Date: Sun, 14 Aug 2005 15:38:48 +0100
From: nifty@talesfromastream.co.uk
Subject: Regression

Hi, before you start reading I suppose I should explain some of the
vocabulary. Back in the 18th Century they had a strange turn of phrase and
I have used some of them here. You should be able to work out what each one
is from the text, but just to be clear here is the list.

Making water-Pissing (which was often done in the streets)
Molly House-Gay bar of sorts where gay men could enjoy each others company
Molly-The keeper of the Molly House
Pillory-A wooden framework on a post, with holes for the head and hands, in
which offenders were locked to be exposed to public scorn as punishment.
(You might know them as the Stocks.)
fundament-arsehole


Regression

By David

www.talesfromastream.co.uk


I was nervous as I walked along the pavement, passing the old Victorian
houses which had since been converted into offices for lawyers, accountants
and agencies. Remembering my childhood, I had to stop myself from running
my hand along the black wrought iron railing which fronted each house as I
had done so years before along a similar street.

     As I rounded the corner onto the street I was looking for, my steps
slowed. I was not sure that I wanted to go through with this and wondered
why my mates had clubbed together to get this present.

     "It'll be fun." Declared Chris as I looked bemused at the contents of
the envelope he had just given me with a cheery 'Happy birthday'.

     "But why?" I asked, expecting that my birthday would merely mean an
extra hard night out, drinking.

     "Because we got chatting." Chris nodded to three mates around us. "And
we think you're unnatural."

     I never thought I was unnatural, I knew I was different but I thought
my mates had accepted that.  What they had difficulty grasping is that I do
not like one-night-stands. Each Friday we would go out and they would go
home with some young bird in tow, ripe for a shag; whereas I would make out
but never shag any of them. Not at first anyway, as I would go out with
some and once we were going steady we would become more physical. I suppose
I was, and still am, old fashioned.

     For years I had taken their jokes and jibes about me and I would do
the same to them, joking about them shagging anything in a skirt,
regardless of what they looked like. And boy did they shag some right ugly
tarts sometimes.

     Because I would keep my dick in my trousers, they would all joke that
I must have been a monk in a past life, and it has taken this long for me
to get over the celibacy. They supposed that it would take another three or
four more lives before I could classify myself as a normal, well adjusted
straight man.

     And that was the joke behind the present. They all thought it highly
amusing to have me regressed to prove their pet theory. Reluctantly, and
after much badgering, I agreed to go but insisted that they do not come
with me. It seems that Chris had spoken with the clinic and they had
mentioned that I could have a friend with me for the session to make me
more comfortable. Those jerks had my birthday humiliation all planned but I
put my foot down. Alone or never.

     My nervousness increased as I walked along the street, glancing from
the piece of paper in my hand confirming my appointment to the company
plaques and signs adorning the thickset front doors. Surely we didn't need
this many accountants, I thought as I finally stopped dead in my
tracks. The plaque of the wall by the door stated, "Dr. Hilary Smith -
Hypnotherapist".

     Climbing the few stone steps, I pushed the door open. A 'Reception'
pointed to the door on the right and I waked through to be greeted by a
smiling young lady.

     "Good morning, Sir." She beamed.

     "Morning, I have an appointment with Dr. Smith. My name's Stewart
Mason."

     I was shown through to a plush adjoining waiting room and sat in a
soft armchair. As I waited, I stared at the maroon, flock wallpaper,
tracing the swirls of the pattern from their centre to the next swirl. My
feet gently tapped the floor as I tried to control my nerves.


Doctor Smith was a middle aged woman with a very warm smile. The moment I
saw her I relaxed and as she led me to her office, we spoke of the weather,
no doubt to put me at ease.

     She spoke very soft and evenly as we discussed what would happen and
what I hoped to gain from the experience. Not mentioning my mates, I merely
stated that I was curious and often dreamt of people living in the past. It
was a lie but I felt more comfortable with the fiction than have her think
I was here for a joke.

      Softly, she told me to lie back on the couch, close my eyes and we
would begin.

      "Just empty your mind of everything." She began.

      I wondered how difficult it would be to clear my mind, but the
silence and her dulcet tones made it easier with each sentence she spoke. I
almost became light-headed as I felt my mind clear.

     "Now picture yourself in a long bright corridor." As she spoke the
image drifted in to my mind.  "There are many doors leading off this long
corridor, each one leads you to a past self. Search around and feel the
door which you feel most strongly attracted to."

     Hundreds of heavy wooden doors led from my minds corridor as I drifted
along its length. I stopped and turned to face a door. It was drawing me
in. My fingers grasped the handle and turned.

     I gasped.

     "What do you see?" She asked.

     "It's dark, night time. I'm standing on grass, it's slightly damp."
Looking around I could see I was in a park and walking across London. I
could hear the patter of horse shoes on some nearby street and the rattle
of carriages.

     "Do you have a name?"

     "Yes. I'm Nicholas Banner."

     "Do you know what the date is?"

     "Of course I do, I'm not stupid. Although some of the other Postboys
are. It's the 12th of March 1722. Nearly the New Year. I turn sixteen next
year."

     The Doctor looked confused but later research explained that back
then, the year started on Lady Day, 25th March. It was not until 1752 when
we changed from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar and the New Year then
started on 1st January.

     "What are you doing now?"

     I was in Hyde Park, taking a small detour from my route. I was a
Postboy and it was my job to take the night mail across town, often going
through the park to avoid the smells of the street. I really enjoyed this
job as it meant I could sleep until twelve in the mornings. It didn't pay
well but I had ways of supplementing my meagre wage.

     Many people prowled the park at nights, like me they were eager to
meet someone who could help them. Walking towards a bush, I saw a man. He
watched as I got nearer and I head the sound of him making water as it
splashed onto the soil. It slowed to a trickle and he turned to me, his
dick still out of his breeches. I watched the remaining few drops fall to
the grass and he tucked himself away and refastened his breeches. The light
was not too good, but I could make out his youth, mid twenties, with light
hair flowing down to just above his shoulders.

     "How do you fancy a drink?"

     It was part of the ritual, so I went up to him and hooked my arm
around his. "Sure." I said as he led the way.

     Nearby was the Talbot-Inn, a well-known Molly House, well known to
those who need to know at least. I often used to drink here to find a
companion when the park was too busy or it was raining. He ordered a pint
of wine and asked for a private bed to be made ready.

     Placing my satchel of letters and parcels on the floor, we sat at the
bar, drinking our wine.

     Around me I saw the usual assortment of camp men, drinking and
belching loudly. Some patrons even partially dressed in female clothes. I
watched as an old man came down the stairs, his arm around a young boy,
probably my age, a huge smile on his face with his breeches clumsily
fastened. I recognised the old man; I had seen him not four weeks earlier
in the local Pillory for attempted buggery. I knew the stories that were
going round, the Mollies would tell you the cautionary tales of the old
gent who was set-up by a young boy and his Father. That particular night,
they had arranged to meet and fuck. The Father and his friends burst
through the door to see his son, naked, and the old man trying to penetrate
his fundament. The boy resisted the invasion so when the case went up
before the Judge, he could only be found guilty of attempted buggery. I
thought the old man must have been well- to-do to come out of it so
lightly, sometimes poor little boys like me were hanged for such crimes. So
far I had been lucky not to be caught.

     At the top of the stairs the old man came down, were rooms, places
where men and boys like me were taken, willingly of course as there was no
other way of satiating our appetites.

     The young man next to me swiftly drank his wine and was babbling. I
wasn't really listening to him and I didn't even know his name. I supposed
he'd told me but he'd said so much that I hadn't yet seen him draw breath.

     Taking a sup of my wine, I smiled at him. Placing his hand on my
thigh, he ran it up my breeches to feel my warm and soft bulge. Gently
rubbing it, my soft bulge expanded and, turning to the barman, he demanded
to know if the room was ready. It was.

     Kissing me on the lips he grabbed my hand and pulled me off my
stool. I grasped the handle of my bag and we ascended the stairs to the
dingy room I'd seen the old man vacate a few moments ago; the bed still
unmade, it had the scent of sex, a mixture of cum, sweat and shit.

     As soon as the door was closed the man was on me, pressing his lips
against mine, frantic for his pleasure.

     Fumbling at the twine on my breeches, he ripped them down to my
ankles. Still soft, he tickled the end of my foreskin with his lips as he
struggled to suck my dick into his mouth.

     Slowly, I began to harden as clumsily sucked on me; his haste ruining
my pleasure but no doubt his was heightened. His mouth slathered along my
length leaving a trail of spit which ran to its base and down my balls
until it had nowhere else to go and dripped onto the wooden floor. His
hands gripped my cheeks and pulled them apart, hard, the skin between
stretched to the point it almost hurt. Easing up on my backside, his
fingers eased their way to my fundament and pushed until they were inside
me. He was not my first so his entry inside me was swift and
painless. Realising this, I sensed his face smile as it sucked on my cock.

     The initial intensity had subsided and he was now more at ease. I was
thankful as it meant I felt his teeth less and that I could now start to
enjoy his mouth on me. My young cock was now very hard and with his fingers
inside me, massaging my innards, I felt my orgasm rise. I have always been
very quick to cum, the subterfuge enhancing my pleasure.

     I could hardly breathe, and so gave no warning, but if the man had had
many such encounters he should surely see the signs. My balls ached and my
dick became very sensitive as it pulsed and ejected my cum into the man's
mouth.

     As the first shot hit his tongue, he spat my dick and the glob of cum
from his mouth. He continued to spit onto the floor, emptying his mouth of
any trace that may be left as my dick spewed more cum which congealed
between my feet.

     "Ya, bastard!" he said when he saw sure his mouth from clean from cum.

     "Sorry." I breathlessly said as I recovered from my orgasm, my hand
now replaced his mouth to rub and tease the last few drops from within me.

     Standing up, he barked at me. "On the bed!"

     I kicked my breeches aside and, still clothed in my shirt, lay on my
back on the bed. I watched as he unfastened his own breeches and stepped
out of them. His dick was rampant and pointed to the ceiling.

     Grasping my ankles, he lifted my backside off the bed and shifted
himself between me. My legs now rested on his shoulders and his hand
grabbed his cock to pull it down and aimed it at my fundament. With one
quick thrust he plunged his cock inside and began to fuck me. My innards
burned with each thrust and my limp cock began to flail and slap my
stomach.

     Watching his face, all I could see was his concentration as he fucked
me, keeping the rhythm going and silently breathing. The strain soon began
to show as he face reddened and sweat beaded and rolled down to his neck
and under the well laundered and starched shirt he wore.

     His breathing became louder as I lay inert beneath him for him to use
me. I was bored by his mechanical fuck and wished he would let someone like
me fuck him to show him how it should be done. Thankfully, I knew he would
not last for much longer.

     The loud breathing gave way to grunts as he thrust with a renewed
vigour and then I felt his cock pulse against my muscle. He stopped his
fucking and expelled a long and vocal breath.

     Pulling his cock from inside me, he jumped off the bed and climbed
into his breeches. Rummaging in his purse he pulled out a few coins and
threw that at me.

     "Next time, don't fucking cum in my mouth."

     As he walked out the room, I picked up the coins thinking, 'what makes
him think there'll ever be a next time'.

     Dressed, I went back down the stairs but could not see the man
anywhere; I supposed he had left to go back to his wife or betrothed. I
left too and without a glance to anyone in the room.

     The night felt colder now and had a damp smell as if it was about to
rain. Securing my satchel around me, I heaved a sigh and with a sore
backside, continued my walk, and my job to deliver the night post.


Something snapped in me and the dark surrounding, the noisy revellers and
the smell of horses faded.  My eyes opened and I was looking at the
ceiling.

     "It's all right." A calm voice spoke. "You are safely back."

     Gasping, I looked around her office. I felt my groin straining against
my trousers and I looked to see I had a hard-on. It was obvious and I felt
a pang of embarrassment for getting hard in the presence of the middle aged
woman. Everything I saw and described felt like it was happening to me, it
seemed real and a part of me wanted to go back. But our time was up.

     The hypnotherapist gave me a tape of our session, commenting how
unusual it was for it to start with something so sexual.

     Pocketing the tape, she extolled the virtue of further sessions. Still
shaken from the encounter, I merely said I would have to think about it.

     Walking out of the office and down the street, I was in a
daze. Confused about how I should feel that I was a male prostitute. One
think I was sure about, I was not going to tell my mates the truth.


Thank you for reading.

Comments are welcomed and gratefully received.
Please email me at nifty (at) talesfromastream.co.uk

There are other stories on my website www.talesfromastream.co.uk, some of
which have not been posted here.

Why not take a look and let me know what you think.

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