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pleasure.
    Grunts of pain.
    The smacks of bare thighs pounding against bare
buttocks.
    The sounds were music to Antonio de Riscal’s ears,
and he was as close to heaven as he could get on earth. The kid he
had picked up earlier was worth every penny of the three hundred
dollars he’d promised him. He was hung like a stallion and his couilles were those of a bull, which came as no surprise—he
had surmised that fact from the bulging jeans.
    Stifling a moan, Antonio gripped the edge of his
glass-topped desk for dear life. He shut his eyes in ecstasy. He
was completely bent over the clear two-inch-thick slab, his torso
still flawlessly clothed in jacket, shirt, and tie, but his
trousers and briefs were gathered around his ankles, and his naked,
hairy round buttocks were raised, exposed to the air.
    Grimacing, he twisted back and forth as the muscular
boy gave him the ride of his life. No one, ever, had been that deep
inside him. At first penetration, it had hurt terribly, but now
that his sphincter was relaxed, it felt like the giant penis was
thrusting against a silk lining.
    An animal! Antonio thought as he spun out of
reality’s orbit. The kid is a dirty, low-class animal. A sex
machine!
    Even Antonio’s contortions didn’t open him up far
enough. The kid had to grab his buttocks and lift him straight off
the floor as he rammed, and the angle of the thrusts set everything
inside Antonio singing and buzzing. With every thrust Antonio could
even feel the delicious crunch of pubic hair against his buttocks.
“Yes!” he whispered, spurring the kid on. “Oh, yes— ”
    He opened his eyes just as straight ahead, barely
twenty feet across the room, the door to his office burst open.
    He stared in horror.
    Doris Bucklin! His ten-fifteen
appointment!
    Under him, his hard penis deflated, shriveling to
nothing. His squirming buttocks went dead. His face turned red.
    He thought he was going to die.
    Doris Bucklin stood there, mouth gaping like a dead
fish’s, staring at the kid still humping away at Antonio de Riscal,
Seventh Avenue’s premier designer, like it was his last fuck on
earth. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Liz Schreck was looking in
over Doris’ shoulder.
    Antonio dropped his chin down on the glass, shut his
eyes, and whimpered painfully. He wished the floor would open up
and swallow him whole. Or, better yet, that a bolt of lightning
would sizzle and strike both Doris Bucklin and his damn secretary
dead.
    And the kid’s sudden orgasmic groans only added to
the surreality of the situation. “I’m coming!” he shouted. “I’m
coming! I’m coming! I’m—”
    The office door slammed shut. Cautiously Antonio
opened one eye to make sure the women were gone, and only when he
was certain they were did he dare open them both.
    With a plop the kid pulled himself out, but Antonio
hardly even felt it. Wearily he pushed himself up from the
desk.
    The kid casually pulled off the condom that had
sheathed his penis. “Tip’s all full,” he said proudly, holding it
up to the light. “See?”
    Antonio didn’t look. He was too miserable, and only
vaguely aware of the rubber plopping into the wastebasket beside
him.
    Behind him, the kid pulled up his jeans and zipped
his fly. “Hey, I’m pretty good, huh?” He was grinning from ear to
ear. “Anytime you need a fuck, you just tell me.”
    Slowly Antonio turned around. He stared at him
bleakly. “Get out!” he whispered.
    “ Huh?” The kid scowled, suddenly
angry. “Hey, man. You owe me. You said three hundred.” He held out
his hand, palm up. “You got fucked, now you pay.”
    I got fucked, all right! Antonio thought miserably.
I fucked myself.
    The kid advanced toward him threateningly. “Three
hundred dollars, man,” he growled.
    Like an automaton, Antonio pulled up his trousers,
reached for his wallet, and took out three crisp hundred-dollar
bills. “Now, get out,” he whispered.
    “ Whassa matter?” The kid leered at
him. “You didn’t like