One, two, three more pushoffs with my feet on the back of Walter’s executive chair on both sides of his wooly headed brown face and then I felt him tense and jerk off his wad inside of the rubber bulb deep up my passage. He was a black bull and his still throbbing, ever hard dick inside wasn’t finished. I knew that; he knew that.
He was sitting in his executive chair in front of his executive desk in the managing editor’s office of the “Art Today” magazine in Savannah, his shirt open to show his ebony torso, heavy, with beer belly, but also still hard. His trousers and briefs were puddled around his ankles, his feet flat on the floor. Trouserless myself, my white shirt open and hanging off my sides, my tie flipped over my shoulder, I was sitting on his lap, facing him, my socked feet pressed into this chair back on either side of his head, my shoulder blades wedged against the front edge of his desk, and my arms extended out from my sides, my fingers gripping the side edges of the desk to hold myself steady while I pumped my passage on his jet-black monster cock.
Walter was my editor at the art magazine and was giving me an assignment and more. I’d given the black giant whatever he wanted to land this job as an art writer at a national-level glossy magazine while I was still studying at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Getting to put his cock inside me was what Walter wanted to give me the job. I didn’t mind. Barely twenty, I’d enjoyed black bull cock for years already.
“Is this what you called me in here for?” I asked, panting and resting now, knowing Walter would have another load for me before I got off his desk, and wanting him big and pumping inside me again.
“I’ve been thinking of this all morning,” he answered in his deep baritone voice, “But, no, it’s not what I called you in for. You’ve heard that the Museum of Modern Art in New York is doing an exhibit on Warner Hastings’s landscapes, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, my antennae up now, as they were anytime Hastings was mentioned.
“He’s a Savannah boy, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” I certainly did know that. He’s why I had this job. He’s pretty much why I was here, sitting on Walter Dacks’s dick, my back to the front edge of his desk and my feet planted on either side of his head.
“‘Art World’ wants to do a companion piece on him, to go with the art exhibit and to claim him as ours. You knew him. We want you to interview him and do the feature.”
“No one knows where he is,” I asked.
“We’ve found him. He’s in the Philippines. He’s gone where the boys are. We’re sending you to the Philippines.”
“When?” I asked.
“Right after I’ve gotten another piece of you,” Walter growled. Then, swiveling me on his still-hard cock, so that my belly was pressed to his desk top and my legs were spread and draped over the arms of his executive chair, he was hunched over my body from behind, standing between my thighs, pressing my shoulders to the desk top and once more beginning to pump me with that fat cock of his. Throwing my arms over my head and grabbing the rim of the other side of the desk top, I hung on for dear life as he thrusted hard deep up inside my channel.
Walter knew I wouldn’t turn down the assignment, even though it meant I’d have to make alternate arrangements for my classes, projects, and exams at SCAD while I was gone. I hadn’t heard from Warren Hastings for over two years—no one had. He’d left for parts unknown almost in the dark of the night, just a few days before he was to go on trial in a pedophile case. That it also was at the height of his fame as a landscape artist only heightened the notoriety he was getting from it.
I hadn’t doubted that he was guilty. He had initiated me when I was barely fourteen. He’d been teaching art composition at SCAD and I, somewhat of a progeny, had been accepted into one of his studio classes. He had given me special attention, saying I had a gift. As I got older, I realized that my gift was more of a proficiency and that my calling was in writing about art than creating it.
At the time, though, having a notable artist, like Hastings, a big, burly redhead, with a bluff, commanding, bigger than life, touchy-feeling persona who turned out such masterful landscapes was overwhelming. I would do anything to be in his favor and having his attention—and I did everything for it.
I modeled for his class in the nude, Hastings telling me what a beautiful, perfectly formed young man I was, with auburn curls, with natural blonde highlights as I spent considerable time at the Tybee Island beaches, where my parents had a summer home, and below-average height but with a well-formed, smooth-skinned body. He told me I was the image of a Roman youth and that I’d be a perfect model for one of his classes in the art form of the human body.
I posed nude—a week after turning fourteen. As a reward, he took me to his house afterward to show me his special art collection. I found that he painted more than just landscapes. His private art collection consisted of nudes of boys not any older than I was. He told me we’d be Roman for the evening and that boys my age were permitted to drink wine in Roman times. So, I drank his wine. He also told me of the special relationships Roman men had with boys—as mentors and guiders and initiators. I drank all of that up along with his wine.
To get the full effect, he had us dress as in Roman times, me in a short skirt and sandals with lacings up my legs, he in a toga. As I heated up from the wine and looking at his paintings, including the complimentary sketch he had done of my in the SCAD classroom earlier in the day, I let him undress and then dress me in Roman style. I let him tell me of the special relationship Roman men had with boys. I would deny him nothing, I was so overwhelmed by the man. I didn’t deny him anything. I let him fondle me and kiss me. When he wanted me to go on my knees and brush the folds of his toga away and take him in my mouth, I did so, as best I could, gagging, but giving him what he wanted, but would engorge him. I let him fondle me some more and move his hands and mouth over my body. I sighed for him as he closed his hand around my cock and made it engorge and milked me until I’d come for him. And then I let him fuck the stuffing out of me.
I was just two weeks past my fourteenth birthday.
He wasn’t overly thick or long, I learned from subsequent experience, and he was as gentle with me at first as he could be, so I went along with it, believing him that the initial pain would recede into pleasure over time. He pinned me up against the arm of his sofa, his heavy body between my legs, a pillow under the small of my back, and he held me close and fully possessed my lips with his, as he worked his way inside me, raw, and, at the time, seemingly impossibly thick. But he gave me time to adjust to him. He came quickly that first time, and so did I. Before I left that night, though, he had fucked me harder and at greater length.
And I kept going back to him for the next two years, quickly adjusting to his needs and desires and able to take him more vigorously and for longer duration. All the time he was my mentor, my idol.
His interest never completely vanished, but it did wane after two years. At sixteen, I was no longer the young boy that whetted his appetites as I had done at fourteen. He still occasionally bedded me, but when I was sixteen, he turned me over to the man who ran his household and kept his life free of care. Jud Taylor, in his thirties and thus younger than Hastings by a decade, was big, muscular, and very, very black. With Jud I had to start almost back at the beginning, because he was a bull, much harder to take than Hastings was, and he was a cruel and demanding top. Whereas that might have put me off men, it didn’t. I luxuriated in big, black cock, and when Hastings and Taylor both had picked up stakes and disappeared in the night when I was eighteen, what I had gotten from Jud was what led me to Walter Dacks, and the art magazine he edited in Savannah.
Hastings hadn’t left me high and dry. He’d continued being my mentor and had gotten me into SCAD and had introduced me to Walter.
I was sorry to see my mentor go, but he’d done what he could for me. I had regretted not knowing where he’d gone, but I understood, because of the court case he was absconding from, that he couldn’t let me know where he was. I was glad to know now, and happy to be the one who Walter sent to interview him.
“So, you are still with Mr. Hastings,” I said as I saw Jud Taylor, head and shoulders above the teaming crowd at the Davo City airport on the southern Philippines island of Mindanao make his way to me. I’d been told I’d be met for the drive south into the jungle of the Soccsksargen rural region. I’d been told that the Hastings property was near the village of Kiamba on the coast of the Moro Gulf—about as remote a spot as the usually urban Hastings could have found.
“Yes, of course I am,” he answered. “You’d best make a stop before we go. It’s a long ride.”
He had put on hand on my arm and the other possessively on the small of my back to direct me toward the baggage area. I tremble in remembrance. Would I have come if I knew Jud was still with Warren, I wondered. But then of course I could have. I could feel the arousal already of being in the vicinity of the big, black bull. Others around us could sense the power and sensuality of him too, many reacting out of wariness or attraction—or a combination of both. I had always struggled with the combination.
.... There is more of this story ...