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.

The rugged Toyota FJ Cruiser he led me to looked like it had been in a mud war. Seeing my reaction, Jud laughed and said, “We are off the beaten track. But, don’t worry, Mr. Hastings still likes to have his little luxuries.”

“Why the Philippines,” I asked. but he ignored me and bustled me into the vehicle and roared out of the airport. “And why the futuristic machine gun,” I asked once we were under way and I couldn’t ignore the weapon crowding the space between us.

“Did I mention we are in a remote area?” he asked. “Also increasingly plagued by roving bands of guerilla fighters—the New Philippine Army. Maoists. Never give up is their credo. It’s an MP7. If we see them first, it will protect us.”

I didn’t say anything for some time, fixated on the way he worked his way through the chaotic traffic that included garishly decorated golf cart-like vehicles and even some mule or ox-pulled wagons in addition to the usual urban sea of honking car horns.

“The age of consent,” he said when we were out of the urban sprawl of what claims to be the largest city in land mass in the world.

“What about the age of consent?” I asked.

“The age of consent in the Philippines is twelve,” Jud said dryly. “And Filipinos, in general, are underaverage in stature. When we had to leave the States, we went to where the boys are.”

Ah, yes, I should have realized that. “And you, Jud, is that why you followed him?”

“I followed him because he pays me well and is good to me—and because he needs me. And then when he’s done with them ... when they are too old to hold his interest ... he turns them over to me. Like he did with you. They are still young enough to get my juices going. And Hastings has reamed them to start being able to adjust to me.”

“You wanted them older, but still—”

“You’re wondering if I’m still going to fuck you now that you’re no longer a boy? How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I said. “No longer a boy.”

“You still look good to me,” he said gruffly.

I turned my head and looked out of the window. The roads had become increasingly rough and narrow as we drove further out of the urban area. We were in lush jungle now. I didn’t say anything, but being this close to him was making my years between sixteen and eighteen come back to me—and thoughts of how much more forceful he was after Hastings. It’s good I’d had Hastings for a couple of years before Jud, or I might not have endured it. A year into visits with Jud, though, I’d gotten a taste for him—and for that huge jet-black cock of his. I could laugh at the thought of the age of consent in the States. Four years before that I was riding a man’s cock. Two years before that a black bull was doing everything to me that I man could do—and I was taking it. I was taking it as big as they come.

I suddenly noticed that we were off road. We were in a banana plantation, driving a narrow dirt track between eight-foot high banana trees.

“Oh, are we there already?” I asked.

“No, we’re here. It’s some time before we’re at the plantation. And I can’t wait. As I said, you still look good to me.”

I turned my face toward him. He was unzipped and that big, black mamba his had escaped his trousers and was flopping against the rim of the steering wheel, three-quarters hard. He pulled the submachine gun from between us and was cradling it in his left arm. He cupped the back of my head with his right hand and pulled my face down to his lap. Sucking cock, even a big black one, wasn’t my favorite sex act, but Jud gave me no choice. I sucked his cock. Then he moved over to the passenger seat, going under me and putting my ass on his cock, with me facing the windshield, hands clutching the dashboard; and he worked his way inside me, forcing what still was the thickest dick I’d ever taken up into me; and slammed me up and down on his cock. My eyes watered at how big he was inside me, but I’d taken him for two years, so I knew I could accommodate him.

While he fucked me, a boy of maybe fourteen or fifteen appeared in front the Toyota in the center of the dirt track and stared at us fucking.

“Fucking A,” Jud exclaimed, picked the submachine gun up from the driver’s seat, and pointed it at the boy. The boy’s eyes went big, but he didn’t try to fun off. Pushing me off him, not having finished himself in me—or me, for that matter—Jud rolled out of the vehicle, went around to the front, and slammed the boy belly down on the bonnet of the car.

Saddling up behind the boy, Jud fucked him, cradling the submachine gun in his left arm and pressing the palm of his right hand in the small of the boy’s back, while the boy was sprawled, face down, on the hood of the car, arms stretched out, looking at me through the windshield of the car.

I stopped feeling sorry for him, especially knowing Jud’s supersize, when a glassy-eyed gaze of pleasure played over the boy’s face. He’d been fucked before, I could tell, and this was an adventure for him.

I don’t think Jud finished the boy, either, because the next thing I knew, the boy was running off into the banana tree field, trying to pull his trousers up onto his bare buttocks, and Jud was reentering the Toyota, grabbing my ankles and hooking them on his shoulders, with my feet pressing into the ceiling of the vehicle, and, crouching between my spread thighs, thrust back into my channel and pumped me to a mutual ejaculation.