Oilman Jim's Blog

Mr. LaFleur was much more magnanimous about my leaving than I thought he would be. If I'd known he would take it so well—and not only that but help me find another position, albeit temporary—I would have built up the courage to part with him months earlier.

It was the morning that he flogged me while riding me like a horse that I decided I could stay no longer. It was the twenty-first century and yet he ran his Louisiana plantation as if the Civil War and emancipation had never happened. I had come from Jamaica with my family, drawn by his promises of good housing and income if my father would improve the quality of the rum he produced on his plantation.

But Mr. LaFleur had been taken with me unnaturally—drawn, he said, by my small stature, well-formed body, and a face that many told me was more pretty than handsome. And perhaps my one vanity contributed to the androgynous look that attracted Mr. LaFleur so—as I also like to wear my hair long in dreadlocks.

When I was eighteen and could work to help my family, Mr. LaFleur took me into his big plantation house as a house servant. I helped in the kitchen and the laundry, and I served in the formal dinner parties Mr. LaFleur held for New Orleans society—at least one per season—and I drove guests of Mr. LaFleur in his big shiny Rolls Royce. And I valeted for Mr. LaFleur, and at night after the household had retired, Mr. and Mrs. LaFleur to their separate bedrooms, Mr. LaFleur would call me to his room to help prepare him for the night.

Part of Mr. LaFleur's preparation for the night was to fuck me in that big four-poster bed of his. And he was a cruel lover. He would beat me if I was slow to open my legs for him or if I resisted any of his demands. And he liked to use the riding crop and beat my flanks as he fucked me from behind and used my dreadlocks as reins. He treated me just like his black slave.

I was only able to endure this for a few months, and then I had to tell him that I must leave, that I didn't want to work on the plantation anymore. My father was so important to the rum distillery that Mr. LaFleur didn't make a fuss or try to hold me against my will.

"But where will you go?" he asked.

"I am not sure," I answered. I was from Jamaica and had been brought directly to Mr. LaFleur's plantation as a child. I had no skills beyond the keeping of a large house—and the skills Mr. LaFleur had taught me of taking a cock. In my desperation to get out of his bed and away from his cruel riding crop, I had even contemplated offering myself into service in a male brothel up in New Orleans. I knew I was of a type that excited some men. I might as well be paid good money for what Mr. LaFleur was taking from me for free.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Mr. LaFleur had said. And then he had given me the benign smile that he turned on the public to maintain his status as one of the first citizens of Louisiana. "It may be only for a few weeks, but you are trained to house service and I have a share in an offshore oil operation. How would you like serving on an oil rig out in the Gulf as a house boy—temporarily, as I know they are short of staff. If you do well and like it, perhaps you can be taken on more permanently."

I was very grateful for Mr. LaFleur's help, appreciating the chance to have a job while I tried to gather my thoughts about what I wanted to do—no, that I might be able to do—next in life. This unusual consideration Mr. LaFleur was showing to me, though, did not extend to his bed. That night, the last one I spent at the plantation, he nearly choked me to death by squeezing his hands around my neck as he pushed his pelvis between my thighs and relentless thrust his cock in and out of me until I had fainted.

I was so anxious to get as far away from Mr. LaFleur's plantation as possible—with an oil platform isolated in the Gulf of Mexico waters seeming an ideal escape—that I paid little attention to what the oil drilling company personnel man said after declaring that I could be taken on temporarily as a houseboy on one of the platforms.

Immediately upon being tendered out to the platform on its regular supply boat, I was taken under the wing of Pete, who was head of housekeeping and the kitchen.

"Ah, you'll be popular here, Mano," he said as he was showing me around the kitchen and laundry. "But perhaps not in the way you might wish. My first advice to you—and probably my best advice to you—is to have as little to do with Oilman Jim, the head of the pumping crew, as possible."

"OK," I responded. I was responding to an agreeable OK to anything Pete was saying, so happy was I to be here and not back on the plantation.

"You didn't ask, but you'd best check out Oilman Jim's Internet Web site and blog. It's so lonely out here that Internet blogs have become quite popular and some are very elaborate and full of activities. You really should check out Oilman Jim's Web site before he catches sight of you."

"OK, I will," I chirped back at him. But, of course, I was only half listening to what he was saying.

The next night I was helping to serve dinner for the men who had worked a hard day on the oil rig. They were a rowdy crew, which I expected, and they also were a hearty crew, with hard bulky bodies, which was also to be expected. Pumping oil up from the Gulf floor literally was back-breaking work for a man who didn't develop the muscles for it quickly.

When I came back in the kitchen after making a round with a towering platter of biscuits that disappeared when I was no more than half way through the dining room, Pete came up to me with a worried expression.

"You've caught his eye. Oilman Jim's. That isn't good. I've told personnel more than once not to send me a pretty boy like you, but they never seem to pay attention to me. Listen, stay away from the half of the room you haven't served. I'll serve them myself."

"OK, thanks, Pete," I said. I still had no idea who he was talking about—who I should stay away from.

"And for god's sake, look at that Web site I gave you the URL for. I don't think you understand what I'm talking about yet."

"Yes, thanks, Pete. I'll do that. Soon as I go off duty tonight." How was I to tell Pete that I didn't own a computer and had little notion what a Web site or URL were?

My shift finished, I headed for the lowest level of crew quarters on the oil platform superstructure, when one of the men I'd seen in the dining hall—one that seemed to have the respect and attention of all the rest—stopped me in the passageway. He, in fact, clogged up the passageway so effectively that I couldn't have passed him if I'd wanted to.

He was a monster of a man—arms like tree trunks and bulging biceps and chest muscles, although tapering down significantly in the waist. Bulging thighs, hardly contained in his jeans—and that big mound at his crotch too. I could well understand why the men working the rig gave him respect and attention. He commanded it by his sheer bulk.

"So, you're the new service guy," he said.

"Yes. Yes, sir, that's me," I answered. His voice was a deep bass, and I felt like I might crumble as he put a big mitt on my shoulder.

"Well, I didn't get my bed changed yesterday—or the clean towels I should have," He said. "Room 219. Bring me some. And just use your service key. I'll be taking a shower."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

I watched him turn and move down the hall. He was quite agile for a man his size, and he had firm but bulbous buttocks.

"Towels in here," He called from his bathroom when I'd come into the room and made the bed. His room was strange—or seemed so. It was the first of the oil rig crew rooms I'd been in. A living area and a bedroom L, with the bath and a closet setting the L off from the rest of the space. That wasn't what was strange. What was strange was that it was pretty brightly lit and there seemed to a pulsating light going on. He had a desk at one end of the room with quite an elaborate computer setup on it.

That reminded me that Pete was urging me to check up on that Oilman Jim's blog and Web site, which I decided to do on the kitchen computer as soon as I was finished in here. I was pretty sure I could figure out how to work the computer; I had seen my younger brother playing with the one in Mr. LaFleur's office. The mere thought of that made my stomach lurch, though. My younger brother. Chances were good he had replaced me in Mr. LaFleur's bed. The unnerving thought of that—which had just occurred to me—occupied my thoughts as I remade the bed in room 219 with clean sheets.

I picked up the towels and went over to the bathroom door. It was open, and steam from the shower was wafting into the living area. He was in the shower, naked, facing me. And as I had surmised from seeing him in the hall, he was hung particularly heavy—certainly longer and thicker than Mr. LaFleur was. And he was one solid, perfectly proportioned, if thickly built, muscle flowing into the next muscle from neck down to his calves.

"Strip unless you want to get that uniform wet," he demanded.

"What?" The surprise hit me like a bolt of lightening. It's not that I didn't fail to understand what this meant; it was that I was in shock that I hadn't seen it coming.

"I said strip or I'll come out there and help you."

I turned, willing my feet to flee the room, but he stuck a meaty arm out of the shower and pushed the bathroom door firmly shut, trapping me inside with him. I noticed that there was the same bright and almost pulsating light in here as in the living area and bedroom L.

With a sigh, I stripped down and folded my uniform neatly and placed it on the toilet. I was playing for time, but I knew that I had no time. I knew what was going to happen. I'd been through this many times with Mr. LaFleur. And I knew I wasn't going to escape it.

When I was naked, the man grabbed me by my dreadlocks and pulled me into the shower stall. There was no fighting him. He was three times my size; I had the body of a mere child compared to him. I was familiar with—and resigned to—this treatment, having endured it for months from Mr. LaFleur.

He forced me down on my knees in front of him.

"Suck it. And make it a good job or I'll split your tonsils with my dick."

I had done this for Mr. LaFleur, and he was quite demanding in how I did it, so I reached up and cupped the man's balls with one hand and fisted the root of his cock with the other and began working his dick bulb with my tongue and lips.

He made me deep throat him, gagging all the way, until he was hard and then he hauled me out of the shower, both of us dripping wet, and into the center of the living area and forced me down on all fours on the carpet. Straddling my hips and arching my back up to him by pulling on my dreadlocks just as Mr. LaFleur did, he took only a moment to crown his hard, throbbing dick with a condom and then he was fucking me—riding me like I was a horse, just as Mr. LaFleur liked to do.

He rode me to exhaustion until I collapsed on my belly, and then he came down with me and continued to fuck me. My hips found his rhythm, and my own now-hard cock was rubbing along the surface of the carpet. I came first and then, with a yelp of victory, so did he.

We were still wet, but from sweat now rather than the soaking from the shower, and he pulled me up and laid me down at the foot of the bed and spread my legs and thrust inside me again and fucked me to his second ejaculation. I involuntarily made a lot of noise in the taking, which was brutal, especially at first, and which was stretching my channel far in excess of the only man who had fucked me before.

The man seemed to enjoy my distress and kept asking if I had been a virgin. He seemed to want me to have been—so I told him yes. After that, he was more sensitive to my need for time to accommodate him, but it didn't stop him from fucking me in long, deep strokes.

He left me after that and went back into the bathroom and showered again. When he came back, he had my folded uniform in his hand and tossed it down on my belly, which was covered in my own cum from my second release.

"These sheets are wet," he said gruffly. "You'll need to bring another set and make the bed again."

I fled the room, intending not to return. But I turned and looked at the nameplate by the door. It said: "Oilman" Jim. I should have known. And now I'd have to return with clean, dry sheets. Pete had made quite clear that, although I should try to avoid Oilman Jim, I should, under no circumstances, cross him.

I was trembling when I returned. Oilman Jim was sitting at his computer, still fully nude, and fiddling with it.

I shivered in consternation as I remade the bed, and just as I feared, when I finished, two beefy arms surrounded my small waist and lifted me, while scrabbling at my trousers and shirt until they were stripped off me and thrown on a heap on the floor, and dropped me on my belly on the bed. Oilman Jim came down onto the bed behind me, gathered me in his arms, lifted one of my legs up, and strongly entered me again in a side-splitting fuck that lasted almost forever.

It was more than an hour before he let me get off the bed and redress and hobble out of the room, so bowlegged from the size and pistoning of his dick inside me that I could barely walk. Snuffling and whimpering, I went straight back to my room and curled up on my bed. It wasn't until morning, shortly before my early call to help in the kitchen for the crew's crack-of-dawn breakfast, that I showered the musky smell of Oilman Jim off my body and dressed for work.

When I entered the kitchen, Pete moved over to me and lay a hand on my arm and asked me if I was OK—or whether I needed to have the day off.

I had no idea why he knew something was wrong. I had tried my best not to show it, and I certainly hadn't told anyone what had happened to me the previous night. This was my problem, something I had to work through. Although Oilman Jim's tool had been huge and his embraces had left me breathless, he hadn't been as cruel to me as Mr. LaFleur routinely had been. And now that I knew who Oilman Jim was, perhaps I could avoid him for the short time I'd be working on the rig—before I could escape and look for other work.

"No, everything's fine. I'm fine," I said, and before Pete could respond, I picked up a platter of fried eggs rimmed with thick slices of bacon and entered the dining room.

All talk was reduced to whispers when I entered the room, and the eyes of all of the men seemed to be riveted to me. It was very disconcerting. They hadn't eyed me like this at the previous evening's meal. They were smiling—some almost sniggering—and several giving me a look of speculation that I couldn't interpret but that sent chills up my spine.

I looked across the room and saw a beaming Oilman Jim, sitting there as if he were the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and looking very pleased with himself. A blond giant of a Scandinavian was sitting next to him, and as I moved around the room, dispensing eggs and bacon, Oilman Jim and the Scandinavian had their heads together in a quiet discussion, although both had their eyes on me while they talked.

Platter empty, I turned and headed toward the kitchen. Out of the periphery of my vision, I saw the Scandinavian rise and move at an angle toward the door as well. He was right behind me when I pushed on the swinging door into the kitchen. I dropped the empty platter on the steel counter, setting off a ringing tone, over which I could hear Pete call out in a strangled voice, "Bjorn . . . No."

I kept on walking through the swinging door into the pantry area, the Scandinavian still hot on my tail and Pete calling out "Borjn" again.

The Scandinavian hulk—who presumably was Borjn—pushed me belly down on the top of a closed heavy rubber garbage bin, pulled down my pants from behind, and was fucking me hard before I barely was able to take a breath. He wasn't as thick as Oilman Jim had been, but he had a way of rotating his cock inside me while he fucked that made me feel that he stretched me more.

When he was finished, he simply rezipped his pants and turned and walked back through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Pete gave me time to stop sobbing and to pull my pants up, before he came in and told me to go to my room until I could collect myself. He also told me how sorry he was but that the oil operations crew reigned on this rig and that there wasn't a thing he could do about what was happening to me. And then he once again cursed the company personnel department for sending small guys with pretty faces into this hell hole.

I was just as confused as anything else. There was no problem at lunch, if only because the oil crew had a limited time to eat and get back on the job. But after dinner, when I was working in the linen room, the lights went off, and I was sexually assaulted by two men together who pushed me down on my back in a low laundry cart, with one holding my shoulders down while the other was holding my legs open wide and fucking down into me. And then they changed position.

And that evening as I was moving down the hall, on my way to my own room, a door off the corridor opened, and another of the oil crew hulks pulled me into his quarters and fucked me standing up in the center of his quarters, handling me just like I was a floppy rag doll, and pulling me up and down on his cock as he held me suspended in air above the floor.

That night, when I'd finally been able to get to my room, Pete found me. He was carrying his laptop computer.

"You didn't check out Oilman Jim's blog and Web site, did you?" Pete asked, and he held me in his arms and rocked me back and forth as we sat on the edge of my bed.

"No, I haven't had time," I answered. "I was on my way to do that when Oilman Jim got me into his room and assaulted me."

"Ah, yes. In his room. Well, I think you'd best see this," Pete said. And then he put his laptop on the top of my dresser, turned it on and tapped out a URL. "Living and working on an oil rig like this is lonely work—and there are no women out here," Pete said. "Here. Here's Oilman Jim's Web site. This is what all of the men on this rig tuned into last night."

I looked into the computer screen with horror. That's why the lights were so bright in Oilman Jim's quarters. He was taping his taking of me from several different angles and had put it right up on his Web site. That's why I had been grabbed and fucked several times today already. I was identified at the oil rig poke of the day.

"Oh, god, when will it stop?" I moaned.

"When someone new and as pretty as you comes along, I suppose," Pete answered in a low voice. "And the supply ship doesn't arrive again for three weeks and even then I doubt anyone will be coming who will appeal to the men as much as you do. Three weeks and then you can leave even if no one new and appropriate arrives."

"Oh, god," I moaned again. And then I froze. Pete had been holding me close and rocking me back and forth—mothering me in my time of distress, or so I thought. But now I realized that he held me firmly with one arm around my shoulder, but that his other hand had been palming my basket. Now I shuddered as he unbuckled my belt and slowly lowered my zipper. He was kissing me in the hollow of my neck and whispering sweet nothings to me.

The graphic scene of Oilman Jim fucking me in his room continued to loop around on the laptop screen that both Pete and I were staring at.

"Pete," I said.

"Sorry, but I can't resist, son," Pete was murmuring. "You are going to know so many dicks in the next three weeks, that what's the harm of one more? And we can go months out here without a woman to fuck."

He stripped off my pants and had done so with his own trousers without me realizing it. He pulled me over into his lap, my buttocks nestled into his crotch, and I groaned and writhed as he pulled my channel down onto his hard cock and began to raise and lower my pelvis in a deep fuck. His arms encircled my waist and a hand went to my nipple. And he resumed kissing the hollow of my neck and telling me how arousing I was. And the scene of Oilman Jim taking me continued to loop around on the flickering laptop.