Forced Black Cocksucker and Piss Whore

The bass from the main floor died the moment the heavy door shut behind Gareth. At fifty-two he still wore the day's armor—charcoal dress pants, a loosened tie, polished shoes that had walked the same downtown blocks for twenty years—but the private lounge's amber light made the armor look thin. He was a married accountant. He had told himself one drink, a look, then home. He had not said, even to himself, what the look was for.

Damon was what the look was for.

The younger man filled the leather banquette like it had been measured for his shoulders. Twenty-eight, dark-skinned, muscle stacked under a black tank, jeans cut so that the heavy line of his cock showed even soft. He laughed at something the woman beside him murmured, and the sound went straight to Gareth's gut. She was Yolanda, thirty-one, Damon's partner—the bartender had said her name like it mattered—red dress high on one thigh, gold hoops, a mouth built for being mean. Her hand rested on Damon's belt as if she were reminding the room who he belonged to.

Gareth's eyes dropped and stuck. The bulge was thick, long, obscene, and his own cock thickened so fast against his zipper that he had to shift his weight. He stared. He knew he was staring. Heat climbed his neck and stayed there, wedding band suddenly loud on his finger, years of wanting—grown-man wanting, late and secret and never enough—rising up his throat.

Damon turned his head. The smile left. What replaced it was flatter and hotter.

"You've been eating my dick with your eyes since you walked in," Damon said. His voice did not need to rise. "Tie. Wedding ring. That scared-hungry look. Come here."

Gareth's feet moved. He stopped a yard away, hands useless. Yolanda's gaze traveled down his body and lingered on the ridge in his pants.

"Oh, he wants it," she said, amused. "Look at his face. Fifty-two and starving, pretending he came in for a drink."

Damon stood. Up close he was bigger, heat coming off him, cologne and clean skin. He did not touch Gareth yet. He just let the older man feel the size of what he had been staring at.

"Say it," Damon said. "You've been staring at Black cock like you want it down your throat. That the hunger?"

Gareth's ears burned. His cock throbbed, shameless, already leaking against cotton. The lie cracked.

"Yes," he said, rough. "I want it. I want your cock."

Damon's mouth twitched. "Good. Don't waste my time lying."

They took him through a side door into a smaller room with a wide couch, a low table, and a lock that clicked like a decision. Yolanda kicked her heels off and sat on the arm of the couch, dress riding, watching Gareth the way a woman watches a gift she already knows how to unwrap. Damon stayed standing, close enough that Gareth could see the shape of that cock shifting as it thickened.

"On your knees is where you belong," Yolanda said, light and filthy. "You know that, don't you, accountant? Walking in here in your little office clothes, ring on, staring at his dick like a dog at a bowl. You've been wanting a Black cock to ruin that mouth for years."

"I have," Gareth heard himself say. The admission loosened something mean and sweet in his chest. "I've wanted it. I didn't—I never asked anyone."

"You're asking now," Damon said. He palmed himself through the denim, slow, letting Gareth watch the length fill his hand. "Say what you want us to turn you into."

Gareth's knees threatened. His voice came out smaller and hungrier than he had ever let it. "I want to suck it. I want you to use my mouth. I want—" He swallowed, face hot, cock aching. "I want to be your cocksucker."

Yolanda laughed, delighted. "Not just a cocksucker. Look at him, Damon. He'll take more than that if you tell him to. He wants to be nasty for you." She leaned forward, eyes bright. "You want to be his piss whore too, don't you? Open your married mouth and swallow whatever he gives you. Cum. Piss. All of it. Say it."

The word should have shamed him. It lit him up instead, a heat he had jerked off to in a locked bathroom and never said out loud. He looked at Damon's face, then at the bulge, then back.

"Yes," he said. "I want that. I want you to make me your piss whore. Please. I'll take it. I'll swallow it. I want you to use me."

Damon's hand settled on the back of Gareth's neck, heavy, not cruel. "You sure? Once you kneel, I'm not gonna be gentle about it. You're gonna suck this Black cock until I decide you're done, and if I need to piss, you drink it. Every drop. You beg, you get used. That's the deal."

"I'm sure." Gareth's breath shook. "Please use me. I want it. I consent. I want all of it."

"Then get on your knees," Damon said.

Gareth dropped. The carpet was soft under his pants. The position felt obscene and correct, fifty-two years old and finally where his hunger had been pointing. Damon opened his belt. The sound of the zipper was loud in the small room. He pushed the jeans down and his cock swung out, thick, dark, heavy, already hard enough to stand, the head broad and glossy, veins ridged along the shaft. It was bigger than Gareth had let himself imagine. His mouth watered so fast he had to swallow.

"Look at that," Yolanda said, voice gone syrupy and mean. "Old man's shaking for it. Open up, cocksucker. Show him what that hungry mouth is for."

"Please," Gareth said, staring at it, hands on his own thighs so he would not grab. "Please let me suck it. Make me your cocksucker. Make me your piss whore. I want to be used. I want your cock in my throat. I want you to piss in me. Please."

Damon stroked himself once, slow, smearing a bead of precum over the head, and stepped in until that heat brushed Gareth's lips.

"Open," he said.

Gareth opened.

The head was salt and skin and heat, wider than his mouth wanted and exactly what his mouth had come for. He sealed his lips around it and moaned, the sound humiliating and honest, and Damon fed him another inch, then another, the thick shaft stretching his jaw. Yolanda slid off the couch arm and crouched where she could see, one hand on Gareth's shoulder, pinning the moment in place.

"There he goes," she crooned. "Married accountant with a Black cock in his mouth. Look how fast he took it. Suck it, whore. Get it wet. You stared at it; now you work for it."

Gareth sucked. He hollowed his cheeks and dragged his tongue along the underside, tasting skin and the faint bitterness of precum, drool already slicking his chin. Damon was thick enough that Gareth's lips had to stretch, and every slow thrust painted more of that shaft shiny. Gareth's own cock throbbed untouched in his pants, a wet spot spreading at the tip. He did not care. He wanted the weight on his tongue. He wanted to be good at this.

"Deeper," Damon said.

Gareth took him deeper. The head bumped the back of his throat and he gagged, eyes watering, and he did not pull off. He breathed through his nose and pushed, greedy, letting Damon seat another inch until his throat fluttered around the crown. Spit spilled over his lip and onto Damon's balls. The smell of him—clean sweat, musk, heat—filled Gareth's head until the office, the ring, the drive home all went thin.

"Fuck, that's it," Damon groaned. His hand tightened in Gareth's graying hair, not yanking, guiding. "Throat that dick. You were made to choke on it."

Yolanda's laugh was soft and filthy. "Listen to him gag. He loves it. Say thank you with your mouth, piss whore. Get sloppy. I want to see strings of spit on that Black cock while you worship it."

Gareth obeyed. He bobbed, messy and eager, taking Damon to the back of his throat again and again, sucking hard on the retreat, tongue flicking the slit when the head sat on his lips. His jaw ached. His eyes streamed. He moaned around the shaft like a man finally fed. Damon fucked his mouth in short, heavy strokes, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, balls tapping Gareth's chin.

"You gonna swallow my load?" Damon asked, voice rough.

Gareth pulled off just long enough to gasp, "Yes. Please cum in my mouth. I want it. I want to swallow your cum. Please."

"Then take it."

Damon pushed back in, deeper, and held Gareth there while his hips jerked. The first pulse hit the back of Gareth's tongue, thick and hot and bitter-salt, and then another, and another, flooding his mouth faster than he could swallow. He gulped, throat working, cum smearing his tongue and leaking at the corner of his lips. Damon groaned, long and low, and kept feeding him until the spurts eased and Gareth had drunk the last of it, licking the head clean like he was afraid to waste a drop.

"Good cocksucker," Yolanda said, almost sweet, which made it filthier. "Look at you. Cum on your lip. You loved that."

"I did," Gareth rasped, voice wrecked, still kneeling, still hard. "Thank you. Please—don't stop. Use me more."

Damon stayed half-hard, heavy in his own fist, watching the older man pant. "You begged to be a piss whore. You still want it? I'm gonna piss in that mouth. You're gonna swallow every drop and thank me. Say yes if you want it."

"Yes." No hesitation. Gareth opened his mouth and tilted his face up, tongue out, desperate and sure. "Piss in my mouth. I want it. Make me your piss whore. I'll drink all of it."

Damon set the head on Gareth's tongue, one hand in his hair, and let go.

The stream was hot, sharp, startling, flooding Gareth's mouth in a rush that tasted of salt and musk and the cum still coating his tongue. He swallowed on instinct, throat clicking, and Damon kept pissing, a steady heavy flow that filled him again before he could finish the first gulp. Piss spilled over his lip, ran down his chin, soaked the collar of his dress shirt. He chased it. He sealed his lips around the head and drank, gulping loud and sloppy, eyes half-shut, cock jerking in his pants at the sheer filth of it. Yolanda watched with her lip caught in her teeth, one hand between her own thighs over the red dress, grinding slow.

"Every drop," she said. "Don't you spill what he gives you, whore. Drink his piss. That's what you came here for."

Gareth drank. He swallowed until the stream thinned to pulses, then to a last hot trickle, and he sucked the head clean, shivering, piss and spit shining on his chin. His stomach felt full and warm. His pride was gone and he did not miss it.

"Thank you," he whispered, hoarse. "Thank you for pissing in me."

Damon hauled him up by the arm, turned him, and bent him over the couch. "Pants down. You begged to be used. I'm not done."

Gareth fumbled his belt open, shoved his pants and briefs to his knees, and braced his hands on the cushion. His ass was pale, his cock hanging hard and wet beneath him, dripping onto the carpet. Yolanda slicked two fingers in her mouth and reached between his cheeks without asking twice—he pushed back into her hand with a broken sound—and worked him open, spit-slick and patient just long enough to matter.

"He can take it," she told Damon. "He's clenching like he wants to be split."

"I want it," Gareth said into the cushion. "Fuck me. Please fuck my ass. I want your cock in me. I consent. Use me."

The door opened. A woman stepped in, late twenties, dark hair pinned up, black dress, already smiling like she had been waiting in the hall for the sound of a man being ruined. Yolanda glanced over and grinned.

"Vanessa. Twenty-nine and right on time. Come sit. Our new cocksucker needs something to do with his tongue while he gets fucked."

Vanessa's eyes moved over Gareth—bent, pants at his knees, mouth swollen, chin wet—and her smile went sharp with want. "He looks eager."

"I am," Gareth said, turning his face, meaning it. "Please. Let me lick you. I want to. While he fucks me. Please use my mouth."

"Then get to work, piss whore," Vanessa said, already hiking her dress and sitting on the couch in front of his face, panties tugged aside. She was wet, bare, smelling like heat and skin. She spread her thighs and hooked a hand in his hair. "Tongue. Now."

Gareth buried his face and licked, broad and hungry, tasting her, moaning into her when Damon's cock pressed at his hole. The head was huge. It burned going in, a thick relentless stretch, and Gareth pushed back anyway, opening for it, tongue still working Vanessa's clit in messy grateful strokes. Damon sank in inch by inch until his hips met Gareth's ass and the older man was stuffed full, stuffed so deep he could barely breathe around the groan he fed into Vanessa's pussy.

"Fuck," Damon gritted. "Tight. Take it."

He pulled back and drove in, hard, and the couch shifted. Gareth cried out against Vanessa and kept licking, sloppy, devoted, his tongue sliding through her folds while Damon's thick cock hammered his ass. Each thrust knocked a sound out of him. Yolanda stood beside them, one hand on Damon's back, the other twisting in Gareth's hair, talking him down into the dirt where he wanted to live.

"Listen to that," she said. "Ass full of Black cock, face in pussy, piss still on his chin. That's a piss whore. That's a cocksucker who finally told the truth. Fuck him harder. He can take it. He wants to be used until he can't remember his own name."

"Harder," Gareth gasped into Vanessa, then sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked. "Please. Fuck me. I'm yours. Use my ass. Use my mouth."

Damon fucked him like he had asked—deep, heavy strokes that slapped skin to skin, the wet sound of spit and precum filthy in the room. Gareth's cock swung and leaked, untouched, painting the front of the couch. Vanessa ground against his tongue, thighs tight around his ears, cursing softly, telling him he was a good little whore, telling him to lick deeper, and he did, nose buried, jaw aching, ass stretched wide around Damon's cock. Yolanda reached under him and stroked his dripping shaft twice, mean and brief, just to feel how hard he was, then let go so he would stay desperate.

"You gonna cum in him?" she asked Damon.

"Yeah." Damon's rhythm broke, hips grinding deep. "Gonna fill this ass. You want my load in you, cocksucker?"

"Yes—please—cum in my ass—breed me—use me—" The words smeared against Vanessa's pussy as she came, shuddering, flooding his tongue, and Gareth licked her through it, greedy, while Damon slammed in and stayed there.

Heat pulsed deep inside him. Damon groaned, cock jerking, pumping thick cum into Gareth's ass in heavy spurts that Gareth swore he could feel, load after load, packed deep and leaking already around the shaft. Gareth shook, his own orgasm ripping out of him without a hand on his cock, striping the couch, his hole clenching around Damon's still-throbbing dick.

Damon did not pull out right away. He stayed buried, breathing hard, and his hand tightened on Gareth's hip.

"Still want to be my piss whore?" he asked, voice wrecked and sure. "I've got more. I'll piss in this fucked-open ass. You want it deep. Say it."

"Yes," Gareth sobbed, blissed and filthy, face slick with Vanessa, ass full of cum. "Piss in my ass. I want it. Fill me. I'm your piss whore. Please."

Damon let go while he was still inside, and a hot rush flooded Gareth's guts, piss jetting deep into his cum-slick hole, obscene and overwhelming, overflowing around the thick shaft and running down his balls in warm streams. Gareth moaned like he was being fed again, pushing back, taking it, swallowing nothing this time because his ass was doing the drinking. Vanessa laughed, breathless, and held his hair so he could not hide his face.

"Look at him take it," she said. "Cum and piss leaking out of him and he's still licking. Nasty old cocksucker."

When the stream eased, Damon pulled out slow. Cum and piss spilled from Gareth's gaped hole, dripping down his thighs, and Gareth stayed bent, shaking, ruined, grateful. Yolanda crouched, two fingers scooping a mix of it and pushing it back in, and he whimpered and thanked her.

Damon was not finished with his mouth. He turned Gareth's face, still hard enough from the sight of him, and fed him the messy cock again—cum, piss, the taste of his own ass—and Gareth sucked it clean without being told twice, devoted, hollow-cheeked, swallowing whatever was left until Damon cursed and gave him another shorter, thicker load straight down his throat. Gareth drank that too, gulping, eyes wet, and licked the slit afterward like a man who had found his job.

"Multiple loads," Yolanda said, satisfied, stroking his hair once, proprietary. "Down his throat and up his ass. Piss in both. He took all of it."

"I wanted all of it," Gareth said, voice destroyed, and meant every word.

He dressed with shaking hands, shirt ruined, pants damp at the thighs, the taste of cum and piss still thick on his tongue and Damon's load still leaking into his briefs. He stood in front of them—Damon zipped up and easy, Yolanda smiling, Vanessa fixing her dress—and the thanks came out raw.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for using me. For letting me suck you. For pissing in me. For fucking me. I wanted to be your cocksucker. I wanted to be your piss whore. You gave me that."

Damon tipped his chin up with two fingers, looking at the swollen mouth, the wet chin, the wrecked gratitude. "You come back when you need it again. You kneel. You open. Same deal."

"I will," Gareth said. "I'm already craving it. I'll be back to serve you. All of you. This is what I am now."

He left the private room walking carefully, ass sore and full, throat coated, wedding ring dull under the lounge lights, already counting the days until he could drop to his knees, open his filthy mouth, and swallow Damon's thick Black cock, cum, and piss all over again.