A Thing for Cops

by Roland Graeme

  Aware that there is nothing like a man in uniform, a young man becomes a cop himself—and finds many admirers.

  Jim Melton has had “a thing for cops” ever since he can remember. So it is only natural that be becomes a police officer himself. As a gay cop, Jim soon realizes that he belongs to a subculture within the law enforcement subculture. His many erotic adventures with both civilians and his fellow cops give new meaning to the phrase, “to protect and serve.”

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  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 persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Thing for Cops

  Copyright © 2014 Roland Graeme

  ISBN: 978-1-77111-857-6

  Cover art by Latrisha Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  www.eXtasybooks.com

  A Thing for Cops

  By

  Roland Graeme

  Dedication

  For Henri Couesnon

  who shares my thing for cops

  Prologue

  Bad Company

  I’ve always had a thing for cops.

  I’ve also always known I was gay—I mean, I’ve known it at least ever since I was old enough to get a hard-on. I suppose I was sexually precocious. From a young age and on, I was hot and horny, but I had no interest whatsoever in girls. All I ever fantasized about was men—their bodies, their crotches, their asses, their dicks. Especially their dicks. My jack-off sessions amounted to a form of phallic worship. Whenever I stroked my own agitated dick and coaxed it toward ejaculation, I fantasized devoutly about what it might be like to touch another guy’s hard cock.

  I was so young and dumb that I’d have been perfectly content just to touch one of those erections I pictured in my imagination. When I heard other guys making jokes about sucking cock and taking it up the ass, I was embarrassed. I couldn’t believe that men—even gay men—actually did such things with each other. The whole idea was shocking to me.

  As a result of my innocence and shame, I never had the guts to try anything sexual with another guy until an opportunity arose that took me completely by surprise—not that I didn’t take advantage of the chance and enjoy the experience when it finally happened. And it sure wasn’t traumatic or anything like that. Hell, it was quite the opposite! Once I’d had my first taste of homosexual sex, I wanted to kick myself for not having indulged in it long before.

  It happened shortly after my graduation from high school. That’s a big milestone in any guy’s life, of course. But in my case it paled in comparison to discovering my sexuality.

  I was eighteen, not much of a scholar, but athletic. I was a big star on the football team—middle-class shit, which didn’t cut much ice in the rough neighborhood I’d grown up in.

  All during my four years of high school, I’d been such a good boy, so damn well-behaved, that it was probably inevitable I’d rebel a little, given the chance.

  There was only a week to go before graduation. The teachers were already looking forward to the summer break, and they were much more relaxed and lenient than usual as a result. Needless to say, the students were “relaxed,” too—to the point of being semi-comatose during school hours. They were coasting, counting the days. The big excitement was the upcoming prom.

  Anyway, my life changed forever during one of those final days of my senior year. That sounds melodramatic, but it’s no exaggeration. At school during lunch hour, I was in the men’s room taking a long, leisurely piss, just minding my own business but half tempted to get my cock hard and whack off right then and there to relieve my constant frustration. If I slipped into one of the toilet stalls and took care of business, who would ever know?

  Then the door opened and in walked, or rather strutted, Marco Torelli, one of the really rough neighborhood kids, the kind your mother warns you not to associate with. All sorts of lurid stories circulated about Marco. Supposedly, he smoked pot and busted chicks’ cherries for them and got them knocked up, and he carried a switchblade—all that sort of thing.

  And he was a good-looking young stud. He had muscles out to here, and a sexy punk face. He always looked as though he needed a shave.

  I’d always made a point of steering clear of him. Now, I was scared shitless at the mere coincidence of finding myself alone in the men’s room with him. I thought he might grab me and beat me up right there in the john, just for the hell of it, or at least shake me down for money the way he did with younger kids all the time. “Pay up or get slashed, punk,” was the usual way he put it, according to some of his victims who’d confided in me about their confrontations with him.

  But Marco didn’t react to my presence in the toilet at first. He glanced around the john to make sure that we were alone, just the two of us. That certainly didn’t make me feel any more confident.

  Then he kind of swaggered toward me—I was still standing at the urinal, pissing—with this big grin on his face, his hands stuck in his pockets, his crotch packed with fat cock meat and shoved out toward me. It was a real come-on act, although I was still too young and dumb to recognize it as such at the time.

  He came up to the urinal right beside mine, unzipped his jeans, and pulled out the biggest prick I’d ever seen. Needless to say, Marco wasn’t on the football team, so I’d never had the chance to check out his equipment in the locker room or anything like that. So I was completely unprepared for what I now saw.

  To my awe, he was giving me one hell of an eyeful of man-sized cock. It was still soft, but already getting noticeably stiffer. He hefted it up in his hand to aim it at the urinal and gave himself a little squeeze, looking me right in the eye with that lewd, suggestive grin of his.

  “How’s it going, man?” he asked me.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Being stuck in here in classes all day sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it sure does.”

  “Thank the fuck there’s less than a week to go.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “Hey, do you want to hang out for a while, after school?”

  I spoke on pure instinct, without thinking. “Sure.”

  Marco told me to meet him at a certain coffee shop, downtown. Stunned, I agreed.

  I was so surprised by the fact that he’d actually spoken to me, let alone that he wanted to spend some time with me, that it didn’t occur to me to ask him exactly what he had in mind, besides coffee.

  But I kept our rendezvous. I lied to my parents, of course. I called them and told them I was going over to a friend’s house to study with him for a couple of hours. They were so proud of me—toiling away at my studies, right up to the end!

  Marco showed up promptly at the coffee shop. He was carrying a small gym bag, which he set down on the floor beside our table while we sipped our brews and talked.

  “Who’re you taking to the prom?” he asked me.

  “No one.”

  �
��What, are you going alone?”

  “I’m not going at all.”

  “Why not? Don’t tell me you couldn’t find a date.”

  I shrugged. “I’m just not into the whole prom thing. Proms are so middle class.”

  Marco grunted. “What’s wrong with being middle class? Look at me. I’m barely one step above trailer trash. Middle class would be a move upward for me.”

  “So who are you going to the prom with?”

  “Oh, I’m not going, either. I can’t be bothered. With my luck, I’d end up getting my date pregnant.” He sipped his coffee, then gave me a wry look over the rim of his paper cup. “So tell me how the other half lives,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Tell me what it’s like to be a big stud jock and have all the younger kids look up to you—and all the teachers respect you.” He gave the word respect a wry inflection that made it sound like a dirty word.

  “Aw, give me a break. They don’t do that. I just like to play football, that’s all.”

  “I bet that’s not all you play. I bet you get plenty of pussy.”

  “Not so much,” I said. I was trying not to blush, which might betray the fact that I wasn’t getting any.

  “I bet you have cock suckers chasing after you all the time, too.”

  “No.” Now I could definitely feel my face getting hot. “I don’t even know any cock suckers.”

  Marco laughed. “Sure you do.”

  He proceeded to name two of our classmates and one of our teachers. I was stunned.

  “They’re gay?” I asked.

  “Hell, yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  He shrugged. “How do you think?”

  By now I was feeling marginally less intimidated in Marco’s presence. “I suppose you have first-hand knowledge,” I dared to taunt him.

  He met my gaze without flinching, and he kept the same expression of mild, detached amusement on his face. “Maybe I do—and maybe I don’t.”

  “Well, I definitely don’t.”

  “Actually, I didn’t think you had,” he replied—whatever he meant by that. “Hey, you ready to go?”

  “Sure.”

  I was surprised to see Marco stash his empty paper coffee cup inside his gym bag. I wanted to ask him why he was saving it, but I felt tongue-tied. I didn’t know him well enough yet to begin asking him a lot of direct, personal questions.

  Nor did I ask him where we were going. I followed him outside and down the block without question, like a stray dog trotting along at a pedestrian’s heels.

  But we didn’t walk far. On the corner was an old office building. It had an abandoned, rundown look in general, and its exterior could have used some cosmetic work. A big sign announced that the location offered Prime Furnished Office Spaces for Lease.

  Marco led me around to the back of the building, where a steel door was marked Deliveries. To my surprise, he pulled out a key and unlocked the door.

  “Don’t just stand there,” he told me. “Come on.”

  Once we were inside, he locked the door again and punched the buttons on a security pad mounted on the wall beside the doorjamb.

  I looked around. We were in a dusty, empty space. Another open doorway led to a long hallway, at the end of which I could glimpse an elevator.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked Marco.

  “My uncle owns this building,” he explained. “It’s a tax write-off for him, basically. He pays me a few bucks to come in on weekends and keep it clean. So it looks good for any prospective tenants.”

  “So that’s why he trusts you with the key and the security code.”

  Marco snickered. “He doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me. But here we are. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

  We rode the elevator to the top floor. When we got off, we found ourselves in a generic business interior. Dull dark gray wall-to-wall carpet was underfoot. Ceiling panels that had probably once been white but were now faded to a pale beige were overhead, interspersed with fluorescent light fixtures. The walls were fake-wood veneer.

  If this was typical of the prime furnished office spaces, then the furniture was fairly minimal. We were in a reception area, with a desk for the receptionist, and a seating area with a coffee table and some chairs. The only thing that could be described as decoration was a large spathiphyllum growing in a planter set on the floor.

  “My uncle thinks that having a couple of houseplants around makes the place look more inviting,” Marco said, dryly. “This is the so-called executive suite. It’s where I usually hang out.”

  “When you should be working?” I guessed.

  “Yeah, when I’m supposed to be working…and when I just want some place to have all to myself.”

  He led me through another door, into a room that was set up as a conference room, with a table and chairs. From there we went into a quite spacious inner office. It was equipped, in addition to a desk, with bookcases and a leather couch. In one wall a door, ajar at the moment, afforded a glimpse into a washroom, with a toilet and a sink. Here, the token houseplant was a sansevieria with striped leaves, growing stiffly upright in a planter on one corner of the otherwise bare desktop.

  “Nobody’s going to bother us here,” Marco said. “We can do whatever the hell we want to do.”

  Outside, of course, it was still daylight. Marco closed the blinds on the windows, blocking out the late-afternoon sunlight and putting the room into a dim semi-darkness. It was an oddly intimate atmosphere.

  We got comfortable, shedding our shoes and sitting side by side on the couch. Marco unzipped his gym bag, rummaged about inside it, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, already opened. I saw that it contained a couple of hand-rolled joints tucked in amidst the conventional cigarettes, which provided camouflage. Marco lit up one of the joints, which we shared. I now saw that he was no fool. He took out the cup he’d brought from the coffee shop, and we used it as a disposable ashtray.

  “This is good stuff,” he commented, as we smoked.

  “Is it? I don’t get high all that often,” I confessed, “so I’m in no position to judge.”

  “Well, take my word for it, then. Want a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  From his apparently well-stocked gym bag, Marco now extracted a bottle of dark rum. Its paper seal was still intact. He opened the bottle, and we drank straight from it, passing it back and forth along with the joint.

  Not only was I breaking training. I felt that I was descending quite shamelessly into depravity. Little did I suspect that this was only the beginning!

  “So tell me,” Marco asked. “What’re you going to do when you graduate?”

  “I was thinking about maybe trying for a career in law enforcement.”

  “Law enforcement? Are you telling me you want to be some kind of a cop?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with being a cop. Cops are cool.”

  “Yeah? You wouldn’t think they were so cool if you’d ever been busted by one.”

  “You’ve been busted?”

  “Hell, yeah. More than once.”

  “What for?”

  “None of your goddamn business,” Marco told me, although he spoke calmly, without heat.

  “I bet whatever it was for, you deserved it,” I said, flippantly. “You were probably guilty as hell.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Marco warned—and now there was the faintest hint of menace in his tone of voice.

  I was beginning to sense that he wasn’t much of a kidder, and that he definitely didn’t like to be kidded, himself.

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “What do you want to do for a living?”

  “As little as possible,” Marco retorted. “Oh, I suppose I’ll have to find some kind of a job,” he added, vaguely. “Hey, you do know if you become a cop, you won’t be able to smoke weed,
” he pointed out. “They do random drug testing. They make you piss in a bottle, any time they damn well feel like it.”

  “Well, I’m not a cop yet.”

  “That’s right, buddy, so you’d better have your fun while you still can.”

  “I guess you have a point, there.”

  All this time, we’d been passing the bottle of rum back and forth. I wasn’t used to drinking such strong liquor neat, and I’d consumed enough of it to get me not only buzzed, but well on my way to intoxication. Combine that with the lingering effects of the pot, and I was good and high.

  Marco noticed.

  “I’m beginning to feel kind of mellow,” he remarked. “How about you?”

  “Me, too.”

  His next question took me completely by surprise!

  “Do you want to fool around?” he asked.

  His tone of voice was so matter of fact, and his facial expression so unchanged, that at first I couldn’t believe I’d heard him correctly.

  “Fool around?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, you know. Play with each other’s dicks, get ‘em hard, that sort of thing.”

  “Uh…no thanks, Marco.”

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like me? I’m not good enough for you?”

  “That’s not it,” I protested. “I don’t do that sort of thing—that’s all.”

  He snorted with derision. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t.”

  “That’s what they all say, at first. How about a kiss?”

  “I don’t kiss guys!”

  “Oh, aren’t you quite the macho stud,” he said, with a sneer.

  The turn our conversation had taken had made me nervous. “I think I’d better get going,” I muttered. I stood up, quickly, and fumbled for my shoes.

  “Don’t be a total wuss, Jim,” Marco said. But he made no attempt to stop me.

  We collected our things. Marco, I saw, was careful to put the ashes and the stub of the joint we’d smoked into the empty coffee cup and bring it with him. We rode down in the elevator in a rather tense, awkward silence, and left the building. Marco tossed the cup into the first trash can we passed.