We’d parked the car in the woods, miles away from anything. Mitch took a blanket out of the trunk and spread it on the ground.
“This way, we can be comfortable while we do it,” he said, looking and sounding more than a little shamefaced. Then, at my urging, he stripped.
I undressed completely, too, and I knelt in front of Mitch and made him put his bare legs up over my shoulders. I wanted to get right in there against his sweaty, musky-smelling groin, right down on that big stud cock of his, with nothing to get in my way.
I made him spread his legs farther apart, and then I just knelt there naked for a moment, admiring all that solid meat staring me in my face and feeling my own prick getting stiffer between my thighs, jutting up like a flagpole.
Mitch groaned with impatience, and I relented and started to lick my tongue up and down his shaft to get it slippery enough to fit easily, with a minimum of friction, inside my mouth.
But I hadn’t licked it more than a few seconds when he grabbed me by the hair and shoved my mouth right down on him!
“Go on, you cock sucking punk!” he snarled. “Quit fucking around! Quit prick teasing me! You want my dick in your mouth so bad, take it! Take it! Suck my cock!”
I thought I was going to choke! I didn’t think I’d ever had so much solid prick jammed inside my mouth all at once. I could relax my gag reflex and take a lot, even back then. But this guy was really giving me a throat-fuck. It felt as though he was stuffing his arm down my gullet and reaming out my throat with his clenched fist.
But I took it. All of it. Hell, what choice did I have? None, really—not with him pushing my head farther and farther down on his incredibly thick, stiff dick.
Of course, what he didn’t know was that, just like Marco, he didn’t have to force me. Not under any circumstances. I would have taken it all anyway, gratefully, eagerly. But maybe Mitch was in even more of a hurry to unload that afternoon than Marco usually was.
I had my mouth all the way around his cock, with more than half of it jammed down my throat, when he finally stopped pushing against my head and dropped his hands away.
“Okay, asshole,” he said roughly. “You got it, now suck it!”
And suck it I did. Ravenously! I worked on him as well as I could, but his fucking prick was swollen so thick with pent-up lust that I really couldn’t give him my usual tongue action.
So I just moved that huge thing in and out of my mouth and throat in a steady fucking rhythm and let my slurping lips do all the work.
Mitch liked it, all right. He was squirming around on the seat so much I could hardly keep his dick in my mouth.
He kept groaning and panting and muttering things to me about how good I was at sucking his cock and how he was fucking my cock sucker’s face with his hot, horny dick.
“I want the works, bitch,” he snarled at one point. “Everything you do for your lousy boyfriend Marco Torelli, you’re going to do for me!”
I didn’t mind him insulting me. It excited me, actually, as though I was just his sex slave, compelled to service him abjectly with my lips and tongue and throat muscles, whether I wanted to or not.
I must have been down on my knees blowing him for about ten or fifteen minutes, nonstop. My jaw was aching from being jacked so wide open, and I had drool running down my chin. He kept pumping his hips up from the blanket, ramming his stud prick into my throat, and I thought he was never going to come.
I slipped my hand down between his legs and cupped his big, hairy, cum-swollen balls. By then I’d dribbled so much saliva over his cock that it had run down and wet his nuts, so they were good and slippery.
I started to rub them and roll them around in my fingers while my mouth took him faster and faster. He liked that a lot. Most guys do. When you start playing with their balls while you’re sucking them, it turns them on twice as much.
“Suck me off, pussy boy!” Mitch grunted. “I’m going to give your hot mouth a bath! A cum bath!”
That kind of talk turned me on as much as it did him. I sucked him desperately, fast and furious! He tightened his thighs around my neck, smothering me in the hot, funky depths of his crotch. His cock rammed in and out of my mouth and throat. His nuts were rolling around in my hand like two heavy, pulsating eggs.
Jesus! Even now, after all these years, I’m getting a hard-on as I write this, just from thinking about it. I can still taste that fat prick of his wedged in my throat. I can still hear his horny grunts of pleasure, I can feel his huge dick pulsing against my lips and tongue.
He dug his hands in my hair, against my scalp, and held my mouth all the way down on him as he started to come— and come, and come!
God! It was like sucking on the nozzle of a fire hose that was blasting out hot water full force. There seemed to be no end to the spurts.
“Drink it, you bastard! Drink down that jism of mine!” he shouted. “Swallow it! Suck it down your cock sucking throat!”
I came—my sperm exploding all over the seat and my frantically masturbating fist—while Mitch was still coming in my mouth, while he was still “forcing” me to swallow his semen.
I had never been this excited, not even with Marco. I don’t feel humiliated when I suck a guy off and he doesn’t reciprocate. No, I feel good. I enjoy giving head. I love a big dick in my mouth and the taste of a load of fresh, hot cum spurting down my throat when I make a guy shoot off.
I’ve always gotten off on sucking dick, and I guess I always will. From the age of eighteen, with Mitch and Marco and all those other guys I fooled around with, I’ve loved cock. I started sucking dick then and I’ve been doing it—and loving it—ever since. Hell, in some circles, I’m famous for it.
Chapter Three
Trying Things on for Size
I groaned when the alarm went off, its insistent buzz jarring me out of a deep, dreamless sleep. I groped blindly for the clock and shut it off, then languidly stretched out my naked body under the blanket.
I always set the alarm for half an hour earlier than I actually had to get up, because nine mornings out of ten I woke up with a raging piss hard-on, and I ended up masturbating myself to orgasm right there in my bed before I finally hauled my ass into the bathroom to shower and get ready for work.
The self-induced ejaculation invariably relaxed me and put me in the mood for my job, and I usually reported for duty with a smile on my face.
I was never late for work, because I knew that I had a cushy job for a guy my age, and I wasn’t about to do anything that might jeopardize it or compromise my good record. Furthermore, I was counting on this gig being a stepping stone on my way to my long-term goal.
Not everything in life works out the way you plan it to—at least not at first.
After I graduated from high school, my parents opposed my ambition to go into law enforcement. Police work was too dangerous, they insisted. They were convinced that my fascination with cops was just a phase I was going through. I’d outgrow it.
And, of course, no one becomes a cop right after high school. The situation in my state was typical. To qualify to take the recruitment exam, a candidate had to have either a certain number of college credits, or two years of military service with an honorable discharge.
I was stubborn. Finally, my folks and I worked out a compromise. For the next two years, I would do some other kind of work while taking part-time classes at a local community college, to rack up the credits I’d need. At the end of this period, if I was still serious about taking the police exam, they would no longer try to talk me out of it.
In the meantime, in addition to working and going to school, I did two things that I knew would help me to achieve my ambition. I joined a gym and worked hard to stay in good physical shape. And I obtained a pistol permit and put in a lot of hours at a firing range, learning how to shoot.
I was no longer stuck in that dead-end summer job at the workhouse. I had been lucky enough to find a new job that almost amounted to playing at being a police officer. I was h
ired by a security firm.
I was assigned to be one of two men in charge of daytime security at a large office building downtown. Unlike the building Marco’s uncle owned, this one had tenants, and it was turning a profit.
Armed and in uniform, we guards made sure that everybody who entered the building had legitimate business there, and we kept track of an elaborate, state-of-the-art electronic security system, including a battery of closed-circuit television screens.
It was an enjoyable assignment, on the whole. For one thing, it was infinitely less boring than working the night shift, when the building was deserted except for the cleaning crew. Everybody who worked in the building knew me and—I flattered myself—liked me. There was rarely any serious trouble, and when it did arise, I was well equipped to deal with it.
And now I had a new partner, Gideon, who was also good at his job and always prepared to back me up.
This morning, I realized—half-guiltily, half-smugly—was going to be no exception to my usual routine. I was horny, already sporting a stiff, hotly pulsating erection under the bedclothes. And just thinking about Gideon was making me even hornier.
Quickly, I gripped my turgid prick in my fist and began to massage it roughly from base to tip, stroking it with slow, strong pumping motions of my forearm and wrist, expertly coaxing my body toward a seminal explosion. My breathing accelerated and I began to sweat under the covers.
Lately, masturbation had become my usual means of sexual release.
After that long hot summer during which I came out, I’d lost touch with Marco, Mitch, and the other boys I’d fooled around with. We’d all gone our separate ways. I suspected that some of these guys had merely been experimenting with man-to-man sex. I sensed that I was different. I was gay, and I was becoming increasingly comfortable with the fact.
I didn’t mind it so much when Mitch found himself a new girlfriend and lost interest in me. Mitch was basically straight. I’d often begged him to fuck me, but he always refused. To his way of thinking, being the recipient of oral sex provided by another male was okay. But sticking his cock up another guy’s ass was “gay,” and he wanted no part of that.
Oddly enough, I felt more sad, almost nostalgic, after Marco and I drifted apart. I told myself I was just being sentimental about the guy to whom I’d lost my cherry.
I became a regular at the local gay bars. I had my share of casual tricks. But none of these guys turned into a steady boyfriend. Maybe I was afraid of commitment, and sent out signals to that effect. Maybe I expected Mr. Right to simply show up some day, and I was holding out for him.
While I waited, I jerked off. And fantasizing about Gideon was always a good way to get a self-induced orgasm going.
It was almost as though destiny had thrown Gideon and me together, decreeing that we two humpy young security guards were going to become fuck buddies. Ironically, we’d been wary of each other at first.
We’d been manning the large office building’s security desks during the daytime shift together for about a month, ever since my previous partner—and occasional fuck buddy—had been transferred to another assignment, in the suburbs.
My friend and I had stayed in touch, and we still got together for sex on occasion. But it wasn’t quite the same as it had been while we were still working together.
I always hated to change work partners. You never knew if you and the new guy would be compatible, and it was much easier to work with a man who understood your sexual preference, accepted it, and—preferably—shared it.
So I had been a little uptight that first day, when my immediate supervisor down at the security firm had called me into his office and introduced me to Gideon.
“You two men are going to like each other and get on real well together,” our supervisor had said, after making the introductions. It was an order, not a prediction or a statement of fact. “You have a lot in common,” he added—although how he could possibly have known that was a mystery to me.
I had always had an innocent crush on my boss, who was a former Marine, a handsome man almost old enough to be my father. I trusted my superior’s judgment. If he thought that Gideon and I would work well together, then I was more than willing to go out of my way to make our professional relationship run smoothly.
The security company that I worked for handled some of the most prestigious contracts in the city, and it was choosy about whom it hired. It wasn’t enough for their security guards to be intelligent, honest, and absolutely reliable. In order to make the best possible impression upon the clients, they had to be personable, well-spoken, and physically intimidating, as well.
I knew, in all immodesty, that I filled the bill, and I had to admit that this guy Gideon looked as though he had quite a lot going for him, too.
One thing Gideon and I certainly did have in common was that we were both young and built, I thought, as I quite openly gave my new partner the once-over—and while Gideon inspected me just as objectively and analytically in return.
At the time, I stood six-two and weighed a little over two hundred pounds. I had always loved pumping iron, and had even begun to think about competing in bodybuilding contests.
Gideon was a good match for me, physically. He was black—a huge, muscular young man whose shoulders and biceps threatened to split the seams of his tight-fitting uniform shirt when he reached out to grasp my hand and shake it with a grip of crushing power. Gideon had shaved his head completely, which made him look even more exotic.
He was my first black partner, but I was confident that I was no racist. And by the end of our first shift the two of us were no longer wary of each other, but were already functioning as a team.
We didn’t become particularly intimate outside of the job until a couple of weeks later, when Gideon asked me what gym I worked out in.
Gideon was new to the area, having moved into town after accepting this job.
I told him I’d found a gym where some serious, heavy-duty weightlifters trained. As an additional attraction, several police officers were members. My ambition to join the force was a reliable conversation starter, and the cops often told me anecdotes about their work.
After I invited Gideon to join me one night for a trial workout as my guest, he joined my gym, too, and we began to train together in our spare time. He was amused by the friendships I was trying to cultivate with the cops. I made the mistake of expressing my admiration for a few of them, and Gideon scoffed at me.
“I just don’t understand this thing you seem to have for cops,” he said.
“I like their uniforms. I can’t wait to wear one, myself.”
“We’re wearing uniforms now,” Gideon pointed. “Maybe you’re getting a big thrill out of it, but it doesn’t do anything for me.”
I refrained from telling him that there was a big difference between our generic security guard uniforms and a police officer’s attire. For one thing, we didn’t carry weapons. Still, I thought I was pretty hot stuff when I was all dressed up for work.
“When you’re a big, hotshot cop, and you pull my car over for some imaginary traffic violation—will you let me off with a warning instead of a ticket?” Gideon asked.
“Sure, buddy.” I was tempted to add, in exchange for a blow job, but I wasn’t sure how Gideon would response to that kind of a joke.
He grunted. “Maybe this obsession of yours will turn out to be good for something after all.”
I knew that Gideon was divorced, but I hadn’t speculated much about my handsome new partner’s sex life. Physically, I was almost inevitably attracted to the black dude, who displayed an awesome body and a big cock in the showers down at the gym. But I was careful enough not to make the first move myself.
If Gideon and I ever tricked with each other, that would be fine. If not, that would be fine, too—so long as Gideon didn’t try to put me down for being gay.
One evening, Gideon picked me up in his car and we hit the gym and worked out together, as usual. Despite my heroic ef
forts to concentrate on our iron pumping, I found myself drifting off into increasingly lurid fantasies about Gideon and a couple of the other guys in the gym.
I couldn’t help thinking that there were a lot of better ways for a bunch of half-naked, grunting, sweating men to exhaust themselves.
To take only one example, Gideon and I could be out on a lake in a boat in summertime, on our day off. We’d both strip down to tight bathing suits and slather suntan oil over each other.
Then we’d get mildly drunk on beer and go swimming—the water plastering our trunks against our crotches and ass cheeks, and making both of us uncomfortably aware of how big and hard our dicks were getting.
Afterward, in the dimly-lit, cool boathouse, we’d peel down our wet bathing suits and take turns playing with each other’s hot, hard dicks.
Finally, we’d both get so excited that we’d lie down on the rough wooden floorboards of the boathouse together and sixty-nine like pigs rooting around in a trough in search of mash—each of us sucking his buddy’s fat prick inside his mouth and half-way down his throat, blowing away until two blasted loads of warm, slippery jism lubricated and soothed our lust-parched throats.
The fantasy started to get to me, and I could feel the elastic pouch of my jockstrap expanding from the pressure of my cock. I had a hard-on, all right, and it was pushing the soft cloth of my sweatpants up and away from my crotch like a miniature tent.
My nipples were starting to stiffen, too, and it was all I could do to keep from toying with them as, bare-chested, I gripped a barbell with leather-gloved hands and did a series of brutal arm curls to try to get my mind off sex. It was an heroic effort, but, inevitably, it was a futile one. I might have tired my muscles out, but my mind was speculating about sex as energetically as ever.
While we were taking our showers after the workout, I was almost certain that I caught Gideon staring at my semi-erect prick once or twice. But I told myself that I was imagining things again.
A Thing for Cops Page 4