PsyCop Briefs: Volume 1

by Jordan Castillo Price

  He paused at the precipice of a slurp, froze, and cut his eyes to me. I leered. He lowered his cup slowly and turned away, but not before I caught that shy smile of his, the one that makes my heart skip a beat. “I dunno,” he drawled. “I’d hate to wear myself out before I even got started.”

  “Statistics show that men with active sex lives have better stamina when it comes to household tasks.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “In fact, they report more efficiency and productivity, and greater satisfaction once the chores are complete.” He likes it when I make up fake statistics. Especially the part where he humors me. We’re probably insufferable around civilians by now. “Fewer injuries, too.”

  He stood, smirking. The remote slipped between the sofa cushions while he dug out a coaster and placed his mug deliberately in the center of the coffee table. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to pull a muscle.” He unhitched his waistband with a quick swipe of his thumb, then planted a knee between my spread legs. Climbing me. His kiss struck, fast and hard. The sofa’s leather squeaked beneath his hands as he attempted to angle himself over me while shoving my leg farther open with his knee. My cock shifted in my sweatpants. He landed another kiss, teeth grazing teeth, lingering over my mouth longer than he had that first time. I opened to his tongue while we grappled.

  Our mouths slid apart. I was already gasping and hard. His gaze found my face, studied it, mapped it. All four of his tasks (five, counting the downspout-attack he was probably planning while he dressed and caffeinated and worried about the bills and checked the weather) had been successfully postponed. For now, he’d zeroed in on me. The weight of his focus sent a chill down my spine.

  Cupping my face, he turned me lengthwise. Once I’d slipped into position with the help of the leather couch, once I was good and situated, I grabbed him by the ass two-handed and worked his buns through the denim. I love the way he fills out his jeans. I could get lost in the topography, the way the pockets ride the curve of each globe and the center seam nestles in the cleft. The texture of the denim grew smooth beneath my fingertips as I trailed across to the worn parts, the surfaces that had buffed themselves against umpteen car seats and diner booths. I squeezed again, then slid my fingers back in, this time angling down to the secret space between the legs, where center seams rub ragged and the denim around them softens. The hot space nestled among taint and ball and thigh.

  Vic was supporting himself with one arm caught between our bodies and the sofa back, palm sunk into the cushion. With the other hand he caught my wrist and swung my arm around to his front. This area of his jeans intrigued me too, in an entirely different way. Pocket rivets and zipper teeth, and bulging there, down the top of his thigh, a rock hard rise. I ran my fingers down the length of it. The denim was not so worn that I could make out every last vein, but it had thinned enough that I could easily find the flange of his cockhead and stroke it with my thumb.

  He huffed out a breath and scumbled his fingers across my chest, stiffening my nipple with a wayward stroke, then really finding it, fixing on it. Squeezing. My cock throbbed like it was trying to synchronize the pulse in my veins with his tugs. He thrust his tongue into my mouth again. I gave his cock ridge another slow stroke, and he gasped against the wetness on my lips, shuddered, and in a decisive move, rolled off me to rid himself of the pesky clothes in our way. He bumped the coffee table. The half-full mug rocked, but held its ground.

  I hadn’t realized there’d been heat building between us until his body was gone, and the cold downstairs air crept across my abs where my shirt had ridden up. Heat rises in the loft, and this time of year either the first floor is chilly or the upstairs is sweltering. He kicked off the one sneaker and sloughed his old Wranglers so they bunched around his ankles. His cock sprang free and pointed at me, flush-tipped and bobbing, as he hop-stomped out of his underwear and jeans. Gooseflesh prickled up his thighs. Not the type that raises your body hair when a spirit’s in the vicinity, just a good, old-fashioned temperature-related response.

  He’d stripped, though not fully, to crew socks and shirt. I did him one better—I shoved my sweatpants down to expose only the relevant parts. He made a grab for me as soon as my cock thunked onto my stomach. The touch of those long, sure fingers had my back arching up off the sofa in three seconds flat, then he dropped me again and straddled my chest. Whereas I was sliding around, his bare skin gripped the leather. He planted one knee right beside my shoulder and angled in for some head. I got off on his enthusiasm—and I knew he knew. He could tell by the way I was squirming. He gazed down at me for half a second and took it all in, caressing my mouth with his cock’s silky tip.

  “Go for it,” I murmured, catching him with a teasing lick that glanced partway down his shaft.

  “Oh, I will.” He stroked himself across my lips. “For the sake of the yard work.”

  “For the sake of the yard work.” I wet my lips and he pushed in. Not far—and not urgent, either. He jacked himself a time or two, but for the most part he was just holding himself there for me to suck. I grabbed him by the hips and tried to drag him toward me, but he didn’t budge. Too much traction. I pulled myself up against him instead, coaxing him deeper, sucking hard. He let go of his dick to grab for my head, and then I went nice and deep, until my throat forced open and my mustache rasped against pubes.

  He managed to get hold of some hair up near my forehead, but he didn’t exactly guide my head with it. More like he needed to hang on to something. His breathing was deep now, threaded with encouragements. Parts of words and murmurs of appreciation. It was tempting to jerk myself off to be sure I kept up with him, but I decided against it. It didn’t much matter who finished first. We’d both enjoy a nice finale. Mostly, I focused on the sound of his breath, with the barely voiced “uhn” sounds he made when I upped the suction or danced my tongue along the underside of his shaft. His fingers tightened in my hair and he prodded deeper. I nose-breathed carefully and inhaled a heady hit of muskiness. I clenched his hips and urged him to go harder. His breath caught, stuttered, resumed. His glutes tensed. He gasped again, paused, then said, “Wait.” I raised my eyebrows as he forced me off his cock by the scant handful of hair.

  He straightened. Slid off. Bumped the table. A slight tremor rocked the coffee cup. I peeled a wayward pubic hair from the side of my tongue and patiently did as I’d been told: I waited. Meanwhile, he gave the couch a critical once-over, hands on hips and stiff cock glistening with saliva. Once he’d sized up the situation, he hooked his arms beneath my knees and dragged me down so I was laid out flat on the couch cushions. “I like where this is going,” I told him.

  “You don’t say.” He swung a leg over my head and straddled me facing my groin. The couch squawked, comically loud, as his bare knees skidded against leather. Positioning is everything. He took great care fitting himself into place. Lining up. Making sure everything was just so. Trapped beneath him, all I could really do was watch his scrotum sway a maddening six inches from my nose while he figured out where he wanted to plant his hands and knees. He cat-arched his back and peered between us. “How’s that?”

  I grabbed his dick, aimed it at my mouth and took it deep.

  “Fuck yeah,” he gasped. The exhalation flitted across the crook of my thigh like a teasing caress. It was the sound of his voice, though, that got to me. Rough. Intense. And although I had needed to pluck him from the stream of his eight million distractions, right now, there was nowhere else he’d rather be than on this couch, pressed up against me half naked, dragging his tongue across the skin of my balls.

  I slipped my arms around him so I could grab him by the ass again. The skin was cold—poor guy’s got zero insulation—but the gooseflesh there eased once I’d given the cheeks a few good kneads. I considered fingering him. He’d get off on it, sure, but I figured he didn’t need to start a morning of yard work with me prodding around in his rectum. True, he’s a voracious bottom, but he’ll get off on most anything once we get going.


  He flexed his hips, judging how deep he could thrust without choking me. I nudged him gently—More. Yeah. A little more. He moaned and prodded himself deeper, until I squeezed him a signal—right there—and he took up a rhythm. Not quite deep enough to whack me in the forehead on every downstroke, but close enough that I felt his balls quiver just above my brow with the force of each thrust’s velocity. And Vic? He licked me up and down and all around, then started jacking me again. Still hard, still even and rhythmic, but with the addition of the spit, a much stronger pull toward the big finish.

  Though his mouth wasn’t working my dick, it was plenty busy. He’d poised his head between my legs to have access to anything he wanted, then pinned my body down with his chest so I didn’t have any say in what he chose to do to me. He zeroed in on my balls. Initially I was ticklish—but not for long. He lavished a trail of licks and sucks that shot wild sparks through my nervous system. Pinpricks of sensation, some good, and some merely indescribable. When one patch of skin accustomed itself to the treatment, he’d work his way over to a virgin spot and get me squirming all over again.

  Not only was I busy fighting the urge to fling him off me—since that was just a reflex from the sheer intensity, and what I really wanted was to bust a nut all over us—but I found myself basking in the sound. Our place is an echo chamber, all hard surfaces of brick and wood, and the leather furniture did nothing to buffer noise. The sound of him sucking my balls was obscene. And buried among the noisy slurps, the steady whap-whap-whap of him jacking my wet dick underscored the spitty sucking.

  I was closer than I realized. He probably knew it first since his face was right up against my sack when my nuts started to draw up. That was when he pulled out the big guns. Not only did he increase the speed of his hand-job—but he rocked forward and started working over my taint. I made a noise but it was muffled by his dick. He must have felt it. The word “yeah” slid wetly between my legs. Another sound from me, plaintive. He responded with a gentle rake of his teeth. Then he burrowed in deep, got that tender strip of flesh in his mouth, and really started sucking.

  When I arched up, he rode along with me. His dick had slipped out of my mouth, but he kept on sucking and jacking, merciless. The point of no return seethed along my nerves, and I relaxed and gave over to the last few moments of hanging in suspension, the agonizing deliciousness of the brink. He brought me off with a final, agile stroke. The orgasm thrummed through my shaft, but the energy encompassed all of me, organs and skin, body and mind, a single moment of pure perfection. His voice joined me from between my legs, sharing my peak by gasping sweet nothings against my balls. I collapsed back down in that disjointed just-came moment—that diffuse and tingly moment that I sometimes think is my favorite part—and he went into slow-mo, his hand urging out one more drop as he soothed my taint with the hot caress of his breath. I gave a final shiver, then decided I should let him know I was back from the stratosphere by murmuring, “Yeah.”

  He kissed the inside of my thigh, then pushed up and discovered he could sit his bare butt on the armrest with his knees at my shoulders. Maybe he’d planned it that way. He knows that juicy bukake action is the icing on my cake.

  I quickly shed my sweatshirt, then settled back in to look up at him from between his legs. When I grabbed for his cock he batted my hand aside, spit in his palm and started beating himself off. Nothing much for me to do but enjoy the show. I wanted to contribute somehow, so I curled my arms awkwardly around his bent knees and caressed his hips with my fingertips to help coax him toward his peak. His breathing went shallow and rapid. He was close.

  Then he surprised me by saying, “Tell me something.” Odd, since he’s not a big talker at times like these. I gave an inquisitive grunt, and he said, “You came down here to talk about the T-shirt. Why?”

  So. It hadn’t slipped his notice, even while he was doing five other things. And damned if I knew. I probably couldn’t have been able to explain even if I was clear-headed, let alone flat on my back, post-coital woozy, with a load of jiz cooling across my hip and an intimate view of his balls juddering while he whacked off. “It’s yours,” I said.

  I glimpsed a tender expression, upside down and half hidden by cock. “Sap.”

  Was I? I’d certainly never been accused of sentimentality before. I pondered it, but only briefly, as the sight of his scrotum wrinkling up in anticipation of his peak seemed far more compelling than my attachment to an old scrap of fabric.

  His breath hitched and his quads went rigid. The leather beneath his ass gave the smallest creak. And then came a spurt, falling like warm, salted syrup, and another. He gave a small huff of satisfaction, paused, and sighed. I let his load settle into my chest hair briefly, then dragged my fingertips through it and sighed too, spent and content. Vic dropped his hand between his thighs and trailed a single caress down my cheek, only the briefest segue, before he launched off the couch and clocked his shin against the coffee table.

  He grabbed his mug and drained it in a few gulps. I winced. How he drinks it lukewarm like that, I’ll never know.

  By the time he had his jeans back on, I was still lying there drawing swirls in his jiz while I watched him key back into all the other tasks from which he’d been interrupted. Double-checking the weather. Stomping into tied sneakers. Somewhere in the vast corridors of his mind, strategizing his assault on a pile of wet leaves. And then he was off to the kitchen, to put his empty mug in its proper place in the dishwasher before it had a chance to become “clutter.” While I gathered the motivation to move, I continued watching him as far as the couch would allow. I was wrestling with the urge to nod off, in fact, when a gentle whump startled me into full wakefulness. A kitchen towel had landed on the back of the couch. Impressive aim.

  I grabbed it and swabbed off, then slid a glance toward the recliner. Was it possible Vic hadn’t realized that I’d actually fished his old shirt out of the trash and brought it downstairs? Probably. Otherwise he’d be goading me to use it for a come-rag. I waited for the creak of the front door opening, the howl of the wind and the sound of him muttering, “Holy cripes,” when it hit him, and finally the sudden silence when the door shut behind him and I was alone. Only then did I grab the yellowed T-shirt and head upstairs.

  I opened one of my drawers and considered stowing the thing where Vic had no reason to rummage, but then I saw a real stunner of my own: a clumsy fundraiser design that featured a distorted hand-drawn trumpet in yellow ink on bright red jersey. Supposedly it had sent an old colleague’s kid to band camp. If there was ever a shirt that would look better in the back of a garbage truck, that was the one.

  I pulled out the awful red shirt, closed the drawer, and dragged my box of mementos out of the closet. Teenage Vic’s punk tee fit perfectly, right between a wrestling trophy and a yellowed photo album. It took up hardly any room at all. And to think, he’d wanted to toss it.

  Once I’d stowed the box, I glanced in the direction of the paperback I’d been reading, and then at the ugly red band T-shirt. It really was no contest. I dressed and joined Vic in the yard.

  He stood with his hands on his hips and the rake at his feet. The cold sun picked out russet highlights in his black hair that never show in man-made lighting. I followed his gaze, but there was nothing much to see but the back alley.

  Or was there?

  Once, we’d gently exorcised the ghost of a child there—or maybe what we’d done was more of an appeasement. He claimed he’d only had an audio on that spirit, though, so I doubted he’d be seeing her now. Had someone new crept into our turf? Or something?

  Only Vic could say, though I knew I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. His scowl could really mean anything. So much of him is easy to read, for anyone who bothers to learn the vocabulary. Yet, other sides of him I may never know, not until he chooses to share them.

  “Anything interesting?” I asked.

  He squinted harder for a moment, then shrugged. “Those douchebags with the black shutters pu
t up their Christmas lights. In October.” He gave me a look. In the harsh daylight, his irises were the color of the pale autumn sky. “You didn’t want to decorate or anything…did you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Bullet dodged. His shoulders relaxed. “In October.” He dismissed the neighbor’s holiday cheer, and only then did he wonder why I’d joined him. “What the hell’s that supposed to be?” He pointed at the T-shirt that showed in the half-zipped V of my hooded sweatshirt. “A bugle?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Even I can draw better than that.”

  I shrugged. “I thought maybe you could use some help out here.”

  “It’s pretty nasty.”

  “Okay.”

  He picked up the rake and prodded the large brown mass with it. “Really. I mean, it reeks of decomp. And it’s full of slugs. Plus you do all the shopping and the cooking and the laundry and…well, you don’t have to. I got this.”

  “Don’t tell me I put on this awful shirt for nothing.”

  “Well, if you’ve got your heart set on it…I guess it can’t hurt.” Vic smiled his shyest smile, dipping his head. “Especially since you’ve already been slimed.”

  I wrapped my hand around his, giving the rake a gentle tug that angled him toward me. I hadn’t necessarily planned on kissing him. I just couldn’t resist.

  Our lips pressed, slow and lingering, yet fairly restrained. None of our neighbors had ever raised a fuss over seeing two men kiss, and whatever surveillance was trained on us had probably seen all that and more. Still, this wasn’t about everyone else—it was about us. There are “I want to do dirty things to you” kisses, and “I love you” kisses. For my unapologetically sentimental mood, this kiss was the perfect fit.

  Impact

  “Male, Caucasian, strong build.” I spoke, Jacob listened, and while he didn’t have his notepad out, no doubt the mental ticker tape was running. “Five foot ten. One eighty. Brown hair—and a mustache.” A mustache any present-day hipster would kill to have. Hell, maybe his suspenders, too. Who can keep track of what the kids are wearing these days? Our historically mustachioed friend gazed up toward the sky, one hand in his pocket, the other shielding his eyes. A brick appeared just as it was striking him on the temple. He flickered, blinked out, and reappeared a second later, head intact, eyes cast upward.