White Collar Tales Bill Drake (billdrake@hotmail.com)
NOTE: The following contains graphic depictions of men having sex with men. If such material offends you or is inappropriate for your age, do not read further.
I've been feeling there aren't enough good stories (hell, not enough stories period) out there about white collar men. So I decided to start a new series of stories featuring hunks in suits and ties getting their rocks off. Should be a range or story types, with some shorter pieces as well as longer ones. Comments or story suggestions to billdrake@hotmail.com.
For more of my stories, check out the Authors page here at Nifty, or join my Yahoo Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/drakestories/
White Collar Tales #1 Brokers in Heat
It was just a helluva Thursday. Another shit day on the market. Not that it was my money, I'm just a trader, but days of dump-selling are rough, the other brokers around you, normally your colleagues and buddies on any other day, are elbowing you aside, trying to make themselves heard over everyone else. You just elbow them back and shout louder.
I'm Brian Callahan, junior bond trader. At the age of 29, I've been a securities broker for the last five years. Went the usual route - extra math classes in my suburban New Jersey high school, majored in Business Administration at university, then went through the Finance program at Wharton. Never had any doubts that this is what I wanted to do. I guess it was because my dad's a broker, and he's always been someone I've looked up to.
Also, I like the rush. A day on the job, especially when I'm out at the trading floor, is a rush unlike anything else. I know my colleagues feel the same way. The corporate world seems to be changing a lot these days, but the world of stock brokers still is a boys-only game. At least it is in our firm: all men, a group of about ten of us in my department, most of them married and with kids, but when they're on the job or just out with the guys afterward, they're just a bunch of macho frat guys who never quite grew up. Which is exactly what I am, I guess.
Today not a word had to be said, everyone in my department headed straight to our pub in the financial district. The place was nothing special, a bit of a dive in fact, but after 4:30 PM dozens of the city's highest paid men squeezed into the barroom for some cheap beer, a smoke and a chance to let off steam.
Our firm had been regulars at the joint for ages, and a small semi-private room was reserved in the back for us. Sometimes you'd make your way back through the mass of brokers, traders and analysts, through the cologne and cigar smoke, and you could feel the envious look of the analysts and portfolio managers, even some of the other traders, guys who were bigger players than you, but as newer arrivals, they were relegated out to the front section of the place.
When we have our drinks and our cigars in hand, we begin discussing what a ball-breaking day it's been. Fuck, we had so much pent-up energy it all came pouring out, ten men shouting over each other in deep baritone voices, giving hearty laughs as guy after guy told stories of some idiot clerk or pesky client they had to deal with. You could feel the adrenaline and testosterone circulating in the room. A powerful hormonal rush that got all of us brokers more and more heated up as the beer and camaraderie loosened us up.
I think we'd barely started our second round of beer when Barrett (Ed Barrett, our top bond specialist, a 32 year-old blonde, barrel-chested hunk of a man) blurts out, "Oh man, I'm so fucking boned right now!" And he was. From ten feet away, I could see his hard, fat schlong tenting up in his wool trousers.
Dave, the junior partner who was standing next to him, slapped Ed's back and growled in a deep, husky voice. "Shit, yeah, bud. Why don't you let that baby out?"
Ed's mouth curled into a fierce grin, as his thick digits fumbled with his suit zipper, opening the fly then reaching in through his boxers to pull out a massive club of bond trader cock. The fucker stood up in front of his pressed white shirt and striped tie a good eight inches, primed and thick, and the curly blonde pubes sticking out from the worsted wool only made the sight that much more impressive.
Dave's left hand wrapped solidly around the inflated, rigid shaft. "Goddamned beaut, Ed," he said in a choked whisper as his hand began a smooth up and down motion on the shaft. Dave's silver wedding band shone in contrast to the peach-colored flesh of his hand and Ed's cock. From where I stood I swear I could see clear pearly dick dew leaking down over it.
"Let's take care of you, bud." Dave said before kneeling down on the bar floor. He licked the shaft to wet it down, taking his time to be sure to coat the whole length. Then he leaned back and plopped the round dickhead in his mouth. Ed grabbed the back of Dave's head, forming his fingers into talons as he gripped and pulled Dave straight onto his horny prick.
"Yeah, Dave, suck that fucking dick. Eat me, fucker."
Dave mumbled something, his mouth stuffed completely with man meat, and his upper body heaved as he hunched over at a better angle to swallow Ed's thick torpedo. As Ed swiveled his hips into his face, Dave reached up and gripped Ed's meaty buttocks with his broad hands. "Hell fuckin' yeah," Ed hissed.
Just then two brawny arms wrapped around me and a warm mouth began nibbling at my ear lobe. The voice was unmistakably that of Richard, a blue-blood third-generation trader who looked like a goddamned tennis pro. "Let's see your big one, Callahan." I had a reputation among the guys for carrying a long one around between my thighs. Right now that fucker was hard as stone while my work mate kneaded and pulled on the vascular cock flesh through my pin stripe trousers. I moaned and watched as he fiddled with the zipper and sized me up while thrusting his own clothed man missile against my round butt. My rigid cock springs free, splattering clear viscous liquid onto Richard's white French cuff.
The guys around me have all paired off and are feeling each other up, stroking each others' hard shafts, sucking like hell. Now Richard is on his knees going down on me - that fine, strong-jawed face looking up at me as his mouth stretches open to take in more dick. This man really is getting off on my dick and it shows.
Mike Levinson is the first to shoot, and when his sucker stands up I see it's one of the senior VPs, with thick, fresh cockjuice clinging to his lips and chin. He's one happy cocksucker.
Ed is the next to shoot, drowning Dave in a torrent of hot sperm. Dave chokes a little swallowing the spurting stuff, but doesn't stop bobbing his head up and down on Ed's rigid cock.
I'm feeling good, real good, but not quite ready to nut. Richard likes working me up and holding me off. Which is fine with me. I spread my legs and ease into a top-class blowjob.
That's when I hear a voice behind me. My boss. Mr. James P. Fordham. Jim was in his late 40s, a tall attractive, fit man with a face that could be stern and friendly at the same time, capped with salt and pepper hair. And a voice that could sound distinguished even when cursing like an Irish sailor. "Sorry I'm late men. One of those Morgan Stanley fuckers had me on the phone and wouldn't stop talking." He chuckled as about half of our group came down from their fierce orgasms.
Some of these men stood and watched, looked my way. It was incredibly hot seeing all these horned-up fuckers, their cocks still at full attention. Some of them seemed to be sated and relaxed, sipping their beers and toking on their cigars. But they all had the hunger and heat in their eyes.
In a second, I knew what they were watching. I don't know which I felt first, Fordham's breath on my neck or his thick manrammer poking my backside. My suit pants and underwear were by now down at my ankles as Richard fellated me, attacking my cock with his tongue and mouth like it was Easter dinner. So my ass cheeks were exposed to the heat and roughshod feel of Jim's cock as it slid its steel-hard length against my flesh, thrusting up beneath the loose tail of my white dress shirt.
My boss's strong hands gripped the firm, flexed balls of my bicep muscle as he slowly humped against me. "It's been a helluva long day, hasn't it Callahan?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, savoring the feel of hunky, horny traders on each end of me.
"Yeah." I felt his finger at my tight asshole. It was cool and wet from what I knew had to be a nice gob of lube. "It's been a real shitty day. You boys did a great job, though." His digit was now probing me, pushing in the cool lube, spreading it around my hole and opening me up. "All right, Callahan. Time to let off some fucking steam."
I looked down and Richard had all of my fucking cock swallowed to the hilt. He just held his head there, shaking it from side to side as he gripped the cockhead with his throat muscles. Felt fucking fantastic. Maybe that's why I didn't give a lot of resistance when my boss's fat cockhead pushed its way past the constraints of my assring. Or maybe Fordham just knows what he's doing. In any case, my backdoor opened right up and I was being filled, slowly but definitely filled, with Jim's thick, powerful dick.
Then he started fucking me. I was taken to a whole new level. Jim's cock riding over my prostate hard and fast. The feeling of utter fullness. I lost it, my balls pulled up in their sac and I let loose with a nice, juicy spray of cock juice, right into Richard's cocksucking mouth.
I think my ass must have been doing a number of Jim's dick, cause he leaned in and growled, "oh, fuck yeah, Callahan. Hot, tight ass. You're fucking earning every penny of a big, fat bonus. Aw, fuck yeah!"
With that our boss pummeled my butt and fucked himself to orgasm. The other men stood and watched, hard cocked and ready for another round.