White Collar Tales

Power Play Bill Drake (billdrake@hotmail.com)

FOR ADULTS ONLY. The following contains depictions of sexual acts between men. If this is inappropriate for your age or offends you, go no further. The story is fiction. In real life, protect yourself and your health.

Thanks to those who've written in for this series of stories about white collar men. If you like this story, feel free to send me a note: billdrake@hotmail.com.

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White Collar Tales #22 Power Play

My life had become a living hell since I was put on the K Street client. But I guess living hell comes with the territory of making partner in a New York law firm. At least for stretches at a time. Our firm weren't lobbyists but we had intellectual property expertise and a very motivated lobbyist was willing to pay us an absurd amount of money for me to practically live in DC for the month to help them with...

I won't bore you with the details. Let's just say Fielding, the senior partner who gave me the assignment seemed to have a particular glee he wouldn't be the one spending three 70-hour work weeks in DC. "Thanks, Drake," he said, "you're the perfect man for this one. Just get a power suit or two. Those DC fuckers like to be impressed."

So that's how I ended up in a downtown hotel bar on Saturday night dressed in an Oxxford charcoal pinstripe suit, red Hermes power tie, and an 80s looking custom shirt, you know, a blue striped one with the white collar. This was the reason I got sent for this kind of shit. The other junior partners were too young or even just looked too young to seem authoritative for this crowd. I'm not over the hill (42), but between my height and the salt-and-pepper coming in, I was pretty much playing the part Fielding cast me in.

Yeah, I was a walking cliche or something, but fuck it. No need to change, when after a day pouring over paperwork, what I really needed was a double scotch, stat. Maybe catch the last bit of the Rangers-Canadiens game.

I'd nearly sat down before I noticed noticed him. Three seats away at an otherwise empty bar sat a man drinking his domestic beer and watching the hockey game on TV. Shorter than me, I'd guess 5'10, maybe 5'11" and BIG. I mean, not a muscle head or fat or anything, more like a muscle bear. Only he was clean-cut, clean-shaven except for a suburban-dad style goatee that was a shade darker than his short-cropped, thinning blond hair. His bulk was packed into a pink polo shirt tucked into some khakis, and a gold wedding band shone on his left ring finger. My immediate guess was a tourist trying to get some alone time away from the family.

I don't think I realized until that moment how unbelievable horny I was. Except for a couple of quick loads tossed out in the shower I'd neglected my little man a lot over the last couple of frantic weeks. And my libido was roaring back with a vengeance. I couldn't have stopped that boner rising in my briefs if I tried. And I didn't really try. This man wasn't my normal type. I usually go for guys a few years younger than me, tight body, big asses... you know, the kind that me and thousands of other professional guys in New York go for. But at that moment I was getting off on looking this rack of beef over.

"Watching the Rangers?" I asked as I positioned myself at the chair next to him. Angling for an invitation. It worked.

He answered in a Southern accent, and it was when he turned to me that I saw his ice-blue eyes. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Not really a huge hockey fan, but it was on. Pull up a chair if you want to watch." There were other a half dozen other seats at the bar, but this one did have the best view.

"Thanks," I said.

"The Rangers aren't doing so hot," he said.

"Yeah, sometimes it's better to miss most of the game."

"Busy working?" he asked. It was almost 9 o'clock.

I was surprised Beefy Dude was in a chatty mood, but fine with me. I took a sip of whisky and exhaled a sigh. "Yep. This week's about worn me out."

"I bet you have a real high-powered job."

I turned my eyes from the TV to the man next to me. My immediate reaction is that this guy's a real smart ass. But then I see his blue eyes looking at me in complete sincerity. What the fuck?

He sees my reaction. "I mean, you seem dressed like you do something important."

Fuck me, the guy's serious. There's a level of naivete here that goes straight to my boner. I don't think Beefy Dude's seen my erection yet, but I can see he's looking at me, at my clothes, the french cuffs, the spread color, the whole nine yards. I still haven't spoken, but he continues, a little nervous now.

"You know in Georgia we don't see a lot of guys like you. At least not in Tifton."

"Dime a dozen, here, buddy," I say, giving a shrug, still trying to figure this guy out.

"I know. I've spent this whole trip amazed." Beefy Dude stopped himself mid-sentence, aware he was going to reveal something he shouldn't. And maybe he had already.

Suddenly it clicked. This guy liked it. Liked the power suit, liked the idea of powerful men. It wasn't the first time I'd encountered the phenomenon, but this wasn't some twink looking for a daddy, this was a married man who was pushing 40, if my guess was correct. The realization bowled me over.

Now, the guys defenses were kicking in and he was back to staring at the TV screen, nursing his beer. Fuck. I wanted to keep the connection going. "What are you in town for?" I asked.

His eyes lit up a little that I was starting a conversation and he turned back toward me. Man, his chest was magnificent, nice round melon-sized forms of thick muscle capped by pointy tits, which poked up in his shirt. "Chaperoning a bunch of high school seniors. I teach history... coach too..."

"Not hockey, I take it."

He laughed. "No, sir. Football. The boys won State last year, too. Couldn't be prouder."

"Wow, congratulations," I said, "Let me buy you a drink."

He held up his beer bottle. I could read what he was thinking: he'd just stepped down just for one drink and it had turned into a couple. He was trying to balance being the responsible adult on the trip with what he wanted to do. Guess which won. "Sure. I'll have another."

"The same?"

"Yeah, that works... only, I'm curious, what are you drinking? Bourbon?"

"Scotch. Here, let me order you a nice 20-year. My treat" I normally wasn't a spend thrift but this whole trip was on expense account, and no one was going to bat an eyebrow at this tab.

He gave a goofy smile, and as the drinks came he took a sip. "Nice, man."

"Pretty smooth, huh?"

"You bet. I bet this stuff's pretty expensive."

"It is. But my client's paying for it, so drink up, man."

That brought a smile. "Yes, sir." That Georgia accent and deferential politeness was growing on me, real fast.

We chatted a bit, about nothing much, but it gave me a chance to soak in the close view of this teacher-coach stud. I was now facing him, my legs spread, my tie draped down over my crotch, but not enough to hide my stiffie. Beefy Coach finally noticed it. At first he seemed embarrassed, shellshocked even, but I noticed his eyes would drift down there for surreptitious peaks now and then.

I could have played this cat and mouse game all night, only I was getting tired, the day catching up with me. So when he gave me an opening, I pounced.

"I don't know what the kids would say if they saw me down here at the bar, getting buzzed." The responsible adult was battling to come back.

"You can come up to my room. We can raid the minibar and watch the rest of the game."

I knew he didn't give a shit about the Rangers game, and by the point I barely did. "Um, yeah, you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Come on man, it's been a long day and I've not talked to anyone but asshole lobbyists." I patted him on his knee, in a friendly way that veered on the edge of "I want to fuck you, bud."

His resolve melted and he nodded. "All right. But man, you're a bad influence."

When we got to my suite, he excused himself to the bathroom to relieve himself of the couple of beers he'd drunk. I followed suit and when I got out, I saw him looking out the window. From behind, his back looked magnificent, in contrast to the softish muscle of the front, his delts and lats were all solid. Definitely ex-jock material. Best of all was a full, round pair of muscle buns that even the khakis couldn't hide. In fact, they pushed at the cotton and made a large swell of his rump, the seam wedged deep into the ass cleft. Poor guy, there's no way not to walk around showing off that obscene male butt.

He jumped a little when my hands touched his shoulders. I thought maybe I'd need to take my time with this one, but I was getting impatient, damnit. I gave a fraternal pat as if I was going to let go, only I latched on again, massaging the bulk beneath my hands. Just feeling the way there was both give and resistance made my breath quicken and my neglected hardon ache. If I didn't dick this guy and good, I'd be left with a case of blue balls for sure.

It sounded like Coach was gonna speak, then he stopped himself and just breathed as he backed his body into mine, letting my arms circle around his front. I pawed at the swells of beef, marauding his tits, and hiking up his shirt, so I could run my fingers along the soft hair on his gut, up to the valley between his mammoth pectorals.

"I've never done this," he spoke up finally. "At least not in a while."

"But you wanna right?"

"God yeah. It's all I could think about, ever since you walked into the bar."

My fingers now grazed his nipple, in direct contact, as my lips connect to his neck. He was getting goosebumps a major way. "You ever suck cock?" I asked.

"Twice," he admitted. "It's hard to find the opportunity... you know."

"You got it now." Already I was pulling his shirt up and over his head. He lifted his arms to let me.

He turned around and met me in a deep kiss. It was like his life depending on that kiss, and maybe in a weird way it did. For me, after a 4 week dry spell, it felt like a desert rain. Quenching, furious.

"Wow, it's so different with a man," he said as we broke for air.

"Your first kiss?" I asked.

"With a guy, yeah. Better than I'd dreamed."

I looked down to admire this man's upper body. Running my hands along his shoulders and burly arms, I complemented him. "They sure grow `em big down in Georgia."

He smiled. "You like it? My body?"

"It's amazing," I said. Stepping back I looked him up and down. "Why don't you strip it all off for me. I'd like that."

He grinned, a little more confident now and fumbled with his belt and khakis. But soon he was pulling them down and standing in a pair of boxers.

"Lose those, too, bud."

Coach was starting to feel self-conscious, standing there undressed while I stood in front of him, in my suit and tie. I'd not so much as unlaced my leather shoes.

"Cmon, Coach," I said with a wink. "You know we didn't come up here to watch the game."'

"No, sir," he replied meekly, and hooked his thumbs in his underwear. His erection was short but fat, classic fireplug shape, and attached to it was a pair of really large nuts. I'm talking golfball sized testicles, drawn in a perfectly spherical hairy sac.

"Beautiful, Coach," I said. I didn't say anything more, but just stood there. Legs spread slightly, hands in my pocket, my erection straining the crotch of my suit. Maybe I liked making this guy a little uncomfortable. But I wanted him to get the idea on his own.

He did. Took a couple of steps, tentative at first, then it was like the flood gates opened and he practically fell to a kneeling position at my feet. Started rubbing his face along my erect crotch and running his hands up and down my suited legs. I could have used an hour or two of this worship, but I was too eager to get to the chase. I reached down and unzipped. I didn't have to do anything more, Coach's fingers were digging in and pulling my dick out. My hard, super-sensitive and ready to go dick. Beefy Coach took into his mouth.

OK, the man didn't really have technique. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he'd only sucked dick twice. But at that moment I didn't care. My cock was wedged into a hot wet mouth, and one that belonged to a walking hardon of a butch football coach. I was happy to have him nurse and suckle my rod, and in turn I gave little fuck thrusts into the tight constricted oral cavity. Between the two, it was enough to get me off. I started rubbing Beefy Coach's head and I gave it up for him. Ten nice long spurts of my seed.

Coach pulled off and took a deep breath. "Heck yeah, you're a bad influence, all right," he muttered then spit in his hand before diving back onto my still oozing cock. Furiously he pounded his own pud as he savored my mostly rigid meat in his mouth, against his tongue. A few strokes and he was getting off as well.

We collapsed on the bed, sated and a little buzzed from our drinks. Our hands touched and circled one another. Even with a one-off fuck like this, I like the point of connection with a man who's just swallowed my nut. Beefy Coach seemed to crave it, too.

"I feel like I could lie here forever," the man said. I wondered what kind of pressures marriage, family, and small-town life weighed on him. Coach liked what we did a lot more than any straight dude playing on the sly... at least that I'd ever met.

He leaned up and looked over at the clock. "What time is it?" 11:55.

"Dang, I gotta get back," he cried, and got up like a dart, scrambling to get his clothes back on.

I leaned up, tucking my genitals back into my suit. As the man got dressed again, he took a minute to look me over, fully dressed. "That was a real trip," he said. "Never thought I'd have a chance for something like that."

I reached in my wallet and pulled out a business card. "In case you're ever in New York..."

Beefy Coach blushed. I could tell he felt embarrassed by the idea he'd follow up on repeat sex. "Um, thanks," he said, practically crumbling the card in his big mitt of a hand. He paused for a second then met me for one last kiss. We took our time, and I almost thought Coach was gonna ask for seconds. But he pulled away. "Dang, gotta go. Thanks again."

I thought about Beefy Coach once in a while, particularly when I'd see a guy out who resembled him in any way. But nothing serious. Until one evening I get a call from out of the blue.

"Bill Drake? Matt Jackson, here." I didn't recognize the name. "Um, we met in DC last year... at the Hyatt."

"Oh yeah," I said. "Great to hear from you, man."

His voice perked up, a little relieved. "Wasn't sure you'd remember me."

"You kidding?" I asked. "Hooking up with you made my month in DC bearable, buddy." I was starting to bone up justing reminiscing.

"Really? Cool. Well, I'm calling cause I'm taking a group up to New York next week and was wondering if you, know you." I loved the guy's combination of eager and shy.

"I'm clearing my calendar as we speak, buddy. I'd love to spend some time with you. Only... " I paused. "I'm thinking I'd like a little more than oral this time."

I expected Coach to hem and haw or say no, but he eagerly agreed. "I've been thinking about that too, Mr. Drake. A lot."

"Cool. Well, text me when you know you're going to be free."

"Will do. Look forward to seeing you, sir."

"Look forward to it, too, Coach."

I hung up and went to my closet. Toward the back were the couple of ultra-conservative power suits I rarely wore. I dusted them off, smoothed out the fabric. Time to put these bad boys back in service.