Oilman Jim's Blog

At least Pete was making love to me. With a sigh of resignation, I took over the rhythm of the fuck, and Pete responded with appreciative sighs and moans that told me that I could count on preferred status in the housekeeping department as long as I put out for him like this.

Later as I lay there in the dark in his arms, almost asleep, I heard Peter mutter, "Whoever sent you here was malicious. Anyone who knows these rigs, knows that this is no place for a pretty boy like you."

And that's when it hit me. Mr. LaFleur had arranged this on purpose. He hadn't let me go easily and with good will. He was having his revenge on me. Three weeks of fucking hell. But what was three weeks anyway? Once the thickness and length of Oilman Jim's cock had rebored my hole, all of the other men were just another furtive fuck in the dark. After this I would be so used that I might as well go to that male brothel in New Orleans. Oh, well, if they paid well . . . . Hadn't I already turned into a prostitute here with Pete, exchanging sexual favors for preferential treatment?

I turned and pushed Pete gently down on his back on my bed, my knees straddling his hips, and started giving him a proper "I am yours" fuck with my undulating pelvis. Pete gazed up into my face with a look of awe and love and deep appreciation. And I began at that moment to learn how to manipulate men to do what I wanted them to do.