He notices, though. Of course he does. He’s Quentin.
“You’re hard, aren’t you, baby? You want to touch yourself?”
In response I only moan around his cock. He grins at me.
“Do it. Touch yourself. Just don’t come yet.”
Oh, God. My palm feels so good against the shaft. Everything is slick with water and bright with the desperation that comes from almost losing something. I give myself three tight strokes, then a number of lighter, slower once to stave off my orgasm.
He yanks at my hair until my eyes water. “Not like that. Touch yourself like I would do it. Imagine it’s me touching you.”
I obey. I feel the red-hot edge of my climax approach. The high-pitched whine I can feel building in my throat is stifled by his prick still weighing down my tongue. Every inch of my body is begging to come, and I feel a hint of panic: what if I can’t hold it? Will he punish me? Oh God, I suddenly know for certain that he will, and that I’d love that.
“If you come now, no orgasms for a week.”
That answers my question: he would punish me if I came without permission. I could have this orgasm right now and endure a week of teasing and wanting. A week; seven whole days. I have to hold on until he gives me permission. There’s no way I’ll survive a week of Quentin hellbent on teasing me.
A sharp yank at my hair forces my attention back to Quentin: “Focus on me,” he barks out. “This is a damned sloppy blowjob.”
His words are hotter than the sun, and for a moment I think I won’t be able to hold on. But he’s right; it is a sloppy blowjob. I’m overwhelmed by the desire to do better, to please him. I shove my own neediness aside for the moment and tighten my lips to suck. He moans appreciatively. It’s a gorgeous sound. I can feel his thighs tensing up, feel the thrusts of his hips lose control, predict to the exact second the moment he’s going to come. Just before he does, he gives me permission to follow, and my orgasm overtakes me so strongly I white out for a second. When I return to myself, I’m coughing a little and his cum is dribbling down my chin. My own is slowly being washed down the drain of the shower. Quentin is kneeling in front of me, pulling me close and muttering in my ear how much he loves me. I feel I might just float away on this happy feeling.
Gently, ever so gently, he dries me off with a towel, and sits me down at the kitchen counter. After a cup of coffee, I descend back to reality.
“Listen,” he says. I can still see the tenderness in his eyes, but I can also tell he means business by his tone.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
I laugh at that. Of course he’s been thinking, he spent the night planting hydrangeas on my lawn. None the less, what he says next surprises me.
“You should move in with me.”
My last sip of coffee goes up the wrong pipe. “What?”
He pats me on the back to help me regain my breath, then repeats: “You should move in with me. Milwaukee is boring. I know you think so, too. You don’t even have a job to keep you here. Besides, it makes little sense to pay rent twice over.”
I think of this morning in the shower. I think of the flowers in my front yard. I think of his apartment. I think of Chicago.
“You won’t have to brave the traffic much,” he adds. “You can use the subway.”
“I have one condition,” I decide.
I can see him draw his eyebrows in concern. “Anything, Josh.”
“We have to bring the hydrangeas. We can put them up on the balcony.”
He gives me a blinding smile and a kiss that tastes like coffee. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter Thirteen
We don’t have a phone installed at the Chicago apartment. I just use my cell. It doesn’t usually ring these days. Customers of the newly revamped Quentin’s Boutique prefer to contact us digitally. Until one day, about three weeks after the big move, the phone does ring. It’s my dad.
“Hey son,” he says. Of course, he doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Your mom and I have been thinking we should come visit again sometime soon. It’s been ages.”
I feel my limbs go heavy. Quentin shoots me a concerned glance from where he’s sitting behind his worktop.
“Parents,” I mouth silently. He drops the cufflink he’s dying and comes sit next to me on the couch. I relax a little.
“That would be nice, dad, although….”
Quentin squeezes my thigh and smiles.
“Everything alright, son?”
“Yes.” I smile, because it’s the truth. “It’s just I moved to Chicago.”
There’s a beat of silence. My move will be interpreted as a betrayal. I’m the oldest, I was expected to stay in Milwaukee to look after my brothers. They’re idiots.
“Well…” says my dad. “What’d you do that for?”
My smile goes a little wider. I look straight at Quentin as I say: “I met someone.”
“Ah,” goes my dad. “Well, how does next week sound? We’d love to meet your gentleman.”
I heave a sigh of relief. “That sounds great, dad. Also, actually, I just found a new job.”
That’s when hell breaks loose. My father has some trouble believing that investing your life savings into a startup focussed on the market of jewelry for males is a wise decision. I look over at Quentin, spot the feather-shaped bracelet on his wrist, and I know we will be fine.
Chapter Fourteen
“You didn’t tell them about me?” Quentin asks over dinner.
I’m enjoying my pasta puttanesca, which has never been this tasty before, and I don’t understand what he’s talking about. “Hmm?”
“Your parents? You didn’t tell them about me?”
“Oh,” I realize this might look bad. “No. I don’t tell them much of anything.”
He nods. “Are you… Josh, are you in the closet?”
The mind boggles. “Q, we met at a strip club!”
He chuckles. “Yeah, good point. I’m still not happy about it, though.”
I think of Quentin’s mom, a large blonde who lives downtown and gave me a beautiful set of whiskey glasses for my birthday. I think of his dad, who has been dead three years. I think of Quentin telling me about them the first time we went to the zoo together.
“My parents aren’t…great.” I say.
He rolls his eyes, a sure sign of impending doom. “Obviously. You’ve avoided talking about them all this time. What is it?”
“They don’t like me.”
Quentin frowns. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“No really, it is. They wanted me to be a dentist.”
“A… excuse me?”
“A dentist,” I repeat impatiently.
“Yes,” Quentin shoots me a quizzical look. “So?”
“Well, I’m not a dentist.”
There’s the eye-roll again. “Obviously.”
“So, that’s why they hate me.” I feel like I’m explaining something fairly obvious to a small child.
Quentin just laughs. “Josh, you’re thirty-three years old! Who gives a damn what your parents wanted you to be when you were younger?”
It starts to dawn on me that maybe he’s right. I laugh along, then get up to get the tiramisu from the fridge. On my way to the kitchen, he pulls me close by my belt loop and presses a kiss to my clavicle. I love him. He loves me. We’re sharing a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago and a moderately successful business venture. We’ll survive a visit from my parents.
Chapter Sixteen
In the end, we almost don’t. Quentin picks a wonderful French restaurant downtown, one he and I have been to before. We decide it’s not the right time to bring his mother along, but we do plan to raise the topic of introducing them sometime soon.
The weather is nice so we can sit on the terrace. The food is delicious as always, and my mother is mercifully in a good mood. My dad’s the problem. He can’t stop making remarks about Quentin’s Boutique, how it’s not a man’s job, and so on, and so fort
h. It’s borderline homophobic. Every time any of us manage to interrupt him, he circles back to the topic of jewelry.
“Now, Joanna,” he says, gesturing towards my mom. “She’s a lady, you know. I could see where a lady got her taste in jewelry from. But a handsome guy like you, Quentin? It really makes me wonder.”
Quentin, to his credit, keeps his face expressionless.
“Dad, please,” I say.
“Now that you mention it,” my mother starts. For a moment I fear she’s going to join in on the Quentin bashing, but she actually saves the entire evening by saying: “that’s an absolutely gorgeous bracelet you’re wearing, Quentin.”
Quentin’s eyes sparkle at the praise. I shoot him a smile. My mom catches it and grins. She, at least, is happy to see me happy.
“Actually, Joanna,” says Quentin in his most charming voice, “this is a bracelet of my own design. Your son is the one that inspired it.”
I’m struck dumb. I didn’t know that.
“You see how it’s shaped exactly like a pair of wings?”
My mother nods. He’s got her wrapped around his little finger. He’s quite a catch, my Quentin.
“Did Josh ever tell you I took him to the zoo on our first date?”
Even my dad is listening attentively now. Both shake their heads no, I never told them.
“Well, we saw a bird there. The emerald starling. Its wings look just like this.”
He holds up the bracelet so that it’s just inches from my face. I remember the bird; the resemblance is striking. My mother gasps. I shoot her a curious look. What’s there to gasp about?
Quentin seems to get it, though. He laughs melodiously.
“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly the color of Josh’s eyes.”
I can see my parents fall for Quentin just as hard as I did.
“Can I buy one?” asks my mother breathlessly.
Epilogue
Our story ends six months later. Or really, that’s where it begins. Quentin takes me to the zoo. I always protest, saying we’ve seen all the animals by now, but every time we get there there’s a newborn somewhere, or an animal that’s usually asleep is suddenly playful and active. Either way, the Lincoln Park Zoo always offers a new surprise.
I don’t think the zoo will ever be as surprising again as it was that day, though. We were in the newly built sloth enclosure, where you walk between the animals, looking at the newborns clinging to the backs of their mothers. For a brief moment, I didn’t see Quentin anywhere. When he reappeared, he was carrying a ring box. He’d designed the ring himself, a slender thing with feather-shapes carved into the band. He went down on one knee, right there in the middle of the muddy Sloth Sanctuary, and said the words, exactly as I’d imagined him saying them, in that deep, gravelly voice: “Josh, will you marry me?”
Of course I said yes.
Naughty Officers
An Erotic Gay Police Menage Romance
Michael loved his years at Berkeley. San Fran was so vibrant, so alive. He had friends on every corner. There were so many hot gay bars and clubs. But after graduation, reality smacks him straight in the face. He can no longer afford to live in the city. And his student loan payments are beginning to pile up. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He’s forced to move back to his native Sacramento. When he left, he’d sworn that he would never return. But like so many of his friends, he finds himself stuck in a dead-end job, neck deep in debt and without much hope for the future. The only joys in his life come from the reliable, predictable pleasure of various stimulants. But he wearies of always fantasizing, always living his life vicariously through the grunts, groans, and orgasms of porn stars. He yearns for the real thing.
And this Saturday night might just be the luckiest of his life. Either that or the worst. He stumbles into the arms of two hunky cops who no longer want to repress who they are, who no longer want to hide. The three of them begin an erotic journey that will take them well beyond any of their imagined limits.
* * *
Chapter 1
Michael stared at the screen in front of him, a glazed look in his weary eyes. He felt like all the energy had been drained out of him. He looked at the time. Still three more hours before he would be able to get out of this damn cubicle. He sighed heavily and let his head slump into his hands. All around him the air buzzed with the sound of people typing, slurping coffee, and whispering. That was the sad soundtrack that was constantly playing in the background of his life. It was all incredibly disappointing. What was this life? How had he ended up stuck with this 9-to-5 life, doing the same thing every day as the time slowly and agonizingly dripped away?
This wasn't how things were supposed to end up. Just a few years before, he'd been a wide-eyed, adventurous, enthusiastic undergraduate at Berkeley. In those days, he couldn't wait to spring out of bed in the morning, couldn't wait to stay up all night, arguing politics, music, arts, whatever. Life seemed so full of possibility. So full of opportunity. But after graduation, a completely different reality had set in.
Once the loan payments had come due, he could no longer afford to live in his apartment—located a few blocks from the Berkeley campus. He wasn’t left with many options but he definitely did not want to leave San Francisco. All his friends were there. His favorite restaurants, museums, bike paths were there. He spent a couple of weeks couch surfing, even resorting to sleeping in a tent on the street on more than a handful of occasions. Those nights he spent on the street were some of the worst of his life. And it wasn’t the other people living on the street who made that sort of life so hellish. It was the police. The notorious San Francisco PD, which had found itself involved in a fair share of controversies over the last few years. They were a mean bunch, especially when it came to people who could no longer afford a roof over their head in one of the most expensive cities in the world.
After a few too many tense run—ins with the cops, and hearing one too many horror stories about people who had been beaten senseless by them, Michael had decided that the best thing to do, maybe the only thing to do would be to return to his hometown of San Francisco and find a steady job that would help him begin paying back the 40K in student loans as soon as possible. And that’s exactly what he had done, staying with his parents for the first few months until he could get back on his feet. After a few months of saving up, he was able to get his own place. So things weren’t terrible for him. Plenty of his Berkeley friends who had taken out big loans in order to get a fancy, coveted degree were stuck in their parent's basements and probably would be for years to come. At least he had some sense of dignity and independence.
But he couldn’t help feeling a gnawing sense of disappointment. He never wanted to be one of those people who just took a job, who drifted to life, doing what everyone said they should do, reading a script that someone else had given them, trying to play a role that someone else expected of them.
No, he was destined for great things! Creative things! Life-changing things!
That's the way all his Berkeley friends thought. They were going to change the world. They weren't going to be like their parents. They weren’t going to live out the same dreary, monotone, meaningless existence that previous generations had accepted, only to arrive at the end of their lives only to realize how empty and unfulfilled they were.
He sighed again and closed his eyes. He remembered the last vacation that he had taken. Mexico. Puerta Valla. A wonderful beach resort. He had stayed there for a week with his friend Brad. Rest and relaxation, spicy food and strong drinks. He remembered one night, shortly after sunset, the two of them walking hand-in-hand on the beach, barefoot, their bellies full and their heads dizzy with beer and tequila. While strolling they had seen a group of three young men playing in the sound, one in the middle getting spit roasted, poked and pounded from both sides, mouth, and ass being wonderfully penetrated.
“Should we join them?” Bradley had asked, brushing a tangle of blond hair from his face, his green eyes twin
kling.
At the time, Michael had blushed and covered his mouth. Then he had taken off running, pulling Bradley behind them, heading into the water, splashing, giggling, then hugging, kissing, and falling into water intertwined.
Years later the silhouettes of those three masculine lovers still excited him. Three guys. Wow! He had been very open sexually while in college. He loved playing both the bottom and top roles. He had played rough and dirty, wet and dry. He had a very open mind. And he rather enjoyed both penetrating and being penetrated. But a threesome? It was something that he had never tried. How would it feel to just let your body go to two other men, to just let them control you, dominate you, pump and pound you? How would it feel? He wondered.
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