On The Pillbykicky1000©
Brock Barry Peterson was the handsomest man I had ever seen. He was over six feet tall and had smooth clear skin, blue blue eyes and white white wavy hair. He was always impeccably dressed in expensive well-tailored suits, crisp ironed shirts, and tastefully colored ties. He wore a special cologne. I don't know what it was, but it was heady. Sitting across from his desk, taking instructions, I was breathing in his aroma and getting absolutely intoxicated.
Just to be sitting across from him, watching his perfect features was exciting. The sapphire eyes, the straight nose, the strong chin, the expressive mouth. I could have just sat there and stared at his wonderful face for hours. But I didn't dare. I kept my eyes focused on my pen and pad as I took notes.
"That guy in purchasing on the third floor, Logan, Nicholas Logan," he said.
I nodded. I knew who Logan was.
"Get rid of him."
"What?" I asked.
"Get rid of him. He's a fag. I can't stand fags."
My heart sank. My soul froze. "But I can't do that. That's illegal."
"Find a legal reason. Tell him he purchased too many lamb chops, and they went bad," he suggested.
Brock Barry Peterson was the handsomest man I had ever seen. I had what was like a schoolboy crush on him. I kept this to myself. Brock Barry Peterson hated fags. I didn't dare let Brock Barry Peterson know that I was a fag. Obviously, I would lose my job.
Brock Barry Peterson was the Regional Manager of the Waymont Corporation, the largest retail food chain in the nation. I was the head accountant of the Waymont Corporation. I took my orders from him. I would have to find a way to can Nicholas Logan. To can him because he was gay, like me. This was so unfair. So awful. I wondered how many corporations across the nation operated in such a shameful manner. Discrimination was alive and well on Planet Earth.
Brock Barry Peterson was a mean hateful person. Why was I madly in love with him? I knew that one of his sons was gay. Gregory. They no longer spoke at all. I think Brock's treatment of Gregory was one of the reasons why his wife, Linda, had left him. His other children, Calvin, Wilson, and his daughter, Elizabeth called him now and then, but they all had their own lives. They were all married and had good jobs and incomes.
Even Gregory was a successful real estate salesman, and lived with his partner, Silvio, a handsome architect who'd moved here from Rome five years ago to be with Gregory.
I admired Gregory. I admired his courage. His bravado. The way he had always said "I'm gay. This is who I am. If you don't like it, fuck you." His father hadn't liked it.
I, on the other hand, lived in a small stuffy closet, crowded with old memories and old regrets. I had been in love once before, and Ivan had actually returned my devotion. He had wanted us to take an apartment together. To be partners. To be lovers. But then the world would have known. The world would have known my shame. That I was a queer. A homosexual. If the world couldn't accept me, how could I accept myself? I couldn't share an apartment with Ivan. Little by little Ivan drifted out of my life and was gone. I was alone. I would always be alone.
And had I been an open homosexual, I would certainly not now be the head accountant of the Waymont Corporation. Sitting across the desk from handsome, distinguished Brock Barry Peterson, fag-hater.
"How does the third quarter look, Simon?" he asked me.
"The third quarter?"
"Yes. The third quarter. The quarter we're in," he prodded.
"Oh. The third quarter. Fine, I guess. Fine."
"What's wrong with you, Simon?" he asked me. "You seem distracted."
"No. No. I'm fine," I assured him.
He was studying me with a quizzical look. I was getting nervous. I started writing figures on my pad to get my mind off Brock Barry Peterson.
"Did you make the hotel reservations?" he asked me.
"The hotel reservations?"
"For the convention?" He must really be thinking I'd lost it.
"Yes. Yes, I did," I assured him. "Everything's all set."
Next Friday we were flying out to the Retail Food Convention in Lake Tahoe, Nevada. Due to the new awareness of corporate responsibility, we were flying tourist, and sharing a room. During the last decade, there had been scandalous overspending by corporate executives who paid themselves enormous amounts of money and bought expensive mansions, cars, and yachts, and threw lavish exorbitantly costly birthday and anniversary parties, all at the stockholders' expense.
The shareholders had had enough. They wanted a crackdown. No more excess. They wanted minimum spending by executives who were not using their own money. Thus, the thrift trip to the convention in Tahoe.
"What about Logan?" he asked again. He wouldn't let it go. He was relentless in regard to queers.
"I'll handle it when I get back from the convention," I answered. "I'd rather have someone who knows his job there, while I'm away."
He nodded his head. This at least made sense to him. He would tolerate the fag for another couple of weeks.
When I left Brock Barry Peterson's office and returned to my own, I sat at my desk and contemplated the following weekend in Tahoe. I would be sharing a hotel room with a man whom I hated. A man whom I hated and was desperately attracted to. A man who would fire my ass if he knew what I was. I would have loved to do something to Brock Barry Peterson. To make him suffer. I knew I could never get him to love me, but maybe I could make him suffer. But how?
It was that night at home when I was checking my E-mail that I got the idea. All those letters guaranteeing me the world's greatest erection. All those new drugs. Suppose..... I wondered if he would.......No.....But still.....I decided it would be fun to try it.
I wasn't going to order anything over the Internet. Who knew what you would be getting. And besides, I was flying in a week. There wouldn't be time. The next few days, I visited several doctors and presented each of them with my condition. I was impotent. I needed a medication to help me get an erection. I was able to get three different doctors to write prescriptions for three different medications. I took them to three different drugstores to have them filled. I paid for them myself. I did not try to charge them to my health plan. I paid the doctors myself as well. It would be worth any expense to make Brock Barry Peterson suffer.
I also bought a mortar and pestle. And two nights before I was to fly off to the convention, in the privacy of my apartment, I poured all the pills into the mortar and ground everything to a fine powder with the pestle. I filled several empty pill bottles, which I had not thrown away, with the fine multi-colored powder. I put them in my carry-on case with my toothbrush, razor and comb. The powder would fly with me to Lake Tahoe. It would be used at the convention. I chuckled to myself. What a devilish idea. I just loved it.
When I got to the gate at the airport, Peterson was already there. I could see his striking figure and dazzling white wavy hair from two hundred yards down the corridor.
I got on the moving walkway and moved closer and closer to him. He saw me coming, and greeted me as I stepped off onto solid floor.
"Good morning, Simon."
"Good morning, Brock," I answered.
We were among the first to enter the plane as we were in a row towards the rear. Before we sat down, we stowed our carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments. Brock was having a little trouble with his. A handsome young flight attendant rushed over.
"Can I help you with that, sir?" he asked, as he eased Brock aside and worked the case into the compartment. He closed the compartment and smiled.
"Thank you," said Brock.
"You're very welcome," said the flight attendant, and went off to help someone else.
"Fag," grumbled Peterson, under his breath.
I looked at him and said nothing. The young man had only helped him, and this was what I was hearing. Hateful, hateful man. He would pay.
When we got to Tahoe, we got a taxi to take us to the hotel. We checked into our room. It was really lovely. Very large with two double beds. We hung our clothes in the closet, washed up and went down to the casino. Yes. There was gambling.
Peterson headed for the craps table right away. He was a dice man. I really liked the slot machines, but I decided I would try craps. After all, Brock Barry Peterson and I were together. Of course he would never do what I wanted to do, but I was flexible. I would follow his lead.
It was the first time I had ever rolled dice, and I guess I had beginner's luck. I rolled for over an hour before I sevened out. Peterson was winning a fortune on me. He was loudly cheering me on. Drinking, and laughing, slapping me on the back. "Come on, Simon. Hard Eight. Roll daddy a hard eight." I rolled a hard eight. He was euphoric. He was getting drunker and drunker, and happier and happier, and richer and richer. I was doing well too. I wasn't betting as much as he was, so he was cashing in on my roll more than I was. "Can you roll me a twelve, Simon? Can you roll me boxcars? Thirty to one?
"I don't know," I said.
"Sure you can, Simon. Daddy has confidence in you. One hundred dollars on twelve," he yelled to the pitman, and threw across a black chip. "Come on, Simon. Throw a twelve for daddy," I threw a twelve. He cheered, and threw his arms around me, hugging me. I didn't dare hug him back.
After my roll, it was Brock's roll. He sevened out right away, so it didn't cost him too much. The next two guys sevened out pretty quickly too.
"Come on," he said. "Let's cash in. We'll go up and rest for awhile and then go down to dinner." We had made a reservation at The Steak Stove, one of the best restaurants in the hotel.
We took the elevator up to our room, and we decided to shave and shower before dinner. Brock was in a great mood. He stripped and walked into the bathroom and began running the shower. For an older man, his body was in magnificent shape. Not an ounce of fat. Tight muscles, lean thighs, firm fleshy buttocks. And his chest was covered with a sprinkling of the same snow-white hair which grew on his head. It was hard not to sit there and look at him with my tongue hanging out. I looked, but I pretended to be uninterested. I was glad he wasn't overly modest and that he hadn't gone into the bathroom before he stripped. But he was a regular at the gym, and I guess he was pretty used to the locker room with all the guys getting naked in front of each other.
He sang while he was in the shower. Old show tunes. 'Some Enchanted Evening' from 'South Pacific'. 'Many a New Day' from 'Oklahoma'. 'Luck, Be a Lady' from 'Guys and Dolls'.
He was being lucky, all right. So far. While he was in the shower, I dug into my carry-on case and took out one of the little pill bottles. I stuck it in my pants pocket. I also made a call on my cell phone. I was ready.
After his shower, Brock lay on his bed and rested as I took my shower. I got into my own bed to rest for a while. I could smell the cologne he had splashed on after his shower. What an exciting aroma! It was giving me a slight hard-on. At 7:30 we began to get dressed. Our reservation was for eight o'clock.
In the restaurant, they sat us at a small table in the corner. Under different circumstances, it could have been romantic. Brock ordered a martini. I ordered a daiquiri. We both ordered rare steaks and baked potatoes with sour cream. Plus fried onion rings for the table.
The drinks arrived. Now was the time. Under the table I dialed a number on my cell phone. It was a signal.
I had told Nicholas Logan in purchasing that his job was in danger, without going into details. I had told him I was trying to save his job for him. I had told him when his phone rang around this time, he was to make a call to Lake Tahoe.
Suddenly a waiter appeared. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Brock. "Is your name Brock Barry Peterson?"
"Yes," said Brock, wondering.
"The gentlemen on the phone said you had white hair. There's an emergency phone call for you at the front desk."
"What could that be?" asked Brock, rising slowly and putting his napkin on the table.
"Who could know I'm here?"
"You'd better answer it," I suggested.
"Yes," he agreed, and followed the waiter to the front desk of the restaurant.
I didn't waste a second. I took out the vial of colored powder and poured some into his martini. I didn't have the slightest idea of what dose to give him. After all. these were three different medications mixed together. I shook the glass. I studied it. I poured some more powder in. I wanted to make sure it worked. I figured it was a pretty good dose now. I shook the glass again. I stirred the drink with my finger until all the powder had dissolved. It was slightly cloudy. But not too much. I put it back in front of Brock's chair. I folded my hands and waited. He came back to the table.
"Funny thing," he said.
"There was no one on the phone. Can't figure that one out."
"Strange," I agreed. "To us," I said, lifting my drink in a toast.
"To money," said Brock. We clinked glasses. I took a sip. He took a sip. He made a funny little expression with his mouth. Did he taste the powder? I didn't know, but then he took another sip. Then he downed the whole glass. I had never realized how much Brock enjoyed cocktails. This afternoon on the plane. This afternoon at the craps table. And now tonight. Was he an alcoholic? It was amazing how he had kept his looks. His strong tight build. His smooth skin. His young face.
He finished his martini and ordered another. I was still on my first daiquiri. I was not a big drinker.
He was getting more and more jolly with the alcohol. The steaks arrived and we began to eat. He started talking with his mouth full, laughing happily. "I will never forget when you threw that twelve for daddy," he chortled.
"Anything for daddy," I said dryly.
"What a guy," he leaned over and slapped me on the shoulder.
As dinner progressed, I thought I detected a strained look on his face. Every once in a while he would glance down into his lap. I saw him lift his napkin, and then put it back. This happened several times. His face was a little red now. From the drinks? From embarrassment? I wish I could have taken a peek under that napkin.
As dinner progressed, he was laughing a little less, and he seemed to be scrunching around in his chair a little. I pretended not to notice. It seemed clear he wanted to leave the table, but I insisted he order desert. We both had apple pie a la mode with vanilla ice cream. We both had espresso. We got the check and signed it to the room.
After dinner I got up, but he didn't right away. "Let's go get 'em," I said. "Back to the casino."
"I'm a little tired," he said. "Maybe I'll go up to the room. You go get 'em."
"Oh, no," I insisted. "You can rest anytime. You're here in a casino. You've got to play." I pulled on his arm. I succeeded in getting him out of his chair. He still held the napkin in front of him. I was dragging him away from the table, so finally there was nothing for him to do but drop the napkin on the table. He tried to keep his hands in front of him, but I saw what looked to be a bonsai redwood jutting out in the crotch of his pants. Talk about a tent. Did he ever have a hard on.
I began to fantasize. Wouldn't it be nice if he felt compelled to fuck me with that huge hard-on? But deep inside, I realized that not even drugs would get fag-hating Brock Barry Peterson to stick his cock in my ass.
"Back to the craps table?" I asked.
"No. No," he said uncertainly. "I'm not feeling so great. I want to be able to sit down."
Indeed he wanted to sit down and keep his hands over his enormous erection. He didn't dare stand at the craps table with his pants jutting out a foot in front of him.
"Blackjack or machines?" I asked.
"Whatever you want," he said.
Suddenly he was being considerate of me. I decided that the best thing I could do was get him into the end seat at a blackjack table and sit next to him, so only I would be able to see what was happening.
We sat down at a half-empty blackjack table and bought in. Me for $100.00. Him for $500,00. We were both kind of keeping even. He kept staring down at his lap. Surreptitiously I kept staring down at his lap. It was an impressive lap. I was dying to laugh. I didn't dare.
"You have eleven," I said. "Double down."
He looked at me in puzzlement. "What?" He was really out of it now.
"Double down," I instructed. He didn't seem to know what to do, so I reached over to his chips and put the proper amount out for a double down. He won. Double. Thanks to me. He just stared at the chips as they paid him.
"I don't feel well," he said.
I was beginning to get worried. He didn't look well. Had I given him too much?
"I'm taking you up to the room," I decided. I put his chips in his jacket pocket. I put my chips in my jacket pocket. I helped him up and guided him toward the elevator.
When we got up the room, I wanted to help him undress, but he wouldn't let me. He pushed me aside. Facing away from me he undressed, and stepped into his pajamas. Then he crawled quickly under the cover. His face was sweating. I wondered if I should call a doctor. I would have to admit what I had done. Suppose he died? It would be my fault. What should I do? What should I do? I think I was crying a little.
I got into my own pajamas. He moaned.
"What is it Brock? What is it?"
"It hurts. It hurts."
"What hurts?" I asked. I knew what hurt.
"My dick. It hurts. It hurts. It's hard. It won't go down. I don't know what's wrong." He started to cry.
I started to cry.
"Show me," I said.
"No," he said.
"Show me," I said. He pushed the blankets down and opened his pajama bottom and drew out the offending member. It was like a baseball bat. It was red and it was throbbing. This didn't look good.
"Jerk off," I said hysterically. "You've got to come. Masturbate."
He put his hand around it. "I can't," he said. "I can't. It hurts."
"You've got to. You've really got to." He wasn't doing it. I was in a panic. I had to try to get that thing down. That thing that I had caused. "Oh, my god," I cried. I rushed over and grabbed it in my hand and started masturbating him.
"No. No," he said, trying to push me away.
"Yes. Yes," I answered. "You have to ejaculate. We have no time to lose. You could die." I started stroking him. Finally he gave in and allowed me to continue.
"How is it?" I asked.
"The same," he sighed. He looked me in the eye. "You're a good friend," he said. "I appreciate what you're doing for me."
"Forget the appreciation," I said. "Just concentrate on shooting a load."
I jacked him a few more minutes. Nothing was happening. I had a big decision to make. I made it. I crawled on the bed. I lowered my face over his cock. I swallowed it. His unbelievably hot and hard and throbbing red knob was in my mouth. I worked my jaw down the shaft. I sucked and I sucked. I put my whole being into working the thick white cream out of his balls up his shaft, into my mouth. The poisonous cream which was killing him. I had to get it out of him. I redoubled my efforts. I sucked and I sucked. But now he was starting to respond a little. He was bucking his ass up and down on the bed. I put my hands under his ass and lifted him further down my throat. He started moaning a little. But these were not just moans of pain. There was passion in those moans. His hands came down on the top of my head and grabbed my hair. The he grabbed my ears. Then he plunged my head down around his stiff dick.
"Suck it. Suck it," he screamed. They probably could have heard him at the craps table. "Suck my big dick. Take my hot load. Suck it. Suck it."