Renegotiating Terms
By RSchwuler.
I bet he was a reckless driver, an aggressive asshole on the road. Vince Caruso was an angry, nasty little bastard, and I could easily imagine him getting into road-rage incidents, fender-benders.
Dealing with characters like this was the least favorite part of my job. This had been my grandfather’s business, and I had always been proud of what we did. Helping small businesses in our community get capital and making a tidy, honest profit for ourselves. I had been able to move to a condo on the nice side of town, but work regularly brought me back here to the skids. Across the highway, it was no better.
Weed dispensary, liquor store, pawn shop, even a sleazy little sex shop.
The business was now just mine. I had bought out my cousins, and I handled all aspects of the company, including debt collection. And this evasive prick had been dodging me for over four months. As much as I dreaded dealing with him, I had to start putting the pressure on.
I got out of my car and saw myself reflected in the windows from one of the vacant retail spaces that abutted my target’s dingy little office. I wore a tight polo shirt and golf pants. I had come from the course. I ran a hand through my close-cropped hair, then rolled my shoulders, standing up straight to my full 6’5″. I knew that my physical presence would put the fear of God into this delinquent scumbag.
Though I tried to behave as a gentle giant mostly, the truth was that I was a big guy, a bruiser. I wasn’t at my peak weight from my college linebacker days, but I still got in the gym six days a week, and I had barely softened in those 15 years since my championship senior year. Just that morning, I had weighed myself at the country club locker room. 240 lbs. Though I did not revel in it I was comfortable using my big size as an intimidation technique when necessary.
I opened the door and was hit by the office’s smell of dust, old paper, cigars, and sweat. I felt a wave of clammy heat. The little bastard was too cheap to run his AC in July. I unbuttoned my collar as I called out his name. I heard him call back, a gravelly rasp, asking who it was.
“You know who it is, and you know why I’m here. Enough bullshit, I want my money.” I called out as I stomped through the suite. I was already sweating furiously in the clammy, sweltering heat. How did the man work like this?
He turned from his desk, keeping his chair pushed in. He was wearing a dress shirt soaked through with sweat, yellowed around the pits, with a cheap red tie on his desk. His shirt was unbuttoned past his sternum, and he wore flashy gold chains that shone through his wiry black chest hair.
His face dropped as he recognized me. Vince was a short man in his mid-50s, with dour features and short black hair around the sides of his head. Bags under his dark eyes, caterpillar eyebrows, a bulbous nose, and thick fish-lips that were always puckered sourly around a knobby cigar. He looked like an aggrieved Roman senator dressed up as a sleazy car salesman.
Then I noticed what was on his computer screen. Apparently, he had been too surprised to close out his porn. And this wasn’t just any run-of-the-mill porno; this was some kind of queer BDSM smut. He had multiple windows open, including a blog with looping gifs, and a few videos playing. I noted the box of Kleenex on his desk, the vial of lube, and an open bottle of Jack Daniels, which was surprising for 11:30 am.
Huge, muscle-bound men were restrained and being abused in unfathomable ways. Jack hammer butt-fucking, bestial grunting, and anguished moans. Bulging mouths stuffed with shining apple-red cocks. Firm, rounded ass cheeks parted and plundered by rampant hard-ons. All that flesh glistening with sweat.
It was the nastiest thing I had ever seen, and I couldn’t look away.
I tried to say something, but was tongue-tied, sputtering something incoherent. Maybe the heat was making me light-headed.
He closed his mouth and stared at my face, scrutinizing it intensely. He could see that the look on my face was not one of disgust, but of shock and curiosity—even a little bit lust.
He chuckled to himself nervously. He took his mouse and played a video, making it full screen.
I watched, rapt, as a blonde bodybuilder, tied up on a sawhorse, was being violated at both ends. A raw cock, thick as a beer can, drilled deep between his sweat-soaked glutes, and he was face-first with another man’s groin, choking on his prick, blinded by his pubes. I had never seen anything so lewd before. My breath was short.
“You like it?” He asked, his voice a low hiss. I opened my mouth and closed it, shifting my stance but remaining locked in place as I watched the man’s ordeal. The guy on screen was even bigger than me, and he was submitting to three much smaller tormentors, his arms bound. His broad, tanned back bore angry red stripes indicating that the gleaming black leather paddles and floggers in view were not just for show. A lower-angle shot showed that his penis had been cruelly encased in a tiny, gleaming cage.
“You like that shit?” He asked again, louder, looking at the video with me, then turning back from the filthy smut to my shocked face. He raised the volume to max so that the empty office was filled with the muscled bitch’s pitiful cries and rapacious grunts of the men using him. My mouth was dry.
“That big faggot almost looks like you, don’t he?” He mused, leaning back and sucking on his cigar. He was no longer on guard. He was showing me that he was at ease, in control.
He stared up at me eagerly, seeming to sense my hesitation. My rapidly deflating confidence and confusion must have been broadcast on my flushed face, my wilting posture, and my silence.
The nasty little man pushed out his chair and swiveled it towards me to reveal an almost grotesquely thick cudgel of a cock. It was vast and vile, all gnarled purple and maroon flesh poking straight up, practically reaching his sunken chest. I froze at the hideous sight.
How did a little fucker like him have such a huge cock? I had never seen one so large. So much bigger than my own, I recognized with a nauseating pang of envy in my stomach. It was a gut punch, shockingly unfair. He grinned at me proudly, blowing his cigar smoke towards me.
Every time I met Caruso, I could not help but note how short he was. He couldn’t have been more than 5’4”. He had always radiated that indignation that diminutive men sometimes exhibit, the misdirected anger at the world for being literally shortchanged.
He had also been arrogant, bragging about his lifestyle and success. When we had shaken hands upon meeting (and he had amusingly attempted to crush my much larger hand), I remember observing that his eyeline was at my pectorals. He had been pushy and boastful, full of angry, nervous energy.
Up until today, I had of course never thought about this ugly old man’s dick, but if I had to have guessed, I would have imagined that Caruso had a little cocktail weenie between his legs. Certainly not this obscene kielbasa. On such a short fellow that big, fat prong was jaw-dropping. And he was openly jerking it off in front of me, daring me to object, insulting me with it.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, I stood there, lips parted, and watched him rub the length of his impressive manhood. Slow, deliberate pumps, from the base of his prick, up its dark red, veined shaft, and to a blunt, almost triangular tip. It looked like an arrowhead. His clenched fist ran back down its length and landed upon his equally sizable scrotum, the overstuffed, hairy bag that he had also freed from his pants. The man had balls, all right, literally and figuratively, and he was flaunting them at me along with his oversized dick.
“Like what you see, faggot?” He asked with a lustful curl in his voice. He shook his cock at me obscenely. Swung it around like guys used to do in the locker room as a goof. Pulled it back, then released it to let it slap around his thighs and belly. Only the glower on his face told me that he was deadly serious.
I was dumbfounded. It felt like he was making some kind of animalistic display. One male of the species shows off his rampant sex to another, to intimidate, threaten, and cow the observer into submission. His dark, slightly bulging eyes were locked on mine.
My body was paralyzed, and my mind was blank. I didn’t know how to respond. No one had ever exposed themselves to me like this, and I had never been confronted by such an obscenely large cock. What did he mean by this? Was it a prank, a challenge, or an invitation?
“Yeah, I bet you like that big dick, faggot. Bet you like that cock.” He shook his hard-on at me. What kind of man shows another man his dick like this? Better yet, what kind of man just stands there and stares? I felt locked in place, and the cascading waves of embarrassment and weakness excited me tremendously.
“Big, strong man wants his money, huh? Why don’t you lick my prick, you pussy.” He growled out while still pumping his dick in his hand, his tongue lapping around the edges of his mouth. The little man was sexually harassing me and treating me like a helpless woman. The shame of it sent a feverish ripple of heat over every inch of my skin.
“I think my big fat cock’s worth a whole lot more than your money, don’t you sissy? So why don’t you get down on your faggot knees, crawl over here, open that big mouth of yours, and lick my goddamn prick, piggy. Lick my prick.” Again, he flourished his tongue at me lewdly and waved his baton of a cock around. The flicking sounds of his tongue and the wet pump of his prick made my skin crawl.
Despite the revulsion, I felt my own dick was straining in my golf pants. There was now no denying that his outrageous display turned me on. Caruso laughed and stared at my groin. He pointed at my little pup-tent, raising a sardonic eyebrow. I just stood there.
A smirk appeared on his face at my hapless, docile response. With a slow flourish, he raised his hairy hand and snapped his fingers, then pointed at the floor at his feet, wordlessly sending me to my knees. It was like a magic trick. Suddenly, I was eye-level with his wild, vein-knotted staff. The pillar of red pebbled flesh pulsated, alive in his hand. So ugly I couldn’t look away.
He chuckled, then released his penis to beckon me towards him with a finger.
Now, somehow, on the floor, I crawled between his spread open legs. Caruso roughly seized my scalp to pull me closer, then both of his hands clamped against my face. He stuck the flared head of his prick into my open mouth. I moaned reflexively at the hot, velveteen thickness stretching my jaw.
I had sucked cock before, yeah. But apart from some youthful fumblings, these were quick and furtive meetings with faceless men on hook-up apps. Liaisons in motels or their apartments, sometimes even in cars. Men who were freshly showered and considerately groomed their pubic bush and balls. Never someone I knew, much less a person that I loathed. Someone I was professionally entangled with in a fraught business relationship.
My identity as a cocksucker was a side thing, a secret thing. Play-acting. In my head, I wasn’t even myself when I was doing it, not the real me. I was someone else, a fantasy cocksucking version of myself. It was compartmentalized, safely set aside.
But the sordid thrill of this being me, fully me, Bill Johnson, made my penis strain almost painfully in my trousers. I was being fellated by a man who knew my full name and was bound to me through a legal contract. The thought caused my boner to pulse and throb, and I felt myself moisten my underwear with precum. I looked up into his eyes, leering down at me triumphantly. He was clearly reveling in the converse thrill of fucking his enemy’s mouth. Making a cocksucker of the man who just moments before intimidated him.
I was in awe of it, how suddenly and completely he took control. It was like through the hormone-soaked magic of his computer’s smut and his mammoth cock he had performed a perfect judo throw on me, upended our power balance, with me now slammed on the floor, knocked on my ass, looking up at him in a daze.
He pushed himself in and out of my mouth, smiling down at me, watching me struggle to accept his girth. He held onto my head, crushing my ears or pulling on my hair.
When I heard him make a guttural, throaty cough, I looked up to see him purse his lips and spit a large wad of saliva squarely onto the forehead, marking it like a bull’s-eye of his contempt. He reared back to remove his cock from my mouth, then laid his monstrous, hard-on and hairy sack on my face. He wiggled his waist around to smear the spittle around my face. From my forehead to my chin, I felt his spit. He then grabbed my head to force me to take him in my mouth once more.
The little man lifted his hips from his chair to pound his prick into my face. His woolly black pubic bush scraped against my eyelids as I strained to keep my jaw open, trying to accommodate his ravaging of my larynx.
“Open your eyes!” He shouted down at me, twisting my ears painfully until I complied. I was face-first in the sweat-drenched forest of his wiry black pubes. Vince Caruso was old-school and did not believe in manscaping.
After a minute or so of pummeling my mouth at breakneck speed, he yanked me by the hair off his dick and looked into my eyes while batting his spit-soaked cockhead against my lips. Without thinking, I leaned towards his wet, wobbling hog. When I tried to get the warm meat back in my mouth, he laughed and swung his hips to slap me across the face with his meaty cudgel.
“What do you want more? Your money or my jizz down your faggot throat?” He asked, a cocky grin on his face. My only answer was a desperate moan.
He released his hard-on, letting it smear my own saliva on my face, and quickly lifted his phone to snap a series of photos of my face with his rampant hog lying out atop it.
My stomach dropped when I saw what he was doing, and I reached for it feebly, warbling out a weak word of protest.
His face darkened, and he released his cock and rewound his arm to slap me twice across the face, so hard that my vision blurred and my head spun.
I remained on my knees, reeling, burning with shame. I tried to say something, but he slapped me again. Each blow to my face stunned me, knocking all thoughts of resistance out of me. The slaps stung, but the greater injury was to my pride as a man.
Never in my life had I been treated like this. Men respected me, feared me. No one would ever dare to slap me. In my youth, the few men who had been foolish enough to challenge me had all been at least somewhat close to my size, a physical equal. Not some scrappy little mutt like Caruso. I had always easily dispatched them. Never just sat there and took it.
My shoulders slackened, and I sat on my thighs, letting him take pictures. My rebellion was pathetically short-lived.
I had just been bitch-slapped six times by the little bastard, and instead of getting up and kicking his ass, I croaked out an apology. He laughed and smacked me in the face a couple of times with his boner, snapping more pics. His fingers thread through my hair, and he pushes my head back.
“Say cheese.” He leered, looking in my eyes as he recorded me.
He kept teasing me, not letting me put it back in my mouth, so I foolishly tongued it. I was just too cock-hungry to object to the photos, and even stuck my tongue out to worshipfully lap at the gleaming crimson phallus he was denying me as he snapped even more pics.
He brought his little fingers to my chin, adjusting my head better to capture my face in his ruinous photo shoot. He rubbed his blunt cockhead against my cheek, circling it around my lips as his phone’s camera captured my compromised position. He laughed raspily, spitting with hatred and triumph.
Vince leaned back in his swiveling chair, batting my lips with his hog a few more times.
“Beg.” He ordered, sounding bored.
“Please… please let me…” I was hoarse. I sounded like a man dying of thirst. I realized from the way he held his phone that he was now recording me. He laughed triumphantly and ordered me to say my full name for the camera, which I did in a wretched warble.
In a moment, he was back in my mouth, ramming his manhood down my throat. His breath became louder and ragged as he approached orgasm, and my jaws and throat ached as he truly raped my mouth. All the while, his phone was pressed up near my face, to capture my submission to his skull-fucking.
Finally, I felt the warm spray of his jizz. The first couple of pulses shot right down my throat, but he quickly retracted. He gripped my short hair tightly to hold me in place and paint my face, his target, dousing me with his seed. It hit my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, neck, and some even got in my ears. It was warm and thick, claggy. It felt disgusting, but I remained at his feet, letting him paint me. I watched his big balls pulsing, the factories of his thick, potent seed as they continued to pump jizz up through his orgasming cock, rocketing it upon me. The top of my shirt was soaked with it.
His jerking hand slowed down, and eventually he laid it atop my scalp to wipe away the spooge from his palm and fingers. Catching his breath.
He looked down at me at his feet. He seemed to study me, watching as I remained kneeling, panting, and dazed. His scowl slackened just a bit when he appeared to determine that I wasn’t going anywhere. That I would stay like a loyal dog at his feet. From his desk, he took out another cigar, clipped the end, and carefully lit it. He took a couple of puffs, taking the smoke into his mouth, then blowing it down at me.
“Not so big and tall when you’re on your knees, are you, Johnson?” He pushed out another cloud of acrid smoke into my face.
“You suck a good cock, boy. What you just did for me… when one man does that for another. Well, I don’t think he can rightfully be called a man, can he?” He taunted. He crossed his legs, leaning back.
“I mean, imagine if anyone saw that video… You with my big meat in your mouth. Big old Bill Johnson. Bullet-train Bill Johnson, the faggot cocksucker.” He crowed, referencing my old football nickname.
“I bet no one in this business would take you seriously ever again.” He asked, smirking down at me.
“You understand?” He stared me down, his beady eyes furious, until I nodded glumly.
Caruso smiled to himself, then turned back to his desk. He rattled around in a drawer, retrieved a pair of scissors, then leaned down towards me.
I froze as he grabbed me by the collar and brought the shears to my chest, feeling the metal against my bare skin. He quickly sliced the shirt from the collar to the hem, cutting it in half, then pulled the rags of the ruined $240 Lucafaloni polo off my shoulders. He had literally taken the shirt off my back.
“Look at that body. Such big, strong muscles. But a pansy-ass faggot deep down, huh?” Caruso’s rough little hands ran freely over my bare chest and shoulder blades. He cupped one of my pectorals, squeezed it like a woman’s tit. I shuddered at being felt up like this, which made him laugh and sneer.
“Barely any hair on you. Real men got hair, like this.” He seized my hand and pulled it up to his open collar, forcing me to feel the dense, sweaty pelt. My hand ran over the wet fur that carpeted his flat chest. It was slightly revolting to me, the maleness of it, but I was also fascinated.
“You’re just a boy, huh? Deep down, you’re just some pussy-faggot cocksucker boy, huh? Huh, boy?” He gloated. Each time he said the word ‘boy,’ he emphasized it, spat it out like an epithet. He kicked at my groin with his loafers, then drove his foot down to force my spread legs to the stained carpeting. He was stomping on my nuts, trapped in the tight golf pants.
“Huh, boy?” Caruso demanded, putting the pressure on my gonads until I yelped out an agreement. This made him chuckle. He made me repeat it a couple of times, made me affirmatively declare my status as a boy, putting more and more weight on my crushed nuts as my voice grew more desperate and shrill.
“Yeah, Big Bill Johnson’s just a boy, turns out. Don’t worry, boy, we’ll sort you out. You just need to be taken down a few pegs.” The little man winked, taking another pull from his cigar and blowing the smoke into my face. He leaned back in his chair, swiveling back and forth, peering down at me in amusement. He kicked his shoes up on my shoulders, used me as a footrest as he played around on his phone, and snapped a few more pics of my subjugated state. Then he typed something on his computer, maybe an email, barely taking notice of me beneath him.
Even in my daze, I knew what he was doing. Vince was showing me that he was in complete control, that he had all the time in the world, and that he knew I was his. He kicked his heels on my shoulders a bit, then fully unbuttoned his dress shirt. He wantonly felt up his furry little potbelly and the carpeted chest he had forced me to touch. His tan, hairy skin was glistening with perspiration.
Caruso took a healthy swig of the Jack at his desk and grunted in satisfaction. For a short little bastard, he was no lightweight. Then he stared down at me.
“You look like you need a drink, faggot. Open wide.” He rolled his chair beside me and grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. He thrust the mouth of the bottle past my lips and tipped it back. Soon, the harsh liquid flooded down my throat. I struggled to swallow it, to keep it down.
The effect was immediate. My whole body seemed to burn with a strange warmth, and my vision blurred at its edges. I looked down and could see that my bare chest and stomach were red, flushed.
Caruso cackled above me. He found the apparent impact of the booze hilarious, and released my hair only to slap my face a few times as he laughed.
“Attaboy!” He clapped my shoulder roughly, knocking me around, amused by my dazed state.
I was not a big drinker at all, a little wine on the weekends at most. I realized that he must have forced four or five shots of the 80-proof liquor into my belly. I hadn’t drunk like that since college. I felt dizzy, out of control. He sneered at me, laughing, pleased to have polluted me and weakened my cognitive ability.
“You’re mine, you stupid fuck.” He gloated. He swiveled his chair back and forth as I panted at his feet, trying to collect myself.
“So cocksucker, what do you say? Still think you deserve the money?” He asked from above me, lordly and in control, legs spread, his spit-soaked cock resting atop his plump balls.
“I…” I grunted in a daze, one of my eyes tearing painfully from the burning jizz.
“Huh?!” He yelled, slapping the side of my head. I just shook my head, confused. His face screwed up in anger at my hesitation. He took a breath and stood up.
“See, Johnson, it’s like I said, you may look like a big, strong man, but deep down you’re just a weak little boy.” He spoke slowly, his voice dripping with disdain. He peered down at me, casually puffing his cigar. Eyes narrowed, the little man loomed above me, a lofty arbiter considering my fate. I just stayed kneeling, heart pounding.
On my knees between his spread legs and his oversized manhood, the taste and smell of his jizz choking my throat and breath, my face and neck dripping with his slime, I couldn’t imagine feeling lower. I couldn’t think straight. The Jack Daniels coursing through my system made me even more confused. I knew I should have gotten up, gotten out of there, and maybe grabbed his phone to delete the compromising pics and videos he’d taken. I should have kicked his ass. Instead, I just stayed at his feet, staring at the old carpet. I liked how low the little man had brought me.
When I looked up, I saw on his face that he seemed to have decided something.
“A weak little boy who needs to be taught a lesson. A lesson you’ll never forget, you big dumb fuck.” He barked, his voice rising to a roar.
He grabbed me by my hair to stand me up and then threw me over his knees. He reached around me and opened up my fly. I was surprised that he could balance my heavy form on his narrow lap, but he handled me with ease. I felt my golf pants and jockey underwear being yanked down to my shins. I gasped at the sudden exposure. His hand smacked down on my bare rear end, making my whole body tense.
A thunderclap rang out in the empty office, followed by two more. The man was spanking me.
I flinched as the blows continued, and he kept his left hand locked over my back, pinning me down over his legs. He was surprisingly strong for someone so small. Still, I could have easily broken free. I recognized with a queasy coil of pleasure that at any moment I could have stood up, put an end to this outrage. For some reason, I relished this feeling of utter helplessness, and the face-searing shame of being bare butt naked over another man’s lap, particularly one as loathsome as Vince Caruso.
“This is all the payment you deserve, you scumbag.” Again and again, his hand whipped across my naked butt cheeks. The pain mounted, and I cried out with each one, and he grunted as he exerted himself. He spanked me, spanked my bottom just as a Daddy spanks his little boy.
The man must have spanked me forty or fifty times before relenting briefly to squeeze my burning cheeks in his rough little hand. His middle finger glided in the cleft between my buttocks and swiped over my hole, making me jump up on his lap. No one had ever touched me there. He chuckled at my reaction, then quickly delivered another round of furious slaps.
I yelped out that I was sorry, my voice cracking.
“You sorry? You sorry, boy?” He squeezed my ear, twisting it cruelly. I warbled out my pathetic, desperate apologies. I even called him Sir as he crushed my ear, which made him chuckle hatefully.
“I’ll show you sorry, you scumbag.” He brought his head beside my face and seemed to speak directly into my eardrum, his deep voice resonating inside my head menacingly. Taking his discarded, sweaty tie from his desk, Caruso swiftly looped it around my neck, then pulled back on it painfully like a dog’s leash.
He then reached into my lowered pants and yanked my belt out of my waistband, whipping it across my upturned buttocks. As painful as the spanking had been, the bite of the belt blinded my vision and made me cry out in anguish.
His left hand kept the tie, and my neck wrenched back, squeezing against my throat tightly. like a choke chain collar. Four more blows, as brutal as the blows in the lurid S&M videos that still played on his monitor.
I howled out. I was in agony, wracked by blind, thought-obliterating pain. The nasty little man laughed mirthlessly as he rained scorching blows down upon my poor ass.
“Fat ass fucking bill collector. Fat faggot scumbag. That’s what you deserve, take that right on your fat ass, fuckface.” He growled as he brought the belt down again and again. Whipping me like a dog with my own belt. Now and then, he chuckled breathlessly. I could hear his gleeful disbelief that I was letting him do this to me. He would pause and marvel at the absurd spectacle of a 6 ‘5”, 240 lbs titan like me, letting himself be demolished by a 5’4” weakling like him.
I didn’t fight back; I didn’t raise a hand to defend myself. All I did was beg for mercy and forgiveness in a highly anguished, increasingly high-pitched voice. My impotent protests made him chuckle. I was a grown man letting another man wail on my bare ass with my own belt.
He must have felt it, the shocking wrongness of such a bigger, stronger man, a man he owed tens of thousands of dollars to, submitting to him so wholly. It must have electrified him as it did me. The thrilling outrage of my surrender. It must have quickened the slashing swipes of his belt upon my rump, hardened his cock again despite having emptied his load down my throat moments ago. I could feel the big baton poking at my own much smaller endowment, jamming against my testicles painfully. Clearly, his obscene power over me aroused him.
“You’re fucking done, you stupid faggot. You’re done. You’re never gonna pull that tough guy shit with me ever again, dumb fuck.” He whipped my ass again and again. I cried out wordlessly.
“You ain’t tough. You ain’t hard. You’re fucking soft.” To my relief, the vicious belting paused, both of us catching our breath as his hand squeezed my scorching butt cheeks. He kept kneading my firm, sizable glutes as he taunted me.
“You’re soft. You’re soft, you fucking weakling. You pussy. You’re soft-serve. You’re soft-serve, Johnson.” He taunted, his fingers freely grazing between my cheeks, then cupping and shaking them, making them jiggle. I gasped at being fondled by another man like this.
He laughed once more at everything I was letting him get away with, then carelessly pushed me off his lap. I collapsed onto the floor, landing on my back.
He stood up and walked around, and I saw him filming me in my compromised state. He then lowered his phone and stood beside me, grabbing the tie he had looped around my neck. Caruso yanked it painfully, bringing me up to my knees. He tightened the cheap polyester, wrapping it around his fist, and stood up close to me.
Once I was kneeling, we were face-to-face. He came up close, breathing hot, cigar-stinking breath all over me. He shook his finger as he spoke.
“You ever come around trying to act like a tough guy, into my goddamned office, I’m going to destroy you.” He yanked the tie towards him to pull my face forward, then slapped me across the cheek.
He held my phone up to my face, snickering when it instantly unlocked. He swiped through it, then turned back to his desk and plugged it in. Caruso quickly clicked to add all the data to his desktop, showing me a folder containing all my contacts.
“You see, boy? I got you by the balls now.” He said with a laugh, then lowered his gaze to between my legs, his smirk widening to a toothy grin.
“Speaking of which, you ain’t got much going on down there, do you, “big man?” He asked, jeering, kicking at my groin.
My penis had shrunk from the beating, as if it was attempting to retreat into my body, cowering in fear. It was just a pink little nub, and on my big, muscular body, it looked ridiculously tiny.
“Big old Bullet Train’s just got a little pecker, huh?” A little winky.” Caruso teased. He kicked at it with his dirty shoes.
“Looks like a boy’s. You’re no man.” He sneered at it, then snorted. He was hocking up another loogie. I flinched when he spat on it, a big, greasy glob that splattered on my shrunken dink and neatly trimmed patch of pubes. He had spat on my penis, and now my whole package and neatly-trimmed pubic bush were covered in his translucent green phlegm. I’d never forget the sight of this strange new indignity, my genitals defaced by his foul discharge.
“Tiny little thing.” He laughed, lightly kicking me in the balls again. Then he grabbed his own big, hard-on, shifting his hips forward to show it off. He was peacocking.
“Eight inches. Not bad for a short fucker like me, huh?” Caruso winked and laughed, shaking it at me. He kicked at my balls again, and I had to agree, nodding.
“Huh?” I chirped out that his cock was huge.
“Biggest you’ve ever seen, faggot?” I assured him it was, and it was true, of course. The little man was hung like a horse. He jerked it off slowly, staring me down, making sure I was watching him stroke his impressive length.
“Yeah, no shit. But tell me this…” He slapped it around in his hands, transfixing me with the sight of his massive meat.
“Is it the biggest cock you’ve ever sucked, Johnson?” He asked meaningfully, a knowing smirk on his face. He took a long sip of his Jack then brought the bottle back to my lips, forcing me to accept more of the booze. My head was spinning as he continued to taunt me.
“I knew it. Always had a feeling about you. And you just took my big schlong like a champ. Barely gagged. You’ve sucked down on hog before, no question. Just how many cocks did you sucked down on, Johnson? When did you start? Tell me.” He licked his lips as he spoke and pointed his phone at me, recording.
“Go ahead. Tell the audience at home all about the secret life of Billy “Bullet Train” Johnson, the cocksucker.” Another swift kick to my nutstack got me talking.
At his insistence, I confessed it all. The first time at football camp. The roommate I initially jerked off with and then came to serve. Handjobs, then blowjobs, taking his hardness into my mouth and guzzling down his slimy load, or letting him blast my face and chest.
Service was the word for it; there was no reciprocation, no gratitude. The more I did it for him, the less he respected me. In fact, the guys I blew never looked at me the same way; my reputation was safeguarded only by their own desire not be associated with a known cocksucker. After my college football career, I occasionally met guys online, sometimes at their homes but more often in their cars and trucks, or highway rest area bathrooms. Once in a blue moon. When the urge became too much to resist.
Don’t get me wrong, I was no homo. I found men’s bodies repugnant. Their hairiness and hardness, their smells, it all repulsed me. Vince, especially, was hideous to me. Yet a hard bone, that was something else. Something that I couldn’t get from a woman. Something that, despite myself, I needed.
Caruso interrogated me thoroughly, demanding every sordid and embarrassing detail. He’d slap my face or twist my ear when I hesitated or held back. As I spilled my guts, he emptied the bottle of Jack down my throat so that I was truly drunk.
He cross-examined me about each encounter. Whether I spat or swallowed each guy’s spooge (swallowed, after my first guy, my roommate, insisted that I show respect by taking his masculine essence down into my belly). Whether I was clothed or bare ass when I got on my knees to gobble their knobs (usually naked, unless the public setting only permitted me to pull my pants and briefs to my knees to expose myself).
On and on, he extracted each shameful detail. What the guys looked like, what their cocks were like, how well they were hung, what they tasted like. I even told him the names of the guys (insofar as I knew their names), betraying teammates and friends from years past, and cravenly supplied what information I had about where they were now and what they were up to. Donny “Duke” Mancini, our defensive tackle, medium-length pencil dick but huge balls and huge loads, now an underwriter outside of Dallas with a wife and three kids. He goaded me into divulging more and more.
As I revealed my sordid history, panic quickened my heartbeat. The other pics and videos he had taken so far were nasty, but this was on another level. A video like this wouldn’t just compromise me; it would implicate others as well.
I thought of its contents and felt sick to my stomach. Me, naked, pants, and underwear at my ankles. A tie looped around my neck and arms bound behind my back, obviously kinky S&M shit. My meager manhood, hard as a rock and dripping beads of precum, as
I confessed my shameful secret life as a cocksucker. Describing each man’s cock in lurid detail. When I was finally done, he put his phone down and laughed.
“So, seven cocks total, including my big old salami, and you’ve never taken it up the back door?” He shook his hose at me, half-mast but double my boner’s length. He might as well have been waving a gun around.
I shook my head resolutely. Never. Only faggots get fucked up the ass, I knew that. Getting porked, that had always been too far, something I knew I couldn’t come back from—a man’s pulsing penis inside of me, seeding me with its disgusting secretions and invading my body and corrupting me thoroughly and planting a vile seed and changing me from the inside out, forever. The thought made me shudder.
A smile spread across his face as he saw the fear apparent on mine.
“Well, guess what, Johnson? Fun’s not over. You’re about to get rear-ended.” I looked at him, a deer in headlights, and his face twisted with impatient rage. He whipped me with my belt to get me moving.
“Get up! Get your fat ass up, bend the fuck over.” He gestured to a barren desk at the side of the room. As I stood up, he grabbed my bound wrists from behind, bumping up into me. My pants and underwear slid down to my ankles, making it hard to walk. I looked down and saw that I had a throbbing little stiffy which wiggled around with each step.
He frogmarched me over to the desk and pushed me down. I complied, shuffling along as he shoved, yielding to him. I was making believe that he was physically forcing me into this compromising position, that he was capable of manhandling me. I got a perverse rush from being so pathetic and being weak for this weakling.
He yanked the shoes off my feet, tossing them to the side of the room, then pulled the bunched-up pants and underwear from my ankles. He even pulled my socks off, leaving me barefoot on the old, stained carpet. Caruso wanted me completely bare ass naked for what he was about to do to me.
He pressed his palm down on the side of my cheek with full force, compressing the other side of my face into his desk. I could have easily thrown the little goblin off of me, but I wanted to feel him do this. I wanted to feel like he was holding me down. I wanted to feel like he had a physical power over me that matched this inexplicable psychological control. I lifted my hips from the desk with minimal effort so that he could buck into me and push down again.
“Please, Sir.” I whimpered out. I was making myself a wimp for him, pathetic, and pretending that I was trapped underneath him. I struggled weakly, raising my neck a bit.
“Stay the fuck down there, boy.” He slammed my head back down onto the desk. I took the hit. It was like we were play-fighting. His hand squeezed the back of my neck as he pushed me down with all his force. I got such a bizarre thrill from pretending that he was stronger than me, that I couldn’t resist his advances.
Now he spread my butt cheeks apart, and I felt grateful that I had showered at the clubhouse this morning. I gasped when his wet fingers poked at my asshole. He jabbed at that intimate spot, adding a generous amount of lube. I reared up in pain, and he shoved my hips back down onto the hard desk, then took his place behind me. I felt the leather of his shoes kick at my bare calves, forcing my legs open wider.
Then I felt the hard flesh of his barbed cockhead piercing between my cheeks and lining up against my hole, like a battering ram at the castle gates. Lubricated, pulsing, and alive.
“This is all the payment you’re going to get, faggot. My fat prick in your tight ass.” He barked, a spray of spit landing on the back of my neck. With that, he began to force his way into me. After a few moments of resistance, my whole body gave in. I was breached. As his thick cock entered me, I was blinded with pain, and my entire body spasmed. I shouted out, and he slapped my already sore ass cheek.
“Tight-fisted, tight-assed little faggot. It’s time to open you all the way up.” He grunted between his gritted teeth. My howling cries rang out in the empty, hot office. He paused for a merciful moment, letting me catch my breath. I willed myself not throw him off me, to remain his helpless victim. His rough little hands squeezed and kneaded my buttocks, spreading them apart.
“Push back on it, lemme in there, you big dumb cunt.” He growled. I complied and felt my insides yielding slightly to his brutal advances. Each centimeter he gained stretched me out, tore me open. He chuckled behind me as his fat hard-on bludgeoned its way into my tight chute. He was panting with exertion, and I could feel sweat from his chest and belly drip down onto my naked back. Little by little, the bastard wormed his way into me. My defenses were being breached.
He thrust forward, and I cried out. It felt like I was being wounded. Would I have to go to the hospital after this? I begged for him to take it out, my voice a pathetic, drunken warble, which earned me two hard, simultaneous slaps to my ears, making my head spin. The little man had boxed my ears. Caruso used the pain and disorientation of the blow to force the final inches in, bottoming out in me. He hooted triumphantly and began humping my ass in a frenzy.
“How’s that feel, scumbag?” I couldn’t answer that question. It felt agonizing and horrible. It didn’t feel very kind to my masculinity and my pride as a man. It felt deeply wrong to have another man rummaging inside of my guts like this. I felt infiltrated. Invaded. A voice inside my head was screaming at me to throw him off of me, to get out of there.
But already I could feel a spreading well of pleasure as his jagged cockhead sawed atop a spot that seemed connected to the back of my penis. My prostate, the male G-spot. I had heard about it and always been curious. For all the agony of his intrusion, he was giving me a little bit of pleasure too, and the combination was making me shudder.
“You like that?!” His hips slapped into my upturned rump, his fingers pressed into the muscles there. I moaned out that I did. It was official. I was Vincent Caruso’s bottom boy butt bitch.
Bent over the low desk, it didn’t matter how much taller or bigger I was than this fiery little runt. It didn’t matter one bit that I had competed at the all-state level in high school. That I had been a Division II linebacker, holding my own against guys who had gone on to play pro, or that I had just hit my deadlift PR at 550 that week at the gym. It didn’t matter a lick that I drove a BMW M5, and I had seen his shitty 2008 Altima in the parking lot.
All that mattered was that this skinny little motherfucker had a thick, fat 8-inch cock and that he had the guts to use it. He had the balls, the balls to put me in my place. And soon he was going to shoot the seed from those balls all up in me, all up in my guts, marking my insides, marking me forever and making me his.
Hate-fucking. That’s what this was. I had only seen it in the sleaziest pornos, when a guy treated some poor slut like garbage or worse. His hands ringed around my neck, tightening the belt so that I was choked like a junkyard dog.
He rode me like a bronco. It felt so degrading, being bent over and letting this little bastard ravage me. My big, muscled legs spread open like a whore’s. Letting myself get raped, that’s what it felt like. I could have flung him off, could have thrown him off of me, then stomped his neck. But I wanted the vile degradation, I tried to be butt-fucked by him. Sodomized. I wanted my manhood ruined by another man’s cock.
His hands clawed at my hips, and he pounded into me roughly, shaking my big body with each thrust. I let the little imp fuck me up the ass for as long as he pleased. I didn’t protest or complain; I just mewled out meaningless sounds of pleasure and submission, which made him laugh.
“You gonna open up for me, boy? Open up completely?” He asked, slamming into me to hammer home his point. The whole desk shook and wobbled from the force of his pounding thrusts.
“Yes, Sir…” I warbled out. He swiveled his hips so that his great big pillaging penis spread around in my guts, pushing my insides around to make more space for itself. He jammed it in at angles, excavating my innards. I cried out in surprise, feeling every inch of Vince’s rampage inside of me.
“Yeah, I’m gonna open you up all the way. Open up that pussy, open up that wallet too. Open up your fucking bank accounts.” He continued his rant as he jack-hammered me.
“You gave me a little, but you’re going to give me a whole lot more. You’re going to give it all.” He hissed hatefully, hands pressed down on my ass cheeks, pinning me to the desk.
“An open line of credit. No questions, no more breathing down my neck. You and your piss-pot little business are going to be an ATM for me. I take what I want. You got it?!” He yanked my head back by grabbing my hair, stretching my neck painfully, and reached over to slap the side of my head again and again.
Vince was threatening to rip me off, to fuck me financially just like he was fucking me up the ass. Put me over a barrel. I couldn’t think straight. As he humped into me, he kept rasping in my ear.
“You work for me. I own you and your piece-of-shit business. I own it all, boy. Say it!”
I cried out that he owned it all. He patted my head, ruffling my hair, then grabbed me by the scalp to yank my neck back. With his free hand, he slapped the side of my head. He laughed at my utter capitulation, then pushed even further with his insane demands.
‘Damn right. In fact, I think you were just confused. It’s you who owes me money, ain’t that right, faggot?” He kept slapping until I agreed. Admitted that I owed him money. He forced me to pledge that I owed him thousands of dollars. Ten thousand, twenty thousand. The debt kept rising. My voice high and quavering, I conceded that I owed him $100k and would do anything I could to pay him back.
I knew then for sure that this wasn’t a one-time thing. This was about far more than sex for him, or even humiliation of an enemy by forcing him suck cock and get fucked up the ass. Caruso intended to seize the opportunity and milk me for all I was worth. I had lowered my guard and let him get one over on me, and now I was his. He was going to take it all, and I was going to let him.
As I realized this, I felt a wetness beneath. The thoughts of my ruin were making my stiff pecker leak prejizz.
“Yeah, that’s it, you’re in debt to me, you’re in deep. Deep, deep, deep.” He emphasized his point by drawing back so that just his flared head remained hooked in my hole, then slammed his full, thick length back into my innards. He ground his rigid cock into me, his club seeming to go deeper into me than ever before. I groaned in pain, again worrying about internal injuries.
Vince jackhammered into me, bottoming out each time. The desk began lurching forward from the force of his fucking. His deep-dicking made me babble incomprehensibly. I was begging him, but it wasn’t clear whether I was asking him to stop or to continue.
I heard him panting, the cigars and Jack catching up with him as he got winded. Vince slowed a bit to catch his breath. He began sliding his hog over my prostrate and I cried out with pleasure. He grabbed his tie, still tight around my neck, yanking it back with both hands. He continued to crow triumphantly.
“You owe me big, faggot, and you’re going to pay in just about every way you can. You’re going to pay with your money, your possessions, with your sweet ass, your time, your labor, your sweat.” His hands got tighter and tighter around my neck. I moaned silently, my vision blurring as he asphyxiated me.
“Your dignity. Your fucking pride.” His slamming strokes were getting faster and faster. I could feel the thick club of his cock getting even more rigid.
“‘Cause now I own all of it. I own your sweet ass. Ain’t that right, faggot?” I affirmed his outrageous claim, and the man roared, bellowing in orgasmic glee. I instantly felt a warm wetness spilling into me. Caruso was jizzing inside of my rectum, pounding his hips into my ass to deposit his load. I felt like he was inseminating me. Like he wasn’t just cumming up my ass, but that he was doing something diabolical and profound. Something that would change me, forever alter my body and the course of my life. Vince was knocking me up.
Eventually, he pulled out, wiping his half-hard dick with the ruins of my shirt. He kept a heavy hand on my back as he stood up, as if to say, “Stay down.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him. From my crumpled pants, Caruso found my wallet and claimed the bills. Counting them out, he grunted.
“That’s a start.” He pocketed the $300 or so dollars, then continued his search, pilfering my credit cards and license. He grabbed the fob for my BMW and the keys to my condo from my pockets, too. Sufficiently ransacked, he carelessly tossed my raped wallet into a wastebasket.
I heard him walk around and place something in his desk drawers. A few more snapshots were taken on his phone. Then he walked over to me and kicked me in the side roughly.
“Get your ass up. You got work to do.”
To Be Continued…?
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