Demon Spiral

"Go on, take them all. I know you want them."

Damon Wentworth was standing there in that skimpy bathing suit plastered to his groin, showing which side he dressed on, and had the platter of crab Rangoon pastries shoved up under Chris' chin. It hadn't been the crab Rangoon that Chris had had his eyes on as Wentworth came at him on the terrace in back of the fast-food restaurant chain owner's McMansion. The terrace was all a jumble with those—both new employees and some senior ones—invited to the Wentworth's pool party.

Chris was one of the new employees. He knew why he'd been invited to the party. He even knew why he'd been hired as an assistant manager of one of Wentworth's fast-food restaurants. He had been game for it and he'd been had by Wentworth before coming to this pool party. Wentworth was just his type: self-assured, an air of entitlement, twenty years older than he was but in expensive gym trim, a devilish look in his eyes, and curly black hair swirling on his chest and belly, arms and legs.

There was a brief regret that Chris had been put in the place of meeting Wentworth's bubbly wife and two teenage daughters at this pool party—and especially at the attention, almost competitive between them, that the daughters were expending on him. But, what the hell, he thought. If it didn't bother Wentworth, it wouldn't bother him either. He had a brief tug at his conscience over that, though. He hadn't been raised to be cheating with a married man. But he suppressed that thought. It wasn't like he'd have sex with the man here in his own home, under the noses of his family.

"I don't know, Mr. Wentworth. It looks like these are the last three crab Rangoons." He'd heard his supervisor, Cathy, wafting by just a few minutes ago, saying she was on the hunt for the crab Rangoon. "They always have it here," she was telling someone else. "It's the best thing about the Wentworths' parties. I've been dreaming about it all week."

"Just indulge yourself. And then indulge me," Wentworth said. "I want to show you something in the house."

Although surprised, Chris knew what that meant, and he entered the house with Wentworth willingly.

Wentworth fucked Chris up against a wall in the master bedroom between two locked French doors, the lock to the bedroom door latched, shades drawn. The terrace with the swimming pool was just outside and the party was still going full blast. At first, Chris could clearly hear the voices of Mrs. Wentworth and the two Wentworth daughters floating out above the hubbub just on the other side of the wall, but with each deliciously cruel up-thrust of Wentworth's cock inside him, the voices receded into the general chatter.

Chris' back was against the wall and his knees were hooked on Wentworth's hips. His arms were around the older man's neck and he was moaning into the man's mouth in the lingering kiss, reveling in the feel both of the cock thrusting relentlessly up inside him and the silky sensation of Wentworth's chest hair rubbing up and down on his own smooth, nineteen-year-old chest.

Chris froze—but, strangely, Wentworth didn't, at the unsuccessful rattling of the handle of the door into the hall and the bubbly voice of Mrs. Wentworth. "You in there, Damon, honey? Why's the door locked? We're out of ice."

"Check the freezer in the garage, Dot. I know there are more bags of ice in there," Wentworth called back. He'd stopped thrusting, but was close to coming. This was the glorious release Chris waited for with Damon; Damon came for minutes running, with multiple ejaculations. Chris had already come up Wentworth's belly, but he knew that, with Damon's specialty, he too would enjoy multiple ejaculations.

"I decided to dress," Wentworth continued in the voice pitched to carry through the bedroom door. "Took a quick shower. Locked the door so that none of the guests would wander in."

"OK, I'll check the garage freezer," the muffled voice came back. "See you in a few, I guess."

"I'll come in just a few minutes," Wentworth called back.

And come he did, within a minute, again and again and again—for a few minutes. This was Chris' favorite part of a fuck from his employer. Damon insisted on barebacking, and Chris didn't balk, because Damon came in multiple prodigious gushes that made Chris see stars and flames that spiraled down to burning embers and gave Chris the most satisfying feeling of fulfillment and comfort he had ever experienced. Wentworth came again and again in grunts and the tightening and release of his hips. Each up-thrust of the cock ended in a gush, with the slight withdrawal and repeated up-thrust and gush, like waves pounding on the beach. Chris came multiple times as well—a little sighing release with each one of Damon's spoutings. Six, seven times Damon would thrust up and release cum, until it dribbled out of Chris' hole and down his thighs.

The sensations of this were out of this world. Damon's ability was not human. Being fucked by Wentworth was like being taken by no other man—which was probably why Chris had fallen so deeply under his spell. Chris was letting loose of all of the taboos he'd been raised with by parents who had given up early on his sexual orientation and had moved on to giving him advice on how to protect himself: No older men; they would use you and leave you. No casual sex. No unprotected sex. Do not cheapen yourself by letting him call all of the shots. No married men. Don't become involved at the office.

Chris had let loose of all of these taboos, just to exchange sex that was an upward progression for sex that was a single event. Damon wasn't human; he could release spell-binding cum repeatedly for three to five minutes at a stretch, elongating the orgasm for Chris until his balls ached from his own repeated releases. When Damon fucked Chris, he was totally fucked.

Wentworth let Chris sink to the carpet with a whimpering sigh and went to take that quick shower he'd told his wife he'd already had. Alone, Chris' attention went to the sound of the party out on the terrace. He found he was listening for the voices of the wife and daughters, trying to latch onto some form of guilt from letting Wentworth have his way even in the embrace of his own family, in the bedroom he shared with his wife. And there was perhaps some vestige of guilt Chris felt, or he wouldn't have thought of it at all. At least they hadn't done it in the bed Damon shared with his wife, Chris thought. The betrayal hadn't gone that far.

He struggled to rise from the floor, picked up his red Speedo, and dabbed at his inner thighs to obliterate the globs of white cum. He wouldn't want anyone on the terrace to see that before he could reach, and dive into, the pool. A vestige of the guilt, he realized. He wasn't totally gone after all, he thought.

He felt the presence of Damon and looked up to see his employer standing there, beads of water glistening on his hairy, muscular chest, his eyes slitted as he watched Chris pat at his thighs with the red material, Damon's upcurved cock in magnificent erection again.

"Fuck 'em," Wentworth muttered in a husky voice. "I'll get back out there when I get back out there. This will only take a few minutes."

Chris was fucked in the missionary position on the side edge of the master bed. So, they

did

do it in the bed Damon shared with Dot after all. The stage of repeated ejaculation took four minutes just in itself. And Chris was left with his legs spread open, his eyes swimming in cum, and mumbling quietly to himself, a thick stain of comingled cum on the bedspread at the edge of the bed, as Damon cleaned his cock with a wet wash cloth, quickly dressed, and left the room.

This time Chris didn't think a single thought about Wentworth's family or where Wentworth had fucked him. There was something mind numbing and guilt suppressing in that cum of Wentworth's.

* * * *

"Go ahead; take a handful. I'll cover for you."

"I couldn't. That would be dishonest," Chris whimpered. The whole scene was surreal to him. It was after hours at the fast-food restaurant. It had been his turn to mop the floors before leaving. He'd turned off the lights out in the dining area after mopping the kitchen floor and had shuddered in a double take as he saw the form of a man, near the windows of the dining area, backlit by the headlights of passing cars on the highway that was pretty busy even in this early morning hour.

As the man walked toward him in the murky light, seeming to materialize from a large puff of smoke, particles of ash reflecting the light from the passing cars, Chris discerned that it was Damon Wentworth. He had every right to be in his restaurant after hours. And of course he had keys to the place. He'd even said that he would appear sometime after work when Chris was left to close up and would fuck him.

The thought of Wentworth fucking him on a table top in the darkness of night, with cars passing by within thirty feet of the front windows, had aroused Chris. Any thought of Wentworth fucking him erased any other thoughts from Chris' mind and made him go hard.

Wentworth had been wrapped in a black cape and all Chris could concentrate on as the man approached was the devilish grin of his. As Wentworth drew closer, he spread the cloak open. He was naked and in gigantic erection.

Chris moaned as Wentworth came around the service counter, leaned Chris over a cash register, pulled Chris' shorts and briefs down, thrust up inside him from the rear, and, grabbing Chris' wrists, spread his arms along the counter and trapped him there, as he nuzzled Chris' neck with his lips and fucked him with his cock.

As Chris writhed under his employer, the cash register made a dinging noise and popped open. It was full of cash. The registers were supposed to be cleared out by the manager at night, with the money deposited in the night machine of a nearby bank.

As Wentworth's thrusts came quicker and went deeper, Chris writhed more under him, and bills started flipping out of the cash register and onto the floor.

"Shouldn't we . . .?" Chris murmured with a gasp.

"There's no money in the registers," Damon answered, with a laugh. "It will have all been taken to the bank. So help yourself. Go ahead; take a handful. It doesn't really exist. I'll cover for you."

"I couldn't. That would be dishonest," Chris whimpered. But then he cried out, "Oh, my God. Shit. Yes!" as Damon's first ejaculation exploded inside him, cum spurting up into his intestines. Damon reared back and then thrust and ejaculated again. And again. And again. Waves and waves of prodigious spoutings of cum, making Chris come again and again, as well.

Blinding flames and heat seared through Chris' brain. He was swimming through the hot lava of Damon's erupting cum. Until he found himself on the floor of the restaurant, behind the counter, his back against the service counter. He was alone, whimpering, sitting in a slick of cum on the floor—Damon's and his. Light from the passing headlights of cars was flickering off the silver metal of the drink machines in front of him. Money was strewn over his lap. He looked up, above his head. The cash register drawer appeared to be closed.

Struggling up from the floor, his hands busy gathering up the bills and sifting them into one large bundle, Chris' eyes verified that the drawer was closed and wouldn't open without a key, which he didn't have, after hours. He laid the bills on the counter and, with shaking hands, tried to open the drawer anyway. But he couldn't. He stood there for a moment, in thought. He could get into the office. Maybe there were night deposit envelopes and slips there. He'd take this money to the bank himself.

His hands, still shaky, he counted the money. More than three-hundred dollars.

Yes, there were envelopes and slips in the office. He filled a slip out and inserted the money in the envelope. He hadn't deposited money at the bank himself, but he'd gone along with Cathy a few times, to give her some protection, when she made a deposit. He could do this.

As he got to the door of the restaurant, he remembered the mess from the sex on the floor below the cash register. He'd put the money in his glove compartment and come back to swab the floor there.

When he opened the passenger door to the car, he gave off an "Oofff," as he was pushed down onto his belly on the passenger seat. The envelope skitted onto the driver's seat, split open, and the bills scattered out.

Both of them were covered by the undulating black cloak, as Damon, first, fucked Chris from behind, and then, as the ejaculations started, turned the young man on his back and covered him, rubbing his hairy chest up and down on Chris'. Damon grabbed handfulls of money and stuffed them in Chris' mouth. He then grabbed Chris' wrists and stretched the young man's arms over his head as he ejaculated again and again. Each time Damon spouted he growled, "Spend the money. Spend the money."

When Chris came too, Damon was gone. He gathered up the bills, like a zombie, having no idea where they'd come from—or how or why. He bought a new flat screen TV the next day, and if anyone had asked him where he got the money for it—although no one did—he wouldn't have had the vaguest notion where it had come from.

* * * *

"I'm going to the men's room. After I leave, you take a circuitous route to the exit, and I'll meet you in the car."

Damon and Chris had stopped at an expensive—and crowded—restaurant en route to a trailer out in the wilderness on the banks of a lake, where Damon was going to attend a poker party. He'd made quite clear that Chris was along to serve the men—and not just with pretzels and cheese dip. Chris took it as some sort of test of wills. Damon said he'd give Chris a good fuck himself afterward—if Chris pleased the other men.

But Chris saw this, the restaurant stop, as a test of wills too. He didn't know what it was a test for. Just in his more introspective moments—when he wasn't thinking of what Damon could do to him—what he wanted Damon doing to him—he knew that something inside him, his integrity or something, was slipping away from him and that there was some sort of methodical move going on in this regard. He sensed a downward spiral, but he didn't have the will to either arrest the sinking feeling or examine it in any depth.

The bill had arrived. Damon had taken a look at it and closed the pad, not making a move to reach for his wallet—although if you viewed the gesture from afar, you might have supposed Damon had put a credit card inside.

Chris didn't say anything when Damon gave his instructions, but he gave Damon a searching "Are we really going to do this?" look. He watched Damon walk away toward the restrooms. Then Chris stood, opened the check pad to see how much the meal had been, and felt his hand go to his own back pocket. But he also felt the eyes boring into him and lifted his face to see that Damon was watching him from across the crowded dining room.

With a sigh, Chris closed the pad and turned and walked around the periphery of the dining area and through another one of the dining rooms before approaching the door to the street and, after a slight hesitancy, exiting the restaurant.

He had done it—stiffed the restaurant for his meal. A couple of weeks ago he wouldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams that he would do such a thing. He gave brief thought to what he'd done and to why, but before he could muster much at all in thought, he looked up, and there was Damon by the car, smiling his devilish smile, his eyes looking intently at Chris. When he reached the car, he pressed Chris' body up against the side of the car with his and gave him a deep kiss. He had one hand caressing and patting Chris' head like Chris was a good dog who had just passed an obedience test. The other hand was groping Chris' crotch.

"You drive and take the car over to the far end of the parking lot there, in the shadows," Damon instructed in a husky voice.

In the shadows of the restaurant's lot, Damon pulled Chris, trouserless, over to straddle his lap on the passenger seat and gave Chris the glorious, numbing three-minute ejaculation that kept Chris fully under his control.

In the trailer out on the shore of the wooded lake, Chris lay under a succession of randy men at Damon's direction, on a studio bed adjacent to the poker table, through the early hours of the morning. The order of the men and duration of their dicks moving inside Chris' ass was dictated by their willingness to fold their hands in standoffs with Damon at the table. Over a four-hour period, Chris earned well over a thousand dollars for Damon—or so he thought.

Later in the morning, when, laying between Chris' legs, Damon had pumped the mesmerizing nectar of his ejaculate inside Chris for nearly five continuous minutes and Chris was laying, spread-eagled, moaning slightly, his mouth agape, and panting shallowly in ecstasy, Damon stuffed the poker winnings in Chris' mouth, muttered, "Now you are a whore," and was gone.

It didn't occur to Chris to think in any depth about having, for the first time in his life, let multiple men fuck him in succession or that he had prostituted himself by accepting money for having done so, as long as the scent and memory of Damon were in the room. Sometime later there was a bit of a twinge, but he pushed it to the back of his mind immediately. He knew that Damon would disapprove and say he was weak if he allowed himself to think about it.

* * * *

If Damon hadn't been fucking Chris when he laid out the plan, Chris might have realized how wrong it was. But Damon's possession of and victory over Chris was almost totally complete. Damon had just given Chris that devilish grin of his while he was pumping him, and Chris didn't even think to ask why it was necessary for the two of them to burglarize a jewelry store at night. Chris didn't need any jewelry and Damon was so obviously rich that he could afford to buy his wife whatever she wanted and wouldn't miss whatever if cost.

But there they were, leaning over the smashed glass of a jewelry display case in a dark store, Damon covering Chris' back, fucking him and releasing spurt after spurt of ejaculate. Chris' arms were pushed into the display case and he was fisting diamond bracelets as he moaned at the prolonged taking.

Chris was so wrapped up in the fucking that he barely noticed the ringing of the store's alarm; the approaching sirens; or, as Damon leaned his mouth closely to Chris' ear to deliver one last statement with a satanic laugh, the swirl of the red lights on the ceiling of the darkened display room.

"You are totally fucked and completely mine now," Damon said, as he pulled out of Chris' ass and off his back and disappeared in the swirl of a black cape and a puff of smoked. As he disappeared, leaving Chris draped over the display case and fisting diamond bracelets, the front door of the store gave way and the policemen, guns drawn, began to circle around the room.

Only now, with the sensation that Damon's controlling presence had been totally withdrawn—even though he was "down there" and watching, with that devilish grin of his—did the clouds start to clear away from Chris' muddled mind and he began to see the depths to which his life had spiraled.