CockSlut

First off, I’m not giving you my name. Not going to happen. It doesn’t matter what it is anyway. Call me Ishmael, just like in the book. Ask and I won’t tell you, bug me about it and I won’t post any more of my story. I’m sorry to be blunt, but that’s how it has to be. I’m not giving any other names either, for hopefully-obvious reasons. No names, no companies. Probably not even dates or times or locations either, just to be safe. You never know who’s reading this, and who might be really good at following breadcrumbs. Honestly, I wouldn’t be saying anything at all, except that it excites me to no end to share this. I’m getting hard thinking about it.

My story starts just over a year ago. I was fresh out of college with a BA in business management, and was waiting tables at a local Italian place until a real job came along. I didn’t mind waiting: it’s honest work, a constant pace (usually), the money is… OK the money is shit but there are ways around that. You get an eye for the customers with the deeper pockets, so you keep their drinks filled, bring them extra garlic bread, sneak another meatball onto their spaghetti plate. It costs you nothing, costs the restaurant almost nothing, and if you do it enough, it keeps the bill collectors away. Yeah, you get the assholes who don’t believe in tipping, but they’re usually few and far between. Mostly, people are OK. Really the only problem was that I had a degree now, and I could be doing a lot more with it.

At the time I was living with another guy in a small apartment just outside downtown. The rent wasn’t exactly cheap, but the savings we would have collected by moving farther out of town would have been mitigated by the increased travel expenses. I didn’t own a car, and public transportation didn’t reach as far as I needed it to. It was a catch-22 if there ever was one.

We couldn’t afford internet access in the apartment, so all of the job hunting had to be done from my cell, which, if you ever get the chance to fill out a job application and upload a resume from a seven-inch screen, pass. My thumbs are cramping just thinking about it.

I won’t bore you with the details of my job hunt. Suffice it to say that it was long, tedious, unproductive, and depressing. Young guys with a BA in business management are a dime a dozen around here, so while there are lots of postings, they’re almost always taken by the time you apply. You still have to apply, though, because every once in a while you get a fish on the line.

I wasn’t allowed to be on my phone while at work, especially on busy nights, like that one particular Friday. I mean, I didn’t really have time to anyway, with all the orders and the drinks and the garlic bread. I ran my ass off that night, and I made out alright, tip-wise, considering. By the time we closed, and had cleaned and put everything away for the next day, I was absolutely exhausted, and forgot that I even owned a phone. I didn’t look at it until I was home and in bed.

I had an email, something like Re: Application for Executive Assistant and the company name. I knew it was a rejection, because all of the others had been rejections. Really, I only opened it so that the little mail icon wouldn’t have a notification by it.

Dear Mr. [My name, that I’m still most definitely not telling you],

Interesting. It was specifically addressed to me. Probably still a form letter, but personalized. That was nice.

I am in receipt of your application for the position of Executive Assistant, and I must say that I am impressed. If you are amenable, I would like to schedule an interview at your earliest convenience. If you are still interested, and not otherwise engaged, please reach out to my secretary. She can be reached at [yeah not giving you that either].

I eagerly await your reply.

Sincerely,

[Signed]

I had to read it twice to even understand that it wasn’t a rejection, then another time to actually pull the few details out of it. A job interview. At my earliest convenience. Call to set it up. Holy shit.

One more re-read, and I was tapping on the number to have my phone dial it. As it rang, I realized that I was calling at almost midnight on Friday. Nobody would be there. Shit. The voicemail picked up, and a very polite-sounding female voice told me that I’d called the office of the same guy who sent me the email, that the office’s hours were from blah to whenever, and that if I left a message, my call would be returned when possible. Shit.

“Um… hi. This is [me],” I said, and I’m sure my nerves could be heard through the phone. “I received an email from [the guy] about the executive assistant position. He said to call and make an appointment for an interview, and, well I guess I was just… yeah, I’m sorry I’m calling so late. I can be reached at [my digits] at any time. Or I can call back Monday. I’ll probably do that. Thanks, bye.”

That went well. But still, Jesus, I had an interview!

I didn’t get a chance to call on Monday, and didn’t need to. They called me. Actually, he called me. Called me himself. He wanted to see me that afternoon. He apologized for the abrupt timing, but said that he just couldn’t fit me in any other time during the week, and he really wanted to meet with me. I didn’t even think about it, and just immediately agreed. It was only after we hung up that I remembered I was scheduled to work.

Working in foodservice has one distinct perk: if you call and tell them you’re sick, they beg you to stay home. At least, they do in decent places. I feigned a cough and sore throat, and that was enough to ensure a day off. I spent the morning ironing my single pair of dressy pants and a white button-down shirt. I owned all of three ties: one red, one blue, one gray, and agonized over which would make the best impression. Red was flashy, confident. It shouted “hey, everybody look at me!” Blue was formal, restrained, cool and in control. Gray was “at least I put on a tie”. I went with blue.

I showed up early. You’re supposed to do that, plus I didn’t know how long the commute would take, so I gave myself plenty of buffer time. It turned out I didn’t need to: Google was right, to the minute, about how long the trip would take. God bless Google. I used the spare time to research the company, so that I might have a chance to answer the dreaded “so why do you want to work here?” question with something other than “so I can eat”. Again, I won’t give details, but really, there wasn’t a lot that was special about the company. The industry doesn’t matter, because the guy I was interviewing with was a financial manager, which was more or less identical across industries. Money comes in, money goes out, some money stays, rinse and repeat.

He, like Google, was to-the-minute on time. I swear, the second hand on the clock ticked to twelve and the office door opened. A voice called to me, strong and confident, but relaxed. We’ll just be having a conversation, that’s all, it said. I stood and followed.

We were inside his office before I really took a good look at him: tall, taller than me. Over six feet. Broad shoulders and chest, wearing a shirt that made a point to show it off. Dark, almost black hair, neatly cut, probably at an expensive place downtown. I didn’t catch his face until he turned and sat. He was young, or at least young-ish. Mid-thirties maybe? Square jaw, intense blue eyes that seemed to reach inside you and read what was in there. The smile was nice though, even genuine maybe, and showed two perfect rows of pearly-white teeth.

“Have a seat,” he offered, gesturing to a chair across from him. The gesturing hand tilted, to offer a handshake, which I returned. He had a good grip. It was firm, to let you know he was in charge, but not overpowering. I liked it.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice. Again, I’m sorry about that. I’m just absolutely booked all week and this was literally the only time I had.”

“Oh, no it’s… it’s no problem. I was free anyway so…” I shrugged, as if to say it was no big deal whatsoever.

“Good, good,” he replied with a nod, “glad that worked out then. Do you need anything? A drink maybe?”

“Oh… thanks no,” I said with a little head shake. “No I’m good, thank you.”

“Alright. Well then I guess let’s get to it, shall we?” I agreed, and the interview started.

I could retell the interview, give you all the things we talked about, go over the back-and-forth, but let’s be honest, that would be filler. It would only be lines taking up space. I’ll just condense it. We talked about my education, my background, what I did for a living now. He didn’t ask me why I wanted to work there, and I think I still haven’t thanked him for that. It’s a stupid question, and I would later learn that he hated stupid questions. In all, the interview went well, and I was pretty sure he was starting to like me for the job. Then… things took a left turn.

“So, how about we get serious for a moment?” he asked, his voice taking the tone of a man who was finally getting to the actual point of the conversation. I assumed he was going to start talking about money, benefits. We were about to start the negotiations. I was right, but also so very wrong.

“The salary we’re offering is decent, fair, just above market average for the position and your experience. You won’t get rich off of it, but you definitely won’t starve.” Not starving was being rich, for me at that time, anyway. “But, I think there’s an option to increase it. Maybe… double it.” My eyebrows raised. “We have to have an agreement first though. I think you’d be a good fit for this position. I like you, and would like to have you come work for me. If you’re amenable though, I’d like to talk about the possibility of… extra duties.”

The office fell silent as we stared at each other across the big desk. He was letting it sink in, even though I had no details yet. He wanted me to ask. “What… um… what kind of duties?” Now I was the fish on the hook, and he began to slowly reel me in.

“Nothing illegal,” he started. It turned out, the legality of what he was asking was debatable, but in the moment, I didn’t know that. “Like I said, I like you. I like your resume, I think you’re talented, and I like the look of you. In fact, stand up. Let me get a better look.” I thought he wanted to double-check the way I was dressed, so I pushed my chair back and stood. “Good, good.” He was nodding. “Turn around.” I did, all the way, until I was facing him again. He nodded. “Take your shirt off.”

I stood still, staring at him, confused. “I’m sorry… what?”

“Your shirt,” he repeated, rather matter-of-factly. “Take it off please.” My mouth dropped open a little. “I don’t want to ask again. If you’re interested in the extra duties and increased salary, take your shirt off.”

What the fuck was going on, I wondered. I mean, it clicked sort of, but also not. I got what he wanted, I understood, but not exactly why. Looking back now, it should have been perfectly obvious, and it probably is to you right now reading this, but I swear to God I didn’t understand at the time. “I… uh… OK…” Dollar signs were still floating through my head. Twice the posted salary, which was already decent enough. I could take my shirt off for that. I undid my tie enough to slip it over my head, then started on the buttons.

“Take your time,” he instructed, his eyes intensely looking. I slowed, still somehow innocently naive as to his intentions. I untucked the shirt and undid the last of the buttons, then shrugged out of it, draping it over the back of the chair. His eyes didn’t move from me.

Now, I’m not a big guy, but not exactly small either. I guess I’m average height? 5’10” and around 175. The waiting job kept me moving constantly, so I was (still am) fairly trim. I have what I like to think of as a runner’s body: muscled but not overly-so, and lean. Something in his eyes said that he liked what he was seeing, and somewhere in the back of my brain, I was starting to catch on.

“Thank you. Pants next please.”

“Whoa, hang on,” I replied, holding a hand up. “You got the shirt, but…”

“And I will have the rest,” he interrupted calmly. “Unless you’d rather end the interview now. There wouldn’t be any hard feelings. I’m asking for something that isn’t exactly easy, I understand that. But believe me, if you’re unwilling, someone else will come along who is. I’ll get what I want either way. The only question is whether it will be from you.”

Fuck.

I needed the job, the money, the benefits. I needed to get out of my tiny apartment, and out of debt. I needed… to take my pants off. I stared at him, thinking it over, considering. I was just showing him… right? Just a look, and then we’d move on. Part of me knew that wasn’t going to be true.

“Alright, well it was nice…” he started.

“I’ll do it,” I cut him off. “Give me a second, but I’ll do it.” He gave me a single, slow, indulging nod, and I breathed, in, out, in, out. “Ok,” I said on a strong exhale.

I undid my belt, leaving it in the loops, then unbuttoned my pants. Again I hesitated, and he waited for me, eyes ever on me. I kicked out of my shoes, then lowered my pants, revealing a green pair of boxer-briefs. The pants were draped over the chair, and I stood before him in my underwear and socks, a little unsure of what to do now.

“All of it,” he instructed. I knew it was coming. Of course it was. If he could get me to go this far, why not all the way? Reluctantly, I nodded.

The socks went first, placed over the pants. Finally, I hooked my thumbs into my underwear and, with a breath, slid them down and off. I stood back up, fully nude for this man I had just met, who might become my boss.

His eyes slid over me, for the first time taking everything in, head to toe, with a couple of stops on the way. Like I said, I was lean but with some muscle. I had pecs, but not really abs, not then, although my belly was flat, and parts of me were covered in dark, although sparse, hair.

“Nice cock,” he mused, more a comment than a compliment, “although maybe a touch on the smaller side.”

For whatever reason, I felt the need to defend myself. “I’m… a grower rather than a shower.”

“Ah, I see. I suppose that would do then. Show me.”

“W… what?”

“You said you’re a grower. I need to know how large you can be. Show me.”

I was shocked into silence for a moment. “H… how am I…?”

“However you do it. Whatever gets you hard, do it. Now please. I’d like to see.”

What in fucking fuck was this, I thought. Then I thought about the money again. Jesus.

“Do I just…?” I gestured toward my flaccid cock as it hung slightly to the left. He nodded. “OK then…” Usually when I masturbated, I was already at about half-staff, already aroused by whatever. This time I had to start off with nothing but my own touch. It was… awkward. I had to close my eyes and call up the last porn I had watched: two blonde college girls going at each other. It took longer than usual, but it worked. Eventually I was hard enough to start stroking, which I did.

In my case, there is a dramatic difference between flaccid and erect. When soft, I’m no more than a couple inches. Hard, I’m just over seven. No, it’s not a monster, it wouldn’t get me automatically into porn, but it turned out, he didn’t want that anyway. I could feel that I was at full erection, as big and as hard as it would get, when he spoke.

“Very nice. Not huge, but excellent shape. I love the little upcurve it has. It suits you.” What was up with this guy? “And you’re circumcised. I like that. Oh, I have no problem with men who aren’t, I just like circumcised cocks better. I’m circumcised.” My eyes popped open. Why was he now talking about his own manhood? “Would you like to see?”

My mind reeled. Where was this going now? I was already nude in front of this guy, hard and jerking off. This was stupid, I needed to leave, and now. Except… the money… At the time it was the great shame of my life. Not so much anymore, but that day, and for a while after, I had trouble looking at myself.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said with good humor, and stood. I could already see the bulge in his pants. This was exciting him. Of course it was. I still don’t know if it’s the power, or if he truly is attracted to me, but whatever it was, he was getting off on it.

Like me, he started with his shirt, one button at a time. “Keep going,” he instructed, as he caught my hand slowing. I did. His shirt came off and he revealed the broad chest I had expected, covered in hard, defined muscle, though surprisingly hairless. I noticed that his nipples were hard as well, and to this day I’m not sure why I really even paid attention to that. I guess I just like nipples.

Unlike me, he took little time moving on to his pants. The belt was undone and the pants lowered in just a few seconds. He wore briefs, black, and they did little to conceal or contain him. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach.

He did take his time with the underwear, slowly revealing himself, half an inch at a time. It took a while. The first thing I noticed was that he was hairless there as well, perfectly smooth. His whole body was like that. The next was the pure size of him. Only halfway erect, his cock was already bigger than mine, and as he’d said, he was in fact circumcised.

“Do you like it?” he asked as he stood nude. I couldn’t say “no”. That would have guaranteed an unsuccessful end to the “interview”. I nodded. “Good. Would you like to look closer?” I nodded again. “Come then.”

Still stroking myself, I stepped around his desk, standing only a couple of feet from him. “Go ahead,” he instructed. I furrowed my eyebrows and gently shook my head. I didn’t know what he meant. “Look closer,” he clarified, and I understood. Slowly, I knelt.

I sort of sat back on my feet, and wound up looking a little bit upward. His massive shaft loomed over me, the head pointed more or less at me. From this angle I could see his balls better. They matched his cock in size, and looked heavy. “It’s more impressive when it’s hard. Would you like to see it when it’s hard?” he asked, and I had to admit… I was becoming… sort of mesmerized by this man and his giant cock. “Then I guess you’ll need to make it hard, won’t you?”

I stared up, past his organ, to his face. “H… how…?”

“Mouth, hands. I think you can figure it out.” Yep. There it was. To get the job, I would have to perform a sex act for my prospective new boss.

“I… I’ve never…”

“That’s OK,” he said in a surprisingly understanding, soothing voice. “You’ll learn.” Oh. This… wasn’t a one-time thing. But… the money…

My free hand was moving upward without me really realizing it, until my fingertips brushed against the underside of his shaft. It twitched at the contact and without thinking, I pulled my fingers back. “It’s OK,” he reassured me, and I tried again, this time managing to keep my fingers on him.

I had never noticed how warm a cock is, not even when touching myself. I guess because of the blood flow or something. Carefully, I wrapped my fingers around, letting my whole hand absorb that warmth. I held him for a moment, then gently slid my hand all the way to the base. “Like this?” I asked, honestly wanting to know if I was doing it right. He nodded, but said nothing. Gently, I started stroking, base to tip, tip to base, while doing the same with my own. The trips up and down took more time on his.

Over the next minute, he hardened in my hand, growing still, until he finally reached his full size. It curved slightly upward and, other than being circumcised, any resemblance to my own cock ended there. He was, simply put, absolutely huge. My fingers no longer made it all the way around him. The head had turned a slight purple, and veins stood out along the shaft. A little drop of precum leaked from the head, which he noticed.

“Would you get that, please?” As if a phone was ringing.

“S… sorry?” I asked, voice barely a whisper.

“My precum. Would you get it? Lick it off.”

I don’t know if it was a spell, or just what, but I did. I didn’t really hesitate, or think much about it before I leaned in and gently licked the head of his shaft, cleaning the little drop from him.

“Thank you,” he said, and continued to watch.

I stroked him more, and when he wanted me to go faster, I did, on him and on myself. When he wanted a tighter grip, I did, on him and myself. When he wanted me to play with his balls for a minute, I did, on him and myself. His were a lot bigger than mine.

“OK, stop,” he said, abruptly. My hand dropped from his balls and rested on my thigh. “I’d like you to suck it now,” he continued. I saw that coming.

“I… I don’t think I can…”

“Take it all?” he finished for me. “No, I”m sure you can’t. Not yet. You’ll get used to it. Right now, I just want to see what you can take.” It turned out the answer was “not much more than the head”.

By now I was already invested in this, already beyond the point of no return, or so I thought anyway. If I stopped now, just like at any other point in the interview, I was done. Don’t get me wrong. I had a choice. I could have said no. I could have stood up, dressed, and walked right out. I didn’t.

Instead, I nodded again, and sat forward a little, lining up for my first blowjob, or the first I’d ever given anyway. It was the first of many.

The only reason I knew at all what I was doing was experience from the other end of this. I knew what I liked, and figured if I did the same, he’d like it. With some hesitation, I brought my lips to the head, gently kissing it, and licking up a new drop of precum. He sort of grunted at that, a pleased sound, so I figured I was on the right track. I kissed and licked him again, then opened my mouth, relaxed my jaw the best I could, and tried to sink down on him.

I had to stop just after the head. My god, if he felt big in my hand, he was absolutely massive in my mouth. How in the hell could women deepthroat cocks? Even normal ones, and this was far from normal. I did the best I could, swirling my tongue beneath the head, over the glans, then gently sucked as I pulled my mouth off, making a sort of kissing sound as we separated.

“Good,” he praised, and I tried again. I pushed a little farther, and got maybe another half inch. I could only take a small fraction of his length, but I did what I could with it, sucking and licking, sliding my mouth up and down on him.

“Lick the shaft,” he said after a while. I nodded, pulled off of him, then held him in my free hand, lifting his cock, then slowly licking him from base to tip. I kissed the side, nibbled, suddenly remembering every blowjob video I’d ever seen. I licked him again, and heard him sigh. Again I popped him into my mouth, but this time still had my hand on the shaft, and started stroking as I sucked. Meanwhile, my other hand was still on my own cock, stroking up and down, back and forth.

“You’re ignoring my balls,” he commented. “Never ignore the balls.” That meant I’d have to take my hand off of myself. I was… oddly reluctant, but did, and fondled his sack. I was right: his balls were heavy, but they rolled easily in my hand. I gently pulled at them, cupped and squeezed just a little, while my mouth and other hand took care of his cock.

He didn’t warn me when he came. Not really. I knew he was getting closer, could tell by his breathing, but I didn’t know exactly when. Not until his hand went to the back of my head and held me in place. I didn’t have time to react or to pull away. He came in my mouth.

I kind of jerked backward at the first spurt of cum, but he held me to him. I anticipated the next ones, but still wasn’t ready, and didn’t know how to handle it. Instinctively, eventually, I swallowed, not having much other choice, but some still managed to dribble out onto my chin. God, this guy was a fire hose. More and more, and I started to get used to the musky taste. I think, in all, he spurted a dozen times, all of it into my mouth, although it didn’t all stay there. I had a little on my chest, quite a bit on my chin, a drop or two on my thigh.

When he was done, he stepped back, pulling his cock from my mouth. It flopped against his thigh, heavy and wet with cum and saliva. I looked up, and he had this sideways grin. “You’re a mess. You should clean that up.”

“Oh… um… yeah…” I said, really noticing the cum all over me. “Can I have a tissue or…?”

“Nope,” he said with a slight shake of his head.

I nodded. “Gotcha.” I wiped up the cum with my fingers, then licked it off. It honestly wasn’t all that bad. “What about me though?” I asked, gesturing to my still-erect cock.

He shrugged. “That’s your problem. You want to finish yourself off? I’ll watch.” So I did. I leaned back onto my feet again, legs spread, and jerked myself off, almost more to just get it over with and to not have blue balls for the rest of the day. I warned him that I was about to cum, and that time he tossed me a tissue, probably so I wouldn’t stain his carpet. I came in it, and when I was done, I dropped it into the trash.

I stood and stepped to the front of his desk, now not at all worried about being nude in front of him. What was the point? “So now what?” I asked.

“Now you get dressed,” he said, slipping into his own underwear.

“That’s it?” I asked, incredulous. “You dangle money in front of me, make me strip, make me suck you off, and now it’s just ‘see you later’?”

He glared at me. “No. Now it’s ‘you get dressed, you go home, and you come in first thing tomorrow’.”

I stopped in my tracks and stared at him. “So… I’m hired?”

“Yes. If you want the job, it’s yours. But… don’t think this was the only time. That’s going to be part of it.” He was pulling his pants on now. “A big part, actually. OK probably most of it. I’m under a lot of stress in this job, and if I don’t have a way to relieve it, well… “ he let the thought hang in the air. “You’re my stress relief. You’ll suck my cock when I tell you. Eventually you’ll bend over and let me fuck you when I tell you. You’ll go out of town with me. You’ll meet clients and businessmen and you’ll… relieve their stress too.”

I didn’t respond. What could I have said? “You’re fucking nuts?” No, because he wasn’t. He knew I would. I started to dress myself.

“A couple things. For one, shave.” I touched my chin, which was perfectly smooth. “No, I mean everything,” he clarified. “You’re going to be clean-shaven at all times. Perfectly. Like I am. Second, take these.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a box, which he dropped on the surface. I reached for it, curious, and pulled off the cover. Three metal bulbs -butt plugs- glistened in the light. “You’ll start training yourself. Every day. All day. It’ll take a couple weeks. Go slowly, don’t hurt yourself.” I looked up at him, then back down. “I told you I was going to fuck you,” he said. I nodded and put the cover back on the box.

We finished dressing, and when we were done, there was no sign of what had happened. “So, do you accept?” he asked as I re-tied my tie. What could I do? He… he didn’t like… force himself on me. And… it’s different now, but at the time, I was pretty sure I wasn’t gay. Yet… there were those butterflies as I knelt, looking up at his cock. I liked that feeling. I wanted more of it. “Fine,” I said, picking up the box of plugs.

“Start with the little one tonight,” he instructed, pointing at the box. “Tomorrow I’m going to check to make sure you have it in, and that you’ve shaved.”

“Does this ever go the other way? Do you ever suck me off?” I asked, just trying to understand what I would be getting from this.

“No,” he said firmly. “That doesn’t happen. But I know that one of the clients has a thing for sucking off young guys, so…” he shrugged. “Maybe then.” I nodded. Fine.

“Is this every day?”

“Not necessarily, but you’d better be ready for it every day, just in case.” I nodded again.

“Ok,” I said with a breath. “I’m going to go.” I aimed my thumb at the door. “I’ll… take these and um… get started I guess.” I lifted the box of plugs for a second. He nodded, then looked at something on his desk, already back to business.

“Eight tomorrow,” he said, not looking up.

“Eight,” I repeated.

I stopped on the way home and picked up a new razor and some lube, still not quite believing what I was getting myself into, and starting to decide that it was a horrible, terrible idea. Until I got home and saw where I was living. The tiny apartment was cramped, even for just two people. It needed to be cleaned, and the rug shampooed. The kitchen sink leaked and the fridge sometimes liked to go out, spoiling all the food in it. If he was genuine that he’d pay me twice what they advertised, I could easily move out of this place and find somewhere on my own. Yeah, I had to sell myself for it, but… I mean… people did that all the time, in all kinds of ways. Plus, I was coming to realize that I didn’t hate what I’d done. Oh, I was ashamed enough that I could never tell anyone [except you wonderful people], but not so much that I wouldn’t keep doing it. Like I mentioned before, it took a couple weeks before I could really look at myself in the mirror, which made shaving a challenge. I eventually got over it.

So that’s how it all started. That’s how I became a cockslut. I have a bunch of other stories, like the time I sucked him off while he was in a video conference, or when I met that client who loved giving head. I’m willing to tell if you’re willing to listen. Let me know.