A Thing for Cops

by Roland Graeme

“I was going to say, as long as you don’t expect too much from Petrie and Blanco. They’re a couple, remember. You couldn’t pry them apart with a crowbar. Sure, they’ll play around with a third guy. But don’t expect anything long-term to come out of it. Don’t you make the mistake of falling in love with either of those horny bastards. Or worse, with both of them.”

  “That’s not likely to happen.”

  “No? You think you’re smarter than that, do you?”

  “Not smarter. More realistic—that’s all.”

  Ducati let out another grunt. “Don’t you want to fall in love some day?”

  “Sure. Don’t you?”

  “I’m realistic, too. Call it cynical, if you prefer. I’m not about to fall for every hot young rookie who comes along.”

  I laughed. “Are you referring to any hot young rookie in particular? Anybody I know?”

  “Yeah. You.”

  I nearly spilled the rest of the coffee that was in my cup.

  “Quit kidding me,” I said.

  “Who’s kidding anybody?”

  Ducati was driving, as he usually did. He was gripping the steering wheel rather hard, and he was also staring straight ahead through the windshield, paying more attention to the traffic than was strictly necessary. He seemed to be making a point of not turning his head in my direction to see my face and gauge my reaction.

  There were days when I was a little slow on the uptake. This was one of them. Belatedly, it dawned on me. The big guy was jealous of me!

  “Ducati—are you making a pass at me?”

  He still refused to look at me.

  “Depends,” he muttered. “It sort of depends on whether you’re in the mood for receiving. If not—if I’m out of line—just say so.”

  “Blanco and Petrie—they told me once that you nail every rookie’s butt for him, sooner or later. What am I? Just another potential notch on your bedpost, man?”

  “I’m not like that,” Ducati protested.

  “Aren’t you? Then prove it,” I challenged him.

  “How?” he asked. Now he looked and sounded miserable. “I like you. Maybe I’m a little bit in love with you. Who knows? Maybe I want to make love to you. What’re you going to do, kid—put me down, give me a hard time, just because I’ve got the hots for you? I can’t help myself.”

  “No,” I said, slowly and thoughtfully. “I’m not going to give you a hard time. Not for that, anyway!”

  “You’re so sweet. I do want to make love to you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do. But the question is—do you want me to make love to you?”

  I felt a need to stall for time. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  We were within a few blocks of the station. Up ahead was a row of storefronts, set back from the street in their own small parking lot. Most of these businesses had already closed for the day. Ducati turned into the nearly deserted lot and drove around to the back of the buildings. He braked the car to a halt.

  Except for the small area kept clear by the busy windshield wipers, the vehicle’s windows were beaded with rain on the outside, and steamed up on the inside, from the heater.

  “Finish your coffee,” Ducati told me. “Finish your coffee,” he repeated, in a softer, coaxing tone of voice, “while you make up your mind.”

  I downed the last lukewarm mouthful. Fast.

  My mind was already made up, and it was as though Ducati could read my unspoken thoughts. He finally turned to face me, flung one arm behind my head and across my shoulders, and pulled me toward him. Our seat belts and shoulder straps were still fastened, which impeded our range of movement. But we managed to bring our faces close together. Our lips met and we kissed.

  We didn’t stop kissing. The rain, heavier than ever, pounded down on the roof. The monotonous tick-tock of the wipers was like a metronome, its steady beat contrasting to the rapidly accelerating beat of my pulse. Moaning, Ducati slipped me his tongue—and, moaning just as hungrily, just as excitedly, I kept my mouth open and kissed him right back.

  I felt his big, rough hand grab my crotch and give it a fierce, possessive squeeze. I was getting hard inside my uniform trousers and my cock responded to his touch. Blindly, I reached over and groped him too through his pants, every bit as brazenly. My partner had sprung a hard-on. A big one.

  There we were, a couple of uniformed cops, making out in the front seat of our patrol car like two horny teenagers on a hot date. It was disgraceful. It was scary. It was thrilling.

  “Damn,” Ducati muttered, after we’d finally pried our lips apart and we sat there side by side, both of us breathing hard. “That was hot! Does the rest of you taste as good as your mouth does?”

  “Only one way to find out, I guess.”

  “Let’s go to my place. I can make us some dinner. Later.”

  “Later?”

  “I want us to fuck first. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  This brief exchange could hardly be described as a romantic conversation. But I could feel myself tingling with desire—and with anticipation.

  We drove in silence to the precinct, turned in our patrol car, and changed out of our uniforms into our civilian clothes—all in record time. It’s amazing how lust can focus one’s concentration.

  I followed Ducati’s car to the suburbs. He lived on a quiet residential street, in an old ranch house. I parked my car behind his in the driveway, and we went inside the house, dodging the raindrops.

  “Fucking rain,” Ducati muttered, as soon as we were inside the front door. “Well, it’s good to be home, anyway.”

  I looked around. We were in a large rectangular living room, furnished with comfort a priority over style. The most prominent feature was an oversized fireplace. A leather sofa and matching armchairs, along with a coffee table, were grouped in front of the flagstone hearth. But Ducati had gone a step farther. He had created a sort of nest directly in front of the fireplace. There was an oriental rug on the floor, but on top of that was spread a futon, which in turn was heaped with sheets, pillows, blankets, and throws. I noticed that the coffee table was equipped with some rather unusual amenities. Namely, a stack of freshly laundered and neatly folded towels, a box of condoms, and a tall plastic pump bottle of a silicone-based lube.

  Ducati saw what I was looking at.

  “Okay,” he said gruffly, “I admit it. I like to have sex right there in front of the fire. Hell, I even jerk off there a lot of times, watching porn on the TV. So sue me, already!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t blame you. It looks comfortable.”

  “It is. Here, let me light the fire, and you’ll see.”

  I was already looking forward to fucking around with him, right there on the floor in front of the roaring fire that Ducati now got started in the living room’s big fireplace.

  We didn’t start having sex right away. But we got naked right away.

  “Let’s get these clothes off and get comfortable,” my host suggested. “I’ve got a confession to make. I usually strip down the minute I get home and come through the door. It always feels good to sit in front of the fire bare-assed, working up a sweat. Preferably with a drink in hand. That always seems to get the evening off to a good start.”

  “Well, there’s no reason for you to change your routine on my account.”

  We ended up sitting nude on the futon in front of the hearth, with a bottle of scotch and two glasses near at hand.

  “You’re right. This is pleasant,” I said.

  As we sat there and drank, we checked each other out. This was, after all, the first time we’d seen each other naked, except for fleeting glimpses when we were changing out clothes in the locker room at work.

  “You’ve got a nice build,” Ducati told me.

  “So do you.”

  “I bet you feel as good as you look.” He didn’t wait for a response, but put the matter to the test. He placed his hand on my knee and gave it a light but lingering caress. Warmed by the heat from the fir
e, my skin was already beaded with tiny drops of sweat. Ducati’s palm felt warm and moist, too, as he fondled me.

  He slid his hand down to feel my calf muscle, then he moved it back up again, making a detour around to the back of my knee, before he ended up massaging and squeezing my thigh. His touch was having its inevitable effect on me. My cock was bobbing up in semi-erection, and I could feel my testicles contracting in arousal, drawing themselves up closer to the base of my penis. I looked at Ducati’s crotch. He was getting a hard-on, too, and he wasn’t doing anything to hide it from my gaze.

  “Are you starting to get horny?” my husky-bodied mentor asked me as he rolled over on the soft mattress to bring his big, hairy body right next to mine and passed me the bottle. I stretched out comfortably and refreshed my glass, then I shook my head.

  “No. I mean, no, I don’t think I’d better have much more of this hooch. It’s making me feel sleepy and kind of spaced-out already.” I sighed as I passed the bottle back to Ducati. “But yes,” I added, “yes, man, I started feeling horny as hell the minute we started fooling around back there in the patrol car! This booze is damn potent, but so am I, you know. So—why don’t we stop fooling around like a couple of dumb kids and do something about it?”

  “Oh? Do something? Like what?” the other cop asked archly, his eyes gleaming when they looked directly into mine in the warm red glow of the firelight.

  “Like this,” I grunted. I moved even closer to Ducati and buried my head in his lap, my mouth nuzzling against the massive bulge his genitals made, relaxed against the top of his thigh.

  He had no more than the start of a hard-on, at this point, but I suspected from what I felt and saw that his cock, once it was fully erect, would be at least the equal of the throbbing ramrod I could feel rising by steady degrees from my own groin. I decided to find out for sure.

  As though I was the casting director for a fuck film who was auditioning potential talent, I boldly stretched out my arm toward Ducati and grasped hold of his dick. It filled my fist as I stroked the shaft and knob with my fingers, coaxing it into complete erection within a few seconds. Jesus! If I was working for a porn studio, I’d have given Ducati the part, then and there.

  I couldn’t hold myself back any longer. I slid down next to him and pressed my face into his crotch, flicking the tip and the underside of my tongue over the head of that fat cock and tasting the drop of cum that Ducati had leaked already when my tongue slipped over the pouting slit he pissed through.

  Ducati just kind of moaned and his big body sank down beneath the onslaught of my agile tongue. His hands clutched my head and stroked my hair as I took a deep breath and went down on him.

  First the thick tip of his cock slid between my hungry lips and poked at my throat. Then six or seven inches of solid cock-column followed, until I had to swallow hard and open my mouth wider and relax my throat muscles if I hoped to take more of him into me.

  And how I wanted to do exactly that! I sucked on that hot piece of man-meat as hard as I could to pull the head of Ducati’s tool down into my throat, and soon I was giving him head like the experienced, shameless cock sucker I’ve always prided myself on being.

  I was getting pretty stiff myself down there between my legs, and I didn’t think Ducati would mind returning the favor I was doing for him. I twisted my body around on the soft, yielding futon until we were in a sixty-nine position, and then I reached down to grab the back of Ducati’s head and push his mouth against my cock and balls.

  He grunted, but the sound wasn’t a protest or an expression of discomfort or reluctance. Quite the contrary, it seemed to me. His whole hot mouth descended around my fuck piston and his lips rubbed against the tangle of sweaty hair at the base of my prick.

  He had it all in his mouth and he was already deep-throating me, applying a steady, indescribably delicious suction to every part of my aching tool. At the same time, his warm wet lips and slippery tongue and educated throat muscles caressed it from top to bottom in long, luscious, sweeping motions that soon had me wild with lust.

  I blew Ducati as lustily as he was working on me. Our heads were jammed tight between each other’s parted, tensed thighs, and we pumped our mouths up and down around each other’s hot fuck poles in perfect sync.

  His dick was like a bar of hard rubber in my mouth, soft-textured on its outer surface but absolutely unyielding in its rigidity. I got so excited sucking on that big hard thing that I lost all control and began to fuck Ducati’s face and throat as though he was nothing but my sex slave, pushing his head down hard into my crotch and forcing him to service every inch of my rod whether he wanted to or not.

  But the horny, hung bastard loved it. The really butch numbers often seem to get off on rough treatment, in my experience. My partner was no exception.

  I could feel him gulping down my prick, squeezing the bulge in the center of my shaft with his mouth as he worked his head rapidly up and down and sucked and sucked, licking my dick with his fabulous tongue again and again.

  That hot tongue of his ran over every square inch of my cock skin, faster than I would’ve believed possible had I not been feeling it lash over my turgid flesh repeatedly like that.

  It stroked and teased every blood-engorged vein in my shaft—every hill and dale that broke up the cylindrical symmetry of my throbbing fuck stick.

  My balls, heavy and swollen with what I could tell was going to be an unusually large load of cum, bounced up and smacked against Ducati’s chin from below every time he plunged his mouth down recklessly to impale his throat on the entire thick length of my prick like that.

  Down between his own husky thighs I was feeding on his phallic monstrosity with a voraciousness that equaled or surpassed his own hunger for hard cock.

  We were getting close to coming—at least I was, and from the way Ducati’s legs shook and his erection twitched as it rammed in and out of my aching mouth, I imagined he was just about there, too. I was about to suggest that we stop to cool down before we lost our loads prematurely, when Ducati seemed to read my mind and forestalled me.

  He quickly pulled his slavering mouth off my pulsating prong and twisted around beneath my body to yank his own spit-smeared meat free of my lips. I let his cock go and embraced him as he threw his arms around my neck and pulled my face down to his to kiss me.

  It was a long, hard, lustful kiss, our mouths grinding together, our tongues fighting past each other to plunge deep into the other’s guy’s warm juicy mouth and fuck it.

  Then Ducati started to kiss his way down my torso, his mustache tickling my pecs as he sucked and tongued each of my big brown nipples in turn. This got me even hotter than our uninhibited sixty-nining had done.

  Next, he tongued his slow, torturous way down my abdomen. He scrubbed my flesh with his tongue and paused for a long moment to bury the stiffened tip of his tongue into my navel, screwing it around inside that little hole. I shuddered and perspired, lying there naked and erect beside him, with both of our bodies bathed in the lurid glow of the hot fire that roared and crackled nearby.

  “Fuck me!” was all that Ducati said—all that he had to say. He got his shaggy head down between my thighs again, licking and kissing them, and then he started tonguing my balls the same way.

  After playing with them for a long while, he released my nuts and went back to work on my prick, this time drooling saliva all over it. I was so turned on that I was sure I was going to ejaculate prematurely—before I could get a condom and some lube on my tormented prick, let alone fuck him up the ass with it.

  “If you want to get fucked, you’d better stop sucking me,” I warned him. “Otherwise, I’m going to shoot!”

  With obvious reluctance, he pulled his wet lips off my glistening tool. “Don’t come! Not yet!” he pleaded. “Fuck me first.”

  “Give me one of those rubbers.”

  “Here.”

  “And the lube.”

  “Here. Don’t use too much. I can take it. I want to feel you i
nside me, stretching my hole open and going in and out. I want it to hurt a little, even. Hurry!”

  “Now spread your ass for me, big man, if you’re in such a hurry to get fucked.”

  “Yeah! I’m ready. Do it, man!” Ducati moaned and sat on me, straddling my hips, reaching down to grasp the head of my latex-sheathed and lightly lubricated cock and aim it right up into the inviting crack between his buttocks. “Show me if you know how to satisfy another cop’s ass, rookie!”

  “I’m no rookie when it comes to fucking,” I bragged.

  “Prove it,” Ducati demanded. His ass cheeks rubbed over my slick wet knob until he found the right angle for insertion. Then, grunting, throwing his head back, Ducati shoved his body down hard!

  I felt his asshole stretching around the bulky portion of the head of my dick, and then my bludgeon was sliding up into the hot, tight confines of his rectum inch by inch.

  It was like easing a second, fleshy condom over the head of my cock and then quickly rolling it all the way down over the shaft to envelop my tool completely. I sank into his juicy ass up to my balls and Ducati cried out wildly in excitement as my meat filled his butt to capacity.

  “Fuck me!” he repeated in a hoarse pant of lust. “Oh, fuck me hard!”

  His hands were all over my body as I lay flat beneath him and began to work my hips to lift my butt off the floor and drive my dick deeper into him.

  Ducati responded with a twisting motion of his own hips that screwed my cock up into the hot, moist depths of his shitter. He leaned over to grab my tits and he tugged on them—hard. My cock seemed to swell larger each time he pulled at either of my nipples, and I began to fuck his butch ass for him in the rough way he obviously wanted.

  “Fuck my ass,” he groaned, over and over, as he rode up and down on the throbbing hard-on I’d planted as far up inside him as I could ram it.

  “Ride it, tough guy. Ride my dick!”

  Our bodies were gleaming with a heavy coat of sweat from the intense heat of the fire. I just lay back, feeling oddly relaxed though still extremely horny, and let Ducati fuck himself the way he wanted to on my rigid pole. I put one hand on his taut stomach, tracing the corded muscles and rubbing the sweat onto them, and then I seized his prick and started to whack it off for him with my other hand.