I should never have been flip when Vincent asked me about that photo of Phil and me I kept on the shelf in my cubicle at work. I didn't really want to talk about Phil. We'd been roommates at the university. He'd been the star athlete and I'd been the quiet, studious geek. Still, we'd gotten along real well. Night and day we were called at school. But I'd had no trouble with his color and he'd never expressed having trouble with mine. He'd been destined for the NFL, and I'd been teased I'd have made my first million off of some dot-com enterprise before I was twenty-five.

It hadn't happened that way - for either of us. The dot-com revolution collapsed before I could grab my brass ring, and the best I could do was doing 'pretty good' as a stockbroker. Phil decided that a tour in Iraq would toughen him for professional football. But all it did was kill him. That's why I had a picture sitting on the shelf in my work cubicle of the two of us, half looped at a frat party, arms draped around each other, and silly grins on our faces. Sort of a shrine to not taking life for granted, for going with the moment, in case there are no more moments.

But when Vincent, the broker in the cubicle next to me, asked, I was flip. I said the other guy in the photo was my boyfriend.

I have no satisfactory idea why I said that. I think mainly it was because Vincent was so crude at the office, always cracking dirty jokes and making with the sexual innuendo - and I didn't want an intrusion like that in the tragedy I saw in my link to Phil. I just wanted to shock Vincent and make him stop asking about the photo. And especially, maybe I told him that because I had a hard time looking at Vincent and not seeing Phil.

Vincent was a real good looker, just like Phil had been. He said he was Jamaican. And maybe he was. He had a build just like Phil's, and he was always flashing a winsome smile and was so self-assured, just like Phil had been. All the women in the office ate him up despite what any one of them could claim was sexual harassment, if they'd wanted to - if someone not as hunky as him was doing it, maybe.

But I also might have blurted it out with half-way wishful thinking. There had never been anything real between Phil and me, but I'll have to admit that he aroused me and I'd had a crush on him that I never got up the courage to fully acknowledge to myself, let alone to Phil. And now that would never happen. Any possible moment of it happening was gone for good.

From the moment I'd blurted that flippant response out, though, Vincent had turned his innuendo onto me - asking me if I liked him, pointing out that Phil was black too. Asking me if I was especially attracted to black men. And, in time, asking me if Phil and I were still doing it, and, if so, which one of us topped.

Always whispered and in passing, at first covered so that I couldn't tell if he was just joking, trying to get a rise out of me. Maybe baiting me for an office joke. But it continued, and when he moved on to touching me when and as and where he could do it when no one was looking, I knew he wasn't joking. He suggested we go for a drink after work, he complimented me on my clothes, and then on my physique. He even started dropping notes on my desk, asking me to meet him in the men's room, the notes becoming increasingly more explicit. Saying we should compare cocks. Saying he was built especially long and thick. Asking me what Phil was swinging.

I don't know if I could have stopped it. I just know I didn't try. I tried to hold back, but it was arousing. I'd never had attention like this before. I could have just told him exactly who Phil was and why that photo was on my cubicle shelf. But I didn't.

He got my home phone number somehow and he began calling me - almost always at about the same time in the evening, so I'd know it was him. One phone call after another, progressively more suggestive, more demanding.

'Hey, Jeff, I'm bored. Let's go play some pool.'

'Hey, guy, it's me. What'yer doing. Want to do it together?'

'Thinkin' about you, Jeff. What are you wearing right now? Know what I'm wearing? Nothing.'

'Hey, guy. I'm all alone and lonely. I've got something for you. It's long and thick and hard, and it wants you.'

A phone call entirely of heavy breathing and the whispering of my name.

'You have it out, don't you? You are stroking it, aren't you.' And, of course, I was.

'. . . A big black, hard cock churning around in your tight white ass . . .'

It had been weeks. Almost every night. A phone call almost every night at just about the same time. I could have changed numbers, gotten an unlisted one. I could have arranged to be out three evenings in a row and see it if stopped. I didn't. I started clearing everything away so that I could sit by the phone. Waiting for the call. Being disgusted when it came. But disgusted with myself, not with the call. Being frustrated when there was no call that night. Wearing less and less as the calls progressed. Something loose; something that didn't hinder access.

A Saturday night. Just about that time. Me, sitting by the phone. Naked.

It rang.

'Something special tonight, Jeff. I have Manuel here. Say something, Manuel.'

A groan in the background behind Vincent's smooth, velvety, baritone voice.

'Manuel's nice, Jeff. I met Manuel at the gym. He's cut and oh so nice.'

Moaning in the background and a distant voice, 'Gawd, Vinny. Oh Gawd. Ahhh.'

'You and Mani have something in common, Jeff. You know what that is, Jeff?'

'No,' I whispered down the line. I had rarely responded previously, not after my initial attempts to tell him to stop got nowhere. But I was mesmerized. I already had my hand wrapped around my cock and was stroking. This was way beyond any of the previous calls.

'Mani loves black cock, Jeff. Just like you do. I'm fucking Mani now, Jeff. And he loves it. Listen to Mani, Jeff.'

The other voice no longer distant. Heavy panting and groaning, 'Oh, fuck, Vinny. Oh gawd. Yes, like that. Harder, deeper. Oh Fuccckkkkk.'

The phone back to Vincent. 'Mani can't stay, Jeff, and I'm still horny. In fact I'm even more horny now. It's time, Jeff; it's time for you to come for your big, black cock. You know where I live.'

The phone clicked off. I was stroking, but not anywhere near completion. This was too much. I let out a long sob.

I knew where this was going. I certainly wasn't fooled. I put on just a loose T and baggy gym shorts. Something had to give here, though. Either it was all a big joke and I'd be the laughing stock of the guys at the office Monday morning, or something would explode. But one way or the other, something was going to happen.

I stood at Vincent's door and knocked.

The door opened to a room that was dark except for strobing lights in blue and red and a blast of sound. Some sort of primeval recording resounding around the room; heavy breathing and panting and moans and groans, evoking high heat and lust. Directly across from the door, hung on the far wall, a giant flat-screen TV, screaming out the image of muscle guys fucking. Between the door and the TV some sort of black vinyl cube, not really a chair, not really anything but a waist-high black vinyl cube.

An overwhelming cacophony of sound and sensations of high heat and lust. No time to think, the images and sounds pushing all reason out of my mind, making my heart pound.

And out of the darkness, a big, black, naked Vincent pulled me into the room, and the door closed behind me as if on a spring. Bulging, shiny muscles. Gorgeous musculature. Everything that was boasted of, promised, swinging between his muscular thighs below and full chest V-ing down to a tiny waist overlaid with a hard slab of belly muscle. The spitting image of Phil in all his athletic glory.

Vincent pulled my T-shirt up and off my torso and, while my arms were lifted for that, another set of arms, behind me, caught me in a full Nelson, trapping my arms above my head.

I flinched and squirmed, trying to pull free.

'Just relax, Jeff,' Vincent said in a low, hoarse voice. 'It's just Manuel. He decided to stay. Don't fight it. You came to be fucked. You decided. Let's all just enjoy it.'

Before I could respond, Vincent had leaned in close and had taken my mouth with his big, thick lips, pushing my lips apart and inserting his tongue. Taking my breath away. The moaning sounds of lust reverberating around me. The flashing lights, the swirling images on the far wall of men fucking.

Vincent's hands were on my hips, insinuating themselves under the waistband of my shorts, hot palms on my hips. Manuel was holding me close from behind. And I knew he was naked too, I could feel the heat of a cock pushing up my lower back, the heavy pectorals against my shoulder blades. His lips and teeth buried in one of my arm pits, licking and nipping and licking.

Vincent slowly kissed and nipped his way down my chest and belly, and he nibbled in my thatch as he slowly pulled the shorts down until my cock popped out - and into his mouth. In one movement, he stripped off my shorts.

I was overwhelmed with sensations as never before. I had no idea that cock sucking could arouse me this way. Manuel pushed his hardening cock down to between my butt cheeks and I writhed and whimpered. Both wanting it all and being scared shitless at what was happening to me. The sounds and lights and the sudden sexual stimulation was overpowering.

There were three men fucking on the TV. A black and a white and a Hispanic, the black and Hispanic sandwiching the white. This couldn't be some coincidence. I nearly fainted when I realized that this was no professional movie. The black on the screen was Vincent, there was no doubt. And if the Hispanic was Manuel, he was every inch the hunk that Vincent said he was.

It was all just too much too fast for me. I came in a fountain of semen across Vincent's face. He merely laughed and went down deep on me, sucking me dry.

Manuel had forced my head to turn with pressure from his enslaving bicep and his mouth was now attacking mine, possessing me fully. Big brown eyes, what I could see of the face was chiseled and handsome. Straight, silky dark hair of at least shoulder length. The pressure of his cock between my legs had forced me into a wide stance, and he was dry fucking me rapidly across my perineum, pushing my ball sac and the root of my cock up. Vincent was sucking my balls into his mouth and rolling them around against his inner cheeks.

The sounds of the moaning and groaning from the stereo system were becoming more stereo like. Or so I thought, until I realized that it was me who was adding to the moaning and groaning.

Vincent moved from in front of me and Manuel frog marched me forward - onto the vinyl cube. I was pushed over onto the cube on my belly, and Manuel released my arms from the full Nelson. But as quick as he did that, Vincent was grabbing my wrists and tying them off on plush-lined leather restraints at each side of the cube.

On the screen, the white guy was bent over the arm of a sofa. The black guy was on the sofa cushions on his knees and was stuffing his cock into the white guy's mouth. The Hispanic was hunched over the white guy from behind and plowing his ass vigorously.

But that had barely registered with me when my view was blocked by a close up-and-personal of a mammoth black cock, which was forcing itself between my lips. Vincent took my head between his hands and was guiding me on giving his cock a tour of my mouth cavity and the back of my throat.

Manuel was restraining my legs in a wide stance at the base of the back side of the cube, and then I felt the wet roughness of his tongue on the rim of my ass. He was squeezing and lightly slapping my ass cheeks and pulling them apart with his fists and seeing how far, first, his tongue, and eventually, his lubed fingers could get inside my ass.

I was gurgling and sobbing and whimpering at what both of them were doing to me. I was overwhelmed with the surprise and the threat of it. But I also was steeped in the arousal and lust of it all.

I tensed and lifted up as much as the restraints on the cube would allow as Manuel started working his cock inside me. He was murmuring to me, though, advising me to relax and go with the fuck, that I'd enjoy it. When I was able to relax, after Vincent had pulled his cock out of my mouth, I found that it was at least somewhat closer to enjoyment than to intense pain.

Manuel was stroking faster and faster and getting noisier and noisier about his enjoyment of my ass canal. Vincent left, leaving me to watch the white guy on the TV get just about the same thing I was receiving - which, I have to admit, I found to be quite hot.

As Manuel was in the last throes of his fucking, however, Vincent came back into my vision. He stood there, purposely in front of me, giving me that 'I got you' smile of his, letting me watch as he split open a condom packet and rolled the transparent film onto his tool. It didn't roll back much more than half onto his cock and it was straining at the thickness of him.

'Manuel's real nice, Jeff,' he murmured to me. 'But, you know, he's no horse like I am. He fucks, but he doesn't FUCK, If you know what I mean. Is your Phil a stud like me, Jeff? Have you had nine thick inches before? Do you know that I fucked a guy for forty-five minutes once?'

I heard Manuel cry out and felt his condom bubble out inside me, and he bent over and kissed me on the shoulder blade and mumbled something about a nice, tight ride.

And then Vincent disappeared from view, and I felt Manuel sliding out of me. And I watched the Vincent of the TV video slowly working his cock into the white guy bent over the sofa arm. And I saw the white guy on the TV open his mouth wide and yowl to the ceiling, all of his muscles and veins straining hard at the invasion. And I felt the heaviness and thickness of Vincent's cock head at my entrance, and I opened my mouth wide and yowled to the ceiling, all of my muscles and veins straining hard at the invasion, as a far superior club to Manuel's started its digging into me.

The moaning and groaning of the sound system changed to cries of overstretched taking and groans and heavy panting, begging for release, begging for deeper, faster taking. All of which was matched from the TV screen and the vinyl cube.

At length, at great length, I both sensed and heard Vincent tense and give up the rhythmic plowing and a burst of release. I felt him relax down on my back, covering me close, his chest expanding and contracting close against my back, and his hands running down the length of my restrained arms. He kissed me at the nape of my neck and whispered, 'You done good, Jeff. That was worth the investment.'

My whimpers subsided into sighs, just as what seemed to be happening on the screen flickering in front of me. I'd done it. I'd thought about doing it. I'd worried about doing it. I had fantasized about it - nothing like this, of course - but about doing it. And I let it possess me and control me. But now it was done. I felt slight embarrassment and triumph. Which was disconcerting. I should feel anger. But I didn't. I sighed, in almost contentment under Vincent's trembling, sheltering body.

I sensed a change in the air; a new sound. The ring of a telephone cut through the other sounds still circling around the room.

I heard Manuel answer it. 'Yeah. That's right. OK.'

Then he came into view in front of me - and I saw for the first time what a hunk he really was.

'That's the other guys. They're on their way up from the lobby.'

The OTHER guys?!



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