Now you’ve read glove Razur Cuts, you’ll be on the look out for something new. I can’t recommend the Hand Job anthology from Hi-Vis Press highly enough. It’s a counter-culture classic of  rancid reality. I’m proud to have this story in there -:


My name is Steve. I work in sales. I live in Berkshire.

I used to be a timid, inconsequential failure. Married. Two kids. Employment was a time consuming irrelevance and working away was detestable. I felt like telling head office to stick it when I was sent on a three day residential course on sales techniques in a part of the Midlands I used to call the North. Of course I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut.

The second night was the one where everyone got pissed and the real learning took place. During the first day, they’d kept us hard at it until nearly ten at night, so I just crashed out, exhausted by the long drive and hours of sales target babble, drifting off to the murmuring inanities of iPad amateur porn, my wank incomplete. The next day we knocked off at seven and only had the final plenary session and lunch to endure on the final day, so realistically the course was all but finished; other than the relentless evaluations required in the coming months to show I was putting the ideas I’d learned into practice.

Close to midnight in the bar, strung out on a dozen bottles of Corona and bored shitless by the endless car related talk of drunk, shallow men my own age, I struck up a conversation with Terry, one of the regional managers. He was a legend in the firm, rumoured to be earmarked for a Chief Executive’s role by the time he hit 40. Lizard eyed and charming, the evangelical fervour of his speech to the symposium had helped us all forget the boredom and homesickness that poisons such gatherings.  The man brought a touch of Nietzsche to the world of commerce and I was honoured to be seen in his company. We drank until the bar closed, then piled back to my room to attack the minibar. Despite my wish to show collegiate solidarity, I reached oblivion after two large brandies.

Next morning I woke up naked, face down on the pillow, aware of a painful, burning itch around my rectum. I noticed several bites on my torso, two around my left breast and three surrounding my navel. Examining my anus for an explanation of the annoying sensation in the bathroom mirror, I noticed a dried crimson seepage from the sphincter that had dribbled to the lower end of my buttocks. Terry was gone, but a pair of burned CDs, numbered 1 and 2, lay on the pillow. The wall clock stated 8.30; shower and then breakfast.

After muesli and toast, I attended the plenary session. The course broke up at 1 and I decided to skip lunch, making an excuse about traffic. Pulling out of the hotel car park, looking for motorway south signs, I eased the first CD into the machine. It consisted of a passionless, real time audio narrative involving Terry undressing me, near incoherent with drink, and despite my feeble protestations, coercing me into a prolonged session of reciprocal oral sex. Then a barely audible whimper from me as he penetrated me and achieved almost immediate orgasm. His groans were the only sound; in contrast I was presumably either asleep or unconscious. The first disc ended with his heavy breathing and throat clearing after ejaculation and withdrawal, followed by sounds of water running from the bathroom as, or so I imagined, he sought to clean his penis. As silence entered the car, I pulled off the motorway at the next exit, found a layby and sat behind the wheel, aware that my life had changed; possibly for the better.

The incredible thing was I felt proud, liberated and powerful having heard the events of the night before. Terry had selected me. It was an honour to be the maestro’s catamite. Searching through the conference papers strewn across the back seat, I found the list of phone contacts for follow up meetings and dialled Terry’s office. After four rings, the answer machine started, with Terry speaking.

“Hello Steve. I know it’s you even though I’m not here. I’ve been called to a meeting at head office. Enjoy yourself last night? I bet you did. But are you worried about what your wife is going to say when she gets a glimpse of your torso in bed tonight? Don’t panic just yet. Don’t be a fool and phone her up to say you’ll be late back or try to confess. You’ve still got much thinking and learning to do, so get your foot down and continue to put miles between the conference and yourself. I hope you realise that from this moment on, every day as you travel to and from sales meetings, conferences, accountancy forecasting sessions, you’ll listen to the second CD I left you and that CD only. You might not accept this now, but I can assure you the message you’re hearing now will become your philosophy for life. Take that CD, put it in the machine and learn from it. See you around, mate and thanks for the fuck.”

I knew the truth of what he was saying so well. Without pausing to even think, sliding the disc into the machine with a reassuring, sibilant clumph, I prepared myself for the miles ahead. By the time he started speaking again, I was easing down the slip road back onto the motorway to a soundtrack of his expressive, jagged vowels.

Tell the truth now; what do you really think about when you’re having sex with your wife? Sure I know it’s not that often an occurrence these days. Once a week? Once a fortnight? All dependent on indulgent grandparents or accommodating babysitters. In fact, do you have time to think of anything at all, or is it all over in a blinding flash of premature ejaculation? I know it’s difficult for married guys like you, with kids and all, to find the time and especially the privacy, for the odd jerk off. While the wife’s out shopping is it? I mean it’s a pretty fair bet that there are plenty of 30 something middle class blokes like you, who spend the entire minute and a half of their monthly sexual intercourse attempting to hold back by silently reciting the entire 92 club membership of the football league, but still spurting to unsatisfactory detumesence by Bolton Wanderers. It’s a class thing mate. You went to single sex grammar school and then redbrick university. You didn’t lose your cherry until you met the campus nympho in the uni bar during Freshers’ Week. She dragged you back to her room, half pissed and terrified, before tearing off your clothes and placing you a couple of millimetres up her snatch before you shot your load, not like a churn of natural yoghurt upturned over a prostrate life model, but rather like a small bottle of Tippex landing on a middle aged secretary’s handbag and the top staying put. I know everything about you and we’d never met until yesterday. Isn’t that strange, Steve?

Social class is so important. I’ve got friends who work for Social Services and they assure me that male proles take their wives from behind in fetid council house living rooms, whilst the women still carry on with the ironing and their sullen, dumbly insolent children endlessly massage their phone keypads, sending vacuous texts, oblivious to the static ballet engaged in by those they presume to be their parents. Fucking, to them, is like shitting for the rest of us; something that happens a couple of times a day to get rid of unpleasant bodily waste matter. Being middle class, sex is different for the likes of you Steve. A privileged boy who was kept away from women before university, so nothing distracted you from educational progress and an upward curve of social progress. The nearest you came to a sexual experience was wanking off to the underwear section of Kays’ Catalogue or zipping up your mummy’s too tight evening gown when your father took her to a Masonic charity dance. Am I right Steve?

Once you got to college, you didn’t start re-enacting Haight Astbury 67 though did you? The remnants of that self-consciously improving ideology still defined you. Looking at women, you were forced to assess not their looks, but their breeding potential and whether your mother would approve of them. That’s why middle class men have such evil fantasies. When you can’t get a fuck much before your twentieth birthday, you’ll have had maybe eight years of jacking off to survive on; plenty of time for diseased urges, especially when your upbringing tells you sex within marriage only happens for the purposes of procreation or as a birthday treat.

But let’s go back to my question Steve. What do you think about when you’re fucking your wife? We’ve discussed the practical aspect, trying not to shoot off too soon, and thus adopting evasive measures. Then there’s the obvious choice; you know, Friday nights, nipping down to Waitrose for the latest recommended riojas and grigios, then collecting the takeaway lamb masalas. That’s when you spot them getting out a taxi. Three or four with big hair, crop tops, micro skirts. Staring at their massive, uplifted tits, you wish you were twenty years younger, swapping suggestive badinage in a dingy lounge bar, or kneading their cute backsides in last dance desperation at the local club. It didn’t happen for you back then Steve did it? All your incompetent lust was directed at the weird mother of one of your mates, who plied you with gin and Dunhills luxury lengths, while talking about Madame Bovary. Now you’re harbouring a semi hard-on and feelings of guilt; these girls are less than half a decade older than your daughter. Two years’ time you’ll be getting hot flushes seeing her mates, or even her, dolled up for a night at the youth club disco. However, something as obvious as young flesh may not appeal to you. Frightening bondage outfits, female traffic wardens or rolling around in your own shit in an infantilist training academy may be your kick. Perhaps you don’t really like women at all?

I’m not accusing you of hanging round public bogs Steve, but I’m sure you know how it goes. Two disappear into one cubicle. One sits down as if to take a shit and the other unzips. The squatter takes the stander’s dick all the way down his throat. He’s almost puking as the foreskin rubs uncomfortably against his tonsils, the balls resting on each cheek like crimson goitres and then, well I’m sure you know the score. You may have done this. I don’t know. While I prefer to fantasise about what I’ve done, I know for a fact I’ll never legitimise your existence by remembering our encounter when I want to reach shoot off time. However, you’re different Steve. You’ll think about our assignation every spare second you have between now and the end of your pathetic life. That just shows what a wonderful person you are. Your only contribution to 35,000 years of human culture is to get taken up the shitter by your superior. What a pitiful story you have to tell.

I have to tell you Steve that I find the male body fascinating. I wish I’d held many more of them in my arms. The first was a wanking contest in the bogs on the school Biology field trip, when I rubbed my spunk in the face of Checko Watson, the class moron. Bad move. When word got out about this, a couple of the less sluttish girls tried to mother him.  He even managed to fuck one of them. Strangely enough, when we have class reunions, only Checko wants to talk about that week in Wales. You see, he’s ragingly out of the closet and I like to think I helped him on that journey of self discovery. He picks up married blokes all the time. Blokes like you Steve. Sad, lonely, confused men, who can’t control how they feel, but lack the willpower to go out and fulfil their fantasies. They’re the pissed ones who never dance in gay bars, slumped morosely in a corner, aching to be kissed by another man. All Checko does is go up to them, smile patronisingly, put an arm round their shoulder and whisper that he’d love to take the loser home. He reckons that once you’ve got them back to the house, you’d swear they’d been making their living doing mouth work round the back of the station since puberty, instead of installing double glazing or servicing photocopiers.  The trouble is, afterwards; that’s when the remorse kicks in. Jizz may be seeping from their assholes like watery raita from a damp pitta, but they’ll insist they’ve never done this before and start showing off photos of their kids and saying what a wonderful woman the wife is, knocking back Scotch like prohibition’s imminent, whilst alternately shoving fistfuls of tenners into Checko’s top pocket as a token of gratitude and a final pay off to make sure the little woman doesn’t find out, then vaguely hoping he’ll be in the club the next week for another liaison. That is you Steve. Why else did you beg me to come back to your room last night? Yes you did. And that’s why I recorded it, so you could take it home and play it to the wife while you fucked her. Except from now on, she’ll be fucking you.

You know Steve, I’m into sex, not sexuality. There’s too much money invested in the house to leave my wife. Instead she and I will fuck two or three times a month and I’ll recall encounters with men to achieve climax. The rest of the time I’ll jack off to hetero porn. I don’t like gay porn; I find it frustrating that it depicts consensual, loving sexual relationships. That’s not what I want to see as it’s not my experience of sex at all. If someone is producing material intended to provide me with the erotic basis for self-gratification, they should tell the truth, especially about heterosexual love stories.

About twenty years ago I had this girlfriend from university. She lived in Leicester. It was one of those relationships of mutual inconvenience. We fucked each other because I was too egotistical and she was too stupid to find anyone else. I’d wanted rid for months, but couldn’t be bothered with the hassle or the scene it would create. Her weeping in the union bar as I hit on this Irish lass with piercings and a Lou Reed tattoo who I’d fancied for months. Instead, I let this situation drift. We got home for summer end of first year and I ignored her letters, pretended I wasn’t in when she called and basically forgot about her. It was so easy in pre mobile days to be reclusive. Then one weekend she insisted on me coming down, as her parents were away. By now I’d not had a fuck in six weeks, so I prostituted my principles and hitched down. Got a lift most of the way from this twat in a shoe lorry who picked me up at Wetherby and handed over a pile of aged wank mags. I took them round hers to try and offend her into kicking me out. It didn’t work; she binned them with a shudder, but still fucked me with the same mechanical lack of passion I knew only too well. Next morning, as she tried to persuade me to waste a day visiting her grandmother in Hinckley, I played my last card. Said I thought I was gay, had been picking up men in parks, using porn as a desperate attempt to rekindle interest in women, that sort of thing. She screamed, burst into tears, said it was over between us.  I laughed and asked if we could still be friends; she was undecided, but agreed to a farewell fuck. This got me out of visiting Granny, so I lounged about the house, drinking her old man’s booze and wanking over the porn mags I’d retrieved from the bin. I set off hitching the next day, got home in good time, phoned a mate and went on the piss and this is where it gets good.

In those days, very few clubs were open for late drinks on a Monday, but we found one.  Frankie, the guy I was with, was pretty normal with the obligatory posh girlfriend. He was loaded and I didn’t object to him paying. I told him the tale and caught him blush, so it didn’t surprised me near closing when he started to tell me how he’d always fancied me and shit like that. Perhaps he was trying to call my bluff, so I told him I’d always fantasised about fucking him too. When the club shut, we went back to his. Gave each other silent blow jobs in case his parents woke up. Next day he couldn’t look me in the eye and so I ended the friendship that morning. I couldn’t handle his weak embarrassment and guilt. The fact was I felt proud of what I’d done. I’d thoroughly enjoyed the experience of sucking another man’s cock. I’d never enjoyed going down on a woman; too messy, but cocks I could handle, especially the thrilling moment when the delicious spurt went down my throat. Unfortunately the ex spread all the stories about me at university and I didn’t get the ride all autumn term until I picked up a Spanish exchange student at a Christmas disco. Frankie got married to that posh girl of his and they’re still together. The sexy Irish bird gave me a long goodbye kiss on graduation day and went back to Armagh to teach in a Primary School. She’s a Sinn Fein MEP these days. Done well for herself.

So what about you then Steve? What do you do when the urge for self abuse becomes overpowering? Don’t tell me; either of your two DVDs, one straight British, one gay Dutch, hidden in Match of the Day cases so the wife won’t suspect, gets stuck in your laptop that you’re too scared to browse or download on in case you get caught. Curtains closed, speakers mute and the eject button hit after the money shot. I’m right aren’t I? Steve you’re as predictable as the seminal stains on your carpet and boxers. What do you think the wife puts those down to? Viscous incontinence? Misplaced humus? Do me a favour. She knows you jack off. She’s watched your films before, even getting a funny tingling sensation, flushed complexion and a hint of breathlessness. Of course you know she’ll find someone else. Someone better. If you’re lucky, she’ll let you join in with them. If I let you that is.

Steve, you need to realise that you’ve got two choices; a lifetime of unsatisfactory one night stands with glorified rent boys, or every time you fuck your wife, you imagine you’re being fucked by a man. The very fact you’re still listening means you know this and you agree. Not a hard choice is it? I find the second option a richly rewarding, deeply satisfying experience. I can always tell when the wife wants to fuck me. She’ll get the kids to bed early, generally on a Thursday or Sunday, have a bath, walk past me naked and ask if I fancy an early night. Generally I do. She lies down and I play with her tits. No sucking as I find that demeaning. She moans, gets me hard with her hand. We kiss. I climb on top and enter. Before we’ve got this far, nine times out of ten I’ve chosen which of my two preferred fantasies I’ll access that evening, though I must point out that never in a million years will they ever include the night I’ve just spent with you, Steve.

The first fantasy goes like this; when I was 14, all I ever thought about at that age was sex. Anyone I came into contact with, male or female, I immediately assessed for their fuckability or use as wank fantasy material. I would jack off six times a day if I had the chance. I was heading for a stress fracture of the wrist.  I used to deliver pools coupons on Sunday afternoons, when people dreamed about winning their fortune playing Spot the Ball. I’d go back for the money on Thursday. 

One of the houses I delivered to, a tip with discarded furniture in the garden and pieces of hardboard standing in for smashed bedroom windows, was inhabited by this scrawny looking couple and their weirdo long hair son. I calculated it wouldn’t be too difficult to have a sexual encounter with any of them. Calling at the house one Thursday the son, who was about three years older than me, said his parents were out but would be back soon. He invited me in. We watched TV in silence until I asked him to show me the toilet. He led me upstairs. I took my cock out, pretending to piss, but asked him to wait outside the bathroom for me. I didn’t put my dick away. Furiously erect, I advanced on him, brandishing it, asking if his was as big as this. He said no and showed me his, stepping closer to do so. We faced each other; pink swordfighters, ready to engage. I stroked him; he giggled and reciprocated. He warmly and tenderly massaged my dick, as one would pet a kitten and I firmly held his as it began to swell. Within seconds we both ejaculated, splashing our loads onto the cracked red linoleum floor. He started to panic and wiped the spillage up with toilet roll, flushing it away and denying me the opportunity of discovering whether his spunk was of a different vintage to my own. He washed his hands, then put his arm around me, nuzzling my hair as I smelled the carbolic soap on his fingers. Instantaneously I came in my pants, with a velocity I had not previously known myself capable of. Then again, such affection was unknown to me. We went back downstairs for ten further silent minutes of TV, before his parents came home and paid me what was owed. The incident was never mentioned again, though I never did encounter the son alone in the house again.

Did you like that one Steve? Were you the long haired fool? Could you see yourself there, as part of a threesome? How old are you in your dream version? Could you comprehend my desire? Well, try this one; my other fantasy. High summer. I’m 16. Early evening, bored, alone, in a deserted shopping arcade. I see a pissed old man, probably seventy years old, stumbling, shouting abuse at nothing. I can’t explain why but I’m turned on by him; vulnerable, drunk, old, offensive. I start to follow. He ducks into a back alley for a piss. I watch unobserved from the main street. I’m immediately attracted by the sight of his penis. The prepuce stands proud of the desiccated foreskin like a crimson lizard; it appears polished as a translucent stream of piss arcs through the sky. Unable to control myself, I lurch at him. Through alcoholic fug and incipient dotage he stares at me uncomprehendingly. I beg him to let me suck him off, offering immoderate praise for his prick. Unimpressed and possibly frightened, he tries to brush past me, but I stick to the task and enthusiastically masturbate him through his unbuttoned trousers, through there’s no reaction other than intense fear in his eyes. His shouts of protest become so loud I take flight, running past him down the alley and escaping through the car park behind. Do you think that old man knew what was happening Steve?  He’ll be dead now and I’m sure he’ll have taken that secret to his grave. His only mark on the universe is to provide me with a reserve sexual fantasy, but in doing that he’s achieved more than you.

By now Steve, you’re prepared to do anything to satisfy me. You never will though, but you are mine. We’ve been playing Faust without you knowing it. For one night of sex, you’ve handed over your soul. And there’s nothing you can do to change things.

A final ten seconds of ambient birdsong gave way to the blank, metallic chank of the CD ejecting. It was 3.30 on a nondescript Friday afternoon. I was a hundred miles from home in a line of slow moving traffic. Hungover, unkempt and ravenous for both food and a sexual encounter. With a man.

I headed back down the motorway for a further two junctions at a funereal pace, before the next service station. Nosing the motor into the car park, I knew it was an indiscreet location. A park or a public toilet would have provided better camouflage for a clandestine date, but such was my boiling lust, I had no time to tour the whole area.  The idea was to find the washroom and, in the probable absence of willing male meat, I was prepared to check out the graffiti for numbers listed to set up a meeting with a man as sad, lonely and aroused as I was. Someone I could exploit and brutalise, to make him love me as much as I loved Terry. It was only sixteen hours since we’d met, but I worshipped him.

The facilities were down to the usual service station standards; metal door, caged light bulbs, no paper, broken seats, screeds of graffiti. One sentence stood out; Terry wants his massive cock sucked by you. Not even stopping to jack off, I barged out the door, fumbling with my phone as I tried to call him while heading back to the car. No answer. Within seconds, an incoming call. My wife’s number. I picked up on hands free and a voice broke the silence as I fastened my seat belt. “No need to make that call. I’m here for you now.” It was Terry. How the fuck?

“I knew once you’d listened to it, the CD would have you feeling horny, so estimating the volume of traffic, speed you’re travelling at and length of the CD, I worked out those services are the obvious spot for you to head for. Shithole area isn’t it? Stringy, poverty suffused dicks encrusted with grime. Not pleasant, but you could have found some sad fucking loser to lord it over, showing off your smart phone, your big car, even your love bites.” I didn’t understand how he had that phone.

“Remember, whatever directions I head in, you’re miles behind me. Get back to your house. I’m already here. Nice place you’ve got. Nice kids too. We’ve just waved them off for the weekend with your in-laws. You’re expected back in time for dinner. Now drive.” I wasn’t scared any longer. Anticipation replaced fear and I negotiated the way back in two hours. Good going for a Friday afternoon.

It was nudging six fifteen when I pulled the car onto the driveway. An enormous black German estate was parked in the garage, dwarfing my wife’s Italian runabout. I collected my belongings, the small suitcase and large briefcase. Turned my key in the lock and heard my voice echo into oblivion as I announced my return. The hallway and front lounge were deserted. The kitchen and dining room lit up, the smell of food cooking and a table set for dinner suggesting a normal evening. I heard female laughter coming from the conservatory, followed by a murmuring male voice and more laughter. I went to investigate. On entering the room I saw two women, one of whom I was married to, sitting naked at Terry’s feet. He stood up and greeted me by stabbing an assault rifle into my groin.

“On your knees cocksucker. This house may have your name on the mortgage, but tonight we do what I say. I’ve been filling the ladies in on our little escapade last night and they want to know more. Strip, fuckpig!”

Unsure whether the gun was loaded or not, I removed my clothes. Dirty, sweat-stained from the booze-fuelled burn up I’d endured all day. It became abundantly clear this would be no ordinary suburban dinner party when I inquired as to the name of the other woman, who I had taken to be Terry’s wife.

“Now you listen to me. We’re businessmen, right? We’re men who do business. We’re not businesspersons or even fucking businesspersonnel. We’re businessmen. We work together as men. We drink together as men and we fuck together as men. These two are women. We don’t care for women. We don’t trust them. We buy them houses and we fuck them twice a month. We give them small cars, credit cards and children. They get beauty treatments and we pay for them. They don’t have names. They are wives. You don’t give your car a name do you? Or your phone? Or your laptop? Women are things. Possessions. They work for us. They are a noun; singular wife, plural women. Got that? For the avoidance of doubt, my wife is woman 1 and your wife is woman 2. They are even lower on the evolutionary scale than you. Now they’re going to cook for us, while I give you a debriefing on last night”

He tracked the gun in a slow parabola across the three of us and led me forcibly back through the house, up the stairs and into the master bedroom, where Terry threw me face down on the bed and slid into me, before instructing me to recount the events of last night. At first this was difficult as my narrative voice is not as strong as his and my mind wandered to his fantasies, such was the power of his descriptions, but with great concentration I focussed on my own vision of heaven. The change in the level of arousal was astonishing.  I found myself anticipating each downward movement, raising my trunk off the bed to heighten the depth of penetration. My orgasm was the most intense of my life, though bettered by the post-coital ruffling Terry gave my hair. Smiling, he confessed something very special.

“You know the rumours about my promotion are true. Head office called me down for lunch today. They confirmed the provisional offer of the Chief Operations Director role I learned about last month. I accepted, but only because they’ve agreed to my request to select my own team. You see, as much as you love me now, you’ve got to realise that you’ve actually been having a kind of interview these last couple of days.” He saw the startled look in my eyes and smiled again, with loving indulgence.

“Don’t worry Steve. You passed with flying colours. How do you fancy the role of Regional Manager (South), based in the same building as me? I want you to oversee annual appraisals and corporate recruitment. Remember everything you’ve learned in the past twenty four hours and you’ll be fine. Let’s just say, we’re partners from now on.”

He squeezed my genitals lightly and I took it as a sign to get dressed. Then we went down for dinner, served by the women, my appetite undimmed.


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