I don't know why I was so nervous about this account pitch to the president of the Bull Thorne Financial Services company. The company wouldn't be our biggest client. It was probably because being the stockbroker firm to an accounting firm sort of demanded extra careful handling and recordkeeping. I was fidgeting as Bill Fitch, my senior, and I sat in the reception area, waiting for the company's morning management confab to break up before we met with their president.

'God, this must be the last place on earth that permits smoking in the office, and cigars nonetheless,' I whispered to Fitch, straining for some form of conversation that would settle my nerves. 'The air in there is getting foggier by the moment.'

I could make that observation, because the reception area was divided from the conference room where the management meeting was being held by a full wall of glass.

'Oh, that's just their way of establishing the pecking order - or should I say 'pecker order'?' Fitch whispered back. And then he laughed. The receptionist's head jerked around, and she engaged in a moment of struggle on whether to smile or frown at us, obviously not having fully determined who we were and where we stood in the pecking order of the firm's relationships.

'Excuse me?' I was confused. But it was a good confused. Fitch always spun good yarns, and I needed some attention-diverting mechanisms working for me at this moment.

'Look at the cigars they're smoking,' Fitch said. 'You can tell who tops who in the pecking order by the cigar they're smoking - the length and ring gauge.'

'Ring gauge?' I asked.

'Yeah,' the thickness of the cigar.

'You're joking.' I said. And I flashed him a smile to let him know I appreciated the yarn no matter how farfetched it was.

'No, really,' Fitch said. 'See the older guy at the end of the table. That's the firm president, Bull Thorne, himself. Look at his cigar. That's gotta' be at least a Toro, one of the longest and thickest cigars they make. And you can pick out a vice president over there. His cigar is a bit shorter and thinner, and they go down from there. See, the signaling is quite clear.'

'You're joking,' I repeated. And then I laughed. Most of the tension gone out of me. I silently thanked Fitch for bringing me back to earth. If we got this account, it would be my largest one.

'No, really,' Fitch repeated. And the he winked at me and put his nose back into a copy of the Cigar Aficionado magazine that he had picked up from the table beside the chairs in the reception area and had been leafing through.

* * *

Some clients thought the 'Bull' in the Bull Thorne Financial Services name related to Wall Street symbols, but those who had known Jim 'Bull' Thorne the longest knew he had that nickname because he was reputed to have the longest, thickest dick in Texas. Of course, it could just as well have been an acknowledgment that he also had the biggest pair of balls in Houston, based on the dictatorial and ruthless way he ran his highly successful corporation. Jim Thorne was still ruggedly handsome at fifty, and he surrounded himself with those who were equally ruthless, handsome, and on the make for financial success - at any cost or personal sacrifice.

It was all about control, and who controlled who, Thorne always told his subordinates. So, that day three weeks earlier than Bull Thorne was pitched by Bill Fitch and his associate from that stockbroker firm, the gasp that went around the twenty-sixth floor boardroom when the newest vice president, Keith Turner, challenged Thorne's decision on the Mason account, was audible down in the ground-floor lobby. It meant nothing that everyone in the room knew Turner had a good point.

Thorne had closed down the meeting immediately and told Turner he wanted to see him in his office - now.

When Turner arrived at the large, corner office of the corporation president, with its floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, providing an eagle's view of Texas, Thorne, who was puffing hard on his Rocky Patel Vintage 1992 six-and-a-half-inch long, ring gauge 52 Toro cigar, made him stand in front of the mile-wide mahogany desk, while the angry president prowled around him, working himself into a frenzy. Thorne locked the door, came around in front of his desk, carefully lowered his cigar to a large, crystal ash tray, and addressed his subordinate through clinched teeth.

'When I made you a vice president, you said you clearly understood who made the decisions around here - who was in control. Right?'

'Right, Bull. But the Mason account . . .'

'And do you remember what, exactly, I said at the time that you were to do in terms of loyalty?'

'Umm, no, not exactly. But the Mason . . .'

'Let me refresh your memory, then. I said, in these exact words, 'Don't fuck with me or I'll fuck you.' Now do you remember?'

'Yes, sir,' Turner answered weakly.

'And I've made no secret that I fuck men, have I?'

'No, sir.' Turner was turning pale now. He knew what the original of 'Bull' in Jim Thorne's name meant.

'And I also said at the time that my statement was a literal one. Do you remember that part too?'

'Yes, sir, but . . .' Turner was speaking in almost a whisper now.

'Well, you have two choices, Turner. I have to have control and total submission in this office. I've made no secret of that. You can either turn and leave - walk out of your job and this office without so much as a letter of recommendation - or you can give me total control and submission. Which is it?'

A slight pause, and then Turner whispered, 'Submission. I will totally submit.'

'And you will do so in a way you'll never forget,' Thorne said with a sneer.

The Bull was suddenly on the move. 'Strip,' he commanded.

'But, sir . . .'

'Strip all the way down, move to the center of the room, and throw your clothes over there.' While Turner was complying with a sigh of resignation, Thorne was searching around in his drawer for that tube of lubricant he always kept there. Then, with Turner watching him, his lips trembling and letting out a low moan at the sight of what was between the Bull's thighs, Thorne stripped down as well. He walked over to the pile of Turner's clothes and pulled out the younger man's expensive silk tie, and then he walked back to Turner, tie and lubricant in hand.

'Down on your knees and open your mouth to me,' Thorne said.

With a sigh, Turner did so, and reached for that gigantic cock, already mesmerized by it.

'No,' Thorne said. 'I just said to open to me, not to show any signs of control. Hold perfectly still. And raise your wrists to me.'

Thorne used that expensive tie to bind the younger man's wrists behind his back. Thorne then pushed his cock into Turner's mouth with one hand and took his head with both of hands.

'A lesson of control,' the company president said. 'I control everything. You control nothing. All you are is a warm, wet chamber for my cock. Just be warm and wet and open to me. Leave the rest of the control to me.'

And although Turner couldn't help gagging a bit, he tried to comply fully with his boss.

'Now go tighter. Touch me closely on all sides.' That wasn't at all hard to do, because Thorne was so thick and long, even though he hadn't hardened out yet. Thorne pumped Turner's head back and forth on his cock for a few minutes, trying to demonstrate his obedience, which was total, and getting Thorne's cock real hard.

Then, pulling out of Turner's mouth, the Bull said, 'Go down on your back right here.' Turner rolled back onto his butt and then on his back without comment or objection. The athletic Thorne went down on his knees between Turner's thighs and pulled the younger man's butt up on his thighs. He also brought Turner's hands over his head and back to his front.

'Now, I'm going to fuck you - unless you've decided you don't want to work for me anymore.'

Silence, filled only by the sound of lubricant slapping against tender asshole.

'Good. Now, as I work my way in, I want you to jerk yourself off. And I want you to cum when I'm in to the hilt - and not before. Understand?'

Turner nodded, a serious look on his face. Thorne slathered his dick with lube, guided it to Turner's asshole, and rotated it around, working it in, while Turner began to stroke himself and to pull at his balls with his bound hands. Turner was concentrating hard on how he was going to ejaculate on cue. Thorne was pleased. Turner hadn't questioned the instruction. Turner had been a prime pick for vice president - and, truth be known, Thorne had been planning to pork his young associate for some time - so it was good that Turner was going to submit and be staying with the firm.

Thorne slowly worked his monster cock into his subordinate's ass, as the younger man obediently pulled on his cock. The Bull closely watched the tension build in the man he was fucking and managed to be at seven inches inside him when he yelled 'Now' in a raspy voice, and Turner shot his load up Thorne's flat belly. As Turner ejaculated on cue, Thorne pushed his dick in the last half inch. He looked down at the white globs of semen running down his black belly hair and perched on top of Turner's golden-red pubic hairs. He liked what he saw, but this hadn't been enough of a turn-on for the Bull. The display of his control was turning Thorne on, but he needed the closeness the merging of bodies, his fully dominant over the other, before he himself could reach an orgasm.

'You realize this was just for instruction, don't you?' Thorne spoke to Turner as he squeezed his balls and pulled on his spent cock, his own cock still hard and buried to the root in his subordinate's ass. 'I was the one who controlled when you had fulfilled this task, not you. Even though you thought this was your responsibility. It wasn't. You realize that now, don't you? You realize that I held off filling you until you had cum.'

'Yes, Sir.' Turner answered meekly.

'And you know now that this isn't all that I want, don't you? How quickly can you learn? Quick enough to save that vice president's salary of yours?'

'I can learn quickly, Sir,' Turner answered quietly. 'I want you inside me. And I know that you want closeness, tightness as well as submission and control. Is that right?'

'Yes, that's right. I'm going to unbind you now, and I'm going to fuck your lights out right here and in this position, and I want you to show that you can handle the tightness and closeness without the bonds. You will know if and when you succeed because your insides will be bathed in my cum. Do you want that?'

'Oh yes, please, Sir. Flood me with your cum.'

Thorne untied Turner then and enfolded him in his arms, belly to belly and nipples to nipples. Turner's curly red chest hair tickled Thorne's hulking pecs. The Bull wrapped his arms around the younger tightly, holding his back down on the floor. Turner returned the hug, wrapping his arms around his boss as well and holding him tightly, almost taking the breath out of the older man with his strong arms. Turner's strong, swimmers legs wrapped around Thorne below his buttocks, pulling him in close, holding him tight and tightening his ass canal as much as he could around Thorne's already-buried cock. The two executives kissed deeply, and then Turner buried his face in Thorne's neck, trying to pull himself into Thorne at every point as much as he could. Turner was surrendering to Thorne entirely, and the older man felt the sexual urge flood into him. He pumped and pumped and pumped at various levels, sometimes pulling out to give Turner's prostate attention. The younger man moaned and trembled at this but continued to hang on to his boss as tightly as he could.

When the Bull came, flooding the very center of the younger man in spasms of semen, Turner ejaculated again himself and collapsed back on the rug, arms and legs askew.

'Sorry,' he murmured. 'It was just too much. I couldn't hang on any longer. I've been royally fucked. This is the greatest.'

'Do you want me to pull out of you now?' Thorne asked.

'Whatever you want,' Turner answered quietly. 'You are in total control. Do what you want with me.'

'Good choice,' the Bull answered gruffly. 'Remember, if you fuck with me again, I'll fuck you again. And maybe I will even if you don't fuck with me.'

* * *

Keith Turner wasn't all that displeased when he was released from the Bull's office. His ass was sore from the gigantic tool the Bull had, but this had answered a question he'd had since he'd come on board and heard rumors that the boss was horse hung. Yes, he could take almost eight inches of thick cock. He'd had that extension toy in his own desk for weeks, wondering if he could get one of his fuck buddies to try out that length, but now he wouldn't have to experiment with that.

He felt slightly humiliated at having had to give up control like that, though, so he was loaded for bear when he saw the memo on his desk from his own accounting section disallowing that bar tab he'd run up at the convention in Las Vegas the previous month. As his rage was building, he opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a Don Diego six-inch, 42 ring gauge Londsdale cigar and started chewing it absentmindedly without lighting it.

Who did this Craig Wilson think he was disallowing whatever tab he, a vice president, chose to charge to the office? Sure, they'd played on the same office football team and had playfully snapped each other with towels in the locker room shower - and Keith had obviously been attracted to the young, studly blond - but, as the Bull said, this office was built on the concept of control and rank, and Craig Wilson would just have to be taught where he ranked in the pecking order.

He made Wilson stand in front of his desk at attention while he dressed him down for questioning his authority and then he came right up behind the trembling accountant and yelled in his ear, Marine sergeant style, 'I was just talking with Bull Thorne today, and you know what he said about insubordination like yours?'

'No, Sir,' Wilson squeaked. 'What did he say, Sir?'

'He said that anyone who fucked with authority around here would be fucked - literally. Now what do you think about that, Craig?'

'Well, I don't know what to . . .' Wilson stammered. And then he squeaked again as Turner grabbed him on the ass and squeezed.

'Do you like your job and your generous paycheck, Craig?'

'Yes, Sir,' Wilson answered.

'And would you do anything to keep them, Craig?'

'Uhh . . . Yes, Sir,' Wilson answered again.

'Well, you have two choices then. You can walk out of that door and clean out your desk, or you can take a lesson in control and a good fuck. Which is it?'

Wilson smiled broadly and answered. 'I thought you'd never ask, Keith.'

This didn't please Turner all that much. This wasn't asserting control over his subordinate.

'Come here,' Turner said gruffly, and he literally pulled Wilson around the desk to where he stood between the desk and Turner's chair.

'Assume the position and strip,' Turner commanded, as his eyes darted around the room. They lit on the window blind cords. Turner went over and jerked a couple of them down, causing the blinds to accordion down to the floor with a crash. As soon as Wilson had stripped, Turner tied his wrists with one end of the cord, a cord for each wrist, pulled the cords through the kneehole of the desk, crossed them, and the tied the other end tight above Wilson's knee, pulling the cords taunt so that Wilson was spread-eagled with his belly flat on the top of the desk and securely held in place. Turner ripped Wilson's belt out of his pant loops then and fashioned it around Wilson's neck like a dog leash.

Wilson was totally trussed up now. Turner had physical control. Total control. Wilson wasn't laughing now. Wilson needed to be taught the same lesson Turner had endured under the attention of the Bull's big cock earlier today. But Turner didn't have the length and thickness of Thorne. Or didn't he? Turner reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk and buried his hand under a pile of papers. He came up with a leather, studded penis sheath with a three-inch extension capped with an extra large stud-covered bulb he'd bought and had been building up the courage to use.

Turner did some lip and spit and finger work on Wilson's ass as the accountant moaned softly for him. After he was satisfied that he'd opened Wilson up sufficiently, Turner sheathed his cock with the oversized studded harness and positioned himself behind the fully trussed figure. Turner palmed the rounded butt cheeks and pushed his sheathed cock up to the opening of the puckered, lubricant-slathered hole with its circle of curly blond hair. Wilson moaned and groaned.

'Oh, shit. Oh, God, no, nooooo!' he muttered, as Turner rotated the studded sheath head around his ass shunt, relentlessly working it farther into the hole.

'The only way you are going to continue working here under me is by submitting totally to me,' Turner said. 'Do you submit?'

No answer. Perhaps Craig still seemed to think that since they were buddies on the football field, they somehow were on equal footing.

With a push, Turner had worked the sheath extension and two inches of his own cock into the asshole. Thorne's nearly eight incher had little length on Turner under these circumstances, and the extension made Turner's tool, if anything, thicker than Thorne's natural girth.

Wilson cried out. 'Yes, OK, I submit!'

'That sounds good, but I don't believe for a minute that you believe it yet.' Turner had no idea if this was true; he was just having too much fun skewering the young blond to end this yet.

Turner was in a good five, very thick inches now. The accountant was trembling under his boss and moaning for him to stop, that he was being split. Several more inches in and he was beginning to really feel those studs. Turner took the unburied part of his dick in his hand and rotated it around in Wilson's canal, coaxing him to open more. He was crying and moaning now. The laughter was behind far behind him.

He kept screaming that he submitted, that Turner had won, and Turner kept creeping up his canal, trying to wipe out his own humiliation earlier in the day, until only about two inches of Turner's cock root were outside the young blond. With the extension, Turner's rod was in a good eight inches now.

'How? How can I convince you I submit?' he whimpered.

'I'll feel it in your body,' Turner answered. 'When you've totally submitted, all of the tension will go out of your body, and you'll stop yelling at me. You'll take it silently. You'll be totally mine. And then I'll encase your body with mine, and we'll be one. The submissive you and the dominant me. Only then can you work here with me and be my accountant and an acceptable bottom to my top.'

'OK, OK, I'll try,' he whimpered. 'I want to be here. I want your cock inside me. I submit. Totally.'

And Turner did, indeed, feel the tension slowly leaving Wilson's body, and he went silent, except for a few grunts and groans he couldn't suppress, while Turner pushed the last two inches of leather- and stud-augmented penis into the accountant's tightened asshole. He left it in there, all the way in, for several minutes, as he felt the tension and fight draining out of the young accountant - and then Turner rode his ass hard and long.

'Oh, God, yessss,' Wilson was whimpering. 'Fuck me. Fuck me deep. Like that. Yessss. Don't stop.' And Turner didn't stop, at least for several minutes. A few minutes after Wilson had spilled his seed on the carpet behind his boss's desk, Turner shot his load into him.

* * *

Craig Wilson had enjoyed the session in Keith Turner's office, but he hadn't much cared to have been shown so graphically where he stood in the pecking order in this office. It was just the misfortune of the file clerk, Alphonse Pointer, a saucy young black man of pretty Jamaican features, that he chose to give a flippant reply to one of Craig's instructions later that afternoon. Wilson had just stood up from his desk, crushed the Garcia Y Vega five-and-a-half, 34 ring gauge Panatela cigar he had been smoking in an ash tray, taken Alphonse by the scruff of his collar, and pushed him out a door onto the twelfth-floor landing of a disused stairwell shaft. Alphonse had been swinging his hips and tossing suggestive glances at Craig for weeks, so Craig had little question of what Alphonse would take from him. But he doubted Alphonse expected the mating dance to be ended so abruptly as this.

Listen you little queen, Wilson exploded once the two were out on the landing. You work for me, see. So, you don't talk back to me.

'Uh, what's . . .? Alphonse spouted, trying to wriggle out of Wilson's powerful grip.

'Listen, you've worked here long enough to know the office motto, haven't you?' Wilson continued.

'Uhh, I'm not . . .'

'It's fuck with me and you get fucked.' Wilson blustered through gritted teeth. He was going to assert some of his own control in this corporation now. He had a certain amount of rank too. Wilson pushed the file clerk down two more flights of stairs, to the level of a floor that was waiting to be refitted and thus where no one worked now.

'Stop and face the banister,' Wilson barked.

Alphonse did so without question, fully cowed by this crazed - but delicious - blond stud from accounting.

Wilson came up close behind him, unzipped his fly and pulled out a respectably sized cock. The accountant then doubled the young file clerk over at the waist on the banister with one hand, so that he was facing down the well from the tenth floor, and worked up his unsheathed cock with the other hand, spitting a few times on his hand to lubricate his tool. When Wilson was satisfied he was at least half hard and able to penetrate the younger man, he pulled Alphonse's pants and briefs down off his buttocks, pushed his legs out to open him up as much as possible under these circumstances, and pushed his dick into Alphonse's gaping, well-used hole.

Alphonse grunted and gritted his teeth as the angry accountant entered him, but he grabbed down for the banister slats with white-knuckled fists and took the blond stud without squeal or objection.

Once in, Wilson tightened the young man up by getting his legs between his own. He draped his chest over the smaller man's back so that they were both folded at the waist over the banister and facing down ten flights of stairwells. Wilson latched onto one of Alphonse's ear lobes with his teeth and held on gently.

Wilson could feel the file clerk grunting and groaning, and then sighing and moaning in ecstasy as the accountant's cock lengthened and thickened inside him and filled him to capacity.

'Who's the boss?' Wilson breathed into the younger man's ear.

'You're the boss,' Alphonse answered.

'Who backtalks me?'

'Not me, Boss.'

As Wilson filled Alphonse to the end and started to pump, the accountant took one of his fists and pushed down the front of the file clerks pants and the two stroked Alphonse off together, the file clerk's hand under the accountant's, encasing his cock, while Wilson controlled the stroking. As Wilson sensed he was cuming, he let loose of Alphonse's earlobe with his teeth and started tongue-fucking his ear. Alphonse held his head closer to Wilson's tongue, loving the sensation. Once more the two managed to cum almost simultaneously, the accountant deep inside the file clerk and the file clerk down those ten floors of stair well.

'Wow,' was all the clerk said when it was over.

'Yes, wow,' Wilson responded. 'Now, how do you feel about needing control?'

'I love being controlled by you, Boss. Yes, I certainly do, and you can control me anytime you want. But who can I control in this big corporation? Does the cum stop here?'

Wilson gave a low laugh. 'There's always someone you can control in the pecker order, Alphonse. You might try that Cuban body builder in the mail room. You outrank him here.'

The file clerk was contemplating doing just that as he left the stairwell. He went down to the cafeteria and poured himself a cup of coffee and then sat down in the smoking section and lit up a three and five-eighth's-inch, 22 ring gauge Exquisito cigarello and schemed about how he could find the mail clerk alone for a thirty-minute pecking order session.

* * *

The meeting in the smoke-filled was still in full swing and everyone in there seemed to be quite animated on some point or other. All except the firm's president, Bull Thorne. He was looking out toward the reception room, his teeth firmly chomped down on his Rocky Patel Vintage 1992 cigar, and his eyes looking hard and yet dreamy, sort of lustful.

I nudged Fitch. 'Why is he eyeing us like that?' I asked. His gaze looked a little too intimate to me.

Fitch laughed. 'He's not looking at us; he's looking at the Hispanic mail clerk over at the receptionist's desk - the guy who fucks him.'

'The hell you say?' I blurted out. The receptionist gave me the evil eye and I subsided into a hurried whisper. 'Why do you say that? You're joking.'

'No, I'm not joking,' Fitch said. Then he laughed and pointed. 'It's all in the signaling. Look at what the mail clerk is smoking.'

'What? What do you mean what he's smoking.'

'His cigar tops the one Thorne's chewing on. If I'm not mistaken, he's smoking a Flor de Oliva Giant eight-inch, 60 ring gauge Presidente cigar - look, just like this one in the magazine.' Fitch waved the copy of the Cigar Aficionado magazine under my nose, and he had his index finger pointed at a cigar that, indeed, looked exactly like the gigantic wad of tobacco hanging out of the mail clerk's mouth.

'And you know what having a bigger cigar means,' Fitch said. And then he laughed again.

'You're joking,' I repeat.

And maybe Fitch really was joking. But the thought that the mail clerk topped the firm president in the firm pecker order loosened me up so that I no longer felt the least bit nervous about pitching Thorne when we got to meet him.

Gotta' hand it to Fitch. He really knew how to reduce the tension in the room. I turned to thank him, as he started to pull a cigar out of his jacket pocket and gave me a very strange and friendly look.

 

Habu

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