Cuffed by the Cop

by Henri Couesnon

  “Never,” Franck vowed. “I’d almost rather you did kill me. Yeah, go ahead and shoot me. You’ve got your cock in my ass. But don’t you think for a minute that I like it!”

  “I don’t think we need to go to quite such extremes as shooting, to improve your attitude, after all.” As he spoke, Brun slid one arm around Franck’s torso. His hand, warm and damp with perspiration, rubbed over Franck’s chest, massaging his pecs, tweaking his stiffened nipples. “Your tits are hard,” the cop observed. “So you don’t like what I’m doing to you, huh? You aren’t turned on?”

  “No,” Franck lied. “Not at all!”

  Brun’s hand moved higher, under Franck’s chin, and it closed around his throat.

  “You know something, boy?” Brun whispered, in a soft, silken thread of a voice, with his lips touching Franck’s ear. “When you choke a guy—when you slowly strangle the life out of him—his cock squirts out its load, and his asshole tightens up. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. I’ve always wanted to put it to the test. Maybe I’ll throttle you, and fuck you, even after you’re unconscious. And on fucking you, even after you’re dead.”

  “Please—please, don’t—!”

  “Scared, are you? Yeah, I can smell the fear, oozing out of your pores. And you know what? It turns me on.”

  “Go ahead. Fuck me. Just don’t hurt me.”

  “Now we’re starting to get along, aren’t we?” Brun jeered. “See how much better it is when we just cooperate?”

  “I swear to God, I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Damn right you will. Bitch! Whore! Cunt! Slut!” The cop spat out the monosyllables, in a breathless staccato rhythm. Savagely, his cock punished Franck’s ass.

  “Aw, shit!” Franck yelled. “So this is what you like. Having another guy at your mercy. Making him take your dirty cop cock up his ass. Raping him. Raping his ass!”

  “You bet,” Brun agreed. “Go ahead and yell ‘rape’ all you like, you little slut. Who do you think is going to believe you?”

  They began to fuck, like two animals—or, more accurately, Franck fucked himself on Brun’s cock. The cop really didn’t have to move much, or do anything except lie there on top of his willing prisoner and enjoy the ride. Despite his pretense of reluctance and resistance, Franck wanted the other man’s cock so badly that he behaved with whorish abandon, betraying the need in his ass. Furthermore, his extensive experience as a male whore had taught him one thing. When in doubt, it was always best to bring the john off as soon as possible. Technically, Brun wasn’t a john. But Franck wanted him to come as quickly as possible, so he could be rid of the sadistic bastard.

  Accordingly, he lavished all of his considerable anal expertise upon the horny cop.

  Franck would heave himself up until only the head of Brun’s cock remained stuck inside his sphincter ring. He’d pause for a second, enjoying the way his asshole was stretched open by the glans and rubbing against it. And then—very slowly—groaning with pleasure all the way down, he’d lower himself again, and feed the shaft of Brun’s prick deep into his anus again, until his hairy butt cleft was rubbing hard against the blond man’s balls and he was completely filled with the cop’s manhood again.

  “That’s right, boy,” Brun gasped. “Work that hot whore ass of yours around my cock!”

  “Fuck me, cop!”

  “I thought you didn’t like it.”

  “Just fuck me.”

  “How does that cop dick of mine feel now, punk? Are you starting to love it?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Say it the right way,” Brun coached him. “With respect.”

  “I love it, sir. I love your cop dick—the way it feels inside me. I like it when you fuck me, officer. I want you to fuck me, sir! I want your cock. Please, sir—please fuck my ass!”

  “That’s better. Much better.”

  It was too good, too intense, to last nearly as long as either man might have wished. Their mutual lust was just too urgent to be denied release.

  “I’m coming,” Brun warned.

  “Yeah, cop! Do it. Fuck me. Come in my ass!” Franck replied, frantically.

  These were the only words they had time to exchange before the tidal wave of orgasm broke over both of their bodies at once. Brun’s prick spurted a steady stream of what felt hot enough to be molten lava, deep into Franck’s ass, flooding his prostate with the gooey stuff and triggering Franck’s own ejaculation. The handcuffed hustler’s cock swelled even larger within the cop’s grasping, masturbating fist, before it began to pour out its hot liquid contents all over the bed beneath the two men’s thrashing bodies, wetting the sheets and splattering Franck’s sweaty belly and chest and thighs with his own sticky male seed.

  The ecstasy went on and on for both of them, their pent-up passion erupting out of their bodies repeatedly, in spurt after spurt of draining, debilitating, yet wholly exhilarating lust. Brun, especially, was momentarily lost in a selfish, utterly satisfying world of pure eroticism and physical pleasure and release as he used Franck’s body. The cop was shaken by the fierce waves of throbbing fulfillment being given to him by the boy lying helplessly underneath him on the bed, who was impaled on Brun’s rutting, exploding cock.

  When his orgasm finally subsided, Brun eased his still-stiff prick of Franck’s semen-flooded asshole and rolled off him, quickly bending down to kiss his face and mouth. It was the first time the cop had kissed him, Franck realized—a reversal of the usual procedure, whereby kissing was part of the foreplay, before two men got down to the nitty-gritty of actual sex. Brun gently caressed Franck’s cheek with his fingers, and the hustler’s lips parted instinctively to accept the wet, probing intrusion of Brun’s tongue.

  “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Brun asked, after breaking the long, deep kiss.

  “It was okay,” Franck conceded. He decided to risk a joke. “You can leave the money there, on the nightstand, before you leave. I’ll give you a discount.”

  Brun chuckled. “Quite the comedian, aren’t you? I’m afraid I may forget to do that—just as I may forget to uncuff you. Yeah, that’d serve you right, for being such a smart mouth. I ought to leave you here, naked, handcuffed, for your boyfriend to come home and find. You’d have some explaining to do.”

  Franck bit his lip. “Please—I did what you wanted. I did everything. Don’t be so mean. I’m sorry for making that crack.”

  “Apology accepted. Turn around. Let me find my key, and unlock those.”

  “Thanks,” Franck muttered, grudgingly, when his hands were freed. The steel hoops had left red mark, indented in the flesh of his wrists. H rubbed them, to ease the smart.

  “Well, that was fun.” Brun got off the bed, and he began to get dressed. First, though, he took care to return his pistol to its holster, and secure it by closing the snap.

  Fun didn’t strike Franck was being the most appropriate word for what had just transpired between them. But he watched, in silence, while the police officer performed a sort of reverse striptease, putting his clothes back on as slowly and methodically as he had removed them. Once his uniform was on, Brun stood in front of the mirror which was on the wall above the dresser, fussing with his tie, getting the knot straight. Finally, he strapped on his utility belt, with the pistol on his hip, and replaced his sunglasses.

  “Still no sign of your roommate,” he commented.

  “Maybe he got lucky, too.”

  “Too? Are you telling me you enjoyed what we did?”

  “Does it matter? You got your rocks off. I didn’t think what I might or might not enjoy mattered to you very much.”

  “Don’t sulk. Maybe I’m not quite as big a prick you think I am.”

  “Except literally,” Franck dared to joke.

  He’d succeeded in coaxing a smile out of the cop’s stern face. “Do you want to do this again sometime?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Everybody’s always got a choice,” Brun said, somewhat enigmatically. �
��How’d you like to be my boy?”

  “Your boy? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’d take care of me, whenever I happen to need it. I think you’d get something out of it, too. We seem to be sexually compatible. Or don’t you think so?”

  “I like your body, and your cock,” Franck admitted, with caution. “It’s your profession I have some reservations about.”

  “I could say the same about yours. Well, we can continue this discussion some other time. Want to swap phone numbers?”

  “Sure.”

  After performing this ritual, Franck, still nude, escorted his visitor through the living room, to the front door. Brun kissed him, and gave him a smack on his bare ass.

  “I’ll call you,” Brun promised, as Franck let him out. “Try to behave yourself.”

  Shit! Franck thought, as soon as he was alone in the apartment. What the hell am I getting myself into? I just let a cop fuck me—and now I’m practically agreeing to take him on as my lover. Without even charging him for it!

  Very little escaped Didier’s notice. When he got home, shortly thereafter, and he and Franck were busy preparing their dinner together in the kitchen, he noticed the lingering red marks on his roommate’s wrists.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” Didier asked.

  “Oh—I had a john,” Franck lied. “One of those last-minute deals. He came over right after I got home from work. I got rid of him, fast. In and out, before you came home.”

  “What the hell did he do to you?”

  “He tied me up—that’s all. He was into a little light bondage, that’s all. It helped to keep him hard. No big deal.”

  “You really have to be careful about getting into that sort of shit. Alone with a guy—”

  “Oh, I’ve had this freak before. He’s harmless.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Didier was busy making croque-monsieur sandwiches in a skillet on the stovetop. The way he made them, they were no light snack, but a hearty meal. He used thick slices of bread, plenty of prosciutto and crab meat, and he topped off each completed sandwich with a fried egg.

  Among Didier’s few other domestic traits besides cooking was the fact that he cultivated herbs, on the sunny kitchen windowsill. Planted in clay pots, set inside brightly colored ceramic cachepots, the herbs—spearmint, thyme, lavender, oregano, and so forth—flourished. Using a small, sharp pair of scissors, Didier snipped off a couple of sprigs of parsley, which he shredded and used to garnish the croque-monsieurs, before he plated and served them. “Well, these are ready. Let’s eat.”

  Franck remembered something Brun had said to him, the night they’d met. Keep lying, boy, the cop had sneered at him. With a lot more practice, you may start to get good at it.

  Franck hated lying to Didier, from whom he ordinarily kept no secrets. Didier was just about impossible to shock—but even his open-mindedness had its limits. He’d no doubt be appalled if he found out that his buddy had done the unthinkable—had sex with a cop. And, worse, done it free of charge!

  Giving it away for free, to the enemy—yes, to Didier, that would be the ultimate betrayal.

  Feeling guilty, Franck nevertheless ate and thoroughly enjoyed his sandwich, without shame. He’d worked up quite an appetite, which dealing with his cop visitor’s exorbitant demands. And, after all, a man had to eat!

  Chapter Six: Coffee with the Cop

  Late one afternoon, a few days later, Franck received a phone call. It was Brun.

  “Where are you, and what are you doing?” the cop demanded, in a brusque, peremptory tone of voice.

  Nice to hear from you, too! Franck thought. But he knew that he ought to be used, by now, to the gendarme’s less than finely honed social skills. Franck wondered whether the man behaved this way toward everybody, or did he confine his aggression to the sex partners whom he dominated?

  “I’m at work, but I’m getting ready to leave,” Franck said.

  “Good. Because I’m about to knock off at the end of my shift, too. I’ll see you at your place.”

  Naturally, it didn’t occur to Brun to ask whether such a rendezvous would be convenient for Franck.

  “Don’t hurry,” Franck advised. “Give me a chance to get home and jump in the shower, first.”

  “No, don’t bother. Not with the shower, I mean.”

  “But I’m kind of dirty and sweaty,” Franck protested.

  “So much the better. I’ll take you just the way you are. Don’t shower, and don’t change out of your work clothes. And that’s an order, boy.”

  “Jesus! Well, if you insist. All right. See you soon.”

  Talk about kinky! Franck thought, after he hung up. On the whole, he preferred clean sex. A little sweat and body odor didn’t bother him—in his line of work, as a male prostitute, he couldn’t afford to be too fussy about such things. Some johns, unfortunately, were less than fastidious about their personal hygiene. But Brun had sounded downright aroused by the prospect of having sex with Franck in his current unwashed condition!

  Didier wasn’t due home for a couple of hours, so at least Franck and Brun would have the apartment to themselves. After hurrying home, Franck found himself somewhat at a loss, with no way to kill time before his self-invited guest arrived. Brun had forbidden him to shower and change his clothes, and Franck would be damned if he was going to bother trying to tidy up the place for the cop’s benefit. Such niceties, he suspected, would be wasted on Brun, anyway.

  Let the horny motherfucker put up with a little dust and dirt and clutter! Franck decided.

  And so Franck opened a bottle of inexpensive red wine and he drank it, gratefully, to mellow himself out. He had to admit it—he was nervous. Brun was very a loose cannon. What kind of a mood would he be in, this time? And what would he expect Franck to do?

  Franck had no way of knowing how far away Brun had been when he’d called. But in fact it wasn’t a long wait. The doorbell chimed, and Franck hurried over to the intercom and buzzed Brun in.

  The cop was in uniform again, as Franck had anticipated.

  “No roommate?” Brun inquired, looking around the living room.

  “He’s still at work. We do have real jobs, you know—both of us. We’re not a couple of slackers, who get to lounge around here at home all day.”

  “Yeah, stealing and hustling must get boring, at times. A little variety is always welcome.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. I could say—”

  “Say what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, come on.” Brun seemed to be in an amiable, outgoing mood—by his standards. “Tell me what you were going to say. I promise, I won’t take offense. If I end up beating your ass, it’ll be because I know we both enjoy that—not because you’ve said anything to piss me off.” This was presumably Brun’s idea of a joke. The guy was just one big laugh after another, Franck thought!

  “Well, I was going to say something like, maybe you’re not in a position to criticize Didier and me,” Franck said, with caution, choosing his words carefully. “Would your coworkers at the precinct approve of you fucking around with a guy like me, if they knew?”

  “Some of them would. Hell, some of them might even want a piece of the action.”

  “Are there a lot of gay cops here in Marseille?”

  “Sure. Probably the same proportion as there is in any other city, anywhere. Hey, can I have a glass of that wine?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’m forgetting my manners. Sorry. I’ll get you a glass.”

  When Franck returned from the kitchen with the wineglass, and Brun had poured himself some of the wine and had tasted it, the cop picked up the conversation where it had left off.

  “The department’s got an official ‘no discrimination’ policy, of course,” he said. “When it comes to hiring gays. But you know as well as I do—being open about your sexual orientation isn’t always to your advantage. I know a number of gay cops. Most of them are quite hot.”

  “Why don’
t you fool around with them, then?”

  Brun smiled. “Who says I don’t? We get together quite frequently. Sometimes one on one. Other times, for group sex. Wall to wall naked cops, with hard-ons—think about that, boy. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it, myself, on your behalf. Maybe you’d like to be invited to one of these parties?”

  “Let’s take it slow, okay?” Franck suggested.

  “Whatever you want. And right now, let’s get started. Strip. No,” Brun said, changing his mind. “Let me do it. Let me undress you.”

  He took a final sip of wine, and then he set his glass down on the coffee table. Franck was seated in an armchair, positioned near the couch, at a right angle to it. Brun came over to him and knelt at his feet.

  Franck felt the first stirrings of sexual excitement, but, paradoxically, he also felt somewhat uneasy. He’d become so accustomed to submitting to his cop lover that it was strange to see the man kneeling before him—while he was in uniform, no less!

  “I’m glad you didn’t shower,” Brun whispered. “I can smell you, and you smell like a man. That turns me on.”

  “Does it?” Franck responded, automatically, without thinking.

  “Yeah. I don’t waste my time fucking around with pretty little metrosexuals who reek of cologne, and faint if you get a little rough with them. I like my men butch.” Slowly, methodically, Brun unlaced Franck’s right work boot, and tugged it off. He peeled the sweaty, grimy sock off Franck’s foot. He repeated the process with the left boot and sock. His hands grasped Franck’s newly bared left foot, massaged it, and raised it to his lips. He kissed Franck’s sole, and then, inhaling deeply, repeatedly, and appreciatively, he began to use his tongue to swab the foot, darting it into the spaces between the toes. Pushing the big toe inside his mouth, Brun began to suck on it.

  “Damn,” Franck gasped. It tickled, and it was also rather freaking him out. He’d had johns who wanted to play with his feet and make love to them. He’d gone along with it, and if the guy was good at it, he’d been known to enjoy it. But he’d never suspected that Brun would get off on something like this!