Gay

Keywords: The, Pill, On,

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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.

I shrugged.

"Who could know I'm here?"

I shrugged.

"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.

"What?"

"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."
Gayle laughed, "Are you sure you've never sucked dick before?"

Uh, no, but I've watched my Mom suck my Dad's thing, er, dick."

"You've watched your parents?"

Lana grinned, "Well, they get pretty noisy when they have sex.

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Keywords: The, Pill, On,