Slippery Sloping

I lay there on the hotel room bed, my arm thrown across my eyes to hold the demons at bay, lying on my back, legs spread and bent. I hurt; it had hurt. It was my first time. I knew it would hurt. It would hurt the next time too, but probably not so much the time after that. I knew I'd get past that too, though. I'd known what I wanted. I was ambitious too. I concentrated on regularizing my breathing, to calm down.

To get on with it. To get past it.

He'd made it clear. I wasn't going to get out of a cubicle on the accounting office floor unless I let him fuck me. So, I let him fuck me. I leaned in that direction anyway. I just hadn't done it before. He was OK for the first time. I mean he was my boss; I would have let him anyway, but he was fit and good-looking and not too old not to be able to keep it up. All things considered; he was fine.

I moved my arm from my face and reached down, checking myself out. I was spread open and it was wet. Was that lube or his cum? Was it supposed to stay open forever after a butt fuck? Would it go back to the way it was before? I tested it with my finger and looked at it. Not blood. I hadn't bled. Cum. Jared Bradford's cum. He hadn't even asked about needing a condom.

He was over at the floor-to-ceiling window, slouched against the window frame, looking down into the busy Hong Kong harbor, some twenty stories down, smoking a cigarette. He was a sexy man, even in his forties--a handsome devil, trim, well-muscled and well-groomed. I had no idea how he was in the equipment area. I'd seen naked men before. I was athletic. I'd been in a lot of locker rooms. He had too, I could tell from how fit he was. We'd played tennis before. I was better, a collegiate champion, but he was good. I just hadn't seen that many men in erection. I didn't know if I'd taken a really big one or not.

It sure felt that way. I hadn't known how it will feel like to be filled, spread, stretched. It had felt like nothing else, the pain consuming, but something else, behind that. I'd been told the pain would subside in time and repetition and, pain or no pain, it would become a need. I was told if I really was a submissive, it would become something of so much pleasure and satisfaction that I'd have to have it. I sure as hell hoped it would get better. From what I'd learned about this firm, there were going to be more cocks in me if I wanted to go up.

He was in erection again now. Would he want to do again today? The hand not holding the cigarette was grasping his cock and slow stroking it. He had been looking down into the harbor, watching the busy boat traffic, but he heard me stir in the bed and looked around.

"We'll have you moved up to my office from the accountant's pen on Monday morning, Craig. OK?"

"Sure, fine," I answered, surprised at how low and thin my voice was. It was what I had been angling for. It was why, when he suggested we go for a drink after the meeting we'd been in and the bar had turned out to be in the lobby of this hotel--where Jared had already booked a room--I had not raised any objection. I'd just gone where he said to go and let him do what he wanted to do.

I was getting what I wanted. So was Jared, one of several vice presidents in the accounting firm I'd been sent to on temporary assignment from the firm's Chicago branch. I'd known from the first day we met that he would want to bed me. That was his reputation, and I'd gotten those looks even in the Chicago office. With his looks and position I assumed he could get what he wanted. I hadn't defended against him getting me. I knew as soon as I found the bar was in a hotel where this would lead if that was his intent.

That was a lie, of course, I knew as soon as he suggested going for a drink. No, I knew a week before when he first mentioned that he was looking around for a new assistant and wanted to hire internally and asked me if I was wedded to my position in the Chicago office. He'd given me "that look" then. He knew I was ambitious.

I'd been so sure that I'd found a sex shop, bought a dildo, and had been preparing myself for what surely was to come. It's probably a good thing I had done that.

He seemed so sure that he could have me. But he didn't know everything about me.

"Are you OK?" he asked. "You are OK with this, aren't you? You didn't seem... all there, with it."

I was fighting the pain, I thought, and finality of it. An hour ago I was a virgin to men. Now I'm not. "Yes, sure," I answered. "Just a little nervous, in Hong Kong and all that." Not even I knew what Hong Kong had to did with it. But he didn't pursue that.

"But it hurt, didn't it?" he asked. "It's not because I'm really big, is it, because, unfortunately, I'm not. That was your first time, wasn't it?"

"Yes, my first time," I answered in a small voice.

"I'll admit that I thought so. That's why I didn't bother with a condom. After today, we'll use condoms. You've gotten across a threshold now, so I guess you'll be doing it with other guys and a condom would be advisable."

After today. I shuddered. Well, of course, there would be many "after today's." I had known I would do this for men--that I'd use my looks to get ahead in the business. And I knew Jared Bradford enough by now that he wouldn't do anything for me or anyone else without getting something for it.

"You wouldn't mind me going with other guys?"

"Not as long as you give me priority. It was nice, though. That you let me be first. You were a sweet lay. You'll be great the more we do it."

The more we do it. I shuddered.

"And I'll be more careful about it next time. The first couple of times will hurt, but with each time, there will be more pleasure and less pain."

The next time. When would the next time be? Oh, of course.

He was stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on a bureau next to the window, and striding back to the bed, holding his erection in one hand.

He really was a handsome, fit man for his forties. I wanted to get ahead in the office. I'd give him whatever he wanted.

"You'll be good to me, won't you? Now knowing how new it is for me."

"Oh, yes, Craig. I'll be very good to you. And you'll be good to me too. You've got a great body. Raise your tail. Show me your hole."

Of course. That was what was important. His pleasure. I did find his bold talk arousing, though.

My legs were still spread and bent, my feet flat on the mattress, from the first time. He climbed onto the bed and came down on his knees between my thighs. Taking my thighs, one after the other, in hand, he kissed the inner surface of each before hooking my ankles on his shoulders.

"Going to do you good, baby."

Putting the bulb of his cock into position, pressing into my hole, he moved his hands underneath me, grasping, separating, and lifting my buttocks.

I panted and groaned and moaned as he entered me slowly again. It hurt. Oh, god it hurt. But not as badly as the first time, and now I could get the hint of the pleasure it could be, of the arousal of fusing with a man--a good-looking, fit, powerful man like the English Hong Kong firm VP Jared Bradford--of how it could help me career wise.

I arched my back, gripped his biceps, and rocked my pelvis against his, murmuring, "Yes, yes, fuck me good," as, reaching depth inside me, he began to slowly plow me, loose skin sliding on steel shaft of unsheathed cock, being careful for as long as he could, until he lost control and fucked with more insistence and vigor, fucking me fast and deep. Writhing under him, taking it hard, deep, fast, insistently--to an explosion.

His pleasure. It was all about his pleasure. At some point it didn't matter about mine. It was about him getting off good.

I cried out through the pain, "Oh, shit, yes. You're so big. Screw the hell out of me."

To the extent that his size and technique permitted, he did. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with his stamina or the multishooting of his cum at climax.

It wasn't anything like what I wanted to happen--to be screwed to the bed a second time that day--but I knew it was what he wanted to hear. And I knew it was what was going to get me out of cubicle in a room with thirty other accountants and into a desk in his outer office. So, I gritted my teeth and took the pain. I really was lucky that he was so good-looking and fit--and that he wasn't monstrously hung or unmanageably vigorous and demanding. I knew I'd be doing this even if he was much older and fat and ugly--and brutal.

Less hurt than the first time, though. This was going to be OK.

But hold that not especially demanding.

"How long will it take you to get permanently transferred from Chicago?" he asked as he lay beside me, embracing me, after he had finished--after he had, first, torn my male cherry out of me and then, again, marked his territory on me.

Moments later, he was turning, moving over on top of me. "You are amazing. Even though it's the first time, you can take it again and again."

What he was saying was that he was going to put it in me a third time.

I felt him brushing against my thigh as his knees came down between my legs, in erection again, already. His hand was under me, palming the small of my back, lifting my hips. A third time? I moaned. Have mercy, you bastard. This is my first time.

"Next time a condom, but not now. Not needed now," he whispered. "All natural now. You are beautiful. So yielding and flexible."

Yes, a third time. His hands were coaxing my thighs open, and I responded with a groan. He was on top of me, in position. I arched my back and gave a little cry as he entered me again--unsheathed, uncut, hard as a rock, the looseness of skin covering steely shaft rubbing against my passage walls going in. Flesh on flesh--loose skin on steel shaft. Unsheathed. Natural.

"FUCK! Oh, shit. Oh, Fuck. You're so big. So fuckin' big."

My hands went almost involuntarily to his bulbous orbs, already setting into a rhythm of contracting and expanding with the thrusting need of his cock. They first touched him in the hollow under the hips and beside the cheeks, feeling the effect of the flesh moving there in connection to what he was doing to me inside--stretching, rubbing, thrusting. Then onto the meaty cheeks themselves, palming and squeezing them, exhilarating at how the contractions of the orbs matched the thrusts inside me. I may have intended to try to push him away, but my hands grasped the buttocks and held him to me, my hips starting to fall into the give and take rhythm of the fuck. A bit less pain; a bit more pleasure. No, significant more pleasure at feeling our bodies come alive and merge.

I reached a hand further up, capturing his bobbing balls, lacing my fingers through them and rolling them. My index finger pressed against the root of his plowing shaft. He emitted a long, low moan. He was certainly getting his pleasure out of this.

Much of this was mental, I knew. Physically I might still be in pain. Mentally, I was dancing on the clouds. I was going to learn to do this as many times a day that I needed to to get ahead--and with whatever powerful man who wanted to put it in me.

I was being fucked for the third time in my life. All by one man, but I assumed there would be others, would have to be others, on the way up the ladder.

"Yes, yes, yes," I murmured. This was going to be OK. This life was going to be all right.

"Good, good, good," he whispered as he fucked, as if he'd heard my thoughts, but I knew it was because he was getting the pleasure out of me he wanted. I knew that, for him, it was all about him.

He was a naked man, a fit, hard-bodied naked man lying between my legs, his cock moving inside me. A naked man was between my legs. I held my legs open, vulnerable, and yielding, for a man to lie between them and pin me to the bed with his cock. The first time. I was naked too. But I knew I had to become accustomed to this--a naked man between my legs, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. I arched my back and wrapped my legs around his waist.

Yes, yes, fuck me, boss man. Make me your assistant--assisting you in the fuck.

"Here it comes. Here it comes again! Oh, Shit. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

* * * *

"You're American, I think, but

he's

not."

"He?" I asked. I was sitting at the bar of the American Club in Hong Kong where I played tennis and taught it when I could get the clients.

"The man you play tennis with a lot here," the bartender said. I conversed with Trung occasionally when he wasn't busy jockeying drinks. He was a conundrum--but a sexy conundrum in my book. His features were Asian but he was a black man. Most like that here in Hong Kong were Indian, but he wasn't that either. And he was muscular and solid, with tattoos. He seemed too rough and tumble to be working at the posh American Club, but he seemed to do well in mixing drinks and he bantered well with the patrons. He had a harmless, not-too-far arrogance and bravado that went over well. He was about my age, twenty-four. We'd talked but not to any depth before. I had wondered if his was gay, and, if so, a top. Whenever I was wondering that, I was interested in sexually--for myself. He was intriguing and he always had a smile for me. I sometimes wondered what else he might have for me. He seemed dangerous and I'd been very vanilla. One thing was obvious--he'd be in control. I was a complete submissive, so that was attracting.

One reason I liked talking with Trung was that he somehow had divined that I was gay and he didn't care nor did he pussyfoot around the topic. I found that refreshing and he wasn't anywhere up my chain of command, so I didn't feel threatened by his banter.

"The way he touches you and acts like he owns you. Is he your sugar daddy? Is he bedding you?" He asked.

"Jared Bradford? He's my boss. At a big accounting firm with a branch here in Hong Kong. He's English." It was the early 1990s. The English still ruled here, If only just.

"But you're American. You're the one who belongs to the club. And, yes, I noticed that you didn't answer my question."

"I teach some tennis here part time--I have a regular accounting job--and they like to have me around. I'm not a member here, but they let me play here. And Bradford's English, but they like to have him play here too."

"I think they let you play here because you are eye candy for the paying members. You're American? Where from, and why here?"

"The firm here has a branch in Chicago. That's where I'm from. I'm here on sort of an internship--at least that's what brought me here. I might stay here. I have a position here now."

"Working for that man? Is your position under that man?" Trung asked. "He beds you and gives you a job in exchange for that?"

"Something like that," I answered. I wasn't wild about beating around the bush, and I dearly would have liked to know what Trung's sexual status was. He looked like trouble, and I was getting a little bored with Jared. He was a fit forty, but he was over forty. It was all missionary position each time, not too much variety, and Jared was the only man I'd had so far. It had been three months. I was a bit curious about what else was on offer.

"But what about you? You're really a puzzle. Where are you from and how did you wind up behind a bar at this club?"

"Are we getting chummy now?" Trung asked.

"Maybe," I answered. "You seem interested in me, and I wonder in what way."

"I'm basic and sordid," he said. "My mother's Vietnamese. My father was some black soldier in Vietnam for I don't know how long or where he went. I got here on a freighter. I was a sailor on the freighter. You need to watch out for sailors." He was looking pointedly at me. "They'll fuck you up real good and leave you useless for anyone who isn't a sailor. If you're someone who wants to be controlled and used hard, you're no good for anyone else after you'd been had by a sailor." He was looking at me like he wanted me to challenge the assessment that this defined me--a guy who wanted to be controlled and used hard--but I couldn't gainsay him on that so I didn't bother trying to.

"Is that what you'd do to me, Trung?" I asked, trying to use a playful tone, but maybe, just maybe, trying to test him out too.

"Absolutely I would," he said.

"You'd top me?"

"Yes, I absolutely would," he said, putting to rest the "Is he/is he not?" issue. He continued. "The company went out of business while my freighter was docked here in Hong Kong. I liked to drink and was fascinated by cocktails, so I learned how to do it. I do it here now. And telling me that man is your boss isn't answering my question of whether he beds you. Does he fuck you or do you fuck him? He's a pretty face for his age, but I don't know if he's a man's man or not. He's old cock. A young, brilliant-looking guy like you needs young cock. I don't think you top, but I can't really tell. You look like you could go either way."

"He fucks me," I said. This wasn't saying I was versatile. This was maybe asking Trung if he really was a top.

"He gives you a good job and you let him fuck you in return?"

"Yes, basically." Wasn't that the way of any firm where a controlling office was gay?

"As often as he wants? You're at his beck and call?"

"Yes."

"He pays for your flat?"

"My salary pays for my flat."

"But he got you your salary?"

"Yes, basically. But I have a job in Chicago I can go back to. I'm not desperate. I have options." This was going in circles, but he obviously was trying to drive some point home. It's not like I hadn't already started considering all of the points. Was Trung going to be one of those options? We've never gotten down to dancing around the issue like this before.

"And you're satisfied? You are fine with old cock?"

"Yes, basically. Years of experience are appreciated."

"Well, I'm not sure about that. You two look like you're just floating along. He looks more satisfied than you do. He's getting what he wants, but I'm not all that sure you are. I think you could do better. I think you need young cock. I think you need to be taken with vigor, dominated and conquered."

"That no one else being good enough for you after you'd been had by a sailor thing?" I asked, giving him an amused smile.

"Absolutely."

"And once a sailor you almost have the sailor capability in you?"

"Yes, absolutely." The amused smile had been transferred to Trung.

"You have a big accounting firm job to offer me?" I asked. Was he pitching me or not?

"I have what matters. I've seen your boss in the locker room. He's OK, but he's no Congolese."

"Congolese?"

"Yeah. Congolese are said to have the biggest, fattest cocks. I think my dad must have come from Congolese stock."

"Oh, you think so?" I asked, amused at the approach he was now taking--let me fuck you because of the size of my cock. Happily, he seemed to be beyond the "let me fuck you" phase. I thought now it had been established that he would fuck me if the opportunity arose. I was OK with that. He aroused me.

"I've been in locker rooms a lot; I haven't seen a shaft to rival mine," Trung boasted. "And your boss looks a little too gentlemanly and proper. I don't think he knows how to master a guy with your looks and body. I'm a sailor. We're rough. When you've been fucked by a sailor, you've been fucked."

"Yes, you've said that already. I think you may be trying too hard."

"You need to see me hard. My cock is young. I'm twenty-three. I can go for hours. How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-four."

"And how old is this boss man of yours?"

"Forty-four." I'd seen it on company papers. He'd only acknowledged forty to me.

"Shit. Old cock. You ever been to the China market streets in Wan Chai? That's the real Hong Kong. That's where life is really vibrant here."

And what's this sudden shift from the topic about, I wondered.