Swinger Christmas

"But he's fucked you already. We've already paid our dues to the man."

"It seems it's your turn to be fucked by him. We've discussed this already. We've agreed that both of us would give the man whatever he wants. He's already had me a couple of times. Now he wants you. I wouldn't be surprised if he forced Geneva to host this second office Christmas party just to get at you. I should have seen it last weekend. After you'd left and flown home—without telling anyone, including me—he asked where you were and was irritated that you hadn't stayed."

"God, how did we get into this situation, Pam?" Cody asked. "How did we fall so helplessly under the control of an old man like Hayden. He must be fifty."

"He's fifty-two. And he's in great shape. You saw him shirtless last weekend. He's a good advertisement for his own line of sexy gyms. And you don't know the half of it. He's what you like; he's hung like a bull, and he'll fuck you to exhaustion. And you'll please him, just like I've done more than once, to assure our cushy lifestyle here in Chicago. There's something about what he likes . . . but, no, I'll let you discover that for yourself.

"Now, go tell Sally that we need air tickets for Friday out to San Francisco, returning on Monday morning. And buck up; we're swingers. You're a swinger. If Ty Hayden had picked you up in a bar and showed you his erection and his bankroll, you'd have gone with him without a whimper. We've already discussed what we'd each do when he wanted either one of us."

Cody dearly wanted to tell Pam that it wasn't as simple as that—that there was the added danger of being in San Francisco with Gordon. He hadn't told Pam how great a threat Gordon was to their cushy lifestyle in Chicago, and he didn't think there was anything Pam could do about it even if he told her. There was still Ty Hayden and his demands.

That was Cody's real problem—the dominating people around him and his natural submissiveness to them. It wasn't just Hayden and Clay, it was Pam too. When she barked a command at him like a general as she just had done, Cody knuckled under and meekly did her bidding—just like he now did by going out to the business manager's office and starting the ticketing process for San Francisco.

The times they had fucked were when she had wanted it from him or wanted him to ensnare another woman. She had flatly told him that she wanted to use his dick, and as little interested in women that he was, he had laid there while she rode him, willed himself to stay hard, and ejaculated on command.

At least with Gordon Clay—and with Ty Hayden, if Pam's description of his equipment could be believed, Cody could attain sexual pleasure from being dominated and fucked.

* * * *

"Oh, God, oh shit. Yes, fuck me. Fuck me hard. Fuck me deep! Yes, Gordon, YES!" Cody was ashamed of himself for letting loose this much—and this easily—but he couldn't help it. Gordon Clay was growling commands, and Cody was knuckling right under. Not that there was any choice now, though. Cody was trussed up like a lamb to the slaughter. For Cody, though, being bound soared him higher into the clouds. He had a fixation of being taken whether he wanted to be or not—by muscular, big-cocked men.

Gordon was bringing all of these fetishes of Cody's to bear on him. Cody, once Gordon got him alone—and especially once Gordon got his dick in him—was helpless to resist.

He had no choice in what he knew Gordon's plans were for him now, with the presence of Rashad Jackson, the black bull stud, manager of the Houston gym, who Cody had watched fuck Pam against a wall at the Denver Christmas party—the black stud Cody had wanted to fuck him. And not just the presence of Rashad, but also of the photographer, firing off photos—photos that Gordon declared he had every intention of, first, using to blackmail Cody into working for him and then to send around to the porn studios to help get Cody into gay films.

Gordon was on his back on a bench press in the San Francisco Hayden Club gym, while the office Christmas party was roaring away at the other end of the sprawling complex. Cody was stretched on his back on top of Gordon, his torso arched and his buttocks rolled back so that Gordon could have most of his hard cock buried in Cody's passage. Cody's wrists were bound together and were wedged behind Gordon's neck at the top edge of the bench, providing a headrest for Gordon's neck. Cody's legs were raised and spread, with his ankles tied off on the arms of a barbell frame.

Cody wasn't going anywhere until someone released him. He was trembling with fear-laced pleasure of being totally at Gordon's mercy. Whatever happened now wasn't his fault. Few men other than Gordon had given Cody all he desired like this—including a black bull spreading Cody's thighs with his knees.

The photographer had fired off shots of Gordon, hands grasping Cody's thin waist, pulling Cody on and off Gordon's cock. Cody couldn't help himself, even knowing that frames were being shot and a video camera was running. The big-cocked, muscular man was dominating him, fucking him hard and deep, and he was bound, helpless to the onslaught of the man. It was just the sex the Cody liked best.

He particularly liked that the big black bull, Rashad Jackson, was kneeling between his and Gordon's spread legs and giving him head while distending and crushing his balls in a big, black fist. An overpowering black man giving him pain and sex, dominating him. Perfection.

It was all good—at least until Gordon barked out, "You too, Jackson. We'll fuck him together."

Cody whimpered in less than a good way—in a distinctly fearful way but still arousing enough for Cody to fire off an ejaculation. Still, he tried to writhe away from Gordon—uselessly—as Jackson stood, still close, between their legs, and rolled on a Trojan Magnum.

"You gonna come for me again," Rashad muttered. It wasn't a question.

Cody had had every intention of staying away from Gordon at this party. His plan was to latch onto Ty Hayden as quickly as possible, let Hayden do what he wanted with him, and catch the next plane back to Chicago, just as he'd done at the Denver party.

But there was no Ty Hayden at the party. There had been an office emergency in Denver and he hadn't shown up. They were in Gordon Clay's jurisdiction now. He'd met them at the airport. He'd barked for Cody to get in the back of one limousine and when Pam came out of the arrival hall, having been distracted by Geneva, she was handed into the second limousine by Geneva.

Pam had been taken to the hotel attached to the San Francisco Hayden Key Club. Gordon had fucked Cody in the limousine into moaning submission en route to the Clays' mansion with Gordon's own form of a torture chamber in the basement, where Cody had been laced with sex-enhancing drugs, hung from hooks, and his body abused in every way that wouldn't show as bruises later in the evening for the party. All the time he informed Cody of the contract he'd sign the next morning to transfer to San Francisco and fall into the plans Gordon had for him.

Cody was completely cowed—having no backup plan to Ty Hayden not being here—and was expertly fucked and dominated by Gordon. Once Gordon got his mammoth cock inside Cody, Cody was lost to him. Even the flogging was arousing to him.

They weren't at the party long, with Pam trying to pull answers out of Cody on where he'd been, why Ty Hayden wasn't in evidence—until Cody arrived alone, on the arm of Gordon Clay, Pam had thought he'd been with Ty Hayden all afternoon and early evening—and why Cody was so sluggish and glassy eyed, before Gordon commanded that Cody come with him, and they arrived in the gym to link up with a naked and magnificently erect Rashad Jackson, and a photographer.

Cody weakly objected as he felt the bulb of Rashad's cock pressed to his asshole on top of Gordon's already-buried cock. He began to thrash around as best he could, knowing that he couldn't take two mammoth cocks at the same time—not without more preparation--until Gordon growled, "Stop fighting it. It will be easier. Relax. Take it."

Grinning, Rashad bent over Cody's chest and grasped Cody's sides with big, black mitts positioned above Gordon's hands holding Cody's waist. Cody tried to relax, as commanded, and panted hard, as he felt Rashad's cock try to enter him on top of Gordon's. The bulb penetrated him, but It just wasn't happening without more preparation. The two cocks were too big. Although Cody had been doubled before, it never had been by cocks this size.

At that moment, Geneva, Gordon's wife, entered the gym and stripped down to basic, voluptuous Geneva. She went to one of the large-frame exercise contraptions that provided support for a multiple number of exercises. She chose one that spread her legs and pointed her trimmed cunt at the men on the bench.

Rashad lost interest in trying to double Cody and went over to the exercise frame. He found a position facing Geneva, with his legs spread, under hers, and both of them suspended in the air. They selected a shared exercise where they were both swinging, attached at the pelvises, with his dick buried in her box. The energetic swinging of the two in concert were providing cries and moans from Geneva, grunts and groans from Rashad, long and deep thrusts, and vigorous friction.

Both Gordon and Cody were watching the performance closely and Gordon was timing the slamming of Cody's passage on his cock with the increasingly wild swings of the couple on the creaking and shuddering exercise frame. Gordon was grunting and Cody, lost in the fuck, was crying "Yes, deeper, harder!"

The photographer was running around snapping off photos and rolling film in frustration of which direction to film in and what the best angles were.

All four fired off at once in explosive orgasms. It was more than the exercise frame could take, though. Rashad jumped free as it collapsed, but Geneva was under it aw it came roaring down to the floor.

Gordon climbed out from underneath Cody, barking at the photographer, "Untie him."

Quickly freed, Cody ran out of the room with Rashad right behind, the latter running for help, as Gordon went to start pulling steel off his wife.

Cody, however, did exactly what he'd done in a similar circumstance in Denver the previous weekend. Finding clothes, he then hustled Pam up to their hotel room, rummaged around for what he needed, and an hour later, they were in the San Francisco. airport, each headed in a different direction.

* * * *

Of course Pam and Cody had to return to San Francisco the next weekend—the day after Christmas—for Geneva's funeral. There was no question that Cody was going, under the circumstances, and Pam showed up just to check on how Cody was doing. He hadn't seen her since they'd flown off in separated directions from the San Francisco airport.

The two met up about half way to the gravesite, where Cody had to cling to her. He was walking bowlegged and in a haze. Cody couldn't help but notice that Rashad Jackson was walking on the other side of her and holding her arm possessively.

"You and Rashad?" Cody asked.

"He appeared at the airport when your plane was taking off," she answered. "He came to Chicago with me. He's been a big comfort."

"I'll bet he has been," Cody said.

Pam caught that he was a bit miffed. "Is everything—?" she started to ask, in a whisper, because a large group of mourners—many from the various Hayden enterprise holdings—were moving from the cars to the gravesite. She changed what she was about to say. "Cody, you know about me and black studs."

"Yes, I know," he answered through clinched teeth. It wasn't that he resented that Pam was fucking the black bull. He wanted Rashad to fuck him too, and it almost had happened. "It's not that . . . oh, God, you were right. I've gotten no rest," Cody answered. "The training to it was brutal. But I think it will work out. I can manage and am beginning to enjoy it. Don't know when—or if—I can come home, though."

Cody looked up toward where the family was sitting beside the grave. As far as he knew, Gordon hadn't released any of the photos or videos he'd had taken on the fateful day a weekend before. But then, with the funeral arrangements and all, he hadn't had time to do much of what he threatened to do—which relieved Cody. But Gordon was boring his eyes into the young male model as the three of them—Cody, Pam, and Rashad—approached the gravesite, arm in arm.

Gordon nodded to Cody to acknowledge he was there and also, Cody knew, to lay down a marker that they had unfinished business.

The ceremony was brief. While the coffin was being lowered, Pam turned and walked in one direction. She looked around for Rashad to follow her, but he was wavering, walking closer to Cody toward the cars. Cody wasn't surprised. The last time they'd seen each other, they both were in compromising positions—on tape—and there had been a tragedy. Cody wasn't surprised that Rashad might like to say something to him.

But Gordon arrived, pushing between them, as they approached the line of limousines.

"My car is up there, at the head of the line," he growled at Cody as they reached the road. "We've got business to do—you have a contract to sign. Go to the car and get in."

They had reached a limousine, the back door to which opened as they arrived. A voice boomed out from the interior. "Cody is riding with me. Rashad is too. Get in, lads."

Gordon recognized the voice and froze, letting his possessing hand drop from Cody's arm.

Ty Haden continued speaking. "I understand you have some photographs and videos that I'll want to have all copies of, Gordon, and that you won't speak of them again—to anyone. Cody is with me now. I'll not have him publicly exposed."

Gordon stood there, dumbfounded, flanked, and defeated, as Cody, who had flown not to Chicago from San Francisco the previous Saturday but to Ty Hayden in Denver, climbed gingerly into the back of the limousine behind Rashad.

On the way to the airport to return to Denver, Cody did what he'd been in training to do throughout the previous week to win a new sponsor—one with power over Gordon Clay—he'd held his legs open for Ty Hayden's favorite form of fuck—the double penetration. As Ty Hayden sat in the middle of the limousine's backseat and Cody sat in his lap, Hayden's monster cock buried up his passage, and Cody faced away from Hayden, Rashad crouched and came in between their legs.

This time his cock easily joined Hayden's inside Cody's passage—the training had been rigorous, the reaming wide. Although he was growing used to it, Cody writhed and sobbed and begged, first, for mercy, and then for deeper penetration and more vigorous stroking while the two worked him in counterthrusts. He had quickly learned what turned Hayden on the most and kept in him bed and interested.

Cody had repeatedly been reamed by two cocks at the same time over the preceding week to where he could take two bulls at once with little effort. Hayden had promised to keep Cody's preferences a secret publicly and to protect him against Gordon Clay's threats—and the service he would be providing for Hayden as long as Hayden wanted it, wouldn't show in Cody's modeling gigs.

As far as Pam, she was getting the job security she wanted, she had been the one who told him he needed to lay under Hayden, and Rashad was just a temporary fix; Hayden had more studs to join him inside Cody's ass back in Denver. Rashad could return to Pam the following week.