SEVEN HITS! Get Your Ass Ready! (2 page)

But yeah, it was hard, going to bars and paying too much for watered-down drinks and listening to some chick try and fill him in on the Kardashians
when he could give a shit. Maybe gay guys had it right: just fucking get to it and be done.

The damndest thing was he still had a hard-on. Had one ever since Kenny had basically told him to push him down on the hood of the car and fuck the shit out of him. A perfect ass was a perfect ass, no doubt about that. He looked around instinctively, even though he knew he was locked in the lot alone, then unbuckled his pants and pulled down the zipper.

He pulled his dick out and looked at it, something he rarely did. It just wasn’t what guys did, looking at their own dicks. He stroked it, trying to think of a girl’s ass, but Kenny’s kept getting in the way. His dick got bigger and bigger, and he slapped it against the steering wheel a couple times to get it harder.

With his other hand he touched the baton, thinking about sliding it into Kenny’s ass as far as it would go. He felt the cuffs against his hip and thought about Kenny, helpless, powerless. He hardly ever bothered with blow jobs; girls were always gagging on his dick. But he could make Kenny take it all, like it or not. And he would fucking love it, too.

He was a good cop. He wouldn’t abuse his power. But was it abuse if you gave someone what they wanted? Mike stroked faster and faster; for a second he worried about the mess but then it was too late. He started breathing hard and fast, feeling the pressure build, the muscles tensing around his prostate.

“Oh, shit,” he said out loud, and then he blew his load all over his shirt, all over the steering wheel, even some on the driver side window. He thought he was done but he kept going, there was more and more juice pumping out of him, getting all over everything.

He sat there afterwards, spent, catching his breath, looking around the car. Fuck, what a mess. He tucked his wet dick back in his pants, and got a towel from the trunk. He cleaned up as best he could, unlocked the gate and walked back out into the park to finish his rounds.

He didn’t go back to the maze. Whoever wanted to do whatever in the remaining minutes of darkness, they could fucking go for it. It was near dawn now on this warm summer night, and the early risers were out, the morning joggers and dog walkers taking the shift from the insomniacs. They smiled and nodded and so did he, and he had to laugh a little
. If only they knew I was walking around with my drawers full of cum, they’d drop dead of shock.

Thursday came. Mike saved his leg workout for his day off, so that after his squats and dead lifts he could wobble out of the gym and go straight home to the couch. He made new personal bests on both today, by 20 pounds, and felt that awesome endorphin rush lifting can give you when you hit it hard.

He ate on the couch, his double cheeseburger unwrapped on the coffee table that served as his dinner table. He watched ESPN and groaned at the bloopers, then got up and went to the fridge. A beer would taste good right now.

But when he got to the fridge, he found himself hesitating. Maybe not right now. He went back to the couch. Why not? Mike asked himself, trying not to think about the answer.
Because you’re a good cop, and good cops don’t drink and drive. Where were you planning on driving, buddy? Legs, burger, SportsCenter, beer. The end, right? Right?

He hadn’t got laid in months. And he hadn’t jerked off since…well, since that night in the car. And on leg day, well, the geyser he could shoot on leg day made that look like a water fountain.

You’re not in uniform. You’re off duty. You’re single. He’s waiting. Nobody will know.

Fuck it.
He jumped up from the couch, turned off the TV, put on his shoes and headed for the door.
I’m going for a drive, that’s all. Not necessarily to 15040 Park Lane.

Just before he shut the door behind him, he hesitated. Then he went back in and got his spare pair of handcuffs.

The address was out in the county, where there were still farms. He found the number on a beat up old mailbox and turned down the road to the house. The car windows were down and he was in his cargo shorts and a tight white tank top, but he was sweating anyway, his pulse racing.

Mike got out at the end of the road and looked around. The house looked abandoned, or at least in need of a serious overhaul. Paint was peeling, shutters were broken, the porch looked deadly. He almost got back in the car until he saw an old Saturn parked by the side of the house. He put his hand on the hood – the engine was cold. But there was something on the windshield, a piece of paper with writing on it.

“OUT BACK,” it said. “Keep going till you find what you’re looking for.”

He crumpled the paper up and put it in his pocket. The moon was full so he was able to pick his way through the junk around the house, until he got around back. He saw the field, extending to a grove of trees.

No need here to make noise, no need to warn anyone. Mike didn’t know how long Kenny had been there waiting for him, long enough for the car to cool down, anyway. The thought of it made his groin throb, the thought that he could have waited till fucking midnight before he came out here, and there would still be a guy waiting to suck his dick.

He got near the trees, and hesitated. Now what? Then in the moonlight he saw the pile of white rocks on the ground, making an arrow into the trees. He smiled. His dick was hard, and it had taken over the operation now, and probably would have pointed him just as straight as the arrow.

Mike walked till he found a clearing with a pond, and a bench, and a man sitting on it. Kenny’s back was to him and he didn’t say anything. He approached silently until he was right behind him. He had a plan now.

“Police. Hands behind your head.” Kenny jumped a little – Mike had been stealthy enough to surprise him.

Kenny did as he was told. “Stand up slowly. Turn to your left.” Mike came around and grabbed Kenny’s hands roughly, pulling them down to the small of his back and
snicking
the cuffs into place. Then he pushed him down on to the bench on his knees, the same position he’d seen Kenny in when the guy with the pierced cock was ramming his ass.

Mike frisked him, just grazing his crotch to see if Kenny had a boner or if he was going to freak out when shit got real. Hard as a rock, all right. Mike moved in, pressing his stiff cock against Kenny’s ass and bear hugging him back into his torso. He put a hand on Kenny’s face and pulled his head back till he was whispering in his hear.

“Is this what you want, huh?”

“Fuck yeah,” Kenny groaned.

Mike slapped him, feeling a surge of power. “Fuck yeah what?”

“Fuck yeah sir!”

Mike lifted Kenny off the bench. Dude must weight 150 at most, he thought, a piece of cake for Mike to pick up and throw around any way he liked. He put Kenny on the ground on his knees. He’d known a stripper who’d liked it rough, who pushed him to go for it, and he’d given her just what she wanted. That had been the best sex of his life.

Kenny was going to find out about Mike’s other side now – the side he kept in, held in tight, not because he was a prude but because he knew – he could be a bad cop, too, if he let himself. You could see the attraction, why cops got brutal, one man dominating another completely, the surge of testosterone you got from it. Something dark unfolding its wings inside you and spreading them.

He came around in front of Kenny, unbuttoned his shorts and let them drop to the ground. He slapped his beer bottle of a cock against Kenny’s face. “That what you want?”

“Yes sir!”

He used his firm command voice, just like he was walking someone through a breathalyzer test. “I’m going to stick this in your mouth now. And you’re going to open your throat. And I’m going to fuck your throat till you gag. And then I’m gonna fuck it some more. You got it?”

“Yes sir!”

Mike was so sick of shitty blow jobs he could puke. So sick of girls getting his goddamn huge dick to the back of their throats and turning away, or trying to get out of deep-throating
by putting a hand on the bottom half of it and sucking the top. He wasn’t an asshole – he gave
Kenny time to get his dick wet, to feel the fullness of it in his mouth, to realize how far he was gonna have to open his jaw to keep his teeth off it.

And damn, he was good. He was taking it, a little more at a time. Mike put his hands on the back of Kenny’s head but there was no need to grab him and shove himself down to the root – Kenny was stretching out his throat, a little at a time. When he gagged, Mike let him breathe a sec, before grabbing his hairy balls and putting his sack into Kenny’s mouth.

“How many loads you want to suck out of those balls tonight?”

Kenny looked up at him and smiled. “All of them.”

“Fuck.” Mike knew it was time. He grabbed his dick with one hand and Kenny’s jaw with the other, opened it wide and pushed his dick in deep, until he could feel the “pop” of it pushing open the muscle and passing down into Kenny’s throat. He could fucking cum right now and Kenny wouldn’t even taste it.

He had both hands on the back of Kenny’s head now, skullfucking him, using his hips and his abs to thrust hard and fast and deep. Mike looked down and saw the glint of moonlight on the handcuffs, Kenny’s ass arched as if begging for that big cock gone down that hole in his head to go up the hole in his ass. Next time, buddy, he thought as he felt the rising tingle.

“Get ready,” he said, slowing his pace. “Get ready. Get ready.” The slower he went now the more intense it was. Kenny wasn’t even gagging, just letting him do this just the way he wanted. His breaths got shorter and shorter until finally he held it, the blood surging in his brain.

Then with a roar he started to cum, started pumping hard and fast straight down into Kenny’s guts. Fuck, it went on and on, until finally he was spent. He let go and pulled out and Kenny leaned forward, wrapping his lips around it one more time, getting a couple more pumps out of him, licking his lips and looking up at him adoringly as he swallowed every drop.

Mike pushed him away and sat down on the bench, sweat dripping off him. Kenny knee-walked to a place on the ground between his legs, looking up at him like an adoring dog. Mike wiped the sweat off his brow and dried his big meaty hand on Kenny’s face. Kenny closed his eyes, his mouth slack., accepting it.

“You love this shit, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Yes sir I mean.”

“We’re done. You’re off duty now, buddy.”

Kenny laughed. “Can’t wait for my next shift.”

“I’ve never let a guy blow me before. That was pretty fucking great.”

“Now you need to fuck a guy in the ass.”

“Maybe. You think you could take it up the ass like you took it down your throat?”

“Even better. My ass doesn’t gag.”

Mike laughed. He pulled up his shorts and
uncuffed
his little bottom bitch. “Don’t forget. Stay the fuck out of the park.”

“This is our park now,” Kenny smiled. “I’ll be here next Thursday. All night. If you want.”

“And if I don’t show up?”

“The Thursday after that. I bet that’s about as long as you could go without blowing a load like that again.”

Mike smiled. He was probably right.

Cal got the evening’s first whiff of citrus as he spritzed
a weight bench, before wiping off a day’s worth of sweat.

He started work at five o’clock, when the after-work rush was really picking up, and busted his ass till after closing. Most of what he did was re-rack weights, throw towels in the hamper, wipe down the benches – shit people should do themselves, but didn’t.

Cal was long and lean, thin as a whip, and this job helped him stay that way. He got his cardio without ever touching one of the Stairmasters that the office workers had to climb to make up for a day of sitting still.

There was always some old guy hanging out in the men’s locker room with his gray-haired junk on display, ready to chat him up when he made his rounds through there. He nodded and smiled and kept moving, lots of little laughs and “yeah, man, yeah,” as he refilled the paper towels. He had to keep from getting tangled up in a long story that would get him behind on his work. What was that all about anyway, why was it that young guys kept their heads down and their towels on and did their business and got out, but the old guys lingered? And it wasn’t that the old guys were gay, just chatty as hell – and shameless as hell, too.

Brian was in there tonight, ready to mess up his routine. “Hey, Cal, I meant to ask you about those tattoos of yours. That’s gotta hurt, getting those right on the bone and all?”

Cal had full-sleeve tats, vines and colorful flowers curling from his shoulders to his wrists, with a couple classic American designs on his hands. He shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s worth it,” he said, tagging lockers with locks that had been left on overnight.

“You know, I was in the Navy, and there was this one time…”

Cal’s hand went to the flip phone on the waistband of his pants. “Hey, sorry, I gotta take this,” he said.

“Okay, Cal, you have a good one!”

Cal tucked his jaw-length blond hair behind his ear and pretended to take a call as he walked out of the locker room. He’d have to do something else for a few minutes before he could finish in the locker room, at least until someone else came along to distract Brian. He didn’t think Doug, the manager, was going to give him shit for standing around talking to a customer, but he didn’t want to try to find out.

Doug was a friend, a party bud from years back. He’d given Cal a job when nobody else would. Nothing like a lot of tats and a criminal record to keep you from working most places, and he wasn’t going to fuck this gig up if he could help it.