Cuffed by the Cop

by Henri Couesnon

  The man himself was black, very dark-skinned. His ship had come from Egypt, and he could have been Egyptian himself, or possibly Sudanese.

  He was drinking beer, straight from the bottle, and he was looking around the bar, doing some obvious, heavy cruising.

  “So,” Didier murmured, speaking more to himself, aloud, than addressing Franck. “He’s in the market, huh? He wants to pay for it? We ought to give him the chance.” He turned to his companion. “What do you think?”

  “Well, at least he’s not old or ugly,” Franck replied, noncommittedly. “We’ve both fucked worse, God knows.”

  “Tell me about it! Which of us do you think he might go for—you, or me? Or both? No, wait—I’d say that question’s already been answered. He’s looking this way—and he’s looking at you.”

  “Really?”

  “Check it out.”

  The black sailor was indeed looking in their direction, and his attention seemed to be focused upon Franck. His dark, brooding eyes darted up and down restlessly, scrutinizing Franck’s face and body.

  “Okay, there’s no need for us to waste any time, or look any farther,” Didier whispered into Franck’s ear. “That horny black dude. He wants some white meat tonight—I can tell. He wants you. Your lily white body. Your pretty white ass.”

  “He’s probably an animal in bed,” Franck protested. “A horny animal. All he wants to do is get laid.”

  “So what? Since when has that ever stopped you? Or me? So much the better for us, actually. The guy is obviously doing his thinking with his dick. Go over there,” Didier urged. “Talk nice to him. Hook him, and reel him in.”

  “Shit,” Franck complained. But he did as his buddy asked.

  He sauntered over to where the sailor was standing, making and maintaining eye contact with him. Tentatively, a little nervously, the black guy smiled at him. Franck immediately felt more confident. His instincts told him that this was going to be an easy conquest. This number was smitten, and not thinking too clearly, all right!

  “Bonsoir,” Franck said.

  “Bonsoir.”

  “You’re a sailor?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Oh, just a guess,” Franck lied. “You have the look of the sea about you. It’s very distinctive. Have you been here in Marseille long?”

  “No. My ship just got in today. From Alexandria.”

  “All the way from Egypt! How interesting.”

  Franck was tallying up his impressions. The sailor spoke fluent French, but with a distinct accent, the kind which Franck associated with North Africans. Whatever the guy’s precise nationality might be, though, he was definitely on the make. Those trousers of his might be loose-fitting under ordinary circumstances, but they weren’t roomy enough in the crotch to conceal the fact that the man was developing a hard-on, which pushed the fabric outward, in much the way a tent pole held up the tent.

  “That other man, the one you were talking to—is he your lover?” the sailor asked.

  “Oh, God, no,” Franck assured him, breezily. “He’s just a friend. One of my many friends,” he added, suggestively. “I don’t have any use for a lover. I like variety too much.”

  He could see, right away, that this claim pleased the sailor, who was even more excited.

  “You’re very handsome,” the black man said.

  “Thank you. So are you.”

  ”Do you like black men?”

  “I like all kinds of men. Especially those who are hot, who have big dicks, and who know how to be generous,” Franck declared, shamelessly.

  “I don’t like this bar. It’s so dark and dirty. Maybe we could go somewhere else. I’d make it worth your time.”

  This was plain speaking, indeed, and Franck was pleased. Before he could respond, though, it was at this strategic moment that Didier chose to join them.

  “How are you two gentlemen getting along?” Didier asked, with all the bland, false amiability he had at his command.

  “Fine,” the sailor said. “But we could be getting along even better,” he suggested. “So—are you peddling it, too, or are you just the pimp?”

  Didier smiled. “I prefer to think of myself as my buddy’s business manager,” he joked.

  “How much?”

  “Thirty euros for oral,” Didier said. “Fifty, for anal.” [Note: approximately thirty-one and sixty-two US dollars, respectively.] “My buddy Franck, here? He really knows how to deliver a hot blow job. He can deep-throat, take on the biggest dicks. Suck the cum right out of them. And he’s just as good when he bends over and takes it up the ass.”

  “Yeah?” The sailor’s eyes lit up. He was staring at Franck’s mouth, at his full red lips, and his eyes flickered with anticipation. Then his gaze darted downward, to check out Franck’s butt. “I want anal,” he declared, lasciviously. “I want to fuck this white boy’s pretty ass!”

  “It’s all yours,” Didier assured him.

  “Where can we do it? You guys got a place, near here?”

  “We’ve got a place—right around the corner,” Didier said. “Maybe it’s not fancy—but it’s private, and safe. Nobody will interrupt you two, there.”

  Aware of what Didier meant by “a place right around the corner,” Franck wasn’t surprised when, after the three men left the bar, Didier ignored their parked motorcycles, and instead he led the way down the street, on foot.

  It was a brief walk, during which no one spoke. Didier turned a corner into an alley, leading off the main street, and the other two men followed him.

  Franck knew where they were headed. It was an old warehouse, dusty and neglected. The place was such a dump, and the old merchandise stored in it was so lacking in any appeal for potential thieves, that the owner of the building hadn’t bothered to install an electronic security system.

  One day, while loitering in the neighborhood, Didier had noticed a bored-looking guy taking more boxes and crates out of a van parked behind the building, and moving them in through the back door. Didier had befriended the man, and, over a few drinks in a nearby bar, he’d slipped him a few euros. In exchange, the delivery guy went to a locksmith with Didier, who ended up with a duplicate key to the warehouse’s back door.

  “I don’t want to steal anything,” Didier assured his new acquaintance. “I just want a place I can go to get high, and to do a little dealing—and to fuck. Some guys you pick up in a bar don’t want to go to your place, or to theirs. They just want a quickie.”

  His drinking buddy grunted, and shrugged. “I don’t give a damn if you empty out the place. It’s no skin off my ass. If anybody ever asks, though—we never met, and I don’t know where the hell you got that key.”

  “Ah, mon ami, that goes without saying.”

  Didier and Franck had begun using the warehouse as a place to stash stolen goods, while they were waiting to dispose of them. The two young thieves were too savvy to keep such contraband in their apartment. The building was also a convenient place to conduct disreputable business negotiations, such as drug dealing, or to take johns whom they picked up in the neighborhood. Why pay for a sleazy hotel room, by the hour, when there was an alternative, which cost nothing?

  Didier unlocked the door and ushered the sailor through it. Inside, Didier flipped on the ceiling lights. With Franck following, he led the sailor down a narrow, dusty, dirty corridor. Didier pushed open another door and flicked on the overhead light.

  They were in a small, gloomy, windowless storeroom, piled high with cartons and crates. In one corner there was a bare mattress lying on the floor, and a filthy washbasin with a single rusted faucet and a cracked and clouded mirror screwed into the wall above it. Didier and Franck had found the old, worn-out mattress, discarded in the alley, and they’d dragged it here. So infrequently did anyone enter the building on any legitimate errand, that no one had noticed its presence in the room.

  “It this okay?” Didier asked the sailor.

  “I guess it’ll have to do. It’s
not the Hotel Dieu,” the sailor said, referring, sarcastically, to a particularly elegant and pricey establishment in Marseille, located on the city’s Place Daviel. “But I bet I wouldn’t have run into either of you two studs in the Hotel Dieu, would I?” He brayed with laughter.

  Didier smiled, thinly. “I’ll wait outside. Don’t take all night, guys,” he said, and then he left the room.

  Ill at ease, Franck stood there, not moving, saying nothing. He and Didier had been trying, with some success, to acquire a more upscale clientele. Being rented out to this sailor, like a common street hustler, seemed like a step backward.

  “Get your clothes off,” the sailor demanded. “I want us to fuck naked.”

  Franck looked at him, trying to focus his eyes in the dim yellowish light coming from the ceiling fixture. The sailor had already begun stripping, and soon he stood there completely and unselfconsciously nude. Franck had to admit that the guy wasn’t exactly repulsive-looking. He had a hard dark brown body, from the groin of which reared a long thick penis in full erection, blue-veined and pulsing in the air. God only knew how many weeks, or even months, of enforced abstinence on board his ship had inspired its quivering readiness!

  “Come on, you pussy boy—strip,” the black man said, with growing impatience.

  Franck shed his jacket and T-shirt.

  “Yeah,” the naked black stud exclaimed, when Franck was stripped to the waist. The sailor sat down on the mattress, watching Franck expectantly. “Nice body—! Come here,” he ordered Franck. “Kneel down, yeah, right here. Give me a taste of those tits.”

  Awkwardly, Franck dropped to his knees beside the grimy mattress, closing his eyes as the sailor grasped his arms, holding them at Franck’s sides, and leaning over to suck noisily on each of the hustler’s nipples in turn. He ran his tongue around the firm mounds of Franck’s exceptionally well-developed pecs and he licked lasciviously, like a dog, at his rigidly pointed dark nipples. He then raised Franck’s arms, and he began to work on his armpits with his tongue.

  “Hot,” the sailor groaned. “Now get those fucking pants off. Whip out your dick, and show me your ass. I’m going to fuck it, you know. I paid fifty fucking euros for your hole, so you’d better spread it for me, bitch. I expect to get my money’s worth. I know you white bitches. You always go crazy when you get a big black dick shoved up your ass.”

  Numbly, Franck stood up again, and he finished undressing himself.

  “You’re almost too beautiful to be a whore.” The sailor was now so aroused that he was practically panting for breath, like a dog trying to cool itself on a hot day, and he was also little short of salivating. “But you’re mine, now,” he gloated. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had my dick in a white boy’s ass?”

  His talk was directed at the air, Franck realized. The guy didn’t expect an answer. He was talking to himself, stroking himself verbally, and Franck wasn’t even part of the dialogue, or rather of the monologue. Franck was just a sex object, just the man’s rented property, for him to drool over.

  Franck’s hands balled into tight fists as he fought to contain his shame and anger. This black bastard—he was so crude and vulgar, and having to submit to him was so degrading! He hated Didier, for arranging this, for making him submit to this humiliation.

  But it was hardly the first time Franck had sold himself to a sex partner who didn’t appeal to him. Consoling himself with the thought of the money he’d be paid, he resigned himself to going through with the sordid act.

  “Turn around. Show me your ass. Yeah! Let me see that hole. Now lie down. No—not on that dirty mattress,” the black man insisted, when Franck began to move toward it. “Go over there and bend over that crate. Come on, bend right over the goddamn thing. Show me your hot white man’s whore ass. That’s what we came here for—so I can fuck that ass!”

  Franck, bending obscenely over the big wooden box which the other guy had indicated, looked back over his shoulder. The naked black youth had taken a piece of dirty soap from the washbasin in the corner and he was wetting it under the tap. Then he rubbed it up and down over his turgid purplish-black prick to lubricate it, giving Franck another unambiguous warning of his impending anal ordeal.

  “All right, punk, here we go. Right in through the back door,” the sailor panted, already breathing hard in anticipation of sex. “Spread those pretty little white ass cheeks and let me get in there between them and fuck!”

  Thoroughly disgusted, Franck forced himself to relax his body’s instinctive defenses, and allow himself to be penetrated by this uncouth foreigner. The sooner it was over and done with, the better, he told himself. Let the john have his way with him and get his rocks off, and then this entire degrading episode would be behind Franck, and it could be forgotten.

  “Ah! Shit!” Franck yelped. He was scarcely prepared for the needle-sharp jab of pain which resulted from the black stud’s ramming his soaped-up cock-tip, slippery but still hard and blunt, right through the tight pink pucker of his anal sphincter.

  “Take it, bitch!” the sailor exulted.

  “Ow! Goddamn it, that hurts! Wait—stop—pull it out,” Franck gasped, consumed with pain. “Please!”

  But his fucker only laughed, with sadistic glee. He had his black arms placed around Franck, hauling on his shoulders, holding him down with his ass thrust out against his groin. The sailor’s back quivered and arched, as his hips moved in tight, agile circles, screwing his long thick black prick inch by inch through the tiny, taut ring of Franck’s desperately clenched anal opening.

  “Bastard. You dirty, raping bastard! Cut it out,” Franck pleaded. “Or—at least take it slow, man! Give me a chance to get used to it.”

  “Fuck that shit. I’m paying for this. I’m going to get my money’s worth. And you’d better give it to me. Whore! Dirty white whore!”

  “Take it easy,” Franck begged—a futile request. Uselessly, he bucked and writhed beneath the other man, succeeding only in impaling himself deeper on the steely scimitar of a sex organ which was wedged up to its hilt in his outraged anal orifice.

  “You French man slut. Can you feel it? I’m right in there, all the way inside your tight little asshole. Damn, it feels like a fucking virgin’s cunt, it’s so tight!” the sailor gloated.

  “Slow down. You’re hurting me.” Knowing that his fucker probably could care less about his discomfort, Franck groaned in agony and shame. He clutched the sides of the wooden crate, trying to keep his chest and crotch from scraping against it and being run through by any stray sharp splinters. The black stud smashed down against his backside, delivering one buttock-flattening, sodomizing lunge after another. “Aw, you dirty black motherfucker!” Franck yelled.

  “You dirty white whore!” his fucker retorted. “You man pussy! You man cunt! You slut! Bitch, don’t you bother to pretend you don’t like it. Yeah—you like having a black man’s dick shoved up your white ass!”

  The sailor redoubled his efforts. His cock was bloated with intense erotic sensation, heavy and turgid, charged with a delicious squeezing agony of pressure from the hot vise of Franck’s resisting asshole. It almost hurt him to penetrate the handsome young Frenchman all the way, so tightly did his anal muscles drag on his foreskin and the long thick shaft of his cock. But the sailor was already uncontrollably excited, ignoring Franck’s pleas and cries of pain and mortification.

  “Cunt,” the sailor panted. “You man cunt, you!”

  Franck cried out in agony, again and again, as that rapier of lust sawed away, sliding it in and out of his punished ass. He writhed—realizing, even as he did so, that his struggles only made things worse. But he was desperate to keep the front of his body from being scraped over the top of the crate upon which the sailor had him pinned. The rough wooden boards chafed his skin, and he fully expected stray splinters to pierce his flesh at any moment. He squirmed his firm, sweating behind in hot circles, trying to ease the stabbing pain and pressure of the repeated penetrations, knowing that
his involuntary movements were only serving to excite the man who was fucking him all the more—but Franck was unable to stop.

  His movements facilitated their crude coupling, however, and the black man mistook them for complicity, for surrender, for willing cooperation on Franck’s part—after a token, prick-teasing display of reluctance, resistance, and faked suffering. He fucked Franck even harder. Franck had been accurate in his initial assessment of his john. The dude was an animal—a horny, mindless, rutting, testosterone-fueled animal!

  “That’s it, you dirty little man cunt. Twist your hot ass, screw my dick with that tight little asshole. Flex it, move the fucking thing around my cock. Yeah! Oh, yeah! That’s the way, you whore. Can you feel it? Can you feel my cock, in your ass, reaming out your hole? Do you like it? Do you want it?”

  “Go to hell!” Franck spat.

  But, to his shame, he did like it—he did want it! Although he would have preferred a little less violence, instead of this ongoing anal torture!

  Franck wanted the john to finish, to come, to pull out of him—and the desire to rid himself of his fucker made him move his ass more vigorously, more recklessly, as though he were trying to shake the other man loose. But the horny sailor was now locked onto his back and up his ass like a leech.

  Franck found himself madly clasping and unclasping the tight, elastic ring of his asshole around the hardness of the steadily surging black prick. More and more, he coordinated his own efforts to the fierce rutting thrusts of the sailor’s pelvis, which smacked against the shuddering mounds of Franck’s much paler buttocks.

  “Yeah, man!” the black stud shouted. “Drive us home, bitch! Screw that hot ass down around my dick. Give it to me. Give me that ass!”

  Why not, Franck told himself, as feverish thoughts raced through his head. Why not give the bastard what he wants, and get this over with? If only he wasn’t hung so big, if only he didn’t fuck so rough. If only it didn’t hurt so fucking much!