I was sitting on the toilet, lid closed, in Jeff Taylor's private office bathroom on the seventh floor of the Taylor building, home of the firm of Taylor, Taylor, and Taylor. My ankles were on Jeff's shoulders and Jeff, my boss's boss was gripping my hips, raising my pelvis to his need and in deep, fucking me vigorously. He liked to do me unexpectedly in chance-of-the moment venues. He was my boss's boss; he had privileges.
He'd just finished up a staff meeting, with me handing out the paperwork as his twenty-year-old gofer for the meeting. I was fresh out of college and into a very nice, thank you very much, Chicago apartment at Jeff's expense. I was whatever a male mistress is to him. He laid me whenever he wanted to. He paid my bills and owned my ass.
The meeting--and the reason for calling it--had been a great success to the extent of hundreds of millions of dollars of profit to the firm.
Jeff, a robust early forties guy in a family firm, who worked out daily and ran marathons and was one muscular, cut dude, if not a beauty queen, celebrated success with sex. Sex--using a young guy like me--was one form of exercise for him. I was his chosen vessel for his precious seed. He didn't like women. He liked handsome young guys with frosted hair and a saucy little sway to their gait, young guys who would open their legs and take cock from a forties muscle guy who didn't have movie star looks, but who was hung, vigorous, virile, and who paid the rent and the taxi fees.
He was good at it. He exercised regularly in this way. He had a whole lot of experience in fucking young men.
He liked variety and unexpected venues. So did I. He was in deep, thrusting hard and fast, huffing and puffing, the palms of his hands pressed into the wall behind the toilet. I was panting and digging the fingernails of one hand into his shoulder blades with one hand and jacking myself with the other. This was a piece of cake. I wasn't going to have a bit of trouble coming for him.
As he was reaching climax--we worked at coming together--I moved my nonengaged hand to his buttocks to hold him close into me and help, with the pressure of my hand to coordinate his thrusts with the thrusts of my hips back into him.
We exploded together in a writhing, "Oh, fuck, YES!" mutual liftoff, and breathing heavily and wheezing, Jeff pulled off me and turned immediately and stepped into his shower. It was the signal for me to collect myself and my clothes and to find someplace else to clean up before returning to my cubicle on the fourteenth floor to pretend to do work in a job where my only solid duties were to open my legs for the junior partner in the firm of Taylor, Taylor, and Taylor and to cry out for him what a great cocksman he was.
Jeff, in fact,
was
a way-above-average cocksman.
Jeff Taylor had gotten his rocks off with an angelic young guy with ambitions and good moves in taking cock. He'd appear at my apartment--well, the apartment he paid for--for an extended session. That one too would center on his lust and needs, not mine. He wouldn't give notice he would appear. He would expect me to be there if he did. My nightlife had become nonexistent. But then he'd demanded monogamy on my part--he liked to bareback--which wasn't the "me" of me before I had sold myself to him shortly after graduating from Michigan State.
I waited until after he'd gone back to his desk and then showered, dressed, and took the elevator down to the fourteenth floor. He didn't even look up from his desk when I walked by him. On my floor I waded through the sea of cubicles, the object of envy and censure of a roomful of other young and middle-aged, lower-middle-level ambitious workers, nearly half of whom probably knew the junior partner was screwing me and guarding my position in the firm. The fact that I had a corner cubicle, with floor to ceiling glass on two sides overlooking Lake Michigan was the tipoff that someone here was sponsoring--and using--me.
Sheryl had the cubicle next to mine and coveted the move into mine, if she could find a Taylor who fucked women. Taylor Senior was reputed to be years beyond being able to get it up for anyone and both of the Juniors were reputed to be gay. I certainly knew that one of them was. For now Sheryl was out of luck, and she didn't take it lightly or mince words about it.
"You're all aglow," she hissed as I passed her cubicle to get to mine. "Laid down for him again, did you? He's got a big one, does he?"
"As a matter of fact he does," I said, smiling as I passed.
Only minutes afterward we all heard the sound of the ambulance on the street below and tuned in to the siren dying right in front of the building. Shortly afterward the rumor flowed along the floor that one of the Taylor Juniors had been taken out of the building. Heart attack, they whispered. Eyes turned to my cubicle. I dared not look up from whatever paperwork sat on my desk, though. And I couldn't get up and walk across the floor to the elevators to explore what was what.
A half hour later, a voice lifted over the hubbub saying, "I got a call from Wanda in Human Resources. It was Jeff Taylor. Died on the way to the hospital."
Again, all eyes in the room turned to me. Sheryl hissed a quite audible, "Who's your daddy now, Neal?"
This time I did stand and slowly walked, through the simmering battleground, to the elevators, which I took down to the garage, got in the Miata convertible Jeff had bought for me, and drove back to my apartment. All the time I drove, I was thinking of steps I had to go through to find someplace smaller and what I had to downsize to be able to fit into it. I couldn't afford an apartment like that without a sugar daddy.
I certainly didn't think I'd find another sugar daddy at Taylor, Taylor, and Taylor. I'd put all of my eggs in one Taylor.
* * * *
I'd been sitting in the apartment, not bothering to turn on lights as darkness fell, waiting for the turn in the lock in the door for an hour beyond Jeff's usual arrival time, if he was coming, before I absorbed that he wasn't coming. He was never coming again. I wasn't shackled with the possibility that he would come--and that he'd expect me to be here. I was free to go out, if I wanted, to cruise as I liked to do pre-Jeff. I was aware how bald and unfair the feeling of freedom was that I was having. Jeff had been good to me. He'd paid for all of this. I had luxuriated in Jeff's fetish for young, good-looking men with frosted blond hair. Jeff had been a highly competent cocksman. He'd gotten me off each and every time. I never had to wonder if a date would get my rocks off.
I was free, which had its downs as well as its ups. But this meant I could go out, that I could go cruising for the first time in months.
I went to a trendy gay bar, one where the clientele was wealthy, well-dressed, civilized. I had considered going to a bikers' bar and letting it all hang out, but decided it was too soon for that. I'd build up to that.
He said his name was Gary. He was movie star handsome. Dark and sultry. Mediterranean in complexion, possibly Italian. His clothes were expensive and well cut. He was well cut too--trim but appearing to be hard-bodied. He probably was in his late thirties. His black hair was thinning, but he still had it. His mustache and beard were trimmed to a fashionable and flattering permanent five o'clock shadow. His fingers were long, his nails manicured, as he touched my forearm when he slid into the stool next to me at the bar.
I had no trouble visualize him on top of me, inside me.
"Can I hope you are here alone?" he asked. His voice was a rich, cultured baritone.
"Yes, I'm definitely alone now," I answered.
"He left you?"
