Snowball Effect

I couldn't resist Michael Dabney's proposition in the Checkers Lounge at the LA Hilton Checkers hotel during the Entertainment Industry Advertisers' Association convention—well either of his propositions, really. I'd never done it with a black man before, and that had become somewhat of a special fantasy of mine. I was attending the EIAA convention, because I'd been working with a small firm that had exclusive contracts with a few actors' agencies for commercial TV work. Dabney worked for a much larger and more influential black-owned firm representing the recording and advertising portfolios for black singers—mostly bad-boy rap artists.

"But why me?" I asked.

"You mean other than trying to get your luscious body in bed?" Michael asked. But he was smiling that enigmatic smile at me that I found so engaging, and he was so glib and given to turning of phrases and playful double entendres that I didn't take him seriously. Besides, he was far more luscious than I was. Not American black, but a transplant from the Caribbean and all hot sexy looks and lean and trim body, emphasized by his graceful, fluid movement. And he had a smooth, rich voice and an expert grasp of the disarming sales pitch technique. He could talk the chastity belt off a nun. Which probably was why he was head of the marketing department for Johnson Brothers, the rising black advertising firm in the music industry.

"No, I mean that I'm a white guy and Johnson Brothers is an all-black firm representing black musicians only. Why are you offering me a job under you?"

"You mean besides the desire to have you under me?" he asked. That enigmatic smile again. "Well, being all black has put us at a barrier to advancement," he continued after that pregnant pause that put me off balance again. "Our clients are all black, but the industry is pretty much white—and some of it is pretty racist white too. Clarence and Maurice Johnson want their business to grow. They think having a white guy in place to work with sticky situations will enhance our business. We've been over the likely candidates in the field, and we think you are our white guy."

"I guess I should feel flattered," I said with a laugh. "And how much would a token white guy be worth in your firm?"

I whistled at the number Michael tossed out. It was nearly three times what I was making in my current position.

"And you wouldn't be token," Michael said. "We think you'd be worth your weight in gold with companies who aren't giving us the time of day now."

"Because of my résumé?" I asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Yes, that—and, of course, because of your terrific bod," he flashed back. I still couldn't read whether he was toying with me, making fun of me.

"My bod," I said in a flat tone.

"Just being honest here. Advertising is all about appearances. Sexiness sells. We wouldn't have anyone on our marketing staff who didn't come across as sexy. And you're sexy plus—in a white way, of course." That disarming teasing smile of his again. I think he could tell me I'd had spinach in my teeth throughout an important briefing and I would just nod and give him a silly "happy smile."

I knew that sex sold and was important in the advertising business already, of course—I'd let many a woman and man lay me on the way to closing a contract—but it wouldn't have taken more than a glance at the suave, achingly sexy Michael Dabney, Johnson Brothers' marketing director, to see the truth of that.

I said I'd think about it. And when Dabney pressed, I said I'd most likely accept the offer.

And that's when I realized that he wasn't joking with me with his suggestive double entendres. Because that's when he hit me with his other proposition.

Michael was an astonishingly attentive lover. He held me in his arms just inside the door into his hotel room and kissed me deeply—and expertly, I might add—while his hands were stripping me of my clothes—also quite expertly. He then guided me to the bed and lay me down on my belly and gave me a deep massage from neck and shoulders to the soles of my feet, taking his time and making sure he'd covered every inch of my backside with his sensuous massage. Then, me already fully aroused, he turned me onto my back, and lay, shirtless but still with his trousers on, stretched beside me on the bed, his arm encasing me, and glided his free hand all over my body, becoming increasingly intimate. All the time he was kissing my lips and the hollow of my neck and my eyelids and running his tongue into my ear cavities. His hand went to my engorged cock, and he began stroking me off slowly while still holding me closely in place with his other encircling arm.

"Now doesn't that look nice?" he murmured to me. "My milk chocolate on your milky white body. Don't they meld nicely?"

"Umm, umm," was the best I could respond under his attention.

"And how about some milky white cum on my chocolate thigh?" he whispered.

I couldn't answer, as I was arching my back and panting shallowly to try to prolong the pleasure before that happened.

He made love to my body in this manner for more than a half hour, until I was writhing under him and begging him to fuck me—and ejaculating in great gobs of milky white cum under the attentions of his stroking hand and his thumb rubbing back and forth on my piss slit.

Then, as I lay there all mellow and moaning for him, he stood up and slowly dropped his trousers and briefs. He was a true black. His skin was the chocolate color of the Caribbean quadroon and his features delicately European, but his cock was black as coal and hung low—except that now it was at full staff.

"Want to watch a black cock moving in and out of that nice white hole? I know I do," He murmured.

I moaned at the mere thought of that image. I'd fantasized about being taken by a black man, and here it was, happening in reality.

Smiling down at me, he took my hips in his hands and pulled me down to the foot of the bed and then knelt between my spread thighs. His mouth went down on my ejaculate-slicked cock head, and he was sucking me into his mouth. The image of my whiteness being pulled between those full, brown lips had me hyperventilating. At the same time a moistened thumb went to my asshole and he was beginning to open me to him.

I undulated my pelvis at his attention and fisted the bedspread and cried out for him to fuck me—the foreplay had gone on for an eternity, and I was burning for him to finish me—to bury that luscious black cock in me and pump me hard.

He moved his lips and tongue to my asshole and by the time he was finished there, I was so open that he merely stood between my legs and slid that long, black tool into me. He pumped me deep for a few minutes as I moaned and groaned and arched my back and pulled his torso down to where we could kiss. After we parted, he put a hand behind my neck and raised my head so I could see that black cock appearing and disappearing inside my hole—and I began to pant and melt.

Then he turned my body on his cock so that I was belly down on the bed, cock hanging off the end to be found by his stroking hand, and then he was fucking me from the rear in deep, long strokes. I turned my head and sought his mouth while he thumbed my nipples with his free hands and I felt him jerk and could feel the strong flow of his come even though he was sheathed.

* * * *

Strangely enough, Michael was mostly business with me once I had joined Johnson Brothers and, although we did fuck again on occasion, it certainly wasn't as often as I was willing to be taken by this master lover—nor was it as intense or as fulfilling as that first encounter was. Over time, I developed the suspicion that the lovemaking was mostly just part of the job offer pitch—and testing me out, perhaps on just what I too would be willing to do to close a deal. Still and all, it was the best attention I've ever gotten—and it fulfilled every fantasy I'd had of sex with a black man.

Michael must have talked around the office about me, though, because there wasn't much in the way of checking out preferences or willingness on the part of one of their premier clients, the black rapper Sledge, when the firm assigned the marketing department to help find a home for his newest album recording. Michael asked me to take a crack at getting him into Top Ten Records, which had just started including rap artists in their offerings, but wasn't yet into the heavy leather type of music that Sledge put out.

I make an appointment with Top Ten Records, whose name pretty much said it all as far as market position was concerned. I didn't really think there was much hope, because they were an old-white boy, tight-assed sort of organization that only went for surefire projects. But, miraculously, they showed interest, even though a flagrantly bad-boy tricked-out Sledge, complete with minimal clothing coverage of his heavily muscled and obscenely tattooed body and his fake fur coat and platform shoes, insisted that he attend the session. One of his homeboys drove us from our offices over to Top Ten Record, and I was shocked to see how much floor space there was in one of those Hummer stretch limousines.

After the meeting, with Sledge euphoric over how well the talks with Top Ten had gone, I got a personal lesson in why Sledge had all of that floor space in his limo. As I was starting to climb into the back outside Top Ten's entrance, Sledge pushed me in and onto the floor of the vehicle with a meaty fist to my back. And then he showed me his appreciation for the extraordinary sales job I'd been doing for him by pulling me up to my knees with a fist in my hair and gagging my throat with a big, black cock with a heavy-duty silver ring in its head. He stripped my trousers and briefs off as I was trying my best to suck him, and when he was satisfied that he was prepared, he simply picked me up and slammed my butt into the seat at the back of the Hummer and spread my legs wide with his hands.

"Lay down nice for me, white bitch," he said. "Gonna ream you a whole new hole with black cock. Your ass is mine. You put on a good show in there; so's now put on a good show for me. Nice tight hole." He was digging the fingers of one hand deep into my ass while pulling my lips up to his bulging nipples on a hard chest with a fist in my hair.

I whimpered and gasped as he then fucked me hard and deep until I was crying out. He was so good at rough cocking, though, that I was soon crying out for more. He laughed a deep-throated laugh as he felt me give in to him and then to clutch his bulbous buttocks to hold him deep inside while I sighed and murmured my involuntary ecstasy.

Sledge kept declaring that he owned my white ass while he was jackhammering me—and perhaps he did in the cutthroat world of entertainment advertising. I certainly wasn't in a position to naysay him without backing in my own office, which I wasn't likely to get if this cushy Top Ten Records deal went through. So, in effect I was fucking myself by having won him a chance at the deal.

After he was done with me and the Hummer was pulling back up to the building in the low-rise parklike office campus that housed the Johnson Brothers offices, he grunted at me to dress and then we went back up to marketing division's second-floor offices. He just sat there all smiles and all innocence as I reported on our success to an appreciative Michael Dabney, while I tried to cover my embarrassment of having a twitching butt that was asking for more attention from Sledge's cock ring.

I had to walk Sledge back to his limo and found it hard to walk a straight line as out of joint as my legs were from Sledge's power cocking. When we reached the foyer, though, Sledge saw a couple of muscle-bound homeboys lounging at the door to the shipping department and went over and chattered with them for a while in low tones that I couldn't have deciphered even if they were loud enough for me to hear. I didn't need an interpreter, though, to figure out that Sledge was talking about me. He kept sniggering and pointing to me, and the two bulky black homeboys were muttering back to him with big, knowing smiles on their faces.

When he returned to me he palmed my butt as we walked to the car and he smiled back at the two shipping clerks with a "I own this white boy's ass" look that they fully appreciated. I thought I was seeing him to the door, but he wasn't finished with me. He took me back to his place and pounded my ass so hard all night that I called in "ravished" the next day and had to soak in the tub for hours.

The day I returned to work, I made the mistake of stopping by the shipping department when leaving on my lunch break to drop off some outgoing packages that I just as well could have let an office boy take care of. And before I knew it, I was lunch for Ham and Sly, the muscle-bound shipping clerks. Without so much as a "May we fuck you, kind sir," they lifted me and hustled me out of the shipping dock and over to the picnic table they'd set up for themselves in a copse of trees next to the building.

They stripped me, and Ham fucked me hard and rough doggy style, while Sly pushed his thick cock between my lips. And when Ham was done, he turned me and changed places with Sly. Once again, though, I melted at the image of being fucked by big black cocks and watching hard, chocolate muscles rippling against my white skin as they worked me.

Each of my fuckings at the hands of the black dudes of Johnson Brothers was getting rougher and involving more. I likened it to a snowballing effect. We were building to something it seemed—something that made me tremble with fear. So far, although I objected to the lack of choice after my taking by Michael Dabney, I must admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the plowing by these hunky black studs.

I just wasn't sure I liked being taken for granted like this—or how much rougher it could get and I'd still be able to endure it.

While Sly was standing being my legs and pistoning my ass and Ham had already finished getting his blow job, I had a chance to look up at the building. Several of the windows had black guys standing in them. More than one of them had his dong out and was pulling on it while watching me being porked and squealing for mercy on the picnic table. The two Johnson Brothers themselves were standing at the window of the corner office on the third floor. I saw more black men in my future at Johnson Brothers.

* * * *

As I looked up at that window, I realized that I'd never seen the Johnson brothers, Clarence and Maurice, alone—I only saw them in tandem. They attended meetings together; whenever they were in the lunchroom, they were together; whenever they left for lunch, they left together. When one went golfing from the office, so did the other one. It was almost like they were Siamese twins. They did look like identical twins. The same meaty, but nicely proportioned build. The same bull necks and bald bullet-like heads. The same smirky smile, following a tandem track, as they watched me walk in the corridors in the days immediately after my public fucking on the picnic table by the shipping department.

Days later their secretary called me and told me to meet them in the lobby—that they wanted to take me out to lunch and give me my three-month initial performance evaluation. I wasn't surprised to see them both there in the lobby, wearing identical business suits and smiles as I exited the elevator.

Their limo drove us way out into the Watts area, deep into a section I've never dared travel in before. I probably should have felt safe in the limousine, but I was sitting in the center of the backseat with a big black man about twice my bulk hemming me in tight on each side, each looking at me with an identical "could eat you up" grin. I was relieved when the limousine pulled up in front of the restaurant—although there was really no reason I should have felt relief. The block looked derelict and the street was littered with—well, litter. The sign over the one-story, windowless building hunkered between a sleazy-looking liquor store and a parking lot read "Club Doblar" in green neon lights, with the light out on the "B."

The light inside was dim, the furnishes something out of a 1950s burlesque house—and all of the clientele other than me looked very, very black—and very, very male. I felt all eyes on me as we were guided to a table near a small stage with a curtain in back of it.

The Johnson brothers ordered drinks—identical brands of beer, and, being keyed up and on edge, I made that three of the same.

The lights went down even lower—except for the spots on the curtain—and then the curtain drew back and I gasped in shock.

I wasn't the only white man in the establishment. There was now a young white guy on the stage as well—completely naked. And there was a naked black guy under him, working his ass with a black cock, and another naked black guy saddled up over his spread legs, and the audience was getting a clear shot—to the accompaniment of bump and grind music, of a dance of double penetration by the black guys in the white guy's ass.

I started to pant and continued to gasp, as the Johnson brothers, one on each side of me, came in closer to me and were wrapping their arms around my shoulders and running their hands all over my body—and eventually meeting their fingers at my crotch.

The eyes of the white guy on the stage were as big as saucers, and his mouth was formed in a big "O" of consternation and emitting a yip, yip sound of being stretched to within an inch of endurance, as the black cocks buried themselves deeper into his hole and started a rhythmic pumping in concert with the bump and grind music.

I wasn't around for the finish, because the entertainment had gotten the Johnson brothers all hot and bothered and I was being hustled through a door covered with a beaded curtain at the back of the room and through a dim, narrow corridor. I was pulled into a small room with a red-velvet-covered dais in the center and full-length mirrors on the walls and ceiling and beeping video cameras at various levels on the walls.

Clarence was working my lips with his and undressing and squeezing and prodding me with what seemed to be a dozen hands, while brother Maurice was stripping himself and laying down on the dais on his back and working up his cock.

Before I knew it, Clarence was sitting me down on Maurice's cock, facing away from his chest, and Maurice wrapped his arms around me and pulled my shoulder blades back to his chest and was stroking his cock up inside me and making me moan and groan. Clarence stood below us and stripped down and worked up his cock. And then he was moving in, straddling Maurice's thighs and pushing mine up and spreading them with his hands. And his cock head was at my already-filled hole as well. And I was crying out and being invaded by a second cock—and pumped and pumped and pumped. I watched myself get double fucked by my hulky black employers, the Johnson Brothers, from all angles in the mirrored walls and ceiling as the video cameras beeped away. My mouth formed a big "O" just as the white guy's on the stage had, and I was yip yipping my stretching and the feel of two cocks in counter fucking motion inside me.

I was indignant and in shock, yes. But if I said I didn't enjoy it—not least just because I survived it—I'd be lying. So I won't say any more about that experience.

I will say, however, that two days later, when I was invited up to the Johnson Brothers' office near closing time and was met by a naked Clarence and Maurice—and introduced to their third brother, an equally naked larger version of them named Roosevelt—and I could see the videos of my double fucking in the Club Doblar running on a couple of TV screens in the background, I decided that this had snowballed far enough. I beat a hasty retreat and mailed in my resignation letter from New York City.