Date: Wed, 5 May 1999 18:02:43 -0700 (PDT) From: Matthew Lake Subject: Updated version: Between a Cock and a Hard Place Between a Cock and a Hard Place by Matthew Lake (Copyright 1999) My name is Michael Williams. I'm 28 years old. An average guy. I live in a small town in southwestern Ohio, almost bordering on Kentucky. It's a real traditional place. We started out mining coal, and when that ran out, we became a factory-based economy. Most of the people I know, live and work with get their living at the manufacturing plant in town. I never went to college. Never really had much interest in it, to tell you the truth. I was a jock in high school-- football, baseball, track to get into shape in the spring. And I worked on cars at the local garage. But I never had the skill it takes to do that for a living. I was married within a year of graduation to a girl from my class. We settled down in a modular home and tried to have some kids. After six years my wife finally got pregnant. It wasn't until I was standing there in the delivery room and the baby was born that I had any inkling it wasn't mine. It didn't take my wife long to admit that she'd been having an affair with her boss. Within two months, she'd filed for divorce and moved away with him leaving rumors in her wake about my sexual inability and how it had forced her to wander from our vows. So, I lived alone in our little house with my tarnished reputation and my left hand. I didn't have a strong sexual drive. If I got too horny to bear it any more, I'd drive to the city, drop a c-note and pick up a hooker. I wasn't wealthy by any means. But I could afford that luxury twice a year. No one that lived in our town was wealthy. Except for Mark Jackson. Mark Jackson had breezed into town about 5 years ago. He was an inner city success case. Ivy League schools, an MBA, owned and operated three or four of the manufacturing plants in this part of the state. After my wife left, I'd thrown myself into work. I was one of six foreman--jumped up the company ladder with hard work and determination to stand my ground and regain my reputation. I reported directly to Mark Jackson. Every night after I closed a shift at the factory, I'd drive to Mr. Jackson's sprawling estate. He operated all of his factories from an office suite in the west wing of his house. I'd take the day's reports and deliver them to him hot off the printer. Last Friday, I'd planned to head out of town after work with a couple of friends on a hunting trip. I'd left the factory a little early and driven the reports out to Mr. Jackson's house. When I got to his office suite, his secretary told me to go ahead and wait in his office, that he would be in in a few minutes. I entered his office, closed the door and took a seat in one of the leather chairs in the seating area near the bar. Mr. Jackson's office was amazing. With a huge oak desk in one corner and leather chairs flanked by a bar and fireplace across the room, the space was breath taking. And if that wasn't enough, it was filled with what I imagined were priceless pieces of art, and other trinkets on which I really couldn't place a value. So, I sat down and waited. I was actually starting to get a little annoyed after I'd waited about fifteen minutes alone in Mr. Jackson's office. Just when I was getting ready to go out and ask his secretary if there'd been some miscommunication, a door on the other side of the room opened, and Mark Jackson walked into the office. I was caught off-guard, because Mr. Jackson is always dressed to perfection in fitted suits and silk ties. Today, he walked in dripping wet, a small towel wrapped around his waist. "I was with my new trainer. I pay her a lot of money; it would be a shame to waste her valuable time." Mr. Jackson stopped by the leather chairs and looked at me, pausing, waiting. His form was imposing. As I looked at him, I felt compelled to stand. Even still he was massive compared to me. At 6'4", about 220#, Mark Jackson was chiseled like a statue. His abs stood out in relief under his bulging pecs. His arms were like pieces of granite. His hairless dark chocolate skin stretched tightly over his muscles, and they rippled with his every movement. Mark Jackson kept himself in fantastic shape for a 32 year old man. "Please forgive me, but this carpet is worth more than your annual income. It would be a crime to get water all over it." With that he pulled off the towel and began to dry himself from the top down. I was glad the towel was covering his eyes because my gaze was locked on his amazing genitalia from the moment they were revealed. His soft ebony cock was thick and long, hanging down five or six inches. Peeking around the thick shaft were two large nuts hanging loose in a smooth scrotum. I could see the veins in his shaft and the head of his penis showing delicately from under the hood of his foreskin. I knew that I was staring too long, but his dick was amazing. I had never seen one so large or so beautiful. My own penis began to grow and swell in my work pants to an almost painful degree. Mr. Jackson had stopped drying himself and was watching me watching his cock. Finally, he spoke. "Are you a faggot, Michael?" His voice was calm and low. I couldn't tell if it was a question or an accusation. My eyes snapped away from his crotch and I felt a blush spread across my features. "What...n...what." I was completely flustered. I didn't know what to say. I'd never had sexual feelings for a man before. My mind screamed that what I was feeling was not sexual, either. It was simple curiousity when faced with the unknown. I had never seen a black man naked. This, coupled with his huge manhood was reason enough to explain my awkward staring. But bringing those thoughts from my mind to my lips was impossible. Mr. Jackson stepped towards me between the two leather chairs that had separated us before. "I'd heard the rumors that your wife had turned whore because you couldn't perform sexually. But if you're a faggot, that sheds a whole new light on the situation." He was so matter of fact. Was I a fag? I couldn't believe that I was hearing these things, or that my boss was saying them. Here I was standing in my boss's office mesmorized by his cock while he tried to explain my failed marriage for me. I was supposed to have already left, to be meeting my buddies and heading out for the weekend, and I couldn't speak, I couldn't move, I couldn't even make myself believe that I didn't want a closer look at Mr. Jackson's cock. Abruptly, he dropped the towel and sat down on the edge of the leather chair, leaning back and spreading his thighs. I was standing merely three feet away from him. I knew I had to say something. "Mr. Jackson, I..." "Shut your mouth, faggot. Get on your knees." His gaze was commanding. Without a word I dropped hard to the floor, hurting my knees even through the soft pile carpet. "Crawl over here; why don't you get a closer look at what you want." It was only three feet to Mr. Jackson, but I would have crossed the distance if were an ocean. Mr. Jackson knew what I wanted, and he was going to give it to me. My heart was beating like a freight train. My mouth was starting to water. Something in me was telling me that I wanted this man's cock in my mouth. Mr. Jackson had his cock in his hands. He was running his fingers lightly up the sides of the shaft, pulling the foreskin back over the head and then pushing it back before tickling his way back down. The shaft had started to grow harder. The pulsing veins were standing out in more releif from the smoth, brown skin. "Mr. Jackson..." was all I got out before his hand came out of nowhere and struck me across the face. The skin turned hot and smarted where his open hand had hit me. "You don't listen too well, Michael. I told you to shut your mouth. And at the time that I do allow you to address me, it will be as 'Sir.' You may nod your head if you understand." I slowly shook my head yes. "Now, would you like to touch my cock, Michael?" "Yes, SIR!" I emphasized. "Then use your hands to make me hard." Mr. Jackson removed his hands and I replaced them with my own. My pale skin was a stark contrast to his black rod. I began to stroke him slowly up and down the shaft. His dick began to grow and expand rather quickly. Inch after inch seemed to come from nowhere until nine inches of hard, thick black cock looked me in the face. His cock was hot, and the heat from his crotch seemed to arc through my arms and throughout my body like current. I was burning up. Mr. Jackson pushed my hands away. With one hand, he stroked his cock from the root to the tip. He entwined the other in my hair, positioning my head at the end of his rod. My mind was screaming out. As my face approached Mr. Jackson's crotch, his smell became more apparent. It was intoxicating and overwhelming. It invaded my senses and overwhelmed my reason. I wasn't sure if I was a faggot or not, but I knew I had never needed anything like I needed this cock in my mouth. A pearl of pre-cum appeared on the tip of his cock, and Mr. Jackson slowly rubbed it across my lips like a lipstick, coating them with his juices. When he was done, his cock rested on my lower lip. "Have you ever blown a man before, Michael?" "No, sir," I almost whispered. "Do you want to suck my cock? Do you want to be my hole?" "Yes...more than anything," I answered. "Beg for my cock, Michael." "Please, sir, let me suck your cock. I want to live only for your cock. Let me live, Sir." My mind was overcome with lust. My field of vision was this man's shaft, his small pubic bush, his massive chest and his piercing, cold eyes. This man was my universe. I was an extension of his cock. Mr. Jackson pulled on my head, and his cock slid past my lips. His taste was amazing, and I could feel the slipperiness of his pre-cum against my tongue. His hot shaft filled me, rubbing against the sides and top of my mouth, slowly in and out. "I can't believe you would put your mouth on another man's cock, Michael. What you are doing has to be the most degrading thing a man could do. You are a cocksucker, now. Nothing but a faggot cocksucker." Mr. Jackson was right, and I loved it. I knew it was degrading. I had hated faggots all my life, and now here I was, kneeling in front of another man, a black man no less, with half his tool buried in my mouth while I worked overtime to cram in the rest. The pressure of Mr. Jackson's hands increased with the tempo of my sucking. His huge battering ram began to press against my throat, and tears welled up in my eyes as I gagged around the oral intruder. Suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted this so much. Mr. Jackson's cock withdrew almost to the head and he pulled me back hard, lodging the cock in my throat and holding me against his abdomen. My forehead was touching his stomach, his entire cock was buried uncomfortably in my throat. Tears were running down my face and I couldn't breathe. I worked my tongue around the base of the cock, and just as I thought I would pass out, the huge monster was pulled from my gullet and a breath that smelled and tasted of Mr. Jackson's crotch entered my being. Mr. Jackson was fucking my face hard now. I could feel his balls drawing up against my chin. Then, with a grunt, Mr. Jackson buried his cock in my throat and cried out. "Take my cock, you faggot. Take my hot cum down your fucking throat." He withdrew as his cock spasmed and pulsed and I got a mouthful of his cum on my tongue before he pushed it back into my throat. His sperm spread around my tongue and mouth, covering every surface. I could taste his salty bitterness and I was engulfed by mixed feelings of fulfillment and disgust. Mr. Jackson pulled his cock out of my mouth and sat back in the chair. "That was a good start, cocksucker. Now clean me up." I leaned in and licked the strings of cum off his shaft and milked his cock to get the last few drops from the peehole. "Stand up." I complied. Mr. Jackson looked at my bulging work pants. "Take out your cock." I freed my steel rod from my jeans and briefs. My cock is my drawback. Years of work in the factory have given me a hard body. Not chiseled, like Mr. Jackson's, but a tight, hard body. My cock stands erect at a little under five inches, though. Definitely not a huge endownment. My wife said it was enough, but apparently it wasn't. I've always been a little insecure about it in any case. Mr. Jackson did nothing to alay my insecurity. "That's a tiny fucking thing. Is it hard yet?" he asked. I looked at him. "I asked you a question, cocksucker. Is your tiny little dick hard?" "Yes, Sir" I responded sheepishly. "Sweet shit," exclaimed Mr. Jackson. "Your hard cock is smaller than my soft cock. How pathetic. Maybe your wife wasn't unsatisfied with you because you're a fag. Maybe she just needed a real man-sized cock." I could feel myself turning bright red. Mr. Jackson reached forward and pulled my workpants and briefs down to my knees. I was standing before him with my hand wrapped around my little cock, and he was looking at me with a little smirk. "Jack your tiny little cock. Make yourself come," he ordered. And so I did. Performance anxiety was weighing heavily on me, but as I got close to coming I told him. "Good," he said. "Catch it in your hand." After I'd dribbled my load, Mr. Jackson laughed. "What a show," he said quietly. "Now, eat your baby batter." I put my hand to my mouth and licked the cum off. It wasn't hot like Mr. Jackson's had been, and I found the taste more revolting than just a few minutes ago when I had taken it directly from the head of Mr. Jackson's cock. As I licked my hand, my eyes traveled to Mr. Jackson's cock again. At the same time that I was humiliated and disgusted at what I had become, I wished it were his sperm that I was drinking. "I know what you're thinking, Michael. And don't worry. You'll have another chance at my cock on Monday." "But, sir. Are you sure? I'm not..." "Shut the fuck up, Michael. Don't pretend you don't want it as much as I do. You're cocksucking faggot through and through, and more importantly, you're my cocksucking faggot for the time being. Be here on Monday at 3:30. And plan to stay awhile. You're dismissed." With that, Mr. Jackson stood up and walked out the door he had come in. I stood there for a few minutes in disbelief, my pants around my knees. What had just happened? Had I really only minutes before been on my knees sucking the cock of my boss, and then masturbating in front of him and eating my own semen? I slowly pulled up my briefs and work pants, and walked out the door to my truck. I sat in the cab for a few minutes. I knew that I wasn't a fag. There had to be some reasonable explanation for what had happened in that office. I had to explain to Mr. Jackson why this wouldn't happen again. As I pulled out the driveway, I knew I had to have a plan when I returned on Monday. ----------------------- Should this continue? Send your thoughts and comments to "matthew_lake@yahoo.com"