On the Pill

On The Pill

by

Little Dan

Brock Barry Peterson was the handsomest man I had ever seen. He was over six feet tall and had smooth clear skin, blue blue eyes and white white wavy hair.

He was always impeccably dressed in expensive well-tailored suits, crisp ironed shirts, and tastefully colored ties. He wore a special cologne. I don't know what it was, but it was heady. Sitting across from his desk, taking instructions, I was breathing in his aroma and getting absolutely intoxicated.

Just to be sitting across from him, watching his perfect features was exciting. The sapphire eyes, the straight nose, the strong chin, the expressive mouth. I could have just sat there and stared at his wonderful face for hours. But I didn't dare. I kept my eyes focused on my pen and pad as I took notes.

"That guy in purchasing on the third floor, Logan, Nicholas Logan," he said.

I nodded. I knew who Logan was.

"Get rid of him."

"What?" I asked.

"Get rid of him. He's a fag. I can't stand fags."

My heart sank. My soul froze. "But I can't do that. That's illegal."

"Find a legal reason. Tell him he purchased too many lamb chops, and they went bad," he suggested.

Brock Barry Peterson was the handsomest man I had ever seen. I had what was like a schoolboy crush on him. I kept this to myself. Brock Barry Peterson hated fags. I didn't dare let Brock Barry Peterson know that I was a fag. Obviously, I would lose my job.

Brock Barry Peterson was the Regional Manager of the Waymont Corporation, the largest retail food chain in the nation. I was the head accountant of the Waymont Corporation. I took my orders from him. I would have to find a way to can Nicholas Logan. To can him because he was gay, like me. This was so unfair. So awful. I wondered how many corporations across the nation operated in such a shameful manner. Discrimination was alive and well on Planet Earth.

Brock Barry Peterson was a mean hateful person. Why was I madly in love with him? I knew that one of his sons was gay. Gregory. They no longer spoke at all. I think Brock's treatment of Gregory was one of the reasons why his wife, Linda, had left him. His other children, Calvin, Wilson, and his daughter, Elizabeth called him now and then, but they all had their own lives. They were all married and had good jobs and incomes.

Even Gregory was a successful real estate salesman, and lived with his partner, Silvio, a handsome architect who'd moved here from Rome five years ago to be with Gregory.

I admired Gregory. I admired his courage. His bravado. The way he had always said "I'm gay. This is who I am. If you don't like it, fuck you." His father hadn't liked it.

I, on the other hand, lived in a small stuffy closet, crowded with old memories and old regrets. I had been in love once before, and Ivan had actually returned my devotion. He had wanted us to take an apartment together. To be partners. To be lovers. But then the world would have known. The world would have known my shame. That I was a queer. A homosexual. If the world couldn't accept me, how could I accept myself? I couldn't share an apartment with Ivan. Little by little Ivan drifted out of my life and was gone. I was alone. I would always be alone.

And had I been an open homosexual, I would certainly not now be the head accountant of the Waymont Corporation. Sitting across the desk from handsome, distinguished Brock Barry Peterson, fag-hater.

"How does the third quarter look, Simon?" he asked me.

"The third quarter?"

"Yes. The third quarter. The quarter we're in," he prodded.

"Oh. The third quarter. Fine, I guess. Fine."

"What's wrong with you, Simon?" he asked me. "You seem distracted."

"No. No. I'm fine," I assured him.

He was studying me with a quizzical look. I was getting nervous. I started writing figures on my pad to get my mind off Brock Barry Peterson.

"Did you make the hotel reservations?" he asked me.

"The hotel reservations?"

"For the convention?" He must really be thinking I'd lost it.

"Yes. Yes, I did," I assured him. "Everything's all set."

He nodded.

Next Friday we were flying out to the Retail Food Convention in Lake Tahoe, Nevada. Due to the new awareness of corporate responsibility, we were flying tourist, and sharing a room. During the last decade, there had been scandalous overspending by corporate executives who paid themselves enormous amounts of money and bought expensive mansions, cars, and yachts, and threw lavish exorbitantly costly birthday and anniversary parties, all at the stockholders' expense.

The shareholders had had enough. They wanted a crackdown. No more excess. They wanted minimum spending by executives who were not using their own money. Thus, the thrift trip to the convention in Tahoe.

"What about Logan?" he asked again. He wouldn't let it go. He was relentless in regard to queers.

"I'll handle it when I get back from the convention," I answered. "I'd rather have someone who knows his job there, while I'm away."

He nodded his head. This at least made sense to him. He would tolerate the fag for another couple of weeks.

When I left Brock Barry Peterson's office and returned to my own, I sat at my desk and contemplated the following weekend in Tahoe. I would be sharing a hotel room with a man whom I hated. A man whom I hated and was desperately attracted to. A man who would fire my ass if he knew what I was. I would have loved to do something to Brock Barry Peterson. To make him suffer. I knew I could never get him to love me, but maybe I could make him suffer. But how?

It was that night at home when I was checking my E-mail that I got the idea. All those letters guaranteeing me the world's greatest erection. All those new drugs. Suppose... I wondered if he would...No...But still...I decided it would be fun to try it.

I wasn't going to order anything over the Internet. Who knew what you would be getting. And besides, I was flying in a week. There wouldn't be time. The next few days, I visited several doctors and presented each of them with my condition. I was impotent. I needed a medication to help me get an erection. I was able to get three different doctors to write prescriptions for three different medications. I took them to three different drugstores to have them filled. I paid for them myself. I did not try to charge them to my health plan. I paid the doctors myself as well. It would be worth any expense to make Brock Barry Peterson suffer.

I also bought a mortar and pestle. And two nights before I was to fly off to the convention, in the privacy of my apartment, I poured all the pills into the mortar and ground everything to a fine powder with the pestle. I filled several empty pill bottles, which I had not thrown away, with the fine multi-colored powder. I put them in my carry-on case with my toothbrush, razor and comb. The powder would fly with me to Lake Tahoe. It would be used at the convention. I chuckled to myself. What a devilish idea. I just loved it.

When I got to the gate at the airport, Peterson was already there. I could see his striking figure and dazzling white wavy hair from two hundred yards down the corridor.

I got on the moving walkway and moved closer and closer to him. He saw me coming, and greeted me as I stepped off onto solid floor.

"Good morning, Simon."

"Good morning, Brock," I answered.

We were among the first to enter the plane as we were in a row towards the rear. Before we sat down, we stowed our carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments. Brock was having a little trouble with his. A handsome young flight attendant rushed over.

"Can I help you with that, sir?" he asked, as he eased Brock aside and worked the case into the compartment. He closed the compartment and smiled.

"Thank you," said Brock.

"You're very welcome," said the flight attendant, and went off to help someone else.

"Fag," grumbled Peterson, under his breath.

I looked at him and said nothing. The young man had only helped him, and this was what I was hearing. Hateful, hateful man. He would pay.

When we got to Tahoe, we got a taxi to take us to the hotel. We checked into our room. It was really lovely. Very large with two double beds. We hung our clothes in the closet, washed up and went down to the casino. Yes. There was gambling.

Peterson headed for the craps table right away. He was a dice man. I really liked the slot machines, but I decided I would try craps. After all, Brock Barry Peterson and I were together. Of course he would never do what I wanted to do, but I was flexible. I would follow his lead.

It was the first time I had ever rolled dice, and I guess I had beginner's luck. I rolled for over an hour before I sevened out. Peterson was winning a fortune on me. He was loudly cheering me on. Drinking, and laughing, slapping me on the back. "Come on, Simon. Hard Eight. Roll daddy a hard eight." I rolled a hard eight. He was euphoric. He was getting drunker and drunker, and happier and happier, and richer and richer. I was doing well too. I wasn't betting as much as he was, so he was cashing in on my roll more than I was. "Can you roll me a twelve, Simon? Can you roll me boxcars? Thirty to one?

"I don't know," I said.

"Sure you can, Simon. Daddy has confidence in you. One hundred dollars on twelve," he yelled to the pitman, and threw across a black chip. "Come on, Simon. Throw a twelve for daddy," I threw a twelve. He cheered, and threw his arms around me, hugging me. I didn't dare hug him back.

After my roll, it was Brock's roll. He sevened out right away, so it didn't cost him too much. The next two guys sevened out pretty quickly too.

"Come on," he said. "Let's cash in. We'll go up and rest for awhile and then go down to dinner." We had made a reservation at The Steak Stove, one of the best restaurants in the hotel.

We took the elevator up to our room, and we decided to shave and shower before dinner. Brock was in a great mood. He stripped and walked into the bathroom and began running the shower. For an older man, his body was in magnificent shape. Not an ounce of fat. Tight muscles, lean thighs, firm fleshy buttocks. And his chest was covered with a sprinkling of the same snow-white hair which grew on his head. It was hard not to sit there and look at him with my tongue hanging out. I looked, but I pretended to be uninterested. I was glad he wasn't overly modest and that he hadn't gone into the bathroom before he stripped. But he was a regular at the gym, and I guess he was pretty used to the locker room with all the guys getting naked in front of each other.

He sang while he was in the shower. Old show tunes. Some Enchanted Evening' from South Pacific'. Many a New Day' from Oklahoma'. Luck, Be a Lady' from Guys and Dolls'.

He was being lucky, all right. So far. While he was in the shower, I dug into my carry-on case and took out one of the little pill bottles. I stuck it in my pants pocket. I also made a call on my cell phone. I was ready.

After his shower, Brock lay on his bed and rested as I took my shower. I got into my own bed to rest for a while. I could smell the cologne he had splashed on after his shower. What an exciting aroma! It was giving me a slight hard-on. At 7:30 we began to get dressed. Our reservation was for eight o'clock.

In the restaurant, they sat us at a small table in the corner. Under different circumstances, it could have been romantic. Brock ordered a martini. I ordered a daiquiri. We both ordered rare steaks and baked potatoes with sour cream. Plus fried onion rings for the table.

The drinks arrived. Now was the time. Under the table I dialed a number on my cell phone. It was a signal.

I had told Nicholas Logan in purchasing that his job was in danger, without going into details. I had told him I was trying to save his job for him. I had told him when his phone rang around this time, he was to make a call to Lake Tahoe.

Suddenly a waiter appeared. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Brock. "Is your name Brock Barry Peterson?"

"Yes," said Brock, wondering.

"The gentlemen on the phone said you had white hair. There's an emergency phone call for you at the front desk."

"What could that be?" asked Brock, rising slowly and putting his napkin on the table.

I shrugged.

"Who could know I'm here?"

I shrugged.

"You'd better answer it," I suggested.

"Yes," he agreed, and followed the waiter to the front desk of the restaurant.

I didn't waste a second. I took out the vial of colored powder and poured some into his martini. I didn't have the slightest idea of what dose to give him. After all. these were three different medications mixed together. I shook the glass. I studied it. I poured some more powder in. I wanted to make sure it worked. I figured it was a pretty good dose now. I shook the glass again. I stirred the drink with my finger until all the powder had dissolved. It was slightly cloudy. But not too much. I put it back in front of Brock's chair. I folded my hands and waited. He came back to the table.

"Funny thing," he said.

"What?"

"There was no one on the phone. Can't figure that one out."

"Strange," I agreed. "To us," I said, lifting my drink in a toast.

"To money," said Brock. We clinked glasses. I took a sip. He took a sip. He made a funny little expression with his mouth. Did he taste the powder? I didn't know, but then he took another sip. Then he downed the whole glass. I had never realized how much Brock enjoyed cocktails. This afternoon on the plane. This afternoon at the craps table. And now tonight. Was he an alcoholic? It was amazing how he had kept his looks. His strong tight build. His smooth skin. His young face.

He finished his martini and ordered another. I was still on my first daiquiri. I was not a big drinker.

He was getting more and more jolly with the alcohol. The steaks arrived and we began to eat. He started talking with his mouth full, laughing happily. "I will never forget when you threw that twelve for daddy," he chortled.

"Anything for daddy," I said dryly.

"What a guy," he leaned over and slapped me on the shoulder.

As dinner progressed, I thought I detected a strained look on his face. Every once in a while he would glance down into his lap. I saw him lift his napkin, and then put it back. This happened several times. His face was a little red now. From the drinks? From embarrassment? I wish I could have taken a peek under that napkin.

As dinner progressed, he was laughing a little less, and he seemed to be scrunching around in his chair a little. I pretended not to notice. It seemed clear he wanted to leave the table, but I insisted he order desert. We both had apple pie a la mode with vanilla ice cream. We both had espresso. We got the check and signed it to the room.

After dinner I got up, but he didn't right away. "Let's go get `em," I said. "Back to the casino."

"I'm a little tired," he said. "Maybe I'll go up to the room. You go get `em."

"Oh, no," I insisted. "You can rest anytime. You're here in a casino. You've got to play." I pulled on his arm. I succeeded in getting him out of his chair. He still held the napkin in front of him. I was dragging him away from the table, so finally there was nothing for him to do but drop the napkin on the table. He tried to keep his hands in front of him, but I saw what looked to be a bonsai redwood jutting out in the crotch of his pants. Talk about a tent. Did he ever have a hard on.

I began to fantasize. Wouldn't it be nice if he felt compelled to fuck me with that huge hard-on? But deep inside, I realized that not even drugs would get fag-hating Brock Barry Peterson to stick his cock in my ass.

"Back to the craps table?" I asked.

"No. No," he said uncertainly. "I'm not feeling so great. I want to be able to sit down."

Indeed he wanted to sit down and keep his hands over his enormous erection. He didn't dare stand at the craps table with his pants jutting out a foot in front of him.

"Blackjack or machines?" I asked.

"Whatever you want," he said.

Suddenly he was being considerate of me. I decided that the best thing I could do was get him into the end seat at a blackjack table and sit next to him, so only I would be able to see what was happening.

We sat down at a half-empty blackjack table and bought in. Me for $100.00. Him for $500,00. We were both kind of keeping even. He kept staring down at his lap. Surreptitiously I kept staring down at his lap. It was an impressive lap. I was dying to laugh. I didn't dare.

"You have eleven," I said. "Double down."

He looked at me in puzzlement. "What?" He was really out of it now.

"Double down," I instructed. He didn't seem to know what to do, so I reached over to his chips and put the proper amount out for a double down. He won. Double. Thanks to me. He just stared at the chips as they paid him.

"I don't feel well," he said.

I was beginning to get worried. He didn't look well. Had I given him too much?

"I'm taking you up to the room," I decided. I put his chips in his jacket pocket. I put my chips in my jacket pocket. I helped him up and guided him toward the elevator.

When we got up the room, I wanted to help him undress, but he wouldn't let me. He pushed me aside. Facing away from me he undressed, and stepped into his pajamas. Then he crawled quickly under the cover. His face was sweating. I wondered if I should call a doctor. I would have to admit what I had done. Suppose he died? It would be my fault. What should I do? What should I do? I think I was crying a little.

I got into my own pajamas. He moaned.

"What is it Brock? What is it?"

"It hurts. It hurts."

"What hurts?" I asked. I knew what hurt.

"My dick. It hurts. It hurts. It's hard. It won't go down. I don't know what's wrong." He started to cry.

I started to cry.

"Show me," I said.

"No," he said.

"Show me," I said. He pushed the blankets down and opened his pajama bottom and drew out the offending member. It was like a baseball bat. It was red and it was throbbing. This didn't look good.

"Jerk off," I said hysterically. "You've got to come. Masturbate."

He put his hand around it. "I can't," he said. "I can't. It hurts."

"You've got to. You've really got to." He wasn't doing it. I was in a panic. I had to try to get that thing down. That thing, that I had caused. "Oh, my god," I cried. I rushed over and grabbed it in my hand and started masturbating him.

"No. No," he said, trying to push me away.

"Yes. Yes," I answered. "You have to ejaculate. We have no time to lose. You could die." I started stroking him. Finally he gave in and allowed me to continue.

"How is it?" I asked.

"The same," he sighed. He looked me in the eye. "You're a good friend," he said. "I appreciate what you're doing for me."

"Forget the appreciation," I said. "Just concentrate on shooting a load."

I jacked him a few more minutes. Nothing was happening. I had a big decision to make. I made it. I crawled on the bed. I lowered my face over his cock. I swallowed it. His unbelievably hot and hard and throbbing red knob was in my mouth. I worked my jaw down the shaft. I sucked and I sucked. I put my whole being into working the thick white cream out of his balls up his shaft, into my mouth. The poisonous cream which was killing him. I had to get it out of him. I redoubled my efforts. I sucked and I sucked. But now he was starting to respond a little. He was bucking his ass up and down on the bed. I put my hands under his ass and lifted him further down my throat. He started moaning a little. But these were not just moans of pain. There was passion in those moans. His hands came down on the top of my head and grabbed my hair. The he grabbed my ears. Then he plunged my head down around his stiff dick.

"Suck it. Suck it," he screamed. They probably could have heard him at the craps table. "Suck my big dick. Take my hot load. Suck it. Suck it."

I kept sucking him. He was bucking wildly. He was moaning. He was masturbating himself with my mouth. But he wasn't coming.

"Can you come?" I asked.

He didn't answer. He was desperately trying to come. It wasn't happening. I would have to try something else.

I tore off my pajama pants and flopped down on the bed next to him face down. I pulled him over on top of me. I grabbed his big spit-wet dick and pointed it between my asscheeks, which I raised up, as I reached my other hand around behind his ass, and forced him down. I was forcing his cock into my ass. My dry ass. Oh, god. This was hurting. But there was nothing else to be done. I didn't have time to scout out lubrication. I had to get him off.

His cock started separating my asslips which closed around his enormity as he slid deeper and deeper into my back passage. I heard him make funny little mewling noises as he felt my ass close around him, and grip him. "AAAGGGHHH," he moaned in appreciation. Then he started tensing and untensing his asscheeks. He was fucking on his own now. He was gripping me around my waist, pulling me around him, and just plowing me. Grunting in my ear, squeezing the front of my thighs, squeezing my asscheeks. Then sinking in deeper than ever. "Oh, that's it. That's it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Your hot ass feels so good on my cock. Your hot tight ass. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I want to shoot my load. I want to come in your hot ass."

"Yes, please. Shoot your load in my hot ass. Please shoot your load," I encouraged him. "I want to feel your hot cum inside me. Give me your hot cum. Give me your hot cum. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me."

His movements were getting more and more frantic. His was breathing in gasps, in catches. I worked my assmuscles like an extracting machine. "AAHH. AAAAHHH. AAAHHH." It was working. He was going to come. Thank heavens. He was going to come. Not die. I was so grateful I started to cry again.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not hurting me," I screamed. "Just fuck me. Come in me. Give me your hot cum."

He started pounding again. Then he froze in position, and I felt the hot jets squirting into my ass. Never in my life was I so grateful for a liquid. I raised my legs and pressed my heels against his asscheeks, caressing them with my feet. I reached around and pressed his asscheeks with my hands. We both lay there not moving, just breathing. His cheek rested on my hair. His cheek was damp. My hair was damp. He would live. Life was wonderful.

"I don't know how I can thank you," he said to me after a few minutes. His cock was still buried up my ass.

"You were in pain. I was afraid you would die. I had to do something."

"I'll never forget what you did for me. You took my cock in your mouth. You took my cock up your ass. Just like a faggot. What a noble thing."

"I had to," I explained.

He patted my hair in appreciation. He went in and took a shower. Then I went in and took a shower. When I came back to the bedroom he was lying on his bed with a big stiff dick sticking in the air.

"Oh, no," I said.

"Yes," he said sheepishly. "It's back. It doesn't hurt as much as before, but it hurts a little. It's back. I think I have to come again. Okay?"

"Okay," I said. What else could I say?

I crawled between his legs and started nursing on his fleshy babybottle.

"That's it," he said warmly. "Suck my dick. Suck daddy's dick. I hope you don't mind dirtytalk," he said. "It helps me get off."

"No," I said. "Go ahead. Dirtytalk. Anything that helps."

"Suck daddy's big hot dick. Take that big thick cock into your hot faggot mouth. You like giving blowjobs, faggot? You like giving blowjobs?"

He pulled me up by my hair and looked into my eyes. "Answer me, faggot. You like giving blowjobs? You like sucking cock?"

"Yes, daddy," I said. "I love sucking cock. I love sucking my daddy's big cock. Let me suck on your big cock and get your hot juice in my mouth."

"Say `please.'"

"Please, daddy. Please. Please. Let me suck on your big thick dick and swallow your thick white cum."

"If that's what you really want, okay," he said generously.

I nodded happily as I put his cock back in my mouth and went to work on it.

I sucked for quite a while. He just kept getting harder. It seemed that blowjobs just didn't do it for him. I lay down next to him on the bed. This time face up. With my legs in the air. I guided him over me, in between my raised legs. I held his spit-slick dick and once more fed it into my asshole. My asshole greeted it like an old friend this time. It opened right up to admit his dick. In. In, it went. And when it was all the way in, I felt his large hot balls smacking against my own balls. I wrapped my legs around him and let him fuck me missionary style.

"Just like a woman," he noted. "Just like fucking a hot cunt."

I slammed my hot cunt up against his balls. I wrapped my arms around him.

"Fuck me," I moaned. "Fuck my pussy, daddy. Fuck my hot wet pussy." He did.

His eyes were closed and he was so into fucking that for a few minutes, I think he forgot I wasn't a woman. "What a hot tight twat," he reveled. "What a sweet little pussy. Does sweet little pussy like daddy's big cock?"

"Yes. Yes," I raised my voice to make it sound more feminine. "My pussy loves daddy's big cock. Fuck my pussy. Shoot your hot cum into my pussy again."

He was so excited, I don't think he knew who or where he was anymore. I don't think he knew who I was anymore. He lowered his head and planted his lips over mine. He was giving me a hot, lustful, sexual, tonguekiss. This was more than I had ever imagined could happen. I kissed him back, licking his tongue top and bottom. Our combined saliva was running down my chin. I reached up and ran my fingers through his beautiful silky wavy white hair. He was so beautiful. So handsome. So strong. What a lover. But I had to get him off. This was still a medical emergency. If anything happened to him, the autopsy would show the drugs. If they traced my pharmaceutical purchases, I could go to prison for a long long time.

"Give me your hot thick cream," I begged him. "Shoot your milky seed up my uterus, daddy," I said, trying to extend the illusion that he was fucking a woman.

"What a sweet smooth pussy," he groaned. He started squeezing my nipples. Finding a flat hard chest, he opened his eyes and the illusion was spoiled.

I tried to get him back. "Fuck my cunt, honey," I begged him. "Fuck your lady's hot cunt. Shoot your jizz into your adoring submissive woman." "That ought to get him," I thought. It did.

"You want some daddyjuice?" he asked.

"Yes. Give me your daddyjuice. I want your precious daddyjuice. Fuck me, honey. Give me your daddyjuice."

"It's coming. It's coming. My daddyjuice is shooting out into your beautiful pussyhole. Take it. Take it. GGGGGRRRRRAAAAGGGGGHHHH."

"Aaahhhhh. Aaaaahhhh." I milked his cock with my educated ass and pulled the liquid out of his body into mine. I was flooded in a glorious wet warmth. "MMMMMMmmmmm," I sighed happily. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmm."

I must have drifted off to sleep in his strong arms. I felt so protected. So loved. Never in my life... This was what I had always... If only he could love me as I loved him. I slept.

I was in a beautiful little cottage with a white picket fence. I was in the kitchen baking a peach pie. My hair was long. I was naked except for a pretty flowered apron, which covered my front. I heard the front door open. It was my darling. He came into the kitchen with a large bouquet of roses. I took them and put them into a vase in the middle of the kitchen table. I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck. I pressed my lips to his and kissed him passionately, as I ran my fingers through his thick silky white hair, as he gently kneaded my asscheeks with his own two hands. I felt liquid shooting out of my penis. I opened my eyes. I had had a wet dream. I was no longer a teenager, but I had had a wet dream.

I was lying on the bed, and as my eyes opened I saw Brock watching me with his cold blue eyes. He had seen the cum shoot out of my cock. He had a cold smile on his lips. I didn't want to believe the look in his eyes. I had fallen asleep in his strong arms. I had had that wonderful dream.

"What is it?" I asked timorously.

"I was kind of in a bad way last night. You helped me out."

"Yes," I admitted.

"But you've sucked cock before."

I said nothing.

"You've had cock up your ass before."

I said nothing.

Suddenly he leaped forward and grabbed my arm. He twisted it brutally behind my back.

"OOOWWWW," I screamed. "You're hurting me."

"Admit it. You've had cock in your mouth before. You liked it too much."

I tried to pull away. He twisted. "OOOOWWWW," I yelled. "Okay, yes. I've had cock in my mouth before."

"You've had cock in your ass before, right?"

"Yes," I said. "I've had cock up my ass before."

"I knew it. Faggot. Filthy queer. Homo." He spit the words at me as he twisted my arm. He wasn't grateful anymore that I had eased his pain. "You were really getting off on sucking and getting your ass fucked. You were no Florence Nightingale angel of mercy worried about my health, you homo whore. You like getting banged like a woman.

"You're right," I admitted. "I'm everything you say I am."

"What did you give me?" he asked.

"Nothing," I protested.

He twisted again. I screamed. "What did you give me?" he asked again.

I named the three drugs.

"How?"

I described having ground them all up with the mortar and pestle.

"When?"

"When you went to the phone in the restaurant. I slipped it into your martini."

"The fake phone call?"

"Yes. I arranged it."

He gave my arm a final painful twist and then released it. Then he slapped my face left to right, right to left, left to right, right to left, left to right, right to left. "OOOwww. Stop," I pleaded.

"You disgust me," he said. "You disgusting perverted queer."

The tears were running down my face as I rubbed my poor arm and my poor face. I wasn't crying because of my arm or my face. I was crying for my shattered dream. I had really deluded myself that I could make him love me.

"I should fire you," he said. "I should really fire you, you queer."

He wouldn't fire me. He couldn't fire me now. He had gotten head from me. He had fucked my ass. I knew too much. If I opened my mouth it could be very embarrassing for him. People might think he was a perverted disgusting filthy queer. It was better that no one knew anything. About him. About me.

Back in the office, life went on as usual. Except that our meetings were cold and formal. He spoke to me only when he had to, and only about business. I was still in love with him. I still hated him. I did not fire Nicholas Logan, but Brock never brought up the subject again.

One day a surprising thing happened. I was waiting by the elevator to go to lunch, and when the elevator doors opened, out stepped Gregory, Brock Barry Peterson's gay son. I had met Gregory before. He was a nice boy. I liked him. I was really saddened by the way his father had rejected him.

"Gregory," I said in amazement. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm having lunch with my dad," he said.

"You're having lunch with your dad?" I couldn't believe my ears. "I didn't know the two of you were speaking."

"We weren't, but we are now."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. Just one day he called me and suggested we have lunch. We've had lunch a few times now."

"I'm so happy for you," I said. I put my arms around him and gave him a quick hug, but then the elevator doors opened and I had to go down for my own lunch. I couldn't help wondering if I had had anything to do with this miraculous reconciliation. But, no. That couldn't be. Peterson hated fags. Peterson hated me. I disgusted him. And I had done something really awful. Something unforgivable.

One day, I looked at the calendar with dread. It was a year later. The convention was again approaching. We were booked into a casino again. The Chesterfield in Las Vegas. Brock and I would be flying out together. Brock and I would be sharing a room. The same arrangements as the previous year. I was scared to death.

On the plane we each drank alcohol. We didn't speak. We avoided each other's eyes. It was going to be an unpleasant weekend. After we landed we grabbed a cab to the hotel and checked into our room. Again we had a very large room with two double beds. This year, I would definitely sleep in my own bed.

After we had hung our clothing in the closet, Brock said, "I'm going down to the craps table. Are you coming?"

"Okay," I said. We could at least try to be civil to each other during the convention.

At the craps table when I got the dice, I had another great roll. I brought in number after number. Hard eights. Hard sixes. Hard fours. Brock put a black chip on the twelve and looked at me. He said nothing. I took the dice and blew on them. I prayed to the god of gambling. I threw the dice. They spun. They rolled. They spun. A six on one. The other one was still rolling. It stopped. Another six. I had given him another twelve. Thirty to one. He piled his chips in front of him and said nothing to me.

When we finally left the table, I had made myself some money. He had made himself a lot of money with crazy bets that I brought in. We showered and lay down on our own beds. We had an eight o'clock reservation at The Lobster Lake, the hotel's renowned seafood restaurant. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of anything. He was lying on the next bed dressed in his skimpy tight white jockey shorts. His glorious white hair was freshly washed and brushed. It was hard not to think of anything. He had put on that wonderful cologne which he used. I breathed in the exciting fragrance. I tried not to think of anything.

We went down to the restaurant at eight o'clock. We were seated at a small table in the back, facing each other. He ordered his martini. I ordered my daiquiri. There was a beautiful multicolored wax candle burning in the center of the table. The flame flickered over his perfect skin and blinding white hair. It could have been romantic. It wasn't.

They brought the drinks. We didn't toast this year. I was about to take a sip, when there was an accident. The bread tray went flying off the table. Brock must have hit it with his sleeve. I know I didn't. I bent over and began picking up the rolls and breadstick.

"Leave that," Brock ordered. "Let the waiter get it."

I sat up. Brock lifted his glass to his lips and looked at me. "Am I safe this year or did you put something in my drink?"

"No. No. You're safe. I swear it."

"I don't know if I can believe you."

"I swear to you," I crossed my heart. "I didn't put anything in your drink. It's safe to drink. I would never do that again. You don't know how terrible I feel about what I did last year." I started to cry a little.

"Stop acting like a pussy," he said coldly. "Drink your cocktail."

I sobbed and dried my eyes and vowed to behave myself. We drank our drinks. Brock ordered South African lobster tail, and I ordered a two-pound Maine lobster. They brought our lobsters with plenty of melted butter and I happily dug in. I was wearing a bib, as I cracked the claws with a nutcracker and swallowed the succulent meat dripping with butter. I was so involved with the lobster that at first I wasn't noticing Brock. But then I was. He looked funny. He looked uncomfortable. He brow was sweating. We finished our meal. We had desert and espresso. We signed the check to the room number. I stood up to leave.

"I think we'd better go upstairs," said Brock. "You fucking bastard." My jaw dropped.

"What do you mean?" I asked. He stood up and I could once again see a bonsai redwood stretching out his pants. "But I didn't," I protested. "I swear, I didn't."

"Just go," he ordered. He had taken off his suit jacket and was holding it in front of him. We walked to the elevator and went up to the room.

The minute the door closed, he started ripping off his clothes. He started ripping off my clothes. "Get undressed," he ordered.

"I don't understand," I said.

He slapped me across the face. "I said, take off your fucking clothes," he said.

I rapidly undressed. He was dangerous. When we were both naked he pulled me over to his bed and lay down. His cock was sticking almost a foot up into the air. He grabbed my arm and twisted it behind me. "Oooowww," I said.

"Suck my cock, faggot." I had little choice but to lower my head to his crotch as he twisted my arm. "Get it good and wet, fag. Go down on it. Is it stiff enough for you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Yes, who?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"That's better," he said, and pressed my head roughly down on his engorged cock. I was choking. I was coughing. I was dribbling. It was pounding into the back of my throat. He had no mercy. But it was sort of exciting too.

"Suck that big cock. Come on. You can do better than that. Suck it, goddamn it."

"Yes, sir," I assented, though I doubt if my words could be understood with a big cock all the way down my throat. I tongued it. I applied the greatest oral suction possible. He was angry-red hard and pulsating again. Just like last year. And he wasn't coming. I sucked and I sucked.

"You know what I'm going to do now, faggot?"

I knew, but I said, "what?"

"I'm going to fuck your faggot ass. Get on all fours. Like a dog," he ordered. "You ready for my cock, bitch?"

"Yes, sir. I'm ready for your big cock. Stick it into my asshole, sir."

He crawled up behind me and forced it mercilessly into my hole. I felt his white pubic hair scratching my asscheeks and his heavy balls swayed against my own, hitting them on every instroke. He was pounding and pounding me.

"Flatten out, bitch," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," I said, and lowered my body until I was flat on the bed. He followed, and without withdrawing his cock, lay down on my back. He wrapped his strong arms around my waist and pulled my rump up to him as he slammed down.

"You like this big thick daddydick in your ass, queerboy?"

I decided to tell the truth. "Yes. Yes. I love your daddydick in my hot ass. Fuck me, sir. Fuck me please, sir. Shoot your hot sticky cum in my ass, sir."

"Beg me, sissy."

"Yes. I'm begging you, sir. I want your hot white sperm in my belly. My ass wants to drink your cum." We were both getting off on the dirtytalk. And I just loved having to call him `sir.'"

"I'm fucking my boy's hot little behind, and it feels so good. It feels just like a cunt. A greedy hungry cunt."

"Yes. Fuck my cunt, daddy, sir. Fuck my hot pussy. My hot pussy wants your juice." He started slamming away. I loved feeling his body slapping my jiggling cheeks. I loved the feel of his whiskers against the side of my face. I loved the smell of his cologne. I loved the feel of his cock grinding away inside my ass. I twisted the inner muscles of my canal, trying to make it great for him. Trying to squeeze out the juice building in those balls. The balls that were slamming against my cheeks.

"I'm going to shoot my jizm inside your hot little ass. Is that okay? Is that okay, fagboy?"

"Yes, sir. It's very okay. Give it to me. Give me your hot load. Give me your cum."

If it were even possible to fuck any faster and harder, he did it. And then suddenly. Stillness. We paused in freeze frame. "AAARRRGGGGHHHH," he screamed as his juice shot into me time and again. My asswalls fluttered around his spout and produced a wetness of their own. I was having an ass orgasm. Strange, but wonderful.

We lay there for a half hour not moving. He was still on top of me. His cock was still in my ass. A half hour later, I felt it getting hard again inside me and he started grinding his asscheeks in a second fuck.

"I'm fucking you again, fagboy."

"I know, sir. I feel it. Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome, baby." He was being a little more tender now. He actually kissed my ear as he ground his penis into my behind. Then he gave me earlobe a little bite.

"I love you, daddy," I said.

"Shut your fucking mouth," he ordered.

I shut my mouth and concentrated on squeezing his big dick with my assmuscles.

"I'm going to give you another hot hosing," he announced.

"Hose me," I said eagerly. "Spray it all into me."

This time his hips went into jerky movements as his thick milk shot out into me. "AAGGGHHH," he groaned again.

"AAAHHH, aaahhh, aaaahhh," I said as my fluttering orgasming asschanel sucked up his juice. Now he'd had enough. I felt him drift off to sleep on top of me, his cock still way deep inside my rectum. I tried not to move. I didn't want to disturb him. Finally I too fell asleep.

I was dusting the coffee table in the living room. I was nude except for my flowered apron, and my hair was very long. I had on earrings, and lipstick and eyeshadow. I knew my white haired man would be home very soon and I started to mix him a very dry martini. I heard him come in the door and walk up behind me.

I felt him against my naked ass. He pulled the string on my apron, and I was even more exposed. I don't know why, but I could feel him inside me, even though he wasn't yet. I turned around. He handed me a large bouquet of roses, which I laid on the coffee table. I stood up and threw my arms around his neck, and drank the nectar of his sweet kisses and my fingers wandered through his thick wavy white locks. I knew I was dreaming. I struggled as hard as I could not to wake up. I wanted to never wake up. I wanted to go on in that dream forever. But you can't go on in a dream forever. My eyes opened.

He was still lying on top of me. His breathing was even. He was still asleep. His long cock was still buried in my ass. Even in my dream I had felt it. He was holding my hand in his. I squeezed his hand a little. It was so wonderful. He was a brute, but I loved him. Was this like the battered woman syndrome? The more they batter you, the more you love them. I must be really sick.

I felt him stirring on top of me. He moved a little. I didn't say anything. He was awake now. His cock was still deep in my ass. I felt it hardening inside me. Then he started gently rocking on top of me. A sweet morning fuck. Neither of us spoke. Very slowly. Very gently. He fucked me for almost an hour. His hand was still holding mine. He squeezed my hand as he fucked me. I squeezed his hand as he fucked me. His white whiskers were longer and sharper now against my cheek. Probably I had a stubble also.

Finally I felt him getting longer, wider, stiffer, and then his seed was spilling out into me. My tissues quivered around his cock and I had another anal orgasm. This time after about five minutes, he withdrew his dick from my ass.

"I'm going to take a shower," he announced. He walked to the bathroom and I heard the spray of the water as he turned the faucets. When he was drying himself, I nudged past him into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and began running the water for my own shower. I was puzzled. As I soaped myself, I wondered how all this had happened.

I came back into the bedroom, drying myself with the hotel towel. I sat down on the side of my own bed, and looked at him. I broke the silence. "I don't understand it," I told him. "You won't believe me, but I didn't do anything. I didn't put anything in your drink. I wouldn't have done that again. I wish you could believe me, but how could you?"

"I believe you," he said.

"You do???" I was absolutely amazed.

"Yes. You weren't the one who put something in my drink."

"Who was?"

"I was? When I knocked the rolls off the table and you bent over to pick them up, I doctored my drink."

"You?" I couldn't believe my ears. "But why?"

"I didn't think you'd been punished enough for last year. I wanted to punish you more."

"Oh," I said. I didn't know what else to say.

"And also I wanted an excuse to fuck your ass again."

"You did?" Now I certainly couldn't believe my ears.

"I live alone now and I don't get laid that often. And you have a great ass for a faggot."

"I do?"

"Take my word for it. You have a great ass."

"Thank you," I said.

"Thank you, who?" he asked.

"Thank you, sir," I said obediently. I loved him. I would do anything for him. I was his slave.

"Do you think that maybe you might want to fuck it sometime when you weren't all drugged up, sir?" I asked timidly.

"I might. I just might," he said. I was in seventh heaven.

The rest of the convention was like a dream. Like a honeymoon. We gambled. We laughed. We made love. I hit a five-dollar machine for twenty thousand dollars. He fucked me again and again. In every position we could think of. I felt like a bride.

This time when we flew home and went back to work, things were a little different. He seemed very gentle to me now.

He called me into his office. I brought the books. But it was not to be a financial meeting. As I sat across the desk from him, breathing in his cologne, adoring his handsome face, admiring his startling hair, he proposed that I come over to his apartment that evening and cook dinner for him.

"How about it?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Yes. I'd like to do that."

That evening when I got to his apartment, he had everything in the refrigerator. Steaks. Mushrooms. Salad vegetables. He had thoughtfully bought me a pretty flowered apron, but I was still worried about staining my good clothes, so I got naked and put the apron on over my bare body. Just like in the dream. Only I didn't have the long hair, the earrings, the lipstick, the eyeshadow. I would have to work on adding those things.

I cooked a wonderful dinner, and after I did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, I took off my apron, and he led me into the bedroom. He got undressed and crawled into the bed next to me.

"What do you want, faggot?" he asked me.

"I want to suck your big thick cock, sir."

"You can do that," he allowed.

"And then I want you to stick your big thick cock up my ass and fuck the bejeez out of me, sir."

"I can do that," he assented.

He rolled back the covers and held up his stiffening cock to me. I crawled over it. I went down on it. After a proper sucking, he fucked me, I think, all night long, and the next morning. I had to leave for the office a half hour before him. We didn't want to be seen coming in together.

This went on for several nights. Finally he made a proposal. He liked the way I was taking care of him. He liked the way I allowed him to make all the decisions without the slightest protest. He was getting used to my cooking dinner. He was getting used to me washing the dishes, vacuuming the apartment, servicing him in bed. He said he liked having the company. He had been getting a little lonesome lately, and he liked having me around. He also finally admitted he didn't mind fucking a faggot's ass. Or getting a blowjob from a homo. A fuck was a fuck, and a blowjob was a blowjob. And certainly if I didn't mind, why should he? He had become so broad-minded. It was wonderful.

I certainly didn't mind. We agreed that I would keep my own apartment for the sake of propriety. That was my official residence. But in reality I would be living with him, in his apartment. I was finally doing what I hadn't been able to do for Ivan that time. I was sharing an apartment with another man. I actually had a relationship. It could be tricky down at the office. No one must ever find out. And as much as I would have wanted Gregory to know that I was his new stepmom, telling him was out of the question.

Brock opened a household charge account for me. I began to do all the food shopping, and I also picked up a little costume jewelry, plus a few flattering cosmetics. This faggot was going to go all the way for her guy.

One night Brock walked through the door with a large bouquet of red roses for me. I put them in a tall vase and arranged them. My hair was almost shoulder length, now. At the office I told them it was the `Generation Z' look. Very in. They believed it. My lips were covered in glistening scarlet, which seemed to please the master. He kept coming over and nibbling on them while I was cooking.

The days passed and I had never been so happy. He even began inviting Gregory and Silvio over to dinner, but would not allow me to be naked or wear my apron while they were here. We were to be two office buddies. That's all.

One night we were in bed. He was lying between my spread thighs, feeding his long tube into me. I had my arms around him, holding his body very close to mine, as I responded to all his movements. I raised my eyes and looked at his beautiful snow-white hair. My handsome white haired lover. I kissed his perfect face, and drank in the aroma of his cologne. This was his smell. My darling's perfume. I loved it so. He kissed my lips lightly, then deeply. "MMMMmmmm," he mumbled. "This is so great. So great." He slammed his hips down driving his cock deeper into my ass. "I have my own faggot," he rejoiced. "I have my own personal faggot to fuck every night for the rest of my fucking life."