He called his office the fishbowl because it sat in the middle of everything, with its circular wall rising waist-high to meet naked glass. He called his custom-built chair—that did everything a chair could possibly do and cost twice as much as a Formula 1 racecar—his throne. So I dubbed him “King Fish” and it stuck. It stuck because he spent his days holding court in the fishbowl. There he entertained famous people pleading for him to rescue floundering careers and fix really ugly situations.
Getting into the fishbowl was hard. You had to be Somebody who’d stepped off into some really serious shit. Drug charges and spousal abuse, adultery allegations and financial corruption—that stuff never made it past the outer court, where Bosco’s minions toiled 24/7 to safeguard lifelong relationships and success from vaporizing exposés. If it was bad enough to get you into the fishbowl, it was so bad you needed to be there worse than you worried about being seen there. In my case, it was three thugs who teamed up with a shyster attorney and sued me for breach of contract, alleging I seduced them with expensive gifts before they were legal.
“Did you fuck them?” Bosco asked dryly.
“No.”
“Not one of them?”
“No. Boys aren’t my thing. I fuck up, not down. Why should I bother handling a dick unless it swings harder than mine?”
“That’s funny,” Bosco said, leaning back in his throne. “So you don’t ever fuck younger guys?”
“I didn’t say that,” I answered. “I’ve fucked plenty of younger guys. But they’ve always been these prodigy types.”
“You mean CEOs in sneakers and computer whizzes who quit school early and take Wall Street by storm.”
“Pretty much,” I said. “You know, I blew one of them at a party. He was all of 22. He offered to build me a house in the rain forest.”
“Stupid kid,” Bosco groaned. He picked up a tiny rake and combed through one of those desktop Zen sandboxes that littered every big dog’s office back then. “So outside of these hairless freak millionaires, who else do you fuck—have you fucked?”
I couldn’t figure out what was behind the question.
He went on, “I need to be sure you’re telling the truth. If you won’t give me any names, it’s my guess you’re lying and these hoodlums have grounds.”
Reluctantly, I dropped a few names. The last two caused Bosco to drop the rake and stare at me for a long, a very long time.
“You don’t believe me?”
He didn’t blink. “Oh, I believe you. I probably knew about most of them and forgot. You’ve handled some mighty big dicks. These pretenders clearly are out of your league. We’ll crush this in no time.”
“So there won’t be any problems?”
Bosco’s eyes never left mine.
“Well, it won’t be easy. That crazy cable bitch who’s always making hay out of missing kid cases—her name starts with an “N.” Nadine? Naomi. Naomi Somebody. She’s all over you. We’ll have to figure out how to slap a ball-gag in her mouth. But we’ll get it done.”
He kept staring and I got more wary.
“Do I need to do anything?” I asked, hoping he didn’t hear the tension in my voice and knowing he did.
The stare continued. “There’s still one piece of it I don’t get.”
“What’s that?”
“In all your ‘fucking up,’ as you call it, how did you overlook me?”
The minute I rattled off those names, I worried this would happen. I said, “Given the opportunity—“
“You would fuck me—‘fuck’ being a general term, of course.”
“Well—“
“You wouldn’t?”
“No. I mean, yes. Naturally, if we had a chance to fuck, I’d take it. I’d love for us to fuck.”
“Why?”
I replied by repeating the question.
“Yes,” Bosco said. “Why? See, here’s the thing. Because I am who I am, sex is easier to find than my glasses. Look out there. See all those men and women? I could have them lined up to the elevator, on their knees with open mouths, and I could shove my dick into every last one. But I don’t fuck people who want to fuck me because of who I am. I only fuck people who would fuck me if I was the janitor or parking attendant or some miserable slob in a studio apartment without a pot to piss in. So I’ll ask again, do want to you fuck me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Bosco probably thought I’d stumble around for an answer. But it was easy. “Because you make me hard,” I told him honestly. “You’ve made me hard for years.”
“Is that so?” he asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “Why?”
“Christ,” I said, “you’re obviously a stud. I know you left the ranch a long time ago, but it never left you. I bet if I got you out of your $5,000 suit and Italian loafers, you’d turn into a cowboy all over again. You’d twist me up like a clown balloon. It’s obvious age hasn’t put a dent on your body. You can barely keep your clothes from bursting their seams. What are you, like, 6’4”, 250?”
“Close,” Bosco replied. “I’m an inch taller and ten pounds lighter.”
“Toss me your shoe.” He grinned as he kicked off his shoe and slid it across the desk. I did the size conversion in my head. “See? You’re a size 13.”
“Shoe size doesn’t mean anything.”
“Not unless you like big feet. But even if you were a 7 or an 8, I’d still know you’re packing.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Bosco’s hands disappeared under his desk for minute and shot back up. He braced them against the edge of the desk and pushed his chair back. “Stand up.”
I looked across his desk. His cock fell out of his pants onto the seat. Half-limp, half-hard it was a ferocious thing. Its shaft, as thick as a baby’s arm and no doubt twice as hard to hang onto, protruded into a bulbous head that leaked a tiny pool of silver on the fine leather. While I watched, Bosco put it away, shifting in his seat as he moved it into place. He pulled a linen handkerchief from a desk drawer and dabbed up the puddle. “You can sit down,” he said.
“I was right.” I said smugly. Without a reply, he dashed off a few notes, as if nothing happened. It put me on edge. I giggled nervously. “I thought for a second we were going to do it right here, right now.”
He continued to write as he said, “We could have.” He dropped his pen and pushed a button on the control panel built into the desktop. The windows immediately tinted. He pushed it again, they cleared up, and he resumed writing.
“So do you want to fuck?”
“Not now. I’ve got work to do.” He looked up. “Don’t you need to be somewhere?”
“I’m meeting people for lunch.”
“Well, be early for a change. I’ll call you.”
“Then we’re not going to—“
“I’ll call you.”
I spent the next two weeks watching my crisis evaporate, waiting for Bosco’s call. When it didn’t come, I figured it probably wouldn’t. Like most guys at his level, the admission I would sleep with him was as good as doing it—and not nearly as taxing or problematic. It’s true: the higher you climb in life, the more sex goes to your head. You hire somebody to take care of the physical end the way you hire a dietician and trainer and masseur. The mind-fuck is the only fuck that really gets you off. And we’d done that.
Three years passed. I’d all but forgot the fishbowl conversation. It was Saturday afternoon. As usual, I had a house full of people, most of whom I didn’t know or care to know. My phone rang. Bosco.
“Are you in town?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Come on over.”
“Come on over where?”
“To the office. Park in the basement. Don’t use the visitor’s lot.”
I wanted to know what was up.
“I thought we’d have a little fun. Be quick, though.”
“I’m on my way,” I told him. I jumped in the shower and then threw on some clothes I didn’t care about. I’d lost a couple of ridiculously over-priced shirts to guys who like to rip people’s clothes off, and Bosco struck me as the type. It took Wendell, my assistant, most of a half-hour to round up keys and move the cars blocking the drive.
Bosco’s building was just rising into sight when he rang me back. “Are you coming or not?”
“Ten minutes,” I said.
“Ten minutes is too late.”
“Seven.”
I gunned through a yellow light and nearly sideswiped the planter at the basement garage entrance. I had no idea why the urgency, but failure wasn’t an option. I owed Bosco too much.
Other than the fishbowl, the entire floor was dark. I sprinted to his office. There wasn’t time for concern about looking cool.
Bosco sat at his desk, wearing a pale yellow cashmere sweater that accentuated his tan. A smattering of steel-gray chest hair peeked through the v-neck. He’d pushed the sweater sleeves up near his elbows. His arms were smooth.
He had a healthy head of graying hair that he wore longer than most men his age; it curled against the nape of his neck, while a lock or two routinely meandered onto his forehead. A hint of weariness dusted his eyes. Since saying goodbye to Montana years back to wrangle the wealthy and well known, he’d witnessed more stupidity than most men can imagine. Yet Bosco exuded staying power. It lived in his bones and beat through the heart buried in his barrel chest.
“You almost blew it,” he said as I sunk into my chair. “We’ve got five minutes.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You called me over here for a quickie? Are you insane?”
“Simmer down,” Bosco said. “I’m giving you a treat. We’re about to have company.”
“If this is some kind of sick joke, you can forget it. Nobody decides who I play with but me.”
“It is a sick joke,” he confided, “but you’ll want to be part of it. Naomi Cavanaugh is on her way as we speak.”
“What is this? I’m not interested in that.”
Bosco held his chin and shook his head. “Your imagination’s no bigger than a pea. How you came to be who you are is truly amazing.”
“I resent that.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. Listen. Naomi despises you. She’s got a hard-on for you like Johnny Wadd before the drugs. When you had your situation a couple years ago, she put me through hell before she agreed to kill the story.”
“So why is she coming here, bothering you on a Saturday?”
“Because she’s got more balls than most men on the planet. I already know why she’s turning to me.”
“What’s that?”
A tiny beep sounded. Bosco swung around to the worktable behind him and jiggled his computer mouse. A security camera shot came up on the monitor. “That’s her on the elevator,” he said and swiveled back to me.
“Are you not wearing pants?” I asked.
“I don’t have on a stitch except this sweater.” He paused. His eyes brightened ever so slightly. “I want you to blow me while she’s here.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“She’s on her way up thinking I owe her a favor—because of you. She has no idea how off her nut she is. I thought it would make a great story—Naomi Cavanaugh, self-appointed babysitter of American morals, asking my help while her favorite whipping boy sucks me off. You’ve got ten seconds to get under the desk and open your mouth.” Another beep went off. “She’s here.”
I dropped to the floor and slithered, combat-style, around his desk. I couldn’t put all of it together and had no way of telling what was going to happen. But a fresh look at Bosco’s cock—eye-to-eye—assured me it would be worth it.
He pivoted to let me pass and I crammed myself into the desk’s dark well. I felt like a teenager. Overhead, I heard him tap the control panel as he rolled his chair into place. Soft light filled the well.
“Use the headset,” he instructed. Son of a bitch! There it was, hanging next to Bosco’s left knee. I put it on; his voice surrounded me in stereo. “There’s a volume control on the right ear,” he said. He jiggered a knob on the side of his chair and the seat tilted to give me room to maneuver. He extended his heavy, slightly bowed legs their full length, planting his gigantic feet in the far corners of well to anchor them. Wrapped in solid muscle, they flanked me like hand-carved wooden pillars. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
I reached behind me for his ankles and ran my hands up both legs while lowering my face toward his organ. My hands met at his balls, which hung in a near-perfectly round, rippled pouch held tight to his frame. Caressing his balls in one hand, I lifted his cock with the other. It was soft, but substantial. I let it rest on my tongue for a moment, closing my eyes to enjoy the sensation as it began to swell in my mouth. He got hard quick, and I pulled back to admire him.
Who knew where this dick had been, or whom it had been in? To think I held the instrument of Bosco’s favor—granted to some as a tool of persuasion, to others as a reward for services rendered—excited me beyond description. Before I could do anything else, I had to make sure I could access my own cock. My belt jingled as I shimmied halfway out of my pants. Bosco chuckled in my ears. “That good, huh?”
Stroking myself lightly, I took a moment to survey his erection. It rose out of a fastidiously groomed hedge of dark curls, tapering subtly from its solid base to its crown, which sloped dramatically from its wide brim and smoothed into a blunt orb about the size of an apricot. It was a fleshy cock, a voluptuous cock—a tasty cock.
Just as I pulled it toward my mouth, Naomi appeared. “Hi!” She sounded like a cheerleader, laying heavily on her Texas twang, which she apparently considered charming, though it wasn’t.
“Have a seat, Naomi,” Bosco said. “I apologize for not getting up. I’ve got this nasty kink that makes it difficult to move right now.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said—more faux sweetness. “How’d you hurt it?”
“It’s not an injury, per se. It’s just one of those things that comes with age. At the moment, it’s not a good idea to try and get out of my chair.”
I opened wide and slid down on him as far as I could go. Bosco moaned.
“You poor thing!” Naomi exclaimed. “I should send you to my guy, Ronaldo, a Brazilian with hands of steel. He’s a magician.”
“That’s kind of you to offer,” Bosco said, “but I’ve got a guy who’s an artist in his own right.”
While they made small talk, I worked on Bosco’s big dick—which mystified me by continuing to enlarge after it became erect. It was like an inflatable toy that gradually took shape with every stroke of my tongue and brush of my mouth. A veritable lattice of veins surfaced one-by-one up the shaft, pumping more and more hot blood into him. My lips followed closely behind, marveling at the force pulsing against them. Climbing steadily to the top, I was amazed at how much bigger the head had grown. I drew it in, making circular movements with my head, polishing the cap with my tongue’s slippery undercoat. Bosco’s thighs squeezed me gratefully. As my rotations picked up speed, the hug tightened. I felt light-headed from the intense grip crushing my ribs and lungs. But the thought that he enjoyed what I was doing wouldn’t allow me to stop. My skin started tingling and Bosco and Naomi’s conversation began to fade. I teetered on the edge of blacking out when he reached down to halt me.
His legs relaxed. I—literally—took a breather, letting my chest expand more widely with each breath and feeling the life return to my senses. Meanwhile, he opened a drawer, took something from it, and closed it. I heard Naomi say “No, thank you,” after which I caught a rattling noise.
Bosco said, “I can’t remember who turned me onto this. It’s from Singapore. Can you believe it? Somewhere in the only country where it’s illegal to chew gum, somebody’s churning out the greatest gum on Earth. They have to smuggle it out and you need a connection to buy it. It’s like freaking heroin!”
He popped a pellet into his mouth and chewed it noisily to mask his voice when he whispered to me, “Listen up.”
With both hands wrapped around the trunk of his cock, I quietly nursed it and perked up my ears.
“I was somewhat taken aback by your call,” Bosco told Naomi. “After all, most of my clients are friends. It’s not a prerequisite, but that’s usually how it goes. And I wouldn’t describe our history together as particularly friendly.”
“Oh, come on, Bosco,” she replied. “You know better than to take any of that personally.”
“I don’t know, Naomi. ‘Go to Hell, you slimy piece of shit’ sounds pretty personal to me.”
“It was just business—all part of the game. Did I hurt your feelings?” Naomi’s coquettish tone made me want to gag.
“Darling, very few people know me well enough, or mean enough to me, to hurt my feelings. Don’t give it another thought.”
The air went still, as though a huge weight fell on Naomi’s head. She had to feel two inches tall. She sounded tiny when she meekly told Bosco, “I want us to be friends.”
“You want us to be friends? Or do you need us to be friends?”
“I want—“
He interrupted her. “Shall we be honest? We’re not going to be friends. I don’t like what you do. I detest it. I detest you. The trouble you stir up and the lives you ruin without remorse—so you can leverage high ratings to soak the idiots who run your network when your contract comes up for renewal—you know, there’s just not one redeemable bone in your surgically enhanced body.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Her tone shook with outrage and, noticeably, fear.
“Because I can say it, my dear,” Bosco retorted with a withering note of condescension.
What a piece of work he was! Like a coke-crazed groupie, I hungrily kissed his inner thighs, alternating from one to the other, charging his entire pelvic region with excitement before pressing my lips to the ridged surface of his smooth scrotum. I let my tongue trace the seam that traveled straight up its middle. And then I sucked the whole sac as if it were the sweetest fig that ever ripened. His balls seesawed on my tongue.
He went on. “Fortunately, I’m a big boy.”
“So I’ve heard,” she cooed, clearly not expecting to be shut down.
“Don’t even try that. I just told you that you disgust me.”
Bosco’s fingers came into view, applying pressure to the base of his dick to lower it as an indication that’s where he wanted my attention. I happily complied, listening while I served him.
“Let’s discuss your problem,” he said.
Naomi tentatively stepped through her explanation, leaving little doubt she’d rehearsed it. “There’s something in my past that I’m not very proud of. I’ve done a good job so far keeping it secret. But—you know how it goes—sooner or later these things boomerang and bite you in the ass.”
“You’re talking about Chelsea, your little girl, the daughter nobody knows about.”
“Uh.” She was speechless.
“I figured that’s what this is. I’ll tell you right off the bat, it doesn’t look good.”
“But only three people beside me know she existed—my parents and her father. I’ve shelled out a fortune in hush money on them. Who told you?”
“And you call yourself an investigative journalist?” Bosco countered. “How could you be so naïve to imagine you locked that down? There are records, Naomi. Files. My people had copies of everything fifteen minutes after you called. What you did to that little girl is inexcusable.”
She started to whimper. “I was so young. Her father was nowhere to be found and I couldn’t manage her.”
Bosco let her cry. He fell back in his chair. I could tell from the way he responded to me, he had turned his focus on his dick. It stiffened with an extra surge of pride and pleasure that I shared. While Naomi regained her composure, he bent forward, shifting his balance to raise one leg and rub my bare ass with his heel. His intentions were now clear, though how he planned on making them happen was beyond me. As far as I was concerned, all I had to do was keep him aroused and stay ready.
Still, my newfound anticipation turned the seconds into hours and minutes into days. How long would I have to wait before I could spool myself around Bosco’s skewer?
He actually sounded sympathetic in telling Naomi, “I realize how hard it must have been for you. My late wife nearly ruined herself trying to raise our children, and she had two nannies and me to help out. But,” Bosco said, savoring the tension as the word hung above them like a thunderhead. “But even being the single parent of a mentally challenged child can't expect the public’s understanding and forgiveness.”
“Chelsea wasn’t mentally challenged,” Naomi insisted. “She was just a bad little girl, a willful child who wouldn’t obey.” Her voice hardened more with each sentence. “She didn’t care about the punishment. She would rather die than listen to one word I said.”
“Apparently, she nearly did die.”
“What are you talking about?”
Bosco seethed with indignation. “Good God, Naomi. You shoved her in a closet and left her there without food or water for four days!”
“It was three days. And it wasn’t like I was there, ignoring her the whole time. I had to drive up to Denver to interview for an anchor spot. There was nobody to look after her. What was I supposed to do? Let her run loose in the apartment while I was gone? She would have burned the entire complex to the ground before I got back.”
I was so stunned I didn’t realize I’d left Bosco’s cock to idle in my hand.
He hunched over, discreetly shaking it get my notice. A tiny bead bubbled to its surface and flew through the air. Hearing Naomi’s confession was his gift to me—sweet revenge for her uninvited torment. Even so, pleasuring him was a treasure I couldn’t squander.
His voice boomed through my earphones. “Are you hearing yourself, Naomi? You, of all people, trying to justify such outrageous neglect? And for what? An anchor job in a third-tier market!”
Bosco’s wrath moved me in all kinds of ways that merged in renewed hunger for his manhood. I plunged down on him, devouring all I could swallow. My neck muscles ached with determination to suck him dry, to transfer every last ounce of his warmth into me. To taste his strength. To relish his goodness. To drink his power. In the midst of our perverse game, something peculiar was taking place. Blowing Bosco made me long to be a better man.
“There’s a book,” Naomi said. “Chelsea’s grown up.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two. No, that’s wrong. I’m sorry. She’s twenty-four.”
“She’s twenty-five,” Bosco reminded her disdainfully.
“I don’t know where the time went. But anyway, the minute she got away from her adopted parents, she dug up some sleazy tabloid reporter to help her write her book. I just heard about it last week. I can’t say yet what’s in it.”
“It’s all there. I skimmed the galleys this morning. She remembered everything.”
“How did you get it? My people have been banging down doors.”
“It’s what I do. I can convince anyone to do whatever I ask. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Without warning, Bosco’s huge cowboy hands landed on my skull and plastered my face to his groin. I choked violently and when he released me, I jerked my head from his cock and banged it on the desk.
“What was that?” Naomi asked with alarm. “Do you have someone under there? Is someone—“
“Sucking my dick?” Bosco asked calmly. I could feel things heating up. This was rich! Immediately, I was back on him. He began to roll his hips in his seat. His cock rose and fell between my lips.
“I want to vomit,” she groaned. “Why are you doing this?”
Bosco’s thrusts gained emphasis as he unleashed his anger. “Listen very closely, wicked bitch. Your days of preaching hatred and judgment are over. You were never worthy to light a church candle, let alone start wildfires in the name of morality.” He scooted his chair back an inch or two, bringing my head out with him.
“Who is that?”
He ignored her question. “You’ve destroyed your last life. You’ve tortured your last enemy. The next time you think to open your mouth and call anyone ‘a slimy piece of shit,’ I want you to remember what one looks like.” His breath quickened and I fought to keep up with the ramping force of his cock. “I want your stomach to twist in knots. I want this moment planted so deep in your brain you’ll contemplate suicide to escape it. Justice has been ordered and justice will be served!”
Bosco clenched my neck and flooded my mouth torrents of seed. I was drunk on him, staggered, oblivious to everything but the fragrance of him that rose into my nostrils like incense, the flavor of him that slathered my tongue with thrills. His last wave ended with a soft-spoken “Oh, fuck!”
“My God!” Naomi cried. “Is that—?“
“I thought you might recognize him,” Bosco said.
I stood and looked straight into her eyes while I wiped Bosco’s overflow from my chin. The horror of discovering who’d heard her tawdry tale—of actually witnessing what she’d hinted at so gleefully in her assassination attempts on my character—crumpled her face. If I’d punched her with my fist, it wouldn’t have produced a more dazed and wounded expression.
“You’re a vicious man,” she told Bosco. Her eyes darted at me. “You’re both vicious.” It was then she noticed my pants around my knees, my hard cock staring at her. She shook as she got to her feet. “Vicious and sick!” she hissed in farewell.
Laughter—not mean, more relieved—welled up in me and exploded.
“Listen,” Bosco said quietly. “Hear that? Sobs.” I turned to see if I could find her. From the sound of it, she’d collapsed at a desk near the elevator. “Don’t,” he said. “Respect her privacy. She flew too close to the sun and she’s trying to absorb the impact of her crash.”
He crouched beside a low, lacquered, Japanese cabinet, pulling out a decanter of obscenely expensive whiskey and two crystal glasses. Watching him walk around the fishbowl bottomless and barefoot made me smile.
“First, a toast,” he said, “then, maybe a kiss.”
Until he mentioned it, kissing Bosco never crossed my mind. Now, waiting for him to pour out our drinks, I wanted his kiss. I would have sold my soul for it.
“To the glorious end of an inglorious career,” he announced.
I followed with, “To the start of a glorious friendship.”
Our glasses clinked with a bright tinkle. We threw back the whiskey, giving it time to spread warmth inside us. Bosco took my glass and set it on the desk beside his. He opened his arms and I fell into them. Our mouths met and our tongues floated around each other. If Naomi was still around and watching, another indelible image was struck into her memory—the two of us, naked below the wait, wrapped together, swaying on gentle tides of tenderness.
The kiss ended, but Bosco kept me in his arms.
“Is there more?” I asked.
“More what?”
“More. I got the distinct impression you were interested in more than a blowjob.”
“Oh,” Bosco said.
“Well, are you or aren’t you?”
He smiled. “I am.”
“Because I’m definitely interested,” I told him.
“You are?” he asked, feigning surprise. “What was that phrase of yours? You fuck up, not down? So this didn’t qualify as fucking up.”
“Sure, it did. But the fuck-up, fuck-down thing—that’s just me talking smack. Now, it’s me being serious.”
“So you seriously want me to fuck you.”
“Right now, I can’t think of anything that would make me happier.”
Bosco took a moment to think things through. “When’s the last time you were in Morocco?”
“I don’t know—a couple years maybe.”
“Do you have your passport with you?”
“Yeah. It’s down in my car. Why?”
“I was just thinking,” he said. “I could fuck you here, right here on the rug. But I’ve fucked a lot of people on this rug. It doesn’t feel right. I’ve got a little place in Morocco with a rug that’s never been used. That sounds better to me.”
And so we dressed and drove to the airport, where we boarded his jet. But we found it impossible to wait. By the time we landed in Tangiers, the deed was done.
Getting into the fishbowl was hard. You had to be Somebody who’d stepped off into some really serious shit. Drug charges and spousal abuse, adultery allegations and financial corruption—that stuff never made it past the outer court, where Bosco’s minions toiled 24/7 to safeguard lifelong relationships and success from vaporizing exposés. If it was bad enough to get you into the fishbowl, it was so bad you needed to be there worse than you worried about being seen there. In my case, it was three thugs who teamed up with a shyster attorney and sued me for breach of contract, alleging I seduced them with expensive gifts before they were legal.
“Did you fuck them?” Bosco asked dryly.
“No.”
“Not one of them?”
“No. Boys aren’t my thing. I fuck up, not down. Why should I bother handling a dick unless it swings harder than mine?”
“That’s funny,” Bosco said, leaning back in his throne. “So you don’t ever fuck younger guys?”
“I didn’t say that,” I answered. “I’ve fucked plenty of younger guys. But they’ve always been these prodigy types.”
“You mean CEOs in sneakers and computer whizzes who quit school early and take Wall Street by storm.”
“Pretty much,” I said. “You know, I blew one of them at a party. He was all of 22. He offered to build me a house in the rain forest.”
“Stupid kid,” Bosco groaned. He picked up a tiny rake and combed through one of those desktop Zen sandboxes that littered every big dog’s office back then. “So outside of these hairless freak millionaires, who else do you fuck—have you fucked?”
I couldn’t figure out what was behind the question.
He went on, “I need to be sure you’re telling the truth. If you won’t give me any names, it’s my guess you’re lying and these hoodlums have grounds.”
Reluctantly, I dropped a few names. The last two caused Bosco to drop the rake and stare at me for a long, a very long time.
“You don’t believe me?”
He didn’t blink. “Oh, I believe you. I probably knew about most of them and forgot. You’ve handled some mighty big dicks. These pretenders clearly are out of your league. We’ll crush this in no time.”
“So there won’t be any problems?”
Bosco’s eyes never left mine.
“Well, it won’t be easy. That crazy cable bitch who’s always making hay out of missing kid cases—her name starts with an “N.” Nadine? Naomi. Naomi Somebody. She’s all over you. We’ll have to figure out how to slap a ball-gag in her mouth. But we’ll get it done.”
He kept staring and I got more wary.
“Do I need to do anything?” I asked, hoping he didn’t hear the tension in my voice and knowing he did.
The stare continued. “There’s still one piece of it I don’t get.”
“What’s that?”
“In all your ‘fucking up,’ as you call it, how did you overlook me?”
The minute I rattled off those names, I worried this would happen. I said, “Given the opportunity—“
“You would fuck me—‘fuck’ being a general term, of course.”
“Well—“
“You wouldn’t?”
“No. I mean, yes. Naturally, if we had a chance to fuck, I’d take it. I’d love for us to fuck.”
“Why?”
I replied by repeating the question.
“Yes,” Bosco said. “Why? See, here’s the thing. Because I am who I am, sex is easier to find than my glasses. Look out there. See all those men and women? I could have them lined up to the elevator, on their knees with open mouths, and I could shove my dick into every last one. But I don’t fuck people who want to fuck me because of who I am. I only fuck people who would fuck me if I was the janitor or parking attendant or some miserable slob in a studio apartment without a pot to piss in. So I’ll ask again, do want to you fuck me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Bosco probably thought I’d stumble around for an answer. But it was easy. “Because you make me hard,” I told him honestly. “You’ve made me hard for years.”
“Is that so?” he asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “Why?”
“Christ,” I said, “you’re obviously a stud. I know you left the ranch a long time ago, but it never left you. I bet if I got you out of your $5,000 suit and Italian loafers, you’d turn into a cowboy all over again. You’d twist me up like a clown balloon. It’s obvious age hasn’t put a dent on your body. You can barely keep your clothes from bursting their seams. What are you, like, 6’4”, 250?”
“Close,” Bosco replied. “I’m an inch taller and ten pounds lighter.”
“Toss me your shoe.” He grinned as he kicked off his shoe and slid it across the desk. I did the size conversion in my head. “See? You’re a size 13.”
“Shoe size doesn’t mean anything.”
“Not unless you like big feet. But even if you were a 7 or an 8, I’d still know you’re packing.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Bosco’s hands disappeared under his desk for minute and shot back up. He braced them against the edge of the desk and pushed his chair back. “Stand up.”
I looked across his desk. His cock fell out of his pants onto the seat. Half-limp, half-hard it was a ferocious thing. Its shaft, as thick as a baby’s arm and no doubt twice as hard to hang onto, protruded into a bulbous head that leaked a tiny pool of silver on the fine leather. While I watched, Bosco put it away, shifting in his seat as he moved it into place. He pulled a linen handkerchief from a desk drawer and dabbed up the puddle. “You can sit down,” he said.
“I was right.” I said smugly. Without a reply, he dashed off a few notes, as if nothing happened. It put me on edge. I giggled nervously. “I thought for a second we were going to do it right here, right now.”
He continued to write as he said, “We could have.” He dropped his pen and pushed a button on the control panel built into the desktop. The windows immediately tinted. He pushed it again, they cleared up, and he resumed writing.
“So do you want to fuck?”
“Not now. I’ve got work to do.” He looked up. “Don’t you need to be somewhere?”
“I’m meeting people for lunch.”
“Well, be early for a change. I’ll call you.”
“Then we’re not going to—“
“I’ll call you.”
I spent the next two weeks watching my crisis evaporate, waiting for Bosco’s call. When it didn’t come, I figured it probably wouldn’t. Like most guys at his level, the admission I would sleep with him was as good as doing it—and not nearly as taxing or problematic. It’s true: the higher you climb in life, the more sex goes to your head. You hire somebody to take care of the physical end the way you hire a dietician and trainer and masseur. The mind-fuck is the only fuck that really gets you off. And we’d done that.
Three years passed. I’d all but forgot the fishbowl conversation. It was Saturday afternoon. As usual, I had a house full of people, most of whom I didn’t know or care to know. My phone rang. Bosco.
“Are you in town?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Come on over.”
“Come on over where?”
“To the office. Park in the basement. Don’t use the visitor’s lot.”
I wanted to know what was up.
“I thought we’d have a little fun. Be quick, though.”
“I’m on my way,” I told him. I jumped in the shower and then threw on some clothes I didn’t care about. I’d lost a couple of ridiculously over-priced shirts to guys who like to rip people’s clothes off, and Bosco struck me as the type. It took Wendell, my assistant, most of a half-hour to round up keys and move the cars blocking the drive.
Bosco’s building was just rising into sight when he rang me back. “Are you coming or not?”
“Ten minutes,” I said.
“Ten minutes is too late.”
“Seven.”
I gunned through a yellow light and nearly sideswiped the planter at the basement garage entrance. I had no idea why the urgency, but failure wasn’t an option. I owed Bosco too much.
Other than the fishbowl, the entire floor was dark. I sprinted to his office. There wasn’t time for concern about looking cool.
Bosco sat at his desk, wearing a pale yellow cashmere sweater that accentuated his tan. A smattering of steel-gray chest hair peeked through the v-neck. He’d pushed the sweater sleeves up near his elbows. His arms were smooth.
He had a healthy head of graying hair that he wore longer than most men his age; it curled against the nape of his neck, while a lock or two routinely meandered onto his forehead. A hint of weariness dusted his eyes. Since saying goodbye to Montana years back to wrangle the wealthy and well known, he’d witnessed more stupidity than most men can imagine. Yet Bosco exuded staying power. It lived in his bones and beat through the heart buried in his barrel chest.
“You almost blew it,” he said as I sunk into my chair. “We’ve got five minutes.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You called me over here for a quickie? Are you insane?”
“Simmer down,” Bosco said. “I’m giving you a treat. We’re about to have company.”
“If this is some kind of sick joke, you can forget it. Nobody decides who I play with but me.”
“It is a sick joke,” he confided, “but you’ll want to be part of it. Naomi Cavanaugh is on her way as we speak.”
“What is this? I’m not interested in that.”
Bosco held his chin and shook his head. “Your imagination’s no bigger than a pea. How you came to be who you are is truly amazing.”
“I resent that.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. Listen. Naomi despises you. She’s got a hard-on for you like Johnny Wadd before the drugs. When you had your situation a couple years ago, she put me through hell before she agreed to kill the story.”
“So why is she coming here, bothering you on a Saturday?”
“Because she’s got more balls than most men on the planet. I already know why she’s turning to me.”
“What’s that?”
A tiny beep sounded. Bosco swung around to the worktable behind him and jiggled his computer mouse. A security camera shot came up on the monitor. “That’s her on the elevator,” he said and swiveled back to me.
“Are you not wearing pants?” I asked.
“I don’t have on a stitch except this sweater.” He paused. His eyes brightened ever so slightly. “I want you to blow me while she’s here.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“She’s on her way up thinking I owe her a favor—because of you. She has no idea how off her nut she is. I thought it would make a great story—Naomi Cavanaugh, self-appointed babysitter of American morals, asking my help while her favorite whipping boy sucks me off. You’ve got ten seconds to get under the desk and open your mouth.” Another beep went off. “She’s here.”
I dropped to the floor and slithered, combat-style, around his desk. I couldn’t put all of it together and had no way of telling what was going to happen. But a fresh look at Bosco’s cock—eye-to-eye—assured me it would be worth it.
He pivoted to let me pass and I crammed myself into the desk’s dark well. I felt like a teenager. Overhead, I heard him tap the control panel as he rolled his chair into place. Soft light filled the well.
“Use the headset,” he instructed. Son of a bitch! There it was, hanging next to Bosco’s left knee. I put it on; his voice surrounded me in stereo. “There’s a volume control on the right ear,” he said. He jiggered a knob on the side of his chair and the seat tilted to give me room to maneuver. He extended his heavy, slightly bowed legs their full length, planting his gigantic feet in the far corners of well to anchor them. Wrapped in solid muscle, they flanked me like hand-carved wooden pillars. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
I reached behind me for his ankles and ran my hands up both legs while lowering my face toward his organ. My hands met at his balls, which hung in a near-perfectly round, rippled pouch held tight to his frame. Caressing his balls in one hand, I lifted his cock with the other. It was soft, but substantial. I let it rest on my tongue for a moment, closing my eyes to enjoy the sensation as it began to swell in my mouth. He got hard quick, and I pulled back to admire him.
Who knew where this dick had been, or whom it had been in? To think I held the instrument of Bosco’s favor—granted to some as a tool of persuasion, to others as a reward for services rendered—excited me beyond description. Before I could do anything else, I had to make sure I could access my own cock. My belt jingled as I shimmied halfway out of my pants. Bosco chuckled in my ears. “That good, huh?”
Stroking myself lightly, I took a moment to survey his erection. It rose out of a fastidiously groomed hedge of dark curls, tapering subtly from its solid base to its crown, which sloped dramatically from its wide brim and smoothed into a blunt orb about the size of an apricot. It was a fleshy cock, a voluptuous cock—a tasty cock.
Just as I pulled it toward my mouth, Naomi appeared. “Hi!” She sounded like a cheerleader, laying heavily on her Texas twang, which she apparently considered charming, though it wasn’t.
“Have a seat, Naomi,” Bosco said. “I apologize for not getting up. I’ve got this nasty kink that makes it difficult to move right now.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said—more faux sweetness. “How’d you hurt it?”
“It’s not an injury, per se. It’s just one of those things that comes with age. At the moment, it’s not a good idea to try and get out of my chair.”
I opened wide and slid down on him as far as I could go. Bosco moaned.
“You poor thing!” Naomi exclaimed. “I should send you to my guy, Ronaldo, a Brazilian with hands of steel. He’s a magician.”
“That’s kind of you to offer,” Bosco said, “but I’ve got a guy who’s an artist in his own right.”
While they made small talk, I worked on Bosco’s big dick—which mystified me by continuing to enlarge after it became erect. It was like an inflatable toy that gradually took shape with every stroke of my tongue and brush of my mouth. A veritable lattice of veins surfaced one-by-one up the shaft, pumping more and more hot blood into him. My lips followed closely behind, marveling at the force pulsing against them. Climbing steadily to the top, I was amazed at how much bigger the head had grown. I drew it in, making circular movements with my head, polishing the cap with my tongue’s slippery undercoat. Bosco’s thighs squeezed me gratefully. As my rotations picked up speed, the hug tightened. I felt light-headed from the intense grip crushing my ribs and lungs. But the thought that he enjoyed what I was doing wouldn’t allow me to stop. My skin started tingling and Bosco and Naomi’s conversation began to fade. I teetered on the edge of blacking out when he reached down to halt me.
His legs relaxed. I—literally—took a breather, letting my chest expand more widely with each breath and feeling the life return to my senses. Meanwhile, he opened a drawer, took something from it, and closed it. I heard Naomi say “No, thank you,” after which I caught a rattling noise.
Bosco said, “I can’t remember who turned me onto this. It’s from Singapore. Can you believe it? Somewhere in the only country where it’s illegal to chew gum, somebody’s churning out the greatest gum on Earth. They have to smuggle it out and you need a connection to buy it. It’s like freaking heroin!”
He popped a pellet into his mouth and chewed it noisily to mask his voice when he whispered to me, “Listen up.”
With both hands wrapped around the trunk of his cock, I quietly nursed it and perked up my ears.
“I was somewhat taken aback by your call,” Bosco told Naomi. “After all, most of my clients are friends. It’s not a prerequisite, but that’s usually how it goes. And I wouldn’t describe our history together as particularly friendly.”
“Oh, come on, Bosco,” she replied. “You know better than to take any of that personally.”
“I don’t know, Naomi. ‘Go to Hell, you slimy piece of shit’ sounds pretty personal to me.”
“It was just business—all part of the game. Did I hurt your feelings?” Naomi’s coquettish tone made me want to gag.
“Darling, very few people know me well enough, or mean enough to me, to hurt my feelings. Don’t give it another thought.”
The air went still, as though a huge weight fell on Naomi’s head. She had to feel two inches tall. She sounded tiny when she meekly told Bosco, “I want us to be friends.”
“You want us to be friends? Or do you need us to be friends?”
“I want—“
He interrupted her. “Shall we be honest? We’re not going to be friends. I don’t like what you do. I detest it. I detest you. The trouble you stir up and the lives you ruin without remorse—so you can leverage high ratings to soak the idiots who run your network when your contract comes up for renewal—you know, there’s just not one redeemable bone in your surgically enhanced body.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Her tone shook with outrage and, noticeably, fear.
“Because I can say it, my dear,” Bosco retorted with a withering note of condescension.
What a piece of work he was! Like a coke-crazed groupie, I hungrily kissed his inner thighs, alternating from one to the other, charging his entire pelvic region with excitement before pressing my lips to the ridged surface of his smooth scrotum. I let my tongue trace the seam that traveled straight up its middle. And then I sucked the whole sac as if it were the sweetest fig that ever ripened. His balls seesawed on my tongue.
He went on. “Fortunately, I’m a big boy.”
“So I’ve heard,” she cooed, clearly not expecting to be shut down.
“Don’t even try that. I just told you that you disgust me.”
Bosco’s fingers came into view, applying pressure to the base of his dick to lower it as an indication that’s where he wanted my attention. I happily complied, listening while I served him.
“Let’s discuss your problem,” he said.
Naomi tentatively stepped through her explanation, leaving little doubt she’d rehearsed it. “There’s something in my past that I’m not very proud of. I’ve done a good job so far keeping it secret. But—you know how it goes—sooner or later these things boomerang and bite you in the ass.”
“You’re talking about Chelsea, your little girl, the daughter nobody knows about.”
“Uh.” She was speechless.
“I figured that’s what this is. I’ll tell you right off the bat, it doesn’t look good.”
“But only three people beside me know she existed—my parents and her father. I’ve shelled out a fortune in hush money on them. Who told you?”
“And you call yourself an investigative journalist?” Bosco countered. “How could you be so naïve to imagine you locked that down? There are records, Naomi. Files. My people had copies of everything fifteen minutes after you called. What you did to that little girl is inexcusable.”
She started to whimper. “I was so young. Her father was nowhere to be found and I couldn’t manage her.”
Bosco let her cry. He fell back in his chair. I could tell from the way he responded to me, he had turned his focus on his dick. It stiffened with an extra surge of pride and pleasure that I shared. While Naomi regained her composure, he bent forward, shifting his balance to raise one leg and rub my bare ass with his heel. His intentions were now clear, though how he planned on making them happen was beyond me. As far as I was concerned, all I had to do was keep him aroused and stay ready.
Still, my newfound anticipation turned the seconds into hours and minutes into days. How long would I have to wait before I could spool myself around Bosco’s skewer?
He actually sounded sympathetic in telling Naomi, “I realize how hard it must have been for you. My late wife nearly ruined herself trying to raise our children, and she had two nannies and me to help out. But,” Bosco said, savoring the tension as the word hung above them like a thunderhead. “But even being the single parent of a mentally challenged child can't expect the public’s understanding and forgiveness.”
“Chelsea wasn’t mentally challenged,” Naomi insisted. “She was just a bad little girl, a willful child who wouldn’t obey.” Her voice hardened more with each sentence. “She didn’t care about the punishment. She would rather die than listen to one word I said.”
“Apparently, she nearly did die.”
“What are you talking about?”
Bosco seethed with indignation. “Good God, Naomi. You shoved her in a closet and left her there without food or water for four days!”
“It was three days. And it wasn’t like I was there, ignoring her the whole time. I had to drive up to Denver to interview for an anchor spot. There was nobody to look after her. What was I supposed to do? Let her run loose in the apartment while I was gone? She would have burned the entire complex to the ground before I got back.”
I was so stunned I didn’t realize I’d left Bosco’s cock to idle in my hand.
He hunched over, discreetly shaking it get my notice. A tiny bead bubbled to its surface and flew through the air. Hearing Naomi’s confession was his gift to me—sweet revenge for her uninvited torment. Even so, pleasuring him was a treasure I couldn’t squander.
His voice boomed through my earphones. “Are you hearing yourself, Naomi? You, of all people, trying to justify such outrageous neglect? And for what? An anchor job in a third-tier market!”
Bosco’s wrath moved me in all kinds of ways that merged in renewed hunger for his manhood. I plunged down on him, devouring all I could swallow. My neck muscles ached with determination to suck him dry, to transfer every last ounce of his warmth into me. To taste his strength. To relish his goodness. To drink his power. In the midst of our perverse game, something peculiar was taking place. Blowing Bosco made me long to be a better man.
“There’s a book,” Naomi said. “Chelsea’s grown up.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two. No, that’s wrong. I’m sorry. She’s twenty-four.”
“She’s twenty-five,” Bosco reminded her disdainfully.
“I don’t know where the time went. But anyway, the minute she got away from her adopted parents, she dug up some sleazy tabloid reporter to help her write her book. I just heard about it last week. I can’t say yet what’s in it.”
“It’s all there. I skimmed the galleys this morning. She remembered everything.”
“How did you get it? My people have been banging down doors.”
“It’s what I do. I can convince anyone to do whatever I ask. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Without warning, Bosco’s huge cowboy hands landed on my skull and plastered my face to his groin. I choked violently and when he released me, I jerked my head from his cock and banged it on the desk.
“What was that?” Naomi asked with alarm. “Do you have someone under there? Is someone—“
“Sucking my dick?” Bosco asked calmly. I could feel things heating up. This was rich! Immediately, I was back on him. He began to roll his hips in his seat. His cock rose and fell between my lips.
“I want to vomit,” she groaned. “Why are you doing this?”
Bosco’s thrusts gained emphasis as he unleashed his anger. “Listen very closely, wicked bitch. Your days of preaching hatred and judgment are over. You were never worthy to light a church candle, let alone start wildfires in the name of morality.” He scooted his chair back an inch or two, bringing my head out with him.
“Who is that?”
He ignored her question. “You’ve destroyed your last life. You’ve tortured your last enemy. The next time you think to open your mouth and call anyone ‘a slimy piece of shit,’ I want you to remember what one looks like.” His breath quickened and I fought to keep up with the ramping force of his cock. “I want your stomach to twist in knots. I want this moment planted so deep in your brain you’ll contemplate suicide to escape it. Justice has been ordered and justice will be served!”
Bosco clenched my neck and flooded my mouth torrents of seed. I was drunk on him, staggered, oblivious to everything but the fragrance of him that rose into my nostrils like incense, the flavor of him that slathered my tongue with thrills. His last wave ended with a soft-spoken “Oh, fuck!”
“My God!” Naomi cried. “Is that—?“
“I thought you might recognize him,” Bosco said.
I stood and looked straight into her eyes while I wiped Bosco’s overflow from my chin. The horror of discovering who’d heard her tawdry tale—of actually witnessing what she’d hinted at so gleefully in her assassination attempts on my character—crumpled her face. If I’d punched her with my fist, it wouldn’t have produced a more dazed and wounded expression.
“You’re a vicious man,” she told Bosco. Her eyes darted at me. “You’re both vicious.” It was then she noticed my pants around my knees, my hard cock staring at her. She shook as she got to her feet. “Vicious and sick!” she hissed in farewell.
Laughter—not mean, more relieved—welled up in me and exploded.
“Listen,” Bosco said quietly. “Hear that? Sobs.” I turned to see if I could find her. From the sound of it, she’d collapsed at a desk near the elevator. “Don’t,” he said. “Respect her privacy. She flew too close to the sun and she’s trying to absorb the impact of her crash.”
He crouched beside a low, lacquered, Japanese cabinet, pulling out a decanter of obscenely expensive whiskey and two crystal glasses. Watching him walk around the fishbowl bottomless and barefoot made me smile.
“First, a toast,” he said, “then, maybe a kiss.”
Until he mentioned it, kissing Bosco never crossed my mind. Now, waiting for him to pour out our drinks, I wanted his kiss. I would have sold my soul for it.
“To the glorious end of an inglorious career,” he announced.
I followed with, “To the start of a glorious friendship.”
Our glasses clinked with a bright tinkle. We threw back the whiskey, giving it time to spread warmth inside us. Bosco took my glass and set it on the desk beside his. He opened his arms and I fell into them. Our mouths met and our tongues floated around each other. If Naomi was still around and watching, another indelible image was struck into her memory—the two of us, naked below the wait, wrapped together, swaying on gentle tides of tenderness.
The kiss ended, but Bosco kept me in his arms.
“Is there more?” I asked.
“More what?”
“More. I got the distinct impression you were interested in more than a blowjob.”
“Oh,” Bosco said.
“Well, are you or aren’t you?”
He smiled. “I am.”
“Because I’m definitely interested,” I told him.
“You are?” he asked, feigning surprise. “What was that phrase of yours? You fuck up, not down? So this didn’t qualify as fucking up.”
“Sure, it did. But the fuck-up, fuck-down thing—that’s just me talking smack. Now, it’s me being serious.”
“So you seriously want me to fuck you.”
“Right now, I can’t think of anything that would make me happier.”
Bosco took a moment to think things through. “When’s the last time you were in Morocco?”
“I don’t know—a couple years maybe.”
“Do you have your passport with you?”
“Yeah. It’s down in my car. Why?”
“I was just thinking,” he said. “I could fuck you here, right here on the rug. But I’ve fucked a lot of people on this rug. It doesn’t feel right. I’ve got a little place in Morocco with a rug that’s never been used. That sounds better to me.”
And so we dressed and drove to the airport, where we boarded his jet. But we found it impossible to wait. By the time we landed in Tangiers, the deed was done.
....maybe in a second chapter? 
