Big Ben(d) Ch 05

Big Ben(d) Ch 05

Sam, Roger and Brock

All characters described in this story are over 18. The scenarios are fictional, but are quite representational of "big" corporate finance--at least before COVID. In case new readers are interested, the title of these series reflects the location of the retreat in Ch 01 where Sam Crockett and Brock Adamson meet and get it on--and more importantly, the unusual shape of Brock's cock--which has a decided bend to the right midway up the shaft. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden, All rights reserved.

Summary of Previous Chapters: Sam has returned to El Paso from New York where he had been involved in negotiating the backup financing for a major planned acquisition by Elon Oil, his employer. While there Sam had been pimped to a Goldman managing partner, Bob Brandt. He had blown Bobby, and then, in a twist of expected behavior, Bobby had commanded Sam to fuck him. Sam was surprised at the turnabout, but really enjoyed deep-pounding an obvious superior. He hadn't held back at all, however. He had serviced Bobby's anal canal until he squealed and complimented Sam on his technique and the size of his cock.

Sam was then taken multiple times by his boss, Roger Bannister, over a subsequent luxurious weekend in New York. Both encounters were semi-non-consensual. Sam considered his submission "part of the job", but he had deep down felt that he had enjoyed being taken and dominated--even when he was the one doing the pitching. Meanwhile, the bid for Murray Oil had been launched.

And it was time to wait patiently. But, Sam had been anxiously ruminating about his future--with Brock, his young soul-mate, or Roger, his boss (and pimp?).

Continuing in Sam's voice....

I had just barely finished a pleasant lunch with a colleague, when I got a text that I was wanted upstairs YESTERDAY. I almost ran from the cafeteria to Roger's office. He hadn't been in during the morning, and I assumed he was out again for the day, lying low while Murray Oil considered a response to our bear hug letter. Phyllis motioned me in. "He's waiting. And he's fuming. You may want to put on some armor or a batting cap before you go in. Good luck!"

When I walked in, he was in his shirt sleeves, rolled up, pacing and shouting into the speaker phone. He was red and sweating. One shirttail was out of his slacks. What the fuck! This is so unusual. His desk top was unusually clean. Then I noticed that he had swept everything to the floor. He was really angry! And fuck, he looked so sexy in his anger!

I halted just inside the door and listened. It took only a few seconds to sum up the situation. Murray Oil had rejected our offer "officially." (That was expected. We would persist, offer more and enter negotiations.) But, more importantly they had invited another competitor in to scan the books to make a counter-offer. It was effectively a declaration of war. The phone call was with Bob Brandt at Goldman who was leading our bid.

"Fuck, Bob, how did this happen? How did you not know that Cherry Oil was interested--and that they were already talking to Murray? They're giving Cherry a free look at the books--which we never got. How can we compete with that?"

"Calm down, Roger. These things happen all the time. We both knew that the $53/share bid was fuckin' bullshit. They claim they're worth north of $70."

"North of $70 doesn't work for us. The numbers just don't work. By the way, you said $60 max--and that's what we're working with. Where the fuck did you guys get your numbers? Your analysts must have their heads up their asses." He paused for a moment, but Bob didn't pick up the thread. "I sure hope that this is not bait and switch, Bob. If I find out that either Goldman or Morgan is involved with Cherry's bid, there is going to be hell to pay. The higher values won't work for Cherry either--unless they have some crystal ball that projects much higher West Texas Intermediate prices--or another Arab oil embargo. Or they've convinced Murray to take stock. I could never sell $70 to the Board. And I've promised them Murray."

"Calm down, Roger," he repeated. "This is not the end of the world. Apparently there is value hidden in Murray that they've kept from the street. I have no idea why or what it is. But, we're not out of the ballgame yet. We're trying to get a handle on where the extra value might be. Cherry hasn't bid anything yet, although they may be talking already. And, by the way at $70 plus/share, Elon is going to pocket a shit-load of profit when it unloads the pre-buy of Murray shares. Incidentally, we picked up more Monday morning just as the bid was announced."

(For readers not familiar with corporate merger finance--and who are interested: When X contemplates a hostile bid for Y, it typically does two things--after deciding on a price it's willing to pay. It goes into the market over perhaps 30-90 days and buys "up to" 5% of the stock of Y at low prices--the percentage cap set by the SEC. Then it makes the bid--either publicly or in a bear hug letter to the target--which the target is obligated to announce. Simultaneously with the bid, X enters the market and buys everything it can--before the letter becomes public and before the public can react. Typically, they end up with 8% to 10% with that tactic. The price then soars when the bid is announced, and even if the target is not ultimately purchased, Y is "in play" and the price remains very high. The bidder, if ultimately rebuffed, then sells the 5%-10% at a huge profit--often billions--as a consolation prize before the final deal is reached, or collapses. In this case, Elon's "profit" could be around a half billion dollars.)

"That's really not consoling, Bob. Sure, I want the profit, but we want Murray. I can wait a few days. But, believe me, Bob. You owe me one. A very big one. You and Goldman better pull something out of your ass."

The phone went silent for a minute. Then Bob began in a much lower and more conspiratorial voice, "I'm not sure about a big one. How about a little one, just here from Wharton, a cute little blond boy? Really hungry...."

He was apparently about to describe someone that Bob was going to pimp to Roger. Only I would know that. But, Roger sprinted to the headset and picked it up before the rest of the amplified conversation flooded into the sun-soaked corner office where even Phyllis would hear it. Roger listened for a few more seconds. Then, he interrupted, "We'll have to see. I've gotta take this call, Bob. Keep me informed."

He looked up at me. "What the fuck are you doing standing there with your goddamned limp dick in your hand?"

"Phyllis said you wanted me."

"Yeah, thirty minutes ago."

"But, now you heard the call. We're fucked. During the discussion in New York did you get even a hint of a potential competing bid?"

"No, nothing. Do you want us to rerun the numbers? Should I get ready to go back to New York?"

"No, I have a feeling on this one. We're fucked. And I wouldn't be surprised if Goldman or Morgan is already talking with Cherry. They are real whores. Call Mike Goodman in Treasury. Tell him to buy any Murray he can get under $58/share. If Murray hits $65/share, tell him to be ready in an instant to unload the whole pile. Call RobertsAllen and get them working on a threatening letter to Murray and another unraveling the deal with Goldman and Morgan. But, nothing gets released without my say-so. And not another word to anyone about this. No one outside this office knows about this. Abso-fucking-lutely no-fucking-one!"

"Now leave me alone. You're an unneeded distraction. I've got to come up with a really good story for the board. Or my ass is out of here. I've been promising the moon--but the moon they are going to get from Murray is not exactly what they have in mind."

"And speaking of ass. My place tonight at seven. Don't tell anyone where you're going. No one has ever been there. And make sure your asshole is as clean as a witch's cunt before you get there. I'm going to need some release. And you're the designated cunt."

Huh, an "unneeded distraction." But, his whore after work.

I ran out of his office and headed into mine, slamming the door. Roger is fucked! Well, join the club. So am I. Brock is due at my place tonight at ten--and I probably can't even reach him for hours. I've been avoiding him and lying to him. He doesn't know about Brandt--although I'm sure he's guessed by now that Roger hired me for more than my intellect and charm. And now Roger wants me at seven at his place. I'm pretty sure it's not to discuss the Murray acquisition. Knowing him, I'm probably in for some very rough stuff. So even if I got home by ten, Brock would know that I had just been fucked, hard and brutally. And by whom. He's definitely going to be issuing some ultimatums. Maybe even threatening Roger. If I'm lucky. He might just walk out without a word.

I sat silently behind my desk staring out at a desert sandstorm well off in the distance. It was symbolic of my inner turmoil and indecisiveness. I started deep-breathing to reduce my pulse. I needed a clear head to think about all of this. The analyst in me pulled out two pieces of blank paper.

I labeled the first, "Roger." And begin to list.

Great guy. Great bod. Intelligent. Street smart. Wealthy.

Great sex--well, maybe a little rough, maybe a little one-sided. But nice dick. Maybe I'm a natural sub after all. Clean. Experienced.

Great job. Up to now at least.

Excitement. Maybe too much. Sometimes he's a bastard.

Good money.

Future?--probably none

Consequences? If I leave now after four months at Elon without Roger's golden recommendation, I'd have no future at all. I'd be soiled goods and suspect. Brandt? No way. I couldn't work for him. And I didn't trust him to follow up with his offer anyway.

Then I pulled out the second sheet and labeled it "Brock"

Great guy. My age, funny, sarcastic, my first "seducer", maybe a stalker, liar, terrific bod, magic dick, junior dom, loves my dick as much as I love his

Job? Start again, presumably not at Elon, probably not in El Paso (so how do I keep Brock?)

Excitement: Brock is sex personified, compatible in the gym and as a runner. I vibrate at the thought of him. And his cock pounding inside my chute. Considerate. Really into me. Vers.

Money? I'd be starting again.

Future? Brock was ready to take the next step, but there would be many obstacles since we had different jobs that might take us to different places and not much money.

Consequences?

Brock might be the one. HEA material. Fuck the job. The sex is just that good. But, with all these warts, is he still into me?

I sat there staring at the pages. Deep down, I knew the answer. I was lying to myself. It was Brock. But that choice scared the shit out of me. I was going to start all over. And I wasn't sure we'd go the distance. Then I stopped myself. Stop being so negative. Brock is a good guy, and he understands. I know he's hot for me--and the feeling is mutual. Fuck, I've only got three months invested in this place. Not enough to make a critical decision that I'd have to live with for years, maybe the rest of my life. But, I'd sure like to get a back-pat from Roger on the way out. It would help enormously in the next step--because I'm assuming it won't be in El Paso--and Brock will also have to quit and move if we're going to be together.

Then there's the big elephant in the room. If the Murray deal collapses, Roger may be out of Elon. And if he's out, am I?

Then I decided. I txted Brock that Roger had demanded that I work late -related to the acquisition--and I might be home later than ten. "You know where the key is. I'll get there as fast as I can. Luvyababe." I added an emoji--a face with my tongue hanging out.

Then came the devious part. I plugged in my cell to charge it to the max. I was going to set it on record and at its most sensitive level--and turn it on in my pocket as I entered Roger's apartment. I needed some protection. A recording of what he says might be very useful.

I left at six, cleaned up my place and made sure there was obvious food and beer for Brock's arrival, showered and cleaned out, and finally dressed in chinos (commando), a polo shirt and a wind breaker (to hold the cell). Then I drove to Roger's loft. It was in one of the converted factories along the Rio Grande, right downtown. It was on the third floor, a walk-up, and presumably two stories--since there was no staircase higher and four floors in the building.

I knocked. After an age, Roger pulled the massive sliding door open and motioned me in. It was really different--and then again not so. Exposed brick walls. Industrial lighting. Big shiny ducts carried heat and air high above. Rough wood floors. Huge windows, covered with plain white shades. Chrome and glass furniture. Leather. Large LED. Several huge, almost-gay-porn paintings in silver frames, mostly full-frontal, portraying rough motor-cycle type guys, fighters, Marines, with enormous denim-covered baskets or nude, all cut, hung and threatening.

Roger had been to the gym and had not showered. He was pumped and dark. He was still in the nylon workout clothes that were stained with the sweat of his effort. His semi was outlined in the shorts. The always groomed blonde hair was limp, wet and hanging on his forehead. In short, he was a sub gay man's dream: gaunt, hungry, pumped, angry, sweaty and radiating the musky aroma of testosterone. Fuck he WAS sex! He was going to fuck me really good. My dick responded immediately. It knew what he was capable of. What he could do.

I realized he was holding a frosty glass--empty.

"There's nothing new on Murray. I'm pretty sure we're fucked. Goldman double-crossed us. But that's not why you're here. My bed's upstairs, boy. Go on up and get ready. I'll be up as soon as I finish this little drink." It obviously wasn't his first, and since it was empty, he was going for another.

I climbed the stairs as he went to the bar. I stripped and placed my stuff on a large leather chair. At the last second, I remembered and hit the record button on the cell recorder and draped the windbreaker on a hook near the bed.

Minutes later he appeared and stripped. I expected my fastidious boss to head for the shower. But no, he headed for me and the bed. His cock was at full staff, long, thick, hard and hot. He set the empty, frosted tumbler on the table. "On your knees, boy, at the edge of the bed. I'm gonna give you the fuck of your life--the one you deserve for screwing up the Murray deal." I didn't protest. It would have made no difference to him. He was angry and out of control. I did as I was told, and immediately felt his freezing cold fingers, slathered in lube at my rim. He circled once and plunged one, then another. He stroked perfunctorily for two or three times, stroking the nut and widening the chute--announcing to no one in particular how he was going to take me and use me. In fact, in his anger, he was much more vocal than I could ever remember--calling plays, describing what his alpha dick was doing to my boy-cunt etc. Then, assuming I was ready enough, he grabbed my shaft to hold me steady and I felt the hard head of his dick pressuring. I breathed out hard, and he popped in. I didn't really expect him to freeze so I could get used to him, and I was right. He immediately reached under, grabbed my balls to steady me, and applied the full pressure of his thighs. He slid in, burning, slapping the nut as his hard dick passed, and bottomed. Then he froze, probably admiring his conquest, my muscled young ass. He slapped it loudly a few times. "Count out the whacks, boy. You deserve every one of them for screwing up."

His sweaty chest lowered to mine as his hands repositioned--one fisting the base of my cock, the other cupping the balls. The classic move of a Manhattan predator--grab his balls and grip the shaft. Get ready to squeeze. His lips touched my nape and sucked--hard, leaving his brand, I'm sure. Then he started the long deep hip thrusts that would bring him to orgasm. I felt the thrill and the pleasure. Even being taken by a beast, the pleasure still shines through. I started to move my ass with his thrusts, squeezing my ring muscle to enhance his pleasure--and bring him off. Less than a minute later, I felt the strain. He fell on my back, resting full weight on me, forcing me to the bed--and immobility. Then the first hot blast deep in my bowels. Fuck, he wasn't wearing a condom! He stroked my shaft hard and squeezed my balls. Then another and finally another. That pushed me over. I too tensed and erupted--without even whispering a word.

He rested on my back for a few minutes. Then he pulled his hands from under me and wiped them on the sheets.

"Oh fuck! You are really good boy! Such a nice tight chute and a nicely muscled ass. I think I made the right choice in hiring you. Whatever happens, you're in my bed whenever."

Then he pulled out and stretched out on his back on the bed. "Now clean me up boy. Don't miss a drop."

Of course, I did, and by the time I finished, he was hard again. "Now give me a nice long blow--like you gave Bobby." Again there was no affection, no connection. He tried repeatedly to make me deep-throat him, but I wasn't in position and gagged. The combination of his cum, his musk and his sweat--which had turned me on so easily before--now disgusted me. At one point I thought I might even pass out from asphyxiation. Finally he gave up and just face fucked me while holding me tight to his crotch. He erupted again, another full load, filling my mouth, and coating my face, describing it all for the recorder with a flurry of four letter words. And for the first time, I realized his cum was acidic, almost rancid. I wanted to spit it out. To barf. But, I didn't. I had made up my mind about Roger and Elon, but I wanted to give myself a little room to make it work for me. If that required an hour or so of whoredom, so be it.

Within an hour of my arrival, he had fucked me hard and I had blown him to a second. He rolled over and pulled up the sheet. "Let yourself out, boy. I'll see you tomorrow. It's Saturday. Be back here at seven. I'm going to need this again. That ass is so fuckable. And remember, not a word."

It was still early. So I raced home and showered again--this time as thoroughly as I had ever done--to wash Roger and my guilt away. It was like that famous scene from Macbeth as I scrubbed and scrubbed. I even used a douche. I wondered whether Brock would sense my guilt. Then I used the coconut scented body cream that I knew Brock liked and dressed in my sexiest shorts and my tightest tee, prepared some snacks that I knew Brock loved, and sat to wait.

*****

Brock had txted that he was about an hour out and arrived at just about ten. I heard him drive up and went to the door. He looked tired and worn out as he moved up the stone walk; tired, but still managing long cowboy strides. The drive had been long and hard. He was dressed as a typical landman--jeans with a bulging basket, snap-front "cowboy" shirt, boots, big belt buckle. I guess he had left the hat in the SUV. His scruff had been shaved off--but he hadn't shaved that day. Probably another landman-thing. He looked good enough to eat. He barely got through the door and threw his bag on the floor when he stepped into me and wrapped me in a bear hug. (I thought immediately about our "bear hug" letter to Murray--but Brock gave it an entirely new and wonderful meaning.) "God, you feel so good. It's only been a week, but it seems like a year. Come shower with me. I must smell like a fuckin' buffalo."

"I just got out of the shower, but I guess we are not talking about getting clean, are we?"

He stared into my eyes. "Abso-fucking-lutely not. I'm guessing you've been getting plenty of action with Roger, but, fuck, I've been in Farmington for Chrissakes. No clubs, just bars--filled with lots of alpha cowboys only interested in cowgirls. I've been drooling over unavailable man-flesh for the last four nights. It's enough to kill a guy. Or at least get a fag beat up for even a second glance."