You know better than to ask!"

He'd laughed into my ear, knowing he was right, and then had surprised me by reaching under me to rub my dick while he fucked me; the only time in our three years together that he'd done that for me.

So, in spite of how good it had ended up feeling, I wasn't going to fall for that one again!

I knelt down in front of him, ignoring the debris strewn across the tiled floor digging into my knees, and admired his beautiful cock pulsing gently upwards in front of me. It wasn't particularly long or thick and smelled quite strongly of his piss and pube sweat, but it was easily my favourite of all the cocks I worshipped and I wanted to give it a special treat tonight.

I leaned in through the gathering gloom in the old church and licked the goo from the bright red head pointing upwards towards my face. I relished the sharp salty taste and then leaned in further to coax more of his ooze out of his puckered slit by nuzzling his shiny helmet with my lips, reminding myself of a giraffe.

"Just fuckin' suck it, Jase," he called down, but I wasn't having any of that.

I called back, "This is why you don't enjoy having a gob 'round your dick, Hutchy! You're too impatient to get sucked off, but there's a lot more a mouth can do down here, mate!"

"Well just get on and do it!" he said irritably. "It's gonna be dark by the time we get onto the good stuff!"

Ignoring his preference for instant gratification, I got to work kissing and licking his cock, first the head of it until his slit was seeping with precum and then the shaft of it until the veins were raised and knotted across the surface. I sucked at the top half of it, sweeping my tongue in circles around his throbbing helmet and even risked gently biting it, squeezing it with the slightest pressure between my teeth.

He liked that – I'd hoped he would – and groaned in appreciation. He grabbed my head and tried to fuck my mouth like he would thrust away at my arse but I stopped him and kept licking up and down his rock hard shaft, teasing the maximum pleasure from his organ.

"Aw fuck! This is somethin' else, Jase!" he gasped as I lapped roughly at the underside of his fat little cock head. His salty fluid trickled out of his slit in time with his pulse and I loved how increasing the pressure of my tongue made bigger gobs of goo ooze out of him.

I drank it down hungrily, smiling at how I was being so tenderly nourished by his bountiful cock, and he moaned with pleasure as I reached up to hold his balls, kneading them between my fingers as my tongue milked surge after surge of warm dribble from his red swollen plum.

All the times he'd refused me glorifying his manhood like this! All the times he must have thought I would just slurp at the thing like one of his tartish girlfriends, not trusting that a cock worshipper like me would know exactly how to make my favourite man squirm.

I wrapped my hand around his shaft and gently wanked his foreskin back and forth as I kept suckling at the fountain of his juice.

He liked that and muttered, "Aw yeah! Fuckin' wank me!" so I grabbed his cock firmer and jerked the stem of it more quickly, tonguing his slit quite roughly so I could really feel how his drool was leaking out onto the tip.

Then I moved down to his balls and took them both into my mouth, one by one, loving the strong smell of his sweat on his nutsack and inhaling the stink of his piss from around the base of his cock. All the time I kept wanking him and he basked in the feel of my hand squeezing up and down his cock. He kept grunting and panting, grabbing my head to push my face closer to his bollocks, and calling out "Oh fuck!" at how surprised he was that he was enjoying this so much.

I pulled back from him and looked up at him staring wide-eyed at me through the gathering gloom. I said, "Turn 'round... I wanna lick your arse!"

David Hetherington had showed me a thing or two about that and I was more than willing to pass the knowledge on to Hutchy.

He seemed thrown by what I'd said, though, and faltered, "What, for proper... you know... right in the crack?"

"Your arsehole, Hutchy... I wanna lick it like I've just licked your slit!"

He looked wary, like he wasn't sure how well he'd wiped his pucker, so I added, "Maybe the vicar'll catch us... shine a torch to see what we're doing on his altar... see me kneeling behind you getting a faceful of brown-eye!"

"Aw yeah!" he laughed. "That'd be fuckin' well ripe!"

He yanked his trousers down more and turned round to show me his pudgy blonde butt. From the little I'd seen of it, I'd always loved how tight and dumpy it looked and had wanked off so, so many times wondering what it would feel like lube my dick up and do to his arse what he delighted in doing to mine.

Hutchy had made it abundantly clear, however, that shagging him up the bum was a total no-no. I'd once suggested it when he'd been so ripped on smoke I'd thought he'd agree to anything, but he'd turned really nasty saying I had no right to think of him like that. If there was a shitter to be shafted it sure as fuck wasn't going to be his, so the most he'd let me do was to have a sneaky look at it and if he caught me doing that too often I'd be asking for a smack.

So I was surprised that some weird Hutchy-logic said it was okay for me to stick my face between his cheeks here in this damp dingy church when he hadn't let me put so much as finger anywhere near it in the three years previous.

I wondered if maybe he'd been so blown-over by how nice it had felt the way I'd slobbered and slavered over his cock and bollocks that he was more open to finding out what it felt like to do the same thing to his arse. Or whether it had never have occurred to him that I might like putting my mouth on him back there and he liked the idea of having his faggot-friend feeding on his skanky cudger.

And it would be skanky; I was in no doubt about that. He always wore his cheap pack-of-five briefs for far too long – even the lads in PE used to laugh at how his pants were smeared with three shades of stains – and when I'd been licking his nuts, just inches from where they'd been pulled down around his thighs, I'd kept getting whiffs a lot rougher than you'd get from the sort of stuff that was staining the front of them.

But I wanted to taste him and didn't care how bad it reeked where his briefs had ridden up inside his crack. It had been nice to press my face between David Hetherington's broad cheeks but he was too particular about keeping himself clean; too careful to keep his expensive underwear pristine fresh. Now I wanted Hutchy's squat smelly butt smothering my nose. Now I wanted to get myself a proper taste of stinkface.

I moved in towards his chunky cheeks and he grabbed them with both hands to prize them apart for me. Even in the darkness I could see how clumped and matted his blonde, wiry crack-fur was; through the dampness of the air I could smell the unwiped pungence of his hot, sticky hole.

And I could see it: there it was, nestling in his butt-hair between his thumbs where he was gaping his trench open. It was tiny, like a tightly-knotted dimple with the hair looking denser and darker on both sides of it. If I'd ever suspected Hutchy of liking other boys' dicks up him – which I hadn't – his wrinkled little dinkie would have proven to me beyond a doubt that he didn't. There wasn't much that had got anywhere near it, and it looked like that included toilet paper.

"Come on, lick me up and down my cranny!" he urged me. "If the vicar comes in with his torch, let him see your tongue pushing into me shit-hole!"

I wasn't sure I was going to be able to go that far, but I intended on giving it my very best shot.

I pressed my face between his warm, squishy cheeks and wedged my nose into the bristly dampness of his crack. I took a tentative sniff and, liking the sheer strength of what I found, inhaled more deeply and searched downwards for where the stink would be roughest.

"Aw yeah, fuckin' sniff it!" he chuckled, grabbing the back of my head with his left hand and forcing my face deeper into his hot, muggy forest. With his right, he started wanking off his spit-slobbered cock making his body start shaking to the rhythm of his wrist.

I was pleased that his cock – that which I served – was being gratified by the esteem I was paying to its hairier, smellier brother. I think it was that which spurred me on: that the immaculate organ I always sought to oblige was finding pleasure from where my nose was pushing and would be further indulged when my tongue licked him clean.

So that's what I did: lapped at the putrid stickiness of the hole that eased open to coax me inside and gorged on the smothering, primal stink of this most private part of the man I adored. I reached around and grabbed his cock out of his hand to wank him as I rimmed him – that was, after all, my job – and used the tip of my tongue to rapidly fuck his hot tight tunnel.

It was rank and dirty but I couldn't believe how much it was turning me on. I was desperate to yank my dick out jerk it off while I slurped at his bum juice, but I wanted to focus entirely on pleasuring him front and back.

"Fuck yeah! Lick me arse out!" he called down, bending forwards to give my tongue better access. He pushed my face harder into the acrid meatiness of his gully, forcing my tongue to probe harder and deeper and grinding my nose into the stink he'd been fermenting in the back of his undies since his mother had last told him to change them.

This was nothing like David Hetherington's long, round rump, tasting vaguely salty and smelling of shower gel. This was Hutchy man-arse: solid and squalid, and I feasted on it like I'd been starved for a week, wanking his cock as fast as I could and cleaning all the crud from the walls of his rectum.

"Deeper!" he commanded. "Shove it right up me!"

I knew his eyes would be fixed on the church door, willing the vicar to step through it, making one final check on his beloved church.

I had a sudden idea and pulled my bum-smeared face away from the yawn of his arse. I stood up behind him, undoing my fly and reaching in to pull out my cock, and muttered, "Let's give the old vicar a proper show, Hutchy! Let's do it for real!"

He might not have known exactly what I meant, but when he felt my bell-end pushing into his spit-slimy pucker he didn't pull away. Instead he gasped and bent further forwards, allowing me to slide the rest of my cock up him, and then grunted as I grabbed his hips and started bucking my hips against the grip of his bum.

"Aw fuck yeah! Give it to me Jase!" he cried out. He pushed his arse back into me so that his cheeks made thudding noises against the front of my jeans and I reached under him again to wank him off as hard as I could. I loved the way he was panting from the feel of my cock driving rapidly in and out of his bowels, and I loved the sensation of finally getting to use his butt-hole the way he'd used mine so very many times.

I pulled him up so we were standing there together, both our bodies pulsing to the same rapid rhythm, with the back of his jacket pressed to the front of mine. He turned to me and grinned at me over his shoulder. I could tell his surprise at how much he liked getting his tight little tookie fucked. He'd always pretty much ignored the fact his bum-boy had a cock of his own but now here in the darkness of the old church he'd discovered a way it could be put to a very enjoyable use.

I grinned back at him and then leaned forwards so that we kissed on the lips as my cock chugged away at his arse. He got a smell of his own bum stink rubbed all over my face and said, "If the vicar comes in, I hope the whole fuckin' church stinks of my arse! Let him know there's no babies gonna get made the way his church gets used now!"

I laughed and then pushed him down again, so that I was doing him roughly up his bung-hole the way he normally did mine. He was bent low in front of me with me standing proud behind him, ramming my cock so fast that my balls were starting to tingle where they were confined underneath the waistband of my briefs.

I remembered the first time Hutchy had done this to me, he'd said how hot his cock had looked pounding away at my arse. Now that I was in his place, I had to admire the view from behind too: how lovely my own bigger knob looked shafting in and out between his tubby little bum cheeks and the way his buttocks wobbled so cutely every time I thrust against him.

"Come on, shoot your fuckin' muck up me, Jase!" he cried out as I cranked his foreskin back and forth as fast as I could. "Spunk it as deep as you can! I wanna feel you nut off right up me arse!"

I could feel it coming; there was no way to hold it back. The feel of his gunge around my cock was only making me more excited and the stink of his arse on my face was pushing me over the edge.

As I came, I had a vision of us doing this in front of a full congregation, all chanting in celebration as they witnessed the sight of boy loving boy. Our sex would mean to them rebirth and renewal: one of us discharging his sperm up another and giving rise to even more life-giving seed which would spew, moments later, from his lover's eager cock.

Hutchy moaned in contentment as he felt my hot spunk squirting in powerful surges up into his miry innards. He pushed my hand away from his hard-on – perhaps my rhythm had wavered once I'd hit my peak – and started wanking himself frantically, slamming his arse back and forth against my crotch to maximise his pleasure.

As my orgasm subsided, he called out, "Leave it up there! Keep your cock up my arse 'til I've cum!"

So I left it inside him even when it was starting to soften, feeling his arsehole literally munching on it as he lavishly spent himself all over the tiled floor.

When he'd finally finished cumming – I'd never known him milk himself off for so long – he pulled away from my cock and stayed bent over while he recovered his breath. I wondered if I might be in for a smack for exploiting a moment of weakness, but when he eventually did stand up his face was a smile.

He said, "Who'd've thought a bit of tongue and groove would get me that turned on! I never expected to let you do me up the arse!"

"You liked it, though?" I asked him, hoping I'd get to do it again.

"I loved it, Jase!" he laughed. "I'm a fuckin' bum-boy, mate, and I didn't even know it!"

We left the church in darkness with the full moon rising over the rooftops of Fenwick Street. Hutchy seemed bitterly disappointed that we hadn't had our shenanigans disturbed and muttered something about us paying a visit to the unification church at the top of town in which, with regular services still going on, we were far more likely to be caught enjoying a unification of our own.

As we walked out of the churchyard through the gate, a couple of lads were coming up the road towards us. Too late I realised one of them was Bulmer.

If I'd seen him sooner I'd have pulled Hutchy back behind the wall until he'd passed, but by the time I'd spotted who it was, he was already sneering straight at me.

"Well well well, what have we here?" he sniggered loudly to his mate. "A couple of young gents enjoying an evening stroll together... I wonder what they could've been up to in that old church they just came out of..."

"Blow?" the mate asked, sounding hopeful that there'd be stuff left they could nick.

"Only each other," Bulmer chuckled. Then to us added, "Or were doing each other's arses in there? Taking turns to shag each other's big loose shitters?"

"We don't want no trouble," Hutchy cut in. He knew he was no match for Bulmer if things got nasty.

What the fuck had I gone and sucked that shithead's knob for? If I hadn't followed him to the level crossing and ended up going down on him, he'd have just thought me and Hutchy were doing drugs in the churchyard like the mate had assumed.

"Are these a couple o' fag-boys, then?" the mate asked. His voice was deep and gravelly like he smoked forty a day.

"I'm not a fuckin' fag-boy," Hutchy argued back. I didn't feel confident in making the same claim for myself.

Then Bulmer said – right out of the blue – "So why d'you let him bum your arse then?"

It must have been just a random insult – the sort of abuse Hutchy would ordinarily dismiss as cloud fucking cuckoo – but right there that night after what we'd just done, Hutchy was visibly thrown and stared shocked at Bulmer, blushing scarlet at the truth of what had just been said.

I guess for a few confused seconds he must have thought Bulmer had somehow seen him having his arse shagged in the church. Like he'd been watching us through one of the broken windows and had intentionally confronted us coming out of the churchyard.

But I really think it was just a sheer fluke that Bulmer happened to hit the nail on the head. A lucky stab in the dark – the second I'd experienced that evening.

Bulmer recognised Hutchy's discomfort for what it represented and laughed derisively. "Did he kiss you while he fucked you, fag-boy? Did he spunk his nut up your saggy cunt?"

"I'm not a fag-boy!" Hutchy insisted more assertively. He was getting upset; I could hear his voice starting to shake like it always does. He starts lashing out, usually at me, when he gets like that and I worried what would happen if he tried to give Bulmer a smack.

"So why've you got his spunk running down the backs of your legs, then, fag-boy?"

Hutchy turned to me and I saw in the white light from the street-lamp that he eyes were full of anger. Not anger against Bulmer: anger towards me. He blamed me for this; cursed me for getting him so horny that, taken in by my sneaky gay cunning, against his better judgement he'd let me fuck him.

"It's not like I asked for it!" Hutchy spat towards me. "It's not like I wanted him to!"

Bulmer let rip with laughter at but the mate just gawped at us, clearly stunned at walking straight into all this halfway up Fenwick Street.

So then Bulmer said, "If you didn't want it – if he took advantage like he did with me – why don't you fucking mace him for it?"

"I dunno..." Hutchy wavered, "he's me mate..."

"A mate what turns you round and bums you?! Who the fuck wants a mate like that?!"

I was going to make my defence that it had been a two-way thing; that a skinny lad like me could hardly force himself on a piece of work like Hutchy, when Bulmer sneered at me: "He's a right fairy low-life, this one... I was taking a piss by the railway line and he knelt down and started sucking my fucking dick!"

So Hutchy said: "Yeah, well he's learned a few more tricks since then... he just licked me fuckin' arse... right up the can!"

That was the first betrayal and I could hardly believe he'd said it. It might sound stupid, but I'd thought that putting my face in his bum had been a really intense moment for us both and I couldn't help but flinch with surprise that he'd just told these two chimps that I'd done something as intimate as that to him.

The mate of Bulmer laughed and called out, "Aw Jesus fuck! No wonder the skanky fuckers end up wi' AIDS!"

Bulmer kept on at Hutchy to give me a thumping. Maybe he wanted to bring this wandering straight lad back into the fold, or maybe he just wanted the fun of seeing two bum-chums turn on each other.

He said, "Come on, Hutchy mate, give him a fucking smack for daring to think he can shit-stab your arse!"

I guess Hutchy felt he had to prove his masculinity to the older guy because he loomed towards me clenching his fist into a ball. At first I thought he might be going to put on an act for them, doing enough to make them fuck off so we could walk home together and laugh about how he'd pretended to cuff me, but when I saw the coldness in his face I knew that proving himself was a big deal for him. He had been fucked, had let me kiss him, and now he had to show the big boys that somehow it had all been my despicable fault.

I staggered back and muttered, "Not too rough, Hutchy," hoping to appeal to whatever feelings he'd developed for me over the last three years.

But I might as well not have bothered. He hit me so hard I went down and cracked my head open on the flagstones and I needed six stitches in my scalp before it would stop bleeding. I nearly lost my front teeth but in the end they stopped wobbling, although the gash to my lip gave me a permanent scar.

I might have forgiven him for all that, even forgiven him for laughing down at me with those other two knobheads, but then he gobbed in my face – right in my left eye and across my cheek – and for some reason that was far more painful than the thump had been.

They walked off, the three of them, laughing at how easy it was to floor a faggot and there were a few shouted-back threats about what they'd do to me if I came onto them again. Cutting my "shit stabbing knob" off was Hutchy's contribution to that. That hurt too, but not as much as the stinking phlegm across my face had.

There was a pause after my story and I thought Helena was moved by how incredibly upset I'd felt as I'd lain bleeding on the path outside the smashed-up church. She nodded with her head on one side, trying to look empathic I guess, and then asked, quietly, "So when did you break up with him?"

For a second I couldn't believe I'd heard her right. How the fuck could she even ask something like that?!

I wondered if she'd just been sitting there nodding at me while actually mulling how much of Philip's stationery she could nick from his desk drawers.

So I said back, matter-of-factly, "The next Thursday when he didn't take the bins out."

"Oh I see," she replied, managing a sympathetic smile. She didn't even get sarcasm unless you held a little sign up with a winking smiley face on it.

I didn't say anything after that. I was just wondering how the hell you got to be a fifty-grand-a-year therapist if you couldn't even figure out at which point two people's relationship was damaged beyond repair.

Eventually, when it was obvious I'd clammed up, she wound up with, "Okay, so the session's nearly over, Jason. Now, is there anything you'd like to ask me?"

Oh, useful that. Ignore every fucking thing I've said and then think I'm going to somehow want to probe all those amazing insights you didn't make and never will.

But I suddenly thought of a question I actually did want answered so I said back, "Will it be you or Philip running the session next week?"

"I told you that already, Jason. Philip has gone away."

"Yeah, but he'll be back though, won't he? I mean, after his course or his holiday or whatever it is..."

"Philip won't be back, no," she replied. "I'm your therapist now, to add to all the other work I've been given."

Like I gave a shit about that.

I asked, "So what happened to him, then?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, but you obviously had more of an impact on Philip than he seems to have had on you."

"I had an impact on him..." I mused. "You mean I turned him into a cock worshipper like me?"

She stared at me and I got the feeling she knew she had said too much.

I threw her a smirk. I'm not as daft as I look. And I look well fucking daft so that's not too hard.

I said, "I knew he was gay... it was pretty obvious really..."

"Quite so," she agreed, nodding at what I'd said.

Haha! Caught the bitch out! All this time I'd suspected he batted for the lifters like I do. He was just too hoity-toity to admit that he liked noshing off a bit of beef-pole.

Then she went on, "Being gay is not the issue... it's his unprofessional conduct that resulted in his dismissal."

Shit – he was sacked! How the fuck could he let that happen?

And why would let himself get marched out of the building just before he told me what this amazing cure he'd figured out for me was?

I thought I'd try my luck and see what I could reel in. And not the way I used to in the campsite showers.

Making an educated guess, I went for, "You know... I told him a lot about cruising and what goes on in fellas' bogs and stuff... I suppose it was my fault that he got curious about it..."

"Curiosity is one thing," she said. "Following it through in a public layby is quite another..."

I stared at her, my face shocked. My guess had been right.

Oh, Philip! How could you have fucked it all up like that? I'd be right there with you worshipping all-comers' cocks by the side of the A40, but not if I had a nice cushy job like yours with all the trimmings.

So I said, "Can I contact him? Maybe tell him that I'm sorry...?"

I actually wanted to know what this cure was he'd gone on about. I'm a bit of a selfish git when you get down to it.

But as I expected she shook her head. "There is to be no further contact, Jason. You're no longer his client and he doesn't work for this organisation anymore."

"So much for innocent until proven guilty," I shrugged.

"There was CCTV evidence," she explained. She was just about purring she was enjoying his downfall so much. "And one of his... er... associates was a plain-clothes policeman."

Philip – for fucks sake, what were you doing? Rule number one, check for cameras. Rule number two, cop cars don't always have 'POLICE' scrawled all over them.

I should have told him all this. It was my fault really.

Now I seriously did want to apologise. "Are you sure I can't have his number? Maybe give you a letter to pass to him, something like that?"

"It would be highly improper, Jason," she told me. She had her bitch face on again now that she'd finished dishing the dirt. "It's totally out of the question."

She looked at the clock behind me. I knew without looking we'd gone slightly over. "Same time next week, then," she said, attempting a smile which made her look even worse than normal.

"Should I write something in my journal before then?"

"No," she said. "I think we can bin that. I don't see that it's helping you and it might actually be taking the focus away from what's important in your recovery."

I nodded, grabbing the journal before she could. "Okay. But I'd better shred it... I don't want cleaners or whatever snooping at it."

I could see she wanted to argue but I was ready to fight to the death on this. The journal was mine – is mine – and I'm keeping the fucker no matter what she says.

Either she sensed that I wouldn't back down on this or she knew she didn't have time for some big altercation with me. I reckon it was the minute hand on the clock getting her edgy, well past the hour and making her late for her next nutter.

So she said, "Fine, Jason. Do what you want with it. Next week we'll talk about what happened after Gavin Hutchinson walked away from you."

"Do you think that's relevant?" I asked, getting up to leave.

"Of course," she snapped. "I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't feel it would be helpful."

"Okay," I shrugged, knowing she just wanted me the fuck out of the office.

And that's the last that I saw of her. I didn't go back and I didn't get any letters telling me I had to. She couldn't be arsed with me and I sure as fuck had no desire to waste time listening to her spout bollocks.

So that was the end of my counselling and this is the end of my journal. I'm still worshipping cocks with my mouth and arse every opportunity the great cock in the sky throws me and one day I'll probably be caught doing something I shouldn't and end up back in court. Maybe next time they give me yet another last chance at counselling, or maybe they'll be so pissed off with me I'll finally get thrown in the nick.

But I keep hoping, whenever I'm out cruising for cock, that one day I'll run into Philip again. We could go somewhere together, to a nice warm office with cheap padded chairs and a dying tree outside the window, and start things up again from where we left off.