Guido
‘Rat-Face’, they called me. The name still makes my fists itch, even now. There were lots of lads in my neighbourhood in those days, and most of them beat Rat-Face up on a fairly regular basis. But there was one boy in particular who, for some reason best known to himself seemed to have made it his personal mission to make my life a complete misery. His name was Guido. He was seventeen; a big, strong lad; had muscles I envied like mad – and he was almost as ugly as I was. But he had beautiful blond hair, I remember, and this – on such an undistinguished face - made it look like a wig. Well, I thought it looked strange anyway. Like the rest of us he wore tatty clothes and had dirty knees.
His preferred course of action whenever we met was to drag me into a quiet alley, hold me against the wall, and demand money. Of course we both knew I didn’t have any, and when I couldn’t pay him anything he would grip my balls through my shorts with one hand while still holding me immobile against the wall with the other, and squeeze slowly. When I started screaming he would ease off slightly, wait a few seconds, and repeat. This would go on until he got bored, at which time he’d punch me in the stomach a few times – then once more for luck - and walk off. I lost count of the number of occasions he’d done this to me and I tried to avoid him whenever I could, but he’d see me at a distance, wait behind some bin or protruding bit of stonework and step out in front of me. He really was a bastard. And so he was high on my list of boys to have a quiet word with.
I found him one evening. He was sitting, alone, on the bank of the Grand Canal, smoking a cigarette. I was still unsure of exactly what I could and couldn’t do, and I didn’t know whether or not he’d recognise me. And I was still afraid of him. I walked cautiously along the bank towards him, ready to run like buggery at any moment.
He looked up as he heard me approach, his mouth opened, as did his eyes – wide - and he stared. Then he swallowed, and forced himself to look back at the canal. He took a puff of his cigarette.
“Hello,” I said.
He turned his face towards me again. His pupils were dilated. “Hi.”
Not only did he not recognise me, but I could see that – even though I knew he was straight - he fancied me like fuck. I gained confidence. “Can I have a bit of that?”
“Sure.” He passed me the cigarette and watched, mesmerised, as I slowly put it between my lips. I noticed a growing bulge at his crotch. I passed it back. Without seeming to know that he was doing it, he licked the end that had been in my mouth with the tip of his tongue.
“Nice night,” I said.
He nodded, his eyes roving up and down my body but always returning to my face.
I’d been ready with my special abilities, but so far I hadn’t used any of them. Now I did. I released a load of pheromones, and at the same time I smiled at him. “Would you like to go somewhere quiet?”
He gulped like a fish out of water for a moment, then closed his mouth again and stood up, completely unconscious of the now-obscene bulge in his shorts. “Yes.”
I took him home and pointed to the bed. “Strip off, and lie down.”
He did so without a word, his eyes never leaving mine.
He had a beautiful body, I had to admit. It was a shame about his face, but even so there was something quite sexy about him. I slowly took my shirt off, watching him salivating as I did so, then I leaned closer to him. “Look at me, Guido. Do you recognise me?” As I said this I sent him the mental suggestion that he was tied down, immobile. He was so intent on staring at me that he didn’t notice immediately.
He shook his head. “No,” he said, dreamily.
The pheromones had worn off a while ago, so at the moment the immobilisation command was the only bit of mental trickery going on. Now I tried something I didn’t know if I could do: I wanted to make him see my features gradually morph into how I’d looked as Rat-Face, before my transformation.
Apparently it worked, because his expression changed – from one of sexual worship, to one of total bafflement, then to one of snarling disgust, and finally to rage. “You! How - ?”
“Yes, me.”
His muscles tensed and he tried to jump off the bed – and it was then that he realised for the first time that he couldn’t. He looked down at his arms and legs in bewilderment and I could see him fighting to free them and not understanding why he couldn’t. “What the fuck?”
“What the fuck indeed. Look at me, Guido.”
He raised his head, his curled upper lip making him even more ugly than usual.
“Now, I want you to think about what you did to me all those times. I want you to remember. How you pinned Rat-Face against the wall…”
His head snapped back onto the pillow as if an invisible hand had slammed it down.
“How you grabbed my balls...”
He gasped as he felt fingers grip them, though in reality my hands hadn’t moved.
“How you squeezed...”
His face contorted in pain as my mind made him believe his balls were being slowly crushed.
“Over and over again...”
I relaxed my mental grip for a second and then, as he had done, I squeezed them again.
When he wasn’t swearing at me, he was screeching in pain.
“It would take too long to repay you for every time you did this to me separately, so let’s do them all in one, shall we?” Mentally I gagged him, and then I squeezed his balls again - hard, and for a long time.
Sweat broke out on his face and he shook his head from side to side in pure, silenced agony.
This was all very satisfying, but I felt the need to do it physically to him as well, so I reached out and took his balls in my hand, and I squeezed them in reality too. I squeezed them hard, and God, that felt good. His body went rigid for a moment, then he fainted.
Bugger, I thought. Too much. Oh well. I removed both my physical and mental grip of his balls, and waited for him to come round.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have done what I did now, but in my defence I should say that I was young, and that I wanted the bastard to suffer for all the misery he’d put me through over the years.
“Welcome back, Guido. Now, tell me – do you like spiders?” Spiders had been the only thing I could think of at that moment.
He frowned, then shrugged.
I focussed a strong suggestion on him, and then smiled as his face turned into a mask of pure terror. I’d made spiders his biggest fear - and now, as far as he was concerned, large black ones with long hairy legs were crawling all over him. I even made him open his mouth wide so that one of them could go in.
After he’d screamed for a while I made the spiders go away and brought forth demons. Red and black horrors with teeth and talons that tore his flesh, and mouths that breathed fire over him.
I considered animated knives, slow crushing under a large stone – all sorts of things – but then I reckoned he’d probably had enough. I’d been enjoying this a lot, but all the effort was making me hungry and I knew that I needed to feed before long.
By the time he’d recovered from the demons I’d made him see my face again as it really was now – blue-eyed and beautiful.
“Who are you?” He asked. His heart was still racing but he was staring at me dreamily once more.
“Oh, I’m Rat-face. But not the Rat-Face you knew. Things have changed a bit since then. I got you here for revenge for what you did to me, you cunt. And now I’m going to punish you properly: I am going to make you cum like you’ve never cum before. It will be the best, the longest, and the most intense orgasm you have ever had in your life – or ever will have.” I shook my head slowly. “But afterwards I’m going to make you forget just enough about it so you will still know it was the best ever, but you won’t be able to remember what it was like. And I am going to make you want to remember what it was like. Oh fuck are you going to want to remember...”
He didn’t say anything. I suppose there wasn’t anything he could say.
His cock was like his body: big, firm, and hard. I teased it for a while, then I made him curl his legs up until his knees were touching his chest. I reached between his thighs and pulled his cock back through behind them, holding it there by the root with one hand. Between his legs I could see his face, and it looked very worried.
I took the head between my lips and began to work on it very lightly and slowly. He closed his eyes and moaned urgently. I tickled his balls as well, to make it worse.
One of the most-used – and most useful - mental commands we semenivorous Vees have is the one that makes it impossible for a guy to cum however much you work on his cock and however close to the edge he gets. I learned in later life that it’s possible to adjust with precision exactly how close to that edge he will get, but in those days I didn’t yet have that skill (which was probably just as well). Even so, I knew he wouldn’t be able to cum. So I worked at full-strength on his cock now, using my teeth, lips, and tongue, and sucking it so irresistibly that he’d have shot his load instantly if the no-cum command hadn’t been in place.
He began to thrust his pelvis violently, and to make a strange keening sound. He was there on the very edge of orgasm, rammed up hard against the cum-block but unable to get past it. Nowadays I would back off at that point, wait a few moments, and then bring him back to the edge – and repeat that as often as I felt like doing – but again, at that time I was new to the game and didn’t realise that keeping a guy so close for any length of time is definitely not a good idea. The human nervous system winds itself up to such a degree in preparation for orgasm that it sort of forgets about everything else - and that can have unfortunate results. Blissfully unaware of this, I continued to use the devastatingly efficient milking equipment of my Vee mouth on his cock with inexperienced and sadistic enthusiasm: I slid up and down the full length of it, my throat muscles milking him vigorously on each stroke, my lips caressing the soft skin of the shaft, and my tongue wrapped completely around the head – the tip working directly on his frenulum.
Luckily I was watching his face when I saw the first signs that something was wrong. He suddenly broke out into a heavy sweat, his face went very red, his eyes rolled upwards, and his body started to jerk scarily. Then, with a violent shudder, he lost consciousness.
I dropped his cock in alarm, and waited. I had no idea what was happening, nor what to do. Fortunately, in my panic I’d let all the mental commands go. His legs flopped down onto the bed again, and although he was out for the count, he’d started to cum.
The second I saw this I dived for his cock and managed to get most of his spunk, though I cursed – I’d missed the first couple of gobs; they were already soaking into the bed. Wiping my mouth, I decided I’d be a bit more careful next time.
Next time was, in fact, about fifteen minutes later. Guido had come round eventually, and after a considered wait I thought it would be safe to make him cum again.
The first ejaculation is always the best as far as quality of the spunk goes; after that both quantity and quality usually decrease. But I had no option: I needed more. And he was nineteen years old, so there was no need to wait.
This time I took a lot more care. I replaced the cum-block, quickly got him to the edge and held him there for as long as I thought was safe, but then paused until his breathing had gone back to normal and his muscles had relaxed before I did it again.
His face was screwed up and he was squealing, “Oh fuck – please! Please make me cuuuum!” And every time I stopped, or he got to the no-cum barrier, he yelled in unbearable need.
Actually, this was much more fun: he needed to cum so badly that he was really suffering every time I did it. With sadistic enjoyment I repeated this many more times that evening. For me, they were intensely satisfying hours; for him, they were pure torture. Then I fed. And it was good. Very good.
I looked at him lying there, his cock still hard, so I did the whole thing again.
By the time I’d finished with him this time he was hoarse from pleading, but he’d experienced two stunningly intense orgasms. Even though his first had been a cock-up, and he’d been unconscious for it, I knew the two he had been aware of were the best he’d have for a very, very long time.
“Was that good?” I asked him,
He groaned, out of breath, panting.
“Excellent. Now, I’m going to make you forget them.” I smiled. “Not completely, just enough so that you’ll still know they were like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, and so that you’ll spend a few years desperately trying to remember what they felt like.” I smiled grimly. “And next time you bully a boy, Guido, remember Rat-Face.”
Making him forget what those orgasms had felt like was the most satisfying thing I did to him.
Apart from the hard punch in the stomach before I chucked him out.
*
Time passed. Occasionally I visited a couple of the other Vees who lived in Venice and to whom Dominic had introduced me shortly after we’d first met. One of them – David (we’d called him ‘Squirrel’) - was a lovely, elderly gentleman who was moving to England soon. He wrote down the address of the place he’d got, along with detailed directions for finding it, and invited me to visit him if I was ever in the country.
But most of my time was spent learning how to live as a Vee. I became more skilful at feeding, at manipulating guys. Life was difficult in the early days – I had to work hard to get what I needed – but gradually it became easier. I had money and a lot of time ahead of me now, so I could afford to think about seeing the world.
I ended up for a while in France. And that’s where I met Phillipe...
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