Holding the cock ring up to the light to examine it more closely, I couldn’t really determine what kind of metal it was made from. Steel, I assumed. But with age, and after repeated exposure to my skin and sweat, the metal had faded to a pale pewter grey, and it had acquired a discolored patina in spots.
I had saved this particular cock ring because I preferred the way it felt to the sensation I got from the adjustable, snap-on kind. Also because it happened to fit my genitals perfectly when I was fully erect. I did remember, though, that the device tended to chafe me after a few hours.
So I went into the bathroom, rubbed a light coating of baby oil on the ring, and—watching myself in the full-length mirror, under the bright bathroom lights—slipped it on, inserting one testicle through the circle at a time, then tucking the head of my flaccid penis down to push it through, next.
I pulled my dick away from my body so that I could push the cock ring down around the base of my shaft, and then I tugged on my balls as well, until the restraint was caught firmly around my perineum muscle.
I played with myself quite matter-of-factly with my oily fingertips, coaxing my prick into semi-erection. The cock ring seemed tighter than I remembered, and I grinned at my reflection, knowing that my cock and balls couldn’t possibly have grown any larger!
But they were exceptionally turgid tonight, as a result of my horniness, my manipulation of myself, and the pressure exerted by the ring. I turned sideways to inspect myself in the mirror. Satisfied with the way the cock ring made my penis arc out away from my groin and the way it lifted my nuts on either side of the bloated shaft, I went back into the bedroom.
I dressed quickly, in minimal clothing. I chose my most comfortable jeans, the denim worn so soft by repeated washings that the material wasn’t confining even though it stretched itself taut over my crotch, ass, and thighs.
No underwear, of course. No belt—I didn’t need one to hold these tight pants up.
The waistband hugged my narrow waist and flat gut, and my buttocks did all the work of holding the jeans up. No socks, either—just running shoes on my feet, so my bare ankles drew attention to my near-nudity.
Hell, I didn’t even take along my wallet, for fear it would break the line of my body below the waist. Instead, I simply dropped my keys into one front pocket, a few folded dollar bills in the other, and two condoms in my left hip pocket, where their outline was faintly discernible through the thin denim—a walking advertisement for sex!
Finally, I pulled on what I thought of as my “whore shirt,” because it was the sort of thing that only a male prostitute working the street would wear outside of a gym. It was a string tank top, olive drab cotton, that for all practical purposes sheathed my torso only from the lower curve of my pectorals on down.
If I squared my shoulders or flexed my arms suddenly, one or both of my nipples was sure to pop out of the tank top. It was actually more sexually suggestive than walking around stripped to the waist could ever be, because it teased the observer. Luckily, I had the kind of shoulder and chest development that enabled me to carry off such a provocative display. Just in case the night air turned cool, or I came down with a sudden attack of modesty, I grabbed a black leather jacket. But I didn’t put the jacket on. Instead, I slung it over my shoulder.
I decided not to bother to take my car. I could catch a bus downtown, which would save me the hassle of trying to find a place to park. If I struck out, I could take the bus home. If I got lucky, and my trick happened also to be without wheels this evening, we could take a cab, either to his place or to mine.
Strutting along the sidewalk, I felt pretty cocky, like a male fashion model sauntering up and down a catwalk. I made it to the bus stop just as the bus approached and began to pull over to the curb. This seemed like a good omen.
Downtown, walking to the bar in the warm, dry night air, I felt naked underneath my few clothes. I’d forgotten how the cock ring brushed against my inner thighs when I strode too energetically, and how sensitive it made my cock and balls feel, pushed up into a high basket like this.
Hell, I could even feel the bump of the ring’s weld pressing against my scrotum on one side. Excited, I could feel myself getting hornier, more reckless, more eager for sex.
Upon my arrival at the bar, I was surprised to see that it was two-for-one night. My nights out had become so infrequent that I’d lost track of such things. I stuck to beer, and made eye contact with a couple of likely prospects.
An hour had passed and I had just ordered my second pair of beers when I was approached, quite boldly, by a guy who might have passed through a time warp. He had the kind of “clone” good looks that were originally popular back in the Seventies—a tight, hard-muscled little body, a short haircut, a neatly trimmed mustache, a diamond stud set in one pierced ear. But some classic looks never really go out of fashion, and his was definitely one of them. I wouldn’t have minded throwing a fuck into the number. Not at all!
“Nice set of pecs,” the short dude muttered under his breath, pushing his hand beneath my tank top and massaging my chest before closing his fingertips around my nipple and giving it a rather strong and painful pinch.
I flinched, but smiled at the stud and didn’t do anything to discourage him as he groped me even more brazenly—getting both hands into the act now, one on my pecs, the other on my crotch.
“Oh, what a man,” the clone groaned. It was only then that I realized, to my dismay, that my humpy admirer was drunk or stoned, or both. Not that his attraction to me seemed to be in any way feigned or exaggerated. It might have been chemically enhanced, but it seemed genuine. “I’d like to take you home with me and let you do nasty, dirty things to me,” he whispered into my ear, pressing his body closely against mine and feeling me up even more aggressively than before, as though the two of us were alone in the room. “I’d let you do anything you wanted to me, sir,” the hot-bodied little masochist insisted, using both hands to pull my tits free from my tank top and stimulate them. “No matter how disgusting!”
I got off on the tit play, and I was sorely tempted to take the guy up on his offer, to take advantage of his befuddled mental state. We could go to the guy’s place, and I could persuade him to lick my naked body all over, maybe even rim me. And then, in all probability, I would fuck the shit out of his boyishly small, round ass.
Afterward, the clone would likely pass out, and I could split, confident that I’d never see him again. Or we could go back to my place, if it was closer, and I could try to sober the guy up a bit before we started to have sex. If my trick passed out on me, in my bed, I could always get some sleep and hope for a second crack at him in the morning.
Either way, it would be raw, animalistic sex, pure physical release and nothing else. I could use a little of that as well as the next guy. But, for some reason, I was getting less and less interested in the prospect, despite my growing erection.
The clone’s hands on my body, his obvious willingness, his sheer physical proximity, and my busy imagination were all conspiring together to get me hot. But my mind was oddly cold—almost turned off, in fact. The truth was, I wasn’t that desperate for a quick bout of drunken, fumbling, sex. Damn!
I excused myself and went into the men’s room to take a leak. My cock, when I extracted it from the fly of my jeans, was grossly swollen within the circle of the cock ring, and it seemed to take forever for it to relax enough to allow the urine to flow through it freely.
When I returned to the main room, I saw that my admirer was straddling a stool at the bar, drinking himself steadily closer toward a stupor.
He didn’t even seem to notice my defection. Sullenly, now wondering whether I’d made a mistake by coming out tonight in the first place, I lingered at the far end of the room, finishing my two bottles of beer and trading small talk with a couple of men with whom I had a nodding acquaintance. But then I decided to call it a night.
When I left the bar and headed home, I wasn’t exactly drunk, but I was defi
nitely feeling a buzz. My tank top was still disarranged from the clone’s manipulation of my pecs, and the temperature had gone down a bit, as I’d predicted. But the slight chill in the night air felt good on my torso at first, after the stale air inside the bar, and so I didn’t bother to adjust the shirt to cover up my tits. Let ‘em look! I thought, grinning no doubt quite foolishly to myself as I observed the sparse late-night traffic on the streets. Let ‘em see that I’m built, that I’m hot. Not that it did me a hell of lot of good tonight, though. Damn two-for-one night…shit, I’m half drunk! I realized, and I giggled.
My exhibitionistic display was wasted, however. There didn’t seem to be any other pedestrians in the vicinity. I shivered slightly, and slipped on my jacket, although I didn’t bother to zip it up. I kept my eye open for a passing cab as I staggered toward the bus stop.
When the black-and-white police cruiser came up behind me and slowed to a crawl beside me, I was feeling just silly enough to be titillated by the two police officers’ casual scrutiny of me. In perfect synchronization, they both turned their heads toward me at once, checking me out. Acting on pure, stupid instinct, I grinned inanely at them.
Then I began to have second thoughts.
Oh, fuck! Just what I need, to make this evening complete! But hell, it’s not as though they’re going to arrest me, I thought, returning the cops’ gaze perhaps a bit defiantly now. I’m not doing anything.
Maybe they’ll stop and frisk me, I thought, with drunken recklessness. Fuck! That might be interesting…it might be hot.
“Hey, buddy,” the cop seated closer to the curb called out to me through his rolled-down window, in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice. He was young and blond, looking oddly out of place in his starched blue uniform shirt. He resembled a college jock or a preppy executive who’d put on the uniform as a costume, just for one night. “Where’re you headed?”
“Home,” I replied laconically, still walking, although I slowed my pace to stay alongside the patrol car, which was crawling along in low gear.
“Straight home?”
“Straight home, to bed, to sleep,” I recited dutifully.
“You been drinking?”
“A little, sure,” I admitted, more cautiously. I didn’t want to risk spending the night in a drunk tank! I was still on probation at work, and although I was theoretically free to amuse myself as I damn well pleased when I was off duty, getting picked up intoxicated on the street wouldn’t look good on my record.
“You driving?” was the cop’s next question.
“Of course not. I know better than to drive when I’ve been drinking,” I said, primly. “I’m going to catch the bus. Right there.” I pointed to the bus stop, on the block up ahead.
The blond cop continued to scrutinize me.
“Don’t I know you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “You’ve never busted me, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s for sure.”
“But I’ve seen you somewhere. Oh yeah, now I know. You’re that new rookie that just started at Precinct Two, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” I admitted.
My fellow officer laughed. “Dressed up like that, you look as though you’ve been transferred to Vice, and are working undercover.”
“I wish. Nothing that exciting. I was just treating myself to a night out on the town. A boring night and a waste of time, as it turned out.”
“Hop in, we’ll give you a ride home.”
“No thanks, that’s all right. The bus will be along in a minute.”
“Come on, we insist,” the blond cop said, more coaxingly than anything else. “It’s late, and we don’t have anything better to do, and we want to keep you out of trouble. Besides, it’s just professional courtesy.”
I was beginning to get off on the whole scenario, so I got into the back seat of the patrol car. The blond’s partner, a beefy beer-gutted number with florid cheeks, was doing the driving. He asked me where I lived, and I told him.
“We’ll make the rounds of these side streets first, if you don’t mind,” the blond, who seemed to be the boss, said.
“Go right ahead. I’m in no hurry, officers.” I lounged in the back seat as though I were royalty being chauffeured around.
It occurred to me that anybody who saw us drive past would assume I was under arrest, or at the least a crime victim. And I was just intoxicated enough to find the thought vastly amusing.
The cops drove through some of the darker residential side streets, apparently at random, before returning to the main drag.
“Is this what you men do all night on this shift?” I asked. “Cruise around, looking for trouble?” It sounded a lot like typical gay activity to me!
“Looking for trouble, yeah,” the blond laughed, “and picking up strays like you.”
“Oh, so I’m a stray, am I? Gee, thanks.”
The blond continued to make small talk. “No offense, but when we first spotted you, you looked as though you were tomcatting around.”
“Oh, no offense taken. I was tomcatting around. But I might as well have been neutered, for all the good it did me tonight.”
He laughed. “What bar did you go to tonight?”
I told him the establishment’s name.
“Hell. Isn’t that a gay bar?” the beefy one blurted out. His partner only laughed again.
This emboldened me. “It’s primarily a gay bar, sure,” I admitted. “But all sorts of people are welcome to go there and get drunk.”
“A cop can make all sorts of useful contacts in a place like that,” the blond said, rather enigmatically.
His partner grunted, in a way that sounded more than a little dubious.
They stopped at a convenience store for coffee and donuts, and they insisted that I share the goodies. So I forced down a glazed donut and a styrofoam cup of strong black coffee during the short ride to my apartment building.
“You take care, now,” the blond said, as I got out of the cop car. “By the way, I’ve forgotten what your name is.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you. It’s Melton—Jim Melton.”
“I’m Sanderson,” the blond said, “and this is my partner, Bailey.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Bailey, who seemed to be a man of few words at the best of times, grunted.
“We’ll see you around, Melton,” Sanderson said.
“Sure. Thanks for the lift.”
They waited, I noticed, until I was safely inside the front door before they drove off down the street, the red lights on top of the vehicle throwing an eerie glow through the leafy trees that pierced the sidewalks at intervals and obscured my view of the other buildings on my block.
My encounter with the law had a peculiar effect on my libido. Inexplicably, I was hornier than ever! The moment I was inside my apartment, I took off all my clothes, stumbled into the bathroom, and began to masturbate in front of the mirror over the sink, staring lustfully at my naked body and metal-ringed cock under the fluorescent light tubes on either side of the medicine cabinet.
I had a smear of donut glaze on my lip, but I didn’t bother to wipe it off as I used one hand on my dick and the other to tease my stiff and hotly responsive nipples, the way the clone had in the bar.
I came quickly, the pressure of the cock ring making my erection pulse more forcibly than usual as it spat out its thick white wads of sexual venom, which spattered all over the porcelain of the sink. Not even bothering to wipe myself off, I stumbled into my bedroom. The last thing I remembered was my flushed, almost feverish face hitting the cool pillow on my bed. Then I was out.
In the morning, the entire episode had faded to a dreamlike unreality in my memory—except for the physical evidence of the cock ring I was still wearing, my cruising outfit discarded in a heap on the bedroom floor, and the dried semen stains on the bathroom mirror.
Chapter Eight
A Cop Drops In
“You look a little
worse for wear, kid,” Ducati told me, the following morning.
Not much ever escaped him.
I was gulping down black coffee in a vain attempt to compensate for my late night.
“Who, me?” I finally responded.
“Yeah, you. Who else?” He had a point there, since it was just the two of us in the patrol car. “Rough night?”
“No, not really. I just didn’t get much sleep.” Which was true, so far as it went.
“Did you get laid?”
“No. Unfortunately,” I added, as images of Officer Sanderson’s blue eyes and sexy smile flashed through my mind. “Anyway, why are you taking such an interest in my nonexistent sex life?”
Ducati grinned. “I have to get my cheap thrills somehow. What’s the point of riding with a young stud like you if I can’t hear all about your amorous adventures?”
“Well, I wish I had some amorous adventures to share with you. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Work on it this weekend,” Ducati advised me. “I expect you to have something to report to me on Monday morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ducati was only teasing me, as usual. But his words turned out to be prophetic.
Two nights later, I was once again home alone. It was another warm night, and, as I often did in the privacy of the apartment, I wore only a pair of boxer shorts.
It was Friday night, but I had no intention of going out. The bars would be crowded, noisy, and smoky, the competition intense. And my abortive flirtation with the clone had soured me on the whole idea of cruising for a while.
When the doorbell rang, it startled me, since I wasn’t expecting anybody. I found my keys and went downstairs, barefoot. Unlocking the front door, I was even more startled to find the blond cop, Sanderson, standing on the front porch—uniform and all!
“Hi,” the young policeman said. “I happened to be passing by, and I saw your lights on and wondered if you were home.” He paused. I was too astonished to say anything. His eyes flicked up and down my nearly nude body, and I flattered myself that he liked what he saw. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he prompted me.
A Thing for Cops Page 8