Cuffed by the Cop
by
Henri Couesnon
Dedication
To all the French cops I have known:
Avec respect et amour—
Vous savez que vous êtes!
Copyright © 2017 Henri Couesnon
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published by: Henri Couesnon
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Table of Contents
Dedication
Author’s Introduction: A Brief Treatise about French Cops
Chapter One: Two Bad Boys
Chapter Two: Alley Tomcats
Chapter Three: A Midnight Jog
Chapter Four: Copping the Cop’s Joint
Chapter Five: An Unexpected Visitor
Chapter Six: Coffee with the Cop
Chapter Seven: The Rookie
Chapter Eight: A Messenger
Chapter Nine: Cops Gone Wild
Chapter Ten: Roused from His Nap
Chapter Eleven: A New Recruit
Also by Henri Couesnon
Author’s Introduction: A Brief Treatise about French Cops
I admit it. I like cops. After all, what’s not to like? A man in uniform, trained to exercise authority and tolerate no nonsense—yeah, that can be hot, if you’re in a submissive frame of mind! I’ve been known to have my run-ins with the authorities. Especially, while growing up in my home town of Marseille, on the wrong side of the tracks. Sometimes, I was able to bluff my way out of my predicament. And, like Franck, the amoral protagonist of this novel—on occasion, I managed to use sex to barter my way out of a potentially sticky situation!
Cops are only human, after all. Once their blood starts to leave their brains, and it flows down to stiffen their dicks, they’re as susceptible to sexual temptation as any other men. A smart con artist knows how to exploit such a weakness.
To be a cop’s property—his chattel—to serve him, abjectly, to be his whore—! What ecstasy! What lewd pleasure! I’m getting excited just thinking about, let alone writing about it. But I digress.
Franck, the bad boy who is the anti-hero of this work of fiction, lusts not wisely, but too well—to coin a phrase. He becomes infatuated with Brigadier Charles Brun, his tough cop lover, who invariably treats him badly—which is just what the masochistic Franck wants! I can relate. Been there, done that—but of course this book isn’t about me. It’s fiction. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Let the cops beat a confession out of me—if they can! Back in the good old days, that tactic only succeeded in getting me more aroused!
And now, for a brief lesson in the French language, and French slang. Those uninterested in such linguistic subtleties can skip this, and go directly to Chapter One.
In France, the police force—the Police nationale, or the National Police—is the main civil law enforcement organization, active in large cities and towns, and it is not to be confused with the military Gendarmerie, which protects smaller towns and rural areas. The National Police is divided into three parts, or corps.
The Corps de mâitrise et d’application (Authority and Enforcement Corps) corresponds to your typical cop on the urban beat.
Gardien de la paix stagiaire (Keeper of the peace, intern) is the lowest, beginning rank. This accurately describes the “rookie,” Claude, who is a character in this book. He’s a new hire, on probation, and at the bottom of the pecking order.
The next rank up is just plain Gardien de la paix (Keeper of the peace). The character Charles Brun, who plays a prominent role in this narrative, has progressed beyond this, to the next step upward, which is Brigadier—a word which, conveniently, also exists in English, although in different contexts.
When the character Brun is first introduced to the reader (in Chapter Three), he is identified, accurately, as a Brigadier. This means that he isn’t a newcomer to the police force. He has risen from Gardien de la paix stagiaire, to Gardien de la paix, and then to his current rank of Brigadier. English-speaking readers, for whom this book is intended, may find this terminology more evocative of the military than of the police force. Accordingly, having made the initial point about Brun’s rank, I usually refer to him in the text not as a Brigadier, but by the more generic “officer,” subsequently. No offense intended to any of the Frenchmen (and Frenchwomen!) who have earned the title of Brigadier!
The two higher-ranking corps of the National Police—the Corps de commandement et d’encadrement (Command and Management Corps) and the Corps de conception et de direction (Conception and Direction Corps), and their various subdivisions, need not concern us here.
In casual, everyday conversation, Frenchmen use the words officier de police, policier, and gendarme more or less interchangeably. All of these terms can be translated into English as “police officer,” “policeman,” or as that convenient monosyllable, “cop.”
Slang words for “cop” abound in French, though, as they do in other languages. Flic and condé—the latter is especially popular, in the south of France, where this story takes place—are considered to be impolite, even insulting, so you’d be well advised not to utter either of them in a French police officer’s hearing. Not unless you want to spend some time at the nearest precinct, in a holding cell, as the guest of the men in blue!
There’s also the classic slang term les vaches, usually used in the plural, and literally meaning “the cows.” (The English equivalent would be “the pigs.”) The implication would seem to be that police officers exhibit an innate, bovine-like placidity and stupidity. A vile slander, in my opinion! An alternative explanation of the term, however, is that it’s simply a corruption of the German word Wache, meaning, in this context, “the town watch.” As my American friends would say—when it comes to etymology, you pay your money and you take your choice!
Another intriguing, derogatory term for cop is poulet, literally “chicken,” or “hen.”
Some sources claim that this ironic use of poulet originated because the first police station in Paris was built on the site of what was once a farmer’s market, where fowls were sold. Another, more colorful—though much more disrespectful!—story would have it that, just as chickens run into the shelter of their coop when it rains, so policemen retreat at the first sign of any real danger. For shame! I find that hard to believe.
Well, personally, I have the highest regard for the French police. The cops in my story may not always subscribe to the highest moral standards, when they’re off duty. They give in to their animalistic urges—gleefully, repeatedly, and decisively. But, hey—it’s fiction. Fantasy! And so—no real harm intended. And none, I hope, done.
Chapter One: Two Bad Boys
“I wouldn’t mind making some money tonight,” Didier declared, flatly.
“Maybe something will
pop up on the website, at the last moment,” Franck said.
“I doubt it. And I don’t feel like sitting here staring at the screen, waiting for something to happen.”
“Me, neither,” Franck agreed. “So—what do you suggest we do?”
“Let’s go down to the waterfront, cruise some guys—preferably, sailors, in town on shore leave and looking for action—hook up with one of them, and roll him,” Didier proposed, bluntly. “Like in the old days.”
“Oh, and I suppose I’m going to be the queer bait?”
“Why not? You’re pretty good at it. Let’s face it, buddy. You are a born male whore.”
“Thanks,” Franck said, in a cynical tone of voice. “You could get down on your knees, with your mouth open, every now and then, you know, or bend over and spread your ass, for a change. Why should I have to do all the work?”
“Let me think. Maybe because you’re my bitch—is that it?”
“You’re mean,” Franck muttered.
“And you like it when I don’t let you get away with defying me, don’t you?” Didier gloated. “Yeah, you like being my boy—you like it a lot! So you might as well cut the crap, and do what I tell you to do.”
“Okay,” Franck grumbled. “There’s no need for you to start acting tough.”
“Isn’t there? Maybe that’s the only thing you understand. You want me to slap you around a little?”
“Maybe just a little,” Franck suggested. “That always turns me on.”
“Later, you cunt,” Didier grunted. “I’ll smack your horny ass later. Right now, let’s go down to Le Repos du Marin, and see if anything’s going on down there. Anything, that is, which we can turn to our advantage.”
Le Repos du Marin [The Sailor’s Rest] was one of the most notorious dives on Marseille’s waterfront. Conveniently located near the city’s busy harbor, the bar reportedly stayed open only because its owners had some of the local authorities on their unofficial payroll, paying them off in hush money.
Male and female prostitutes, and drug dealers, patronized the bar, not only during the daytime hours, but especially at night. It was well known, in Marseille, that this was one reliable place to go to, if you wanted to stock up on recreational drugs, or to hook up with an accommodating sex partner for hire, of either gender.
“All right,” Franck agreed, more than a little reluctantly. “We might as well check it out.”
He and Didier rode downtown on their motorcycles. They were habitually impecunious. But neither young man stinted, when it came to paying for his hog. Didier owned a vintage Ducati 888, and Franck rode a Wakan 1640 V-twin. When they cruised the streets of Marseille, and the open roads outside of the city, the two friends thought they were hot shit—true biker studs, just about irresistible to most gay men!
“Hit them, quit them, and forget them—that’s how to treat all these horny gay guys,” was Didier’s cynical advice to his buddy.
Franck and Didier were both twenty-two years old. Born within a few months of each other, they’d grown up on the same block, in one of the less desirable neighborhoods in Marseille. Childhood playmates, who’d gotten into trouble together on a regular basis, they thought of themselves almost as brothers, as opposed to mere friends. Having reached adulthood, they continued to take risks—but calculated ones. They were streetwise enough to avoid doing anything too reckless.
They supported themselves with a succession of menial jobs, while making their real spending money by means of petty theft, drug dealing, and hustling. Both young men were good-looking, well-built, well-hung, amoral, and sexually uninhibited. Cynical enough to realize that their looks were an asset which could be exploited, they saw nothing wrong with male prostitution.
They lived together, in a small, inexpensive apartment, located in one of the city’s working-class districts, not far from the neighborhood where they’d grown up. They had separate bedrooms, necessitated by the fact that they entertained so many men, either for pleasure or profit.
Occasionally, they indulged in sex with each other, usually when they were bored, and more or less for the hell of it.
The two friends believed they’d progressed beyond the point at which they needed to loiter on street corners, or hang out in gay bars, waiting to be picked up by a john. Didier had suggested they pay to set up and maintain their own website. At first, Franck had resisted the idea, because they’d have to post photos of themselves—facial shots, and also pictures of their nude bodies, preferably sporting erections—on such a site. Potential customers wanted to see the merchandise, before committing themselves, after all! But Didier scoffed at the idea that a member of one of their families would ever access the site, which was his buddy’s great concern. As he pointed out to Franck, none of their grandparents was likely to be surfing the internet in search of gay male escorts—unless the grandparent in question was leading a secret life as scandalous as their own!
“I can’t speak for your grandma,” Didier joked. “But I wouldn’t put too much past mine!”
Furthermore, they’d use pseudonyms on the site. As an additional precaution, they posted a disclaimer, to the effect that they were offering their services as “guides” or “escorts,” only. No, they definitely were not in the business of selling sex! None of the men who accessed the website believed this for a moment, of course, but Didier said it was prudent to avoid any overt references to the fact that they were actually selling sex.
Soon, they were doing a steady business, either individually, or as a team. Many of their customers were locals, but the two enterprising lads soon discovered that the real money came from visitors to Marseille—businessmen, or tourists. The latter, in particular, tended to be generous tippers.
They entertained their johns in their apartment, or they made out calls, going to hotels and private homes. Some men wanted them to travel, to come to where they lived—which was fine, so long as all expenses were paid, and in advance.
As hustlers, they specialized, to some extent. Didier was the better at projecting an image of being “rough trade,” for the benefit of those johns who wanted that. Franck could still convey boyish innocence, without having to try too hard.
Franck joked about being Didier’s “bitch,” but the truth was he usually allowed Didier to make the decisions for them. Franck was willing to go along with whatever his friend suggested, as a rule.
Tonight, unusually, neither of them had a paying date, which was one reason why they decided to go out on the town. Another reason was that they were getting bored, and restless. They had been spending so much of their free time with johns, lately, that they felt they were becoming antisocial. They felt an urge to reacquaint themselves with the seedier side of the city’s nightlife.
When they got dressed to go out, they didn’t fuss too much. In their choice of attire, as in so many other things, they betrayed a degree of contradiction. Neither Didier not Franck had much interest in fashion. They disliked having to dress up, as a rule. Tonight, they chose virtually matching outfits, unpretentious on the whole—well-worn jeans, scuffed work boots with thick soles, and ordinary cotton T-shirts, light blue for Didier, black for Franck. But, just as they spared no expense when it came to their motorcycles, accordingly they scorned wearing accessories which might cause them to be mistaken for ordinary, budget-conscious bikers. They wore helmets, protective eyewear, and gloves of the best quality, and their leather jackets, constructed from soft, supple hides, were very expensive, and looked it. Because black leather was the norm, at least when it came to most gay men’s stereotyped mental images of bikers, Didier and Franck had opted for other colors—maroon for Didier, and a warm chocolate brown, for Franck.
Finally, they bedecked themselves with some extremely pricey male jewelry—all of it second-hand and stolen, of course. They wore diamond studs in their pierced ears, and heavy gold neck chains and bracelets. Each guy had more than one truly fine wristwatch—tonight, Franck’s was an Ulysse Nardin, and his friend’s was an Aud
emars Piguet.
They rode their bikes downtown, to the harbor. Parking on the street outside the bar, they swaggered into its dimly-lit interior. Their entrance caused a few heads to turn, although some of the serious drinkers remained lost in the dour, drunken contemplation of their glasses.
“Any likely prospects in here tonight?” Didier asked the muscle-bound bartender, who was an old friend.
The man shrugged. “Depends on whether you’re selling it, or giving it away for free. If the latter—keep in mind I get off in a few hours.”
“You ought to know me better than that by now, man. I never give it away if there’s any chance of turning a profit.”
“Well, you might want to check out the bougnoule then. Over there,” the bartender said, with a discreet gesture. He had used a rather vulgar slang term, meaning anyone who looked vaguely like an Arab. “He came in just a little while ago, telling me he’d heard this is a good pickup joint, and wanting to know if that’s true. I told him, hell, yes. Then he said he’s willing to pay for it. So I suggested he stick around. Maybe now he’ll get lucky—and so will you. The guy’s flashing a big bankroll. He said he works on a freighter, which just got in, from Alexandria. Looks like the crew got paid before they went on shore leave. Do I need to spell it out for you guys?” the bartender asked, cynically. “No—I’m sure you can take it from here!”
Didier and Franck, with their drinks in their hands, turned away from the bar, and they cast furtive, appraising glances in the direction the bartender had indicated.
The sailor was young, about their own age, and rather good-looking. His clothes identified him as a typical member of the Mediterranean’s diverse, multicultural merchant marine. His trousers and jersey were both loose-fitting, evidently chosen for comfort and ease of movement, rather than for style. His canvas shoes, worn without socks, had the kind of soles designed to provide a secure grip on slick, slippery surfaces—such as the deck of a ship. On his head was a Mediterranean sailor’s characteristic accessory—a summer weight watch cap, made not from wool, but from cotton, creamy white with dark navy blue, almost black, stripes.
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