Dick Dock 2016: Cocksucker

“This one’s the best.” The man’s voice is audible in the darkness. Audible, but not loud. My mouth is full of his cock; I’m grunting to myself with feral need. But I still can hear his voice, somewhere above me, as my knees grind half-painfully into the sand. “I mean, seriously good. Head and shoulders above the other cocksuckers.”

He’s talking about me, this muscle-bound man in the striped shirt.

“Let me try him,” I hear the other man say. There’s sudden heat on my cheek as the second man unbuckles his pants and unleashes his dick from the denim. I feel his hard flesh prod against my jawline.

The other man growls. “Gonna finish first.” The meat he’s thrusting into my mouth is short and squat. Four and a half inches, maybe. Fat, though. A mouth-stretcher, but not much of a challenge to swallow whole. I impale myself on it, though it barely tickles the back of my throat.

“I’m next.”

Their conversation is barely audible, but it drifts through my frenzied consciousness with clarity. Some detached somewhere, though, there’s a part of me trying to analyze the situation. Their words are so quiet—am I supposed to be able to hear them? Usually when men want their cocksuckers to get off on the praise, they say it in a boastful, obvious kind of way. Loud. Forceful. Porny. I do it to the men kneeling before me, when they deserve it. It spurs them on to even better worship of my big meat.

These men, though. They’re basically whispering to each other. I hear it. It’s audible. But I could’ve easily missed it over the occasional cry of jollity coming from Commercial Street, or it might’ve easily been muffled by the shuffle of men through the sand around me, or by the sex sounds coming from other dark corners under the dock. They’re talking almost like they’re having a quick, quiet survey of a menu at a local restaurant and trying to pick out the best dish.

My thoughts evaporate as I taste a sudden glob of precum from the man’s fat hog on the back of my tongue. He’s ready. I tighten my embouchure around his meat, and use my left fingertips to coax the approaching load from his nuts. My right forefinger and thumb make a corkscrew around the sensitive ridge of his head, spiraling down the shaft. He grunt once, softly, then lets go with a load moan that everyone in the vicinity can hear. “Fuck!” he yells. His hands grab my head and pull me town onto him. My nose grinds into his pubic hair. “Fuck! Fuck!”

There’s no doubt about who’s having the most fun under the Provincetown dick dock, this night.
His loud orgasm brings seemingly every other man cruising for sex into my vicinity. I feel the heat of men all around me, smell their strong and varying scents. I hear the sounds of belts being unbuckled, of zippers coming down. My tongue almost stings with the strong taste of the muscular man’s semen; I’m guessing he’s a smoker. Then he withdraws, strokes my furry chin, pats me on the head like a good dog, and stumbles away as he fastens his pants

The man he’d been talking to just says, “Mine.” He steps into place before me and pushes me down on his dick. It’s short. Maybe four inches. Skinny. Sucking him is like sucking a nine-year-old boy. My right hand reaches up and grabs the man next to him, who has maybe five average inches. My left hand gropes out; someone places it on a third dick even shorter than that.

Here am I, the biggest-dicked man under the dick dock that night, being forced to be its number one cocksucker.

Twenty minutes before, there’d been nothing going on. I’d passed only three lone souls beneath the support beams of the quiet dock before I settled into the shadows at the far end. It’s a quiet week in town. Even the harbor seems subdued, with the water settled and sleeping between high and low tide. For what felt like the longest time I’d waited and watched as men had tiptoed down the wood steps from the access road, and tried to make out their features in the streetlight before they’d ducked beneath the wooden floor of the deck above and merged with the gloom. I’m wearing nothing but a dirty tee and a pair of sweat shorts and sandals. No underwear. My hand had been down the front of my shorts the entire time, stroking myself, so that my hardness was apparent beneath the thick jersey.

When a cruiser would walk by, I’d use my thumb and forefinger to outline the length of girth of my meat; there’s enough light reflecting from the deck’s spotlights on the sand for someone to get the gist of what I’m trying to sell, here. But for the longest time there were no takers. No one was trying to do anything with anyone. Just wandering, back and forth. No action.

You know me. If anything, I’m a catalyst. So I wait until I see something I like. He’s a tall black guy with a good build. At first he’s cagy about his interests; he stands in a neutral place on the other side of the passageway the support beams create under the deck, midway between another cruiser and myself. The other cruiser moves closer to him; the black guy waits, then moves away to a place ten feet beyond, on the opposite side. Another cruiser places himself in a diagonal, opposite. Like chess pieces we move, one at a time, slowly, reconfiguring ourselves until the pattern of desire becomes apparent. When finally I follow the black man to the far end of the dock, I’m confident I’m the one he wants.

But I guess it’s not my dick he desires. When I pull down the elastic of my shorts and let the erection within spring out, he ignores it and pushes me roughly to my knees. He fumbles with his shorts and jerks them down to his knees. I reach out and grab for him. If it takes some cocksucking to get the action down here started, I’ll do it.

The black dude is a little bit of a disappointment, though. He’s maybe four and a half inches, and not very thick at that; worse, he basically is in my mouth for all of ten seconds, hammering away at my mouth like it’s some kind of living Fleshlight. Then he ejaculates a quarter teaspoon of sperm, pulls out, and strides off.

Not much of a blow job, but it gets the action started, just as I predicted. I try to rise to my knees, but a leather daddy takes his place wearing a harness over his bare chest and a pair of jeans already unbuttoned to cup his balls. I try to stand up to be on equal terms with him, but he’s not having it. His hands grab my shoulders and shove me firmly back onto the sand. This dude’s got a tiny dick too, a four-inch thumb with a round knob at the end—but he’s also got needs, and I’ve got a wet mouth for him to sink into. After him came the muscular dude in the striped shirt, then the little boy dick, which I suck off in an expedient fashion. Its owner is loud in his gratitude, and bends down to reward me with a sloppy kiss. He turns out to be a handsome gray-haired older man in expensive summer wear.

“I want a taste of that,” says another guy, who immediately bends down to taste my mouth with his tongue. He’s a handsome fucker, this one. Lean, redheaded, wearing a t-shirt with cut-off sleeves that proclaim his love for Boston. His kiss is fucking electric. His light beard grinds against mine, and he lifts me to me feet so that his arms can encircle mine. My shorts drop to my ankles; his hand grasps my right butt cheek and gives it a firm squeeze before his index finger probes my hole. Fuck yes, I automatically think to myself. This dude could get whatever he wants.

What he wants is head. I’m back on my knees against sucking his dick, a solid five uncut inches. My tongue slobbers over it, darting out to lap at his furry balls. I’m so hungry for this ginger’s dick that I’m humming to myself happily, unconscious of the cock-starved noises of self-satisfaction that I’m making as I lunge back and forth to take him. I feel his hands on my head and his fingers traveling down my back, reaching for my ass, as he curves over me and reaches for my hole.

He’s not long, but fully erect, the kid has a head that mushrooms out. I withdraw to stare at it, then look up and into his eyes. “That’s a beautiful dick, sir,” I breathe.

He stares back at me for a moment. There are men all around us, crowding in. Hands reach out to tug at my head and grab my attention away from this stunner. More hands reach for him, pulling at his nipples, lifting his shirt, trying to take his dick away from my mouth. There’s even another man on his knees beside me, trying to edge me out of the way. There’s a maelstrom of attention on the outskirts, with the two of us the quiet eye at the center.

“Come with me,” he says at last, as he helps me to my feet. He pulls down his shirt and waits as I attempt to pull up my sweat shorts over my raging erection. Then he takes my hand and pulls me away from the crowd. They collapse on top of each other in a frenzy as we leave them behind.

Together we walk to the very far end of the dick dock, where there’s a deeper cavity at the back than the rest of the slip’s length. We’re alone here, just this lean man from Boston and I. There’s still sex going on thirty feet away, but no one’s grabbing at us, no one’s trying to divert our attentions away from the other. “You like my dick?” he asks.

I nod. “Oh god, yes.”

“Then suck it, cocksucker,” he says.

I descend to my knees once more. He reaches into his pocket, simultaneously lowering his pants as he pulls out a bottle of poppers. He bends over and thrusts it under my nose, using his thumb to close off my right nostril.

What am I going to do? I can count the number of times I’ve sniffed poppers on a single hand—or just my thumb and index finger, really. But he wants me to sniff. So I inhale deeply. The acrid chemical scent stings my nose in rings as it travels to my lungs. I hold it for a moment, then exhale. He moves the bottle to the other nostril, this time using his thumb to close off my left nostril. The top of his other hand holds my head steady. “Sniff,” he orders. I inhale deeply again.

The poppers cause some kind of very short-term memory loss. He’s shoving his cock deep into my mouth as I’m trying to get my breath. My mind is half panicking, thinking to itself, why do I feel like I’m passing out?! and utterly forgetting that I’d inhaled the man’s poppers only seconds before. The confusion passes quickly, though, and soon I’m back into the rhythm of pleasing this man. I arch my back, lean into him, and suck him to the root.

His cock is slick with my spit when he pulls it out again, a few minutes later. “I fucking love your mouth,” he growls at me as he ruffles his palm over my hair. I pant, eyes aglow at the praise. “I need to shoot. You’re going to swallow?”

I nod. I know my job. Our eyes lock briefly before he pulls my skull onto his meat again. He fucks my lips like he owns them. His thick mushroom head opens the back of my throat as I grunt contentedly to myself and allow him to sodomize my mouth as he pleases.

He doesn’t utter words at the brink of his climax, but I can tell when he’s coming. His cock ejects a warning jet of precum, thick and sweet and salty all at once. His cock swells; his balls retract. He lunges into my mouth with a barely-suppressed holler, then lets loose what has to be multiple days of unsatisfied need. My mouth floods with the stuff. It’s more sour and astringent than I thought it would be from his precum, but I let it lie, acidic and tangy, on my tongue and in my cheeks until the last drop drains.

“Your turn,” he says. I manage to swallow the mouthful of seed he’s just blasted into me before his lips close on mine. My hand jerks furiously at my dick. Seconds later, my load erupts into the sand below my outstretched knees.

He lowers his shirt and pulls up his pants. “See ya round, I hope,” he says curtly, before nodding at me and wandering off.

When I get home, my knees are red and abraded from having been ground into the sand by all the men expecting me to suck their dicks. More grit covers my shins. I have to empty it from my sandals and wipe my feet on the mat before I can enter my rental. Even then, I still have to take a shower to get the sand completely off me.

Yeah, I had the biggest dick at the dick dock, that night. But I also swallowed more of it than anyone else.