Edge Running Ch. 01

But just disappearing was what big Kenon Jackson, the massive black bull, was sitting on a stool between me and the door to the dressing room corridor and offering me. A bolt out of the blue. Or was it?

"You have a knack for running on the edge, don't you, Denny?" Jackson asked, sticking out his muscular arm, touching my forearm--I was practically naked, ready for my next set--and stroking my arm with his beefy fingers.

I get the picture, I thought. Jackson had been snuffling around me since I'd started working there. And Jackson had the reputation of having the biggest equipment in the theater--maybe in all of Chicago. Jackson could put a dancer in the hospital in a one-night stand. I'd been expecting a proposition--and a guy didn't say no to Jackson--and I'd both wanted it and was scared shitless about it. I was versatile, but I bottomed a hell of a lot more than topped, and, what, I'd heard he was ten thick inches. For a guy like me, that was a challenge not to be passed up.

"There's more to this deal than just getting me out of the country and into one of your international dance troupes, isn't there?" I said.

"One night. I'd have you for one night," Jackson said. "All night. Tonight. Don't worry, I wouldn't damage the goods--not too much. The job offer for Bangkok is real. My want is real too, though."

"I don't know. Let me think about it, Kenon," I said.

"Don't think too long. It's now or never. The thugs are at the door."

"And the giant is standing in front of me," I said. Jackson had stood up from the stool. He towered over me. He towered over everyone else coming and going in the dressing room and the corridor outside. I was sitting at his crotch level. His basket protruded menacingly. He had a hard-on, I could tell. And he was a champion.

"Your choice. With Mario Finelli waiting for you, though, I don't think one of your choices is to continue life as you know it here. I doubt you'll be dancing on this stage after tonight. I'd like you to be dancing for me."

"In Bangkok?" I asked.

"And tonight. For me alone. You'll have a great time. I'll fuck you like you've never been fucked before."

I believed him, which was why I was hesitating. And then, right after he left, all reason to hesitate went out of the window. I got a cellphone call as I was getting ready to go out on stage for my final set. It was the clinic.

"I'm not supposed to be calling you, Denny," the night nurse, Kath Grimes, breathed into the phone. "But I think you should know. A couple of police detectives were here an hour ago, looking for you. Bernard told them you weren't here, but he let them look around the clinic to see that for themselves. He showed them your schedule chart. He had to. They had a warrant. What sort of trouble are you in, Denny?"

The worst kind, coming at about the worst time. Trouble on top of trouble.

Jackson had a private entrance at the front of the theater that we could use. The door was only about six feet from the open backseat door of his chauffeured car.

He couldn't wait. He fucked me the first time in the backseat of the car, taking his time to stuff himself into me, but stretching me to the limit anyway. It was harder to take a cock in the backseat of a car than on a bed. He made me remember it. He made me suffer.

He sat on the bench seat, with me sitting in his lap, facing forward. My cheek was resting on the back of the front passenger seat, my torso leaning forward, and Jackson pulling my arms back with a grip on my wrists, pulling me on and off his gigantic shaft. With my cheek resting on the back of the front seat, I was facing the driver, a young Hispanic dude, his profile turned to me, his eyes on the road, a grin on his face, as, my mouth in a wide yawn and my eyes bugging out, I screamed, groaned, sobbed, and otherwise let everyone in the car know I'd never had it so big.

He ravished me in a missionary on his bed on the 42nd floor of the 500 Lake Shore drive Apartments until I was docile putty in his hands. After the car, I was reamed for his specifications as long as he got back in there fast. He got back in there fast, carrying me from the door of his apartment to his bed and stuffing it right in again.

Then he picked me up and fucked me in a variety of standing bully positions in front of his full-wall bedroom window overlooking Lake Michigan. The standing fuck seemed to be Jackson's favorite position. Crouching, he held me facing him, my knees on his hips and my fists locked behind his bull's neck, his hands clutching and spreading my buttocks, and pulling me on and off his shaft--breeding me, both of us preferring barebacking and me able to provide the protecting pills.

Then, as he had done in the car, he held me in front of him, my torso jutting out to the window, my cheek to the cool glass, and his hands gripping my wrists, my legs crossed behind the small of his back, as I rocked on the cock that was demolishing me deep in my soft core.

I spent the night captive to him and his periodic, relentless lust, in his bed. In the morning, the Hispanic driver was in the kitchen, fixing us breakfast, grinning and leering at me as I stumbled painfully about, unable to close my legs. After breakfast, saying, "Well, if I won't be enjoying you again for a while," Jackson bent me over an ottoman in his living area and fucked me again in a doggy. He ran his beefy fingers into my wavy reddish-blond hair and arched my torso back so that I could look out the living room window and count the sails on boats out on the lake forty-two stories below us as he stuffed himself inside me and destroyed my channel yet again. It wasn't so bad. I was reamed to Jackson's specifications for any time in the next week and hadn't had time to close up any all night. At one point he'd gone to sleep still inside me and Jackson flaccid wasn't much less stuffing than Jackson turgid.

Afterward, I found that the Hispanic driver had gone to my apartment and packed a couple of bags for me.

"When Finelli's thugs stop monitoring your apartment, I'll have the rest of your stuff taken out and put in storage," Jackson said. "I'll settle your rent bill too."

Then they shoveled me into the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car and my luggage into the trunk, and the grinning and leering Hispanic driver drove me eighty-five miles west to the Chicago Rockford International Airport, figuring Finelli wouldn't guess I'd escape that way, and I was on my way to New York, a new identity, and Bangkok, Thailand.

I was running right along the edge of trouble. And it was painful to close my legs.