DISCLAIMER: This is the third installment of a work of fiction based on a popular daytime drama. The original characters of the actual programs are the property of CPT Holdings. As such, the images portrayed suggest nothing about the sexual orientation of the actors portraying the characters. Characters not under the domain of CPT Holdings are products of the author's imagination. If this suits your fancy and you are of legal age, sit back and turn on the television of your imagination. The author retains copyright of this material. The material cannot be posted without the author's permission.
© 2001 by W. Foster
BOLD AND BEAUTIFUL MEN: CHAPTER III
Eric Forrester Sr., founder of Forrester Creations and patriarch of the Forrester family, examined his latest sketch with a frown. It was all right as far as sportswear went, but something was wrong. It was just.....passable. He turned away from his sketch pad in frustration, taking a seat at his desk while he wondered what had happened to his creative edge.
His design house had been on the cutting edge of fashion excellence for decades, keeping the Forrester name prominent in the industry. The company had weathered its share of storms, including his ex-wife Brooke's takeover of the majority stock and increasing competition from its rival, Spectra Fashions. Still, Forrester Creations survived, largely because of the way the family could pull together in a crisis. At this moment, however, the handsome man in his early sixties sat at his desk in the wee hours of the morning, his salt-and-peppered head in his hands. His dimpled chin was practically down on the desk, indicative of the uncertainty he had over what he could do to get out of this slump.
If that weren't enough, his personal life wasn't a lot to write home about, either. It may have been common in California, but it was discouraging to him to have three failed marriages under his belt: his first marriage to Stephanie (the mother of his four older children, who ruled the roost and the office like Queen Elizabeth), his marriage to the ever-seductive sexpot Brooke and the one to that psychotic bitch Sheila. Even now, with his remarriage to Stephanie, something was missing. He had had the quiet confidence that only an older man could have when it came to women, and they had certainly enjoyed his 6'0", hunky, mature physique in the bedroom; the fiery redheaded Lauren, his last paramour, had practically thrown herself at him in order to crawl all over his bod. Lately, though, the only thing Stephanie could talk about was how "that common slut Brooke" was destroying the family by going after Thorne, now that she'd gone through both Ridge and himself. Only last night, she had gone on and on about how the only thing Brooke needed outside her office door was a street lamp, and a potentially romantic evening was ruined. Needless to say, Stephanie's relentless obsession with getting Brooke out of the family was getting on his nerves, given that he was the father of Brooke's two children.
As he looked up at the unsatisfying sketch, Eric decided that a break was in order, so he left his office and went down a hall to the company's cafeteria and lounge area. It felt good to just sit there, sipping some Evian water and looking out the window at the night sky. Perhaps his mind just had too full a plate lately, especially that situation his son Rick got himself into with that trashy tart Amber, which had been driving Brooke crazy. Funny thing, though---Rick didn't care if he ever saw Amber again. He wasn't angry about her web of lies and deception; in fact, he didn't carry any energy on the issue at all. In any case, perhaps some good would come out the situation after all.
About a half hour later, Eric got up and headed back to his office, hoping that the break would help him knock out at least one good design before he went home. Just before he rounded a corner, he thought he heard voices coming from Ridge's office. What's he doing here tonight, the Forrester patriarch thought. Probably the same thing I'm doing. But who in the world is he with? That doesn't sound like Taylor, so who is it? Slowly, Eric peered around the corner. The voices had stopped, but what he saw froze him to his spot.
Eric stood quietly out of sight, watching the scene before him in stunned silence. His oldest son was at the doorway to his office, dressed only in a short black satin robe, tightly embraced by none other than his rival from Spectra Fashions, Adam Alexander. Torrid was a mild way to describe the way they were kissing. One of Adam's hands was wrapped around Ridge's torso and the other was gently squeezing his buttocks, while Ridge's arms were firmly locked around Adam's neck. Eric thought his eyes would burn as he watched Adam insinuate one of his powerful thighs between Ridge's and deepen the kiss. It seemed like an eternity before that kiss ended; the heat they were generating could have taken care of the entire building on a cold day. He couldn't hear what they said next, but Adam put his hand on the back of Ridge's tousled head to give him another quick but deep kiss before he turned to leave. Even in the semi-lit hallway, Eric could see the prominent erection in Adam's trousers as well as the way his son's robe was starting to tent. After Ridge watched his lover disappear down the hall he ran his tongue over his lips in tingly satisfaction, gently massaged his crotch and went back into his office.
Eric walked slowly back to his own office, eyes still blazing with what he had just witnessed. He had secretly observed, on different occasions in the past, Ridge kissing Brooke and later Taylor by the pool at the family estate. That, however, had been nothing compared to the lip-lock with Adam that had left Eric with his mouth gaping open. Was THIS the reason his creativity had gone through the roof lately? And I thought it was because of Taylor, he thought. How did he get Adam in here? What was he thinking? If that kiss was any indication of what was going on in his office....Eric's train of thought was interrupted as he felt a strange frisson running down his spine, one that reminded him to breathe normally.
The sleep Eric so welcomed when he returned to the mansion proved to be a fitful ordeal. Images he hadn't dwelt upon in years assaulted his dreams. He babbled incoherently, tossing and turning like a yacht in a storm, until he suddenly awoke in a profuse sweat, the raging hardon at his groin feeling like steel. His thrashing about had eventually awakened Stephanie. Turning toward him, she uttered a sleepy, "Eric, what..." She didn't even finish her sentence before he was upon her, kissing her passionately before he ripped off her nightclothes and buried himself inside her in a frenzy of lust.
Though Stephanie was absolutely giddy the next morning, Eric went to the office more frustrated than ever. At the board meeting later that day, hiding his feelings took a major effort. Brooke was being particularly waspish, throwing her weight around as CEO as revenge for the way the family had ruined her relationship with his son Thorne. He looked at Ridge, who sat across the table in the boardroom, only with difficulty. In spite of the sniping between Brooke and Stephanie, Ridge was glowing. He looked so well loved that Eric couldn't stand it. Even as he looked away, deep inside of him Eric was loath to admit that he regarded his son not with anger...but envy.
It had been so long ago, before he even met Stephanie. Oh, those wild and crazy college days with Bill Spencer. They'd been inseparable, the closest of friends. They were among the big men on campus, with the pick of any number of coeds. But it was the nights in their dorm room, behind closed doors, that proved just how close they really were.....
They had never spoken of those times after they had both taken wives. It had only been a fleeting thought later, when Thorne---and later Ridge---married Bill's daughter Caroline. But now, those memories were no longer the ashes Eric thought they were. They were becoming a phoenix.
Business was moderate that evening when he was seated at his table at the Cafe Russe a couple of weeks later. Calm and dignified as he was on the outside, inside Eric thought he was going to go mad. The Rick/Amber/Becky/Kimberly situation was wearing on him. He was in one of his worst creative slumps. Ridge was falling in love with his corporate rival. He had just learned recently that Thorne had been spending a lot of time in West Hollywood. Stephanie was on another one of her tirades about the unscrupulous Brooke, who now possessed the morals of a dog in heat. After the growling and hissing between the two women from the last board meeting, sex was the furthest thing from her mind. To top it off, his own frustrations had been stirred up as a result of the highly intimate scene he had witnessed between Ridge and Adam at the office. Some forty years of suppressed desire and need were rising to the surface, and he felt powerless to stop it.
Even as his meal was brought to him, the memories came like a siren call. When he sipped his wine, he thought of the taste of Bill's dick. He couldn't get through his ceasar salad without remembering the times he put his tongue in Bill's love tunnel. The breadsticks reminded him of how happily he had bounced up and down on the wicked curve of Bill's shaft. The prime rib went down the same way his manmeat had gone down Bill's virginal hole. Clearly these feelings weren't going to go away. What could he do?
He looked up from his plate to scan the dining room, unconsciously putting one of his hands under the table to rub the erection that was screaming for release from his well-tailored slacks. With his table being partially hidden, so few diners around him and the state he was in, it was so tempting. Even as he lowered the zipper and reached inside to massage himself further, it gave him a strange thrill. He, Eric Forrester, distinguished and renowned designer and founder of one of the most successful fashion houses, was quietly getting off at one of the ritziest restaurants in town. He freed his nine-and-a-half inches from its confines and lazily stroked away, thinking of how best to handle his rampant desire. He found himself eyeing a couple of the waiters, entertaining fantasies he hadn't allowed himself to have in eons. Taking one of them off somewhere, of course, was out of the question; the family didn't need any more attention from the press than they already had. He moaned gently under his breath at the feel of his hand on the velvet girder that was his rod in that highly charged, public situation.
He saw his waiter approaching to freshen his wine glass, and he placed his other hand back on the table. The debonair Forrester daddy appraised the man as his goblet was refilled, his mind buzzing with all the things he'd want to do with him if he were thirty years younger, and his manhood throbbed freely under the table in reply. He made a mental note to give him a generous tip as he thanked him, discreetly placing his hand back under the table as the young man walked away. No, he won't do, he thought; too young for me. Of course, there are upscale escort services around. The men are professional, classy, discreet--and ready to satisfy whatever fantasy I have. I need it, and I need it badly....
Eric stopped in mid-stroke as the occupants of another table caught his eye, and he found himself frowning. Clarke Garrison, his former son-in-law and former employee, was talking---or more likely bragging---to his conquest du jour for the evening, a stunning, shapely brunette with the requisite California tan. The opportunistic cad hadn't changed a bit. His 6'4", solidly built body, wavy black hair and leading-man looks were appealing on the outside, but they couldn't cover up his overblown ego about his ability as a fashion designer. It was bad enough when he was working for Forrester, worse now that he was reinstated as head designer at Spectra. More than likely he was giving his dinner guest his standard line to get into her panties, the way he did with Kristin.
Eric's frown deepened. He was far from pleased when his oldest daughter ran off and eloped with the oily Lothario, which resulted in the family helping Kristin pick up the pieces after their divorce. That was only the first in his list of grievances against the man. Clarke had wanted out of his contract with Forrester after he had groveled to get the job, only to go back to Sally Spectra and her collection of conniving social climbers. Not long after that, the devious Sally had manipulated her way into sharing the bill with Forrester at a charity fashion event. There was no doubt in his mind that the team at Spectra had deliberately torpedoed Forrester's portion of the fashion show, capitalizing on it to make theirs a smash hit. And did the egomaniac show the slightest regret? No. Considering the snow job he did on Kristin, it came as no surprise. Even now, with the fashion magazines giving Clarke Garrison rave reviews on his latest clothing line for Spectra, Eric would have given anything to take him down a few pegs.
After a couple of minutes the brunette got up from the table with her purse and said something to Clarke, whose flirtatious look didn't quite make it past the leering stage. For a man of forty-two, the years had fallen lightly on Clarke's shoulders, but Eric took a moment to scrutinize him. For a brief moment, the lecherous smirk on Clarke's face slipped. It was enough to give Eric's growing irritation pause. He thought he knew Clarke inside out, but apparently there was some vague little quality about him he hadn't counted on, and it put the conceited wolf's behavior under a different light. The bluster, the posturing, the bravado, it all seems so....that's it, Eric thought. It has to be. My instincts may be rusty, but the more I think about it the more I'm convinced. This is too good to pass up. Maybe I'll get what I want after all.
With a wicked smile on his face, Eric managed to stuff his granite cock back into his slacks, putting on his sport coat and buttoning it closed. When his waiter came with the check he complimented him on his service, including a very generous tip before he left the table. He felt like a cougar stalking prey as he casually walked over to the table where Clarke was sitting, idly sipping chardonnay and scoping out the other tables. He was so engrossed in his people-watching that he didn't notice Eric until he was right next to him saying, "Good evening, Clarke."
Clarke nearly choked on his wine. "Eric," he sputtered.
"Don't get up; I'm just getting ready to leave," Eric said. "How's your evening?"
"Couldn't be better," he replied, starting to regain a little of his conceited air.
"Really?" said Eric with a mocking smile.
"Haven't you heard? I'm the big man in fashion today. You'd better hang onto your saddle, because my next collection will leave you in the dust."
"We'll see." Eric looked down nonchalantly at the well-built man whose head seemed to be getting bigger by the minute. "In the meantime, I have a very important matter to discuss with you tonight."
"Oh? And what could that possibly be?"
Time for the moment of truth. "Just this," Eric replied, slowly unbuttoning his sport coat.
Clarke's body blocked everyone else from the view, but Eric gloated at Clarke's reaction to his crotch, his erection lewdly outlined in his slacks just inches away from the younger designer's face. It was priceless, the way Clarke's pupils had dilated, the nervous fidgeting, and best of all the involuntary licking of his lips. His instincts had been right on target; Clarke had been caught off guard and given himself away. Now was the time to press his advantage while he was still flustered.
"As I said, Clarke," Eric continued as he rebuttoned his coat, "I have a very important matter to discuss with you. We'll meet at your condo in one hour."
The action brought Clarke's face away from the tantalizing goodies up to Eric's confident smile. "B-but I have a date th-this evening," Clarke stammered.
"I'm sure you can find a way to get out of it. You've practically made that into a science. But you will meet me in one hour. See you then," Eric said, calmly turning away to the exit.
This is going to be good, Eric thought as he pulled up to the building nearly an hour later, spotting Clarke's car in the parking lot. On the drive over, Eric had been 97% certain he had sized up the Garrison dog accurately, but there lingered a slight possibility that Clarke could chicken out at the last moment. As he rode up the elevator to the penthouse, his manhood throbbing expectantly, he now knew he was on to something, and he was going to play it for all it was worth. He knocked on Clarke's door, getting hotter by the minute with confidence and lust. When Clarke answered the door in little more than shorts and a tank top, a wicked grin came across Eric's face as he entered the condominium. Ah, sweet revenge.
"So, uh, what's this all about?" Clarke said nervously.
"Well, Clarke," the older man said as he took off his jacket, "it seems that you have a certain reputation around town." He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. "It's a reputation that my daughter and Sally had the bad fortune to encounter." He kicked off his shoes. "With the trail of women in your history---or should I say wake---you must think yourself quite a Casanova." Eric unbuckled his belt. "However, the name Casanova merely translates into 'sex slut'."
The younger man became indignant. "Now, see here..."
Eric silenced him with a look, unzipping his pants and letting them drop to the floor. Clarke was practically drooling as he saw Eric's hot, mature body and heavy nine-and-a-half inch cock barely contained in his briefs. "As I was saying, in spite of all your braggadoccio and your attitude, you're just a sex slut at heart, and you don't care whether you're dealing with a penis or a vagina." Eric stepped out of his pants and teasingly pulled down his briefs, letting his proud manmeat spring free. "And tonight, you're going to be MY sex slut."
In spite of his tented shorts, Clarke became angry. "Your WHAT? You've got a lot of nerve, Eric. If you think you can just come in here and tell me what to do, think again! All I have to do is make one call and..."
"And you'll what, Clarke?" Eric said in that calm voice that belied the command behind it. "Cut off your nose to spite your face?" He took a few steps closer to Clarke, his raging cock so close that the Garrison gigolo's itchy fingers could have reached out and grabbed it. "You wanted this the moment you saw it at the Cafe Russe. In fact, you probably wanted this for a long time, but you were just good at hiding it. Well, you can't hide forever, Clarke. Just look at you. You can't wait to get your hands on me, and the sooner you accept that the better."
Clarke started to protest again, but all that came out was a muttered, "Damn you."
"Now, as I was saying, Clarke, the 'big man in fashion' is going to be my sex slut for the night. Take off your clothes."
Without taking his eyes off Eric's body, Clarke stood up and pulled off his clothes, standing before Eric in all his naked splendor, his heaving chest and torso dusted with black hair, his fat uncut nine-inch dick waving before him like a ship's boom. Eric grinned naughtily at the look in Clarke's eyes, that hungry look of anticipation.
"Nice, very nice. Now, bend over and spread 'em."
Without batting an eye, Clarke turned around and spread his squarish asscheeks, exposing his tight, pink hole for the Forrester stud's amorous appraisal. He stepped forward and ran a finger over the hot hole, causing Clarke to shiver with pleasure. "We'll get to this later. Right now, give me a tongue bath. Start with my feet and work your way up."
Eric closed his eyes and soaked up the wonderful feeling of Clarke's magical tongue on his body. His feet, then his legs, felt as though there were little fires on his nerve endings. His thighs tingled. He let out a low moan as felt his balls being bathed in spit; his body was getting warmer by the minute. Slowly, Clarke's tongue made its journey up the shaft of Eric's throbbing mantool, and a deep "Ohhhhhh" came from his mouth. He opened his eyes, gratified at the way Clarke was getting into it. He had reached the head and was about to wrap his lips around it when Eric gently stopped him.
"No, Clarke. I didn't say you could suck my cock yet. And don't even think about touching yours. The only way you're going to cum tonight is when I fuck it out of you. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Eric," Clarke replied in a voice heavy-laden with desire.
"Good. Now get back to work on my body."
Tongue-bathing this man was truly a labor of passion for Clarke. The slight musky aroma around his crotch in contrast to the clean soap-and-water smell of the rest of his body was a definite turn-on. The way this silver fox could dominate him without even raising his voice was sending his libido into a frenzy. Even if his cock stayed hard all night, he wouldn't touch it unless Eric said so. Nor would he perform any oral exercises on that gorgeous pole, even though he was starving for the taste of it. He took to his task with gusto, giving the older man a rimming that nearly had him shooting from the pleasure before continuing on to the broad planes of his upper torso. By this time the middle-aged Lothario felt Eric's hands roam over his chest and back, tweaking his nipples and making him hotter.
After Clarke's stimulating tongue made Eric's ears tingle with the same intensity that it had the rest of his body, he stopped groaning long enough to say, "All right, Clarke. Now you can suck me, but don't milk me. I have other plans for my cream."
"Yes, Eric," was Clarke's eager reply as he sank to his knees.
Stephanie just plain refused to do it; it was beneath her queenly dignity. Sheila was so-so. Brooke, for all her whorishness, was only fair. But Clarke had graduated with a Ph.D. when it came to sucking a man's cock. Eric almost went into orbit over the way Clarke's throat muscles worshipped his dick. Watching the way the Garrison gigolo's tongue meandered up and down his straining shaft was a visual treat. There was no question that this man had had plenty of practice on assorted dicks in his past, and he was putting all of it to work. The way Clarke could apply just enough sensation around the head of Eric's heated phallus to keep him titillated but not send him over the edge was a science in itself. Eric was almost tempted to have Clarke massage his prostate, but that would have been his complete undoing. No, as talented as the Garrison slut's mouth was, what he had stored up inside him for the past two weeks was going only one place.
"It's time to fill that hot little hole of yours, Clarke," Eric said, gently pushing him away from his groin and noting Clarke's steadily leaking pole. "Let's take this out on the terrace. I want to watch you get it ready for me."
"Anything you say, Eric," Clarke said lustfully.
Out on the penthouse's commodious terrace, the horny Forrester daddy stretched out on one of the chaise lounges, his eyes drinking in the sight of Clarke's highly aroused body taking a spot at the balcony in front of him. "Oye Como Va" proved to be excellent mood music, for Clarke was working his sizzling ass around his lubed finger to the tempo of the song. Sometime he would spread his cheeks, giving Eric the opportunity to feast his eyes upon his starving fuckhole. Other times he would work one, two, three lubed fingers into his tempting manhole, taking them out with lewd noises and working them back in again, turned on even more by the music and the sight of Eric's cock twitching like a metronome. The look of unbridled lust in Eric's eyes, the feeling that this mature hunk of masculinity wanted to just pounce on him at any moment, nearly sent Clarke into warp speed under the starlit sky.
Eric didn't bother with
preliminaries; he just stepped up behind Clarke, planted his dick at
the entrance and kept pushing until his pubic hair was snugly against
Clarke's manpussy. For the first thirty seconds the 'big man in
fashion' was groaning in pain, but not once did he did he even think
of telling Eric to pull out. As Eric's thrusts became faster and
deeper, Clarke's groans turned euphoric.
Clarke felt as uninhibited as a carnival ride. His rollercoaster cries of delight as he felt Eric's meaty probe thrusting vigorously inside him only enhanced the sensation. Why hadn't he had a sample of Eric before? Filled to satisfaction, Clarke lifted his ass to take in more of Eric's love tool, relishing each jolt to his prostate. "Oh Eric, oh yes, that's it, that's it, just fuck me, fuck me, keep fucking me, fill me with your cock. That's it, Eric, fuck my brains out. Just take that hole and plow it 'til my head caves in....."
Eric soon worked his way up to jackhammer speed, inflamed even further by Clarke bucking his ass back to meet every penetration, his asspussy taking everything Eric had to give and reveling in it. The longer and harder the Forrester daddy pounded him, the more Clarke moaned and howled in glee out there under the stars. With the sounds of Santana in the background and drenched in sweat, Eric fucked Clarke for all he was worth, thrilled at the responsiveness of his conquest and the feeling that justice, at last, was being served. Yes, Clarke will think twice before he shoots off his mouth, Eric thought as he felt his nuts start to churn.
As he held fast to the balcony, his body dripping from the marathon workout Eric's potent manhood was giving his insatiable tunnel, Clarke was exultant. The words may have stung at first, but it didn't change the truth. He was a sex slut, Eric's sex slut for this night, and he secretly hoped for more nights in the future. If by some lucky chance Eric called him while he was fucking one of his conquests du jour, he'd pull out of her faster than the Road Runner, breaking speed records to get to Eric. He might be walking a little strangely afterwards, but he wouldn't care. Perhaps it would encourage the Forrester silver fox to take him again. He'd lick every drop of sweat off his body, suck all his fingers and toes like a shop vac, whatever it took to have Eric and his amazing joystick plundering his body the way it was at that moment...
Pushed past his limits of endurance, Eric let out a warrior yell as Clarke's chute squeezed him with a force that only meant one thing. As jet after jet of cum shot out of Clarke's beet-red dick, Eric filled the Garrison hunk with an amount of semen that approached the proportions of the Great Flood of '93. It oozed around the plugged entrance to his well-fucked channel, running and dribbling down Clarke's thighs, his perineum, his balls. His mind blown from orgasmic ecstacy, Clarke's cries of release were totally incoherent as the two collapsed backward onto the chaise, still bucking together like a pair of stags. One crashing wave of climax after another assaulted the beaches of their senses, drowning them in a sea of earthy lust, slippery bodies sliding together to Santana's sexy beat.
Even with the blockbuster of a climax he had, Eric hadn't lost his erection. It felt as hard as a diamond, demanding more satisfaction. How long had it been since that happened? For that matter, when was the last time he dropped a load like that? He knew that he was going to continue for seconds, even thirds, and that Clarke was more than willing. As if reading his thoughts, Clarke had switched positions so that he was straddling Eric's damp thighs and facing him, relishing the feel of the pulsing pole of passion still buried deep inside of him.
It had been such sweet, satisfying revenge, drilling Clarke like a rutting beast only to have him come back begging for more. At long last, the sleazy Casanova had been cut down to size, and the hot daddy relished Clarke's worship of his body and his cock, the way he groveled for a chance to get at his potent rod. Eric enjoyed the fact that Clarke was such an expert in the art of deep-throating. He was amazed at how Carlos Santana's music drove him so wild with the need to fuck the Garrison cock slut right up the walls. In time, the Forrester silver fox had Clarke's ass trained so well that he could pull his granite column all the way out and then ram it back in rapid-fire succession, which was guaranteed to send them both into orgasmic ecstacy---and occasionally, to up the ante of endurance, he would pop a tablet of Viagra. No more would the suave, debonair Eric Forrester be consigned to the pit of frustration when Stephanie was in one of her vengeful moods. Not when he had his own personal carnival ride a mere phone call away.
As a bottom slut, Clarke had been excellent at satisfying certain needs of Eric's, and he felt more alive than he had in ages. The proof was in the best collection he had ever designed! Still, there were those times, late in the midnight hour after everyone had gone to sleep, when Eric would go to the office. Sometimes he would hear the cries of pleasure coming from Ridge's office as Adam took him once again. Now, with Spectra secrets of his own, he merely smiled to himself and kept going to his own office. He would lock the door and dim the lights, slowly removing his clothes. A touch of a switch would give him softly romantic 1950s music and songs from Frank Sinatra. The secret compartment in the wall would open in seconds, to take care of the necessities. And as he lay back and spread his legs, working the nine-inch Jeff Rykers dildo in and out of his previously love-starved hole, he would feel his manhood rising. And he would think of Bill Spencer and those crazy college days. Bill, the only man who had ever topped him, the only man who had ever made him feel that certain way. I sure miss you, Bill.....
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