Sex stories

Sex stories




Off Duty

I had just gotten into position on my hands and knees and my beach friend had just pushed his familiar cock into me. He'd pulled back and just begun his fucking motion—one thrust—when we heard the dreaded words:

"OK you two knock it off. You're under arrest. The rest of you...," he said to the weekly masturbators and casual onlookers, who were already scattering, "beat it!"

My partner remained six inches deep in me. I felt his dilemma. Pull out and he'd expose himself. At least this way the "evidence" was hidden.

"I said knock it off!" returning his attention to us. And with that my top yanked back, stood up and attempted to cover himself with a hand.

"You have clothes?" the officer asked.

"Yes."

"Put them on and get out of here."

"Y-Yessir!" my relieved "friend" stuttered, before abandoning me. I was still on my hands and knees. Well, one hand. The other was shielding my eyes. The cop was backlit by the morning sun. But at least he was blocking most of it. He appeared, from my lowly vantage, to be about eight feet tall. But he was more like six-one, 30-something and well built. Solid. He was one of those cops whose uniform fits him like a second skin. Not an ironed crease out of place. His right hand rested on his holstered pistol. He wore aviator's mirror shades under his cop. This guy was tough.

"You!" he said. "You have clothes?"

"Yessir. Right here," my Speedo, shorts and tank-top neatly piled atop my beach shoes. Forward of them sat my backpack.

"Put them on," he told me, with a lift of his dimpled chin. "What's in the backpack."

"Um...just some stuff."

"Hand it to me."

"Yessir."

"Anything in here that might hurt me? Sharp objects? Knives...?"

"No."

"Any drugs?"

"No sir."

"You sure?"

"No drugs." No knives, no...

The front pocket of the pack contained my wallet and keys, the main section, which the cop was now fishing through, condoms, lube and a Sesame Street thermos. The thermos belonged to my roommate Karly's ten-year-old son Itzack, who preferred being called Michael. I'd borrowed it.

"What's in the thermos?" the cop asked.

"Um...juice." That was half-true.

The cop uncapped it and sniffed. "And rum?" He poured it out in the sand. "How old are you, son?"

"22."

"Can you prove it?"

I gestured at my backpack. "My wallet's in there."

I was fully dressed—well, dressed—and standing now. And though the cop and I were about the same height, I for some reason felt about three-feet tall in comparison to him. My knees were shaking. And inside my Speedo my hole felt squishy with lubricant and phantom-full, as if whatshisname had left his cock behind. For some reason, at the tense moment, this secret sensation also bothered me. I felt like it was something else I was withholding from the police, like the spike in my fruit juice.

The cop was looking at me. And I was looking back at my miniature, distorted self in his mirror shades. He said: "I'm taking you in for indecent exposure and and public fornication. How did you get here? Car?"

At the time his locution—"I'm taking you in"—didn't strike me as odd. I had other concerns on my mind. It was only later, in light of subsequent events, that it occurred to me: he never actually said I was under arrest. So technically, I suppose, in his own warped brain, he felt he had an out.

"No, bike," I replied.

"Motorcycle?"

"Tenspeed. It's tied up over there," I said, pointing vaguely down the line of mangroves.

"Get it."

"Yessir."

After unlocking and unchaining my trusty Schwinn I pushed it along the path through the mangroves. I led, he followed.

"You're not going to try anything funny are you?" he asked.

Funny? Like jump on the bike and try to pedal away through the thick sand while you run and jump in your 500 hp supercar police cruiser? Or perhaps just shoot me in the back? That kind of funny?

"No sir," I replied meekly.

His cruiser was parked a few cars down the row and he directed me to put the kickstand down a few feet from his trunk. Then he told me to put my back to the driver's side rear door and put my wrists together and hold them out. He cuffed them.

"I'll read you your rights in the car," he said. He never did. And now I stood there wincing as my bike banged and clanked against his trunk's insides as the cop tried to squeeze it in, wondering all the while who the fuck I was going to call to bail me out. Not my parents, that's for sure. On charges of indecent exposure and public fornication? With another man?

I could call Karly, she was cool. She didn't know I was gay—well, bi—but...a latter-day hippy like Krazy Karly wouldn't care. In fact, she'd probably embrace me for it. "I'm so proud of you! For coming out!" On the other hand Karly was like me: no money. She had rich Miami Beach parents, however, and she could probably scrape the money together in a pinch...

"Get in," the cop said, opening the rear door. He climbed in up front and gunned the big V8. Another thing struck me as odd. His in-car police radio seemed to be turned off. There was no chatter. I wasn't an expert on the insides of police cars but wasn't the radio constantly crackling with 10-4's and whatnot? We were halfway across the causeway before he broke the silence, and it was not to read me my Miranda rights:

"That guy back there," he said through the steel mesh.

"Which...?"

"The one screwing you."

Yeah?

"You had condoms in your backpack but..."

"Oh. No."

"You have any diseases I need to know about?"

I need to know about? What are you, my health counselor.

"I'm healthy."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

After a pause to remove his cap—he had a full head of dark hair, in a buzz-cut—he asked:

"You go to that beach often?"

"Not anymore," I replied nonsensically.

"What?"

"I mean...I promise I won't go back there again."

He shrugged muscular shoulders. "I don't give a shit what you do. It's a free country. You just shouldn't-"

He glanced around at me. We were on the highway now, in heavy traffic. People in adjacent cars were staring at me. Look at that long-hair in the back of the police car! Drugs I bet!

"You realize ten years ago you could have been arrested for sodomy? Still can in some states. Twenty years in prison plus they castrate you. You're lucky you're not in Alabama..."

They have beaches in Alabama, I wondered? Let alone gay beaches? At any rate I was growing increasingly nauseated...

"So you say you're a regular at that beach?" the cop said, putting words in my mouth.

"Sometimes."

"And you have sex with somebody everytime you go there? You can be truthful with me. I can't arrest you for things you did in the past."

I cleared my throat. My mouth was dry. Sure wished I had that Sesame Street thermos. "Um...not every time."

"With that same guy?"

"What?"

"Is it always with that same guy? The guy today...?"

"I've had sex with him a few times, yeah."

"Always on bottom?"

"I bottom for him, yeah."

"He's older'n you. You like older guys?"

I shrugged in my handcuffs. "I'm really not all that experienced. It sorta just happened with him and me..."

"But you keep going back."

"I won't now."

"Let me ask you something," the whack-job up front said, switching gears. "I'm just curious. Does it hurt when he...?"

"He...?"

"I have this girlfriend—don't tell my wife," he laughed. "And she, sometimes she likes to poke her finger up my ass. When we're doing it you know? And I mean like, even that...I'm really tight back there, y'know? So I kinda wonder...doesn't it hurt when he...?"

"Maybe at first," I squirmed. "But you get used to it. You get stretched out, sorta."

"Oh, right." He glanced around again. We were on a straight fourlane road now. A road to nowhere, seemingly. The last westward subdivision having just flashed past. "Do you ever dildo yourself?"

"Um, yeah. Sometimes. I do myself in the shower before heading to the beach?"

"Yeah?"

"That way I'm kinda nice and ready if my friend..."

"Gotcha. I won't kid you, man," he snorted. "All this talk is making me hard. Were you ever in the military?"

"Um, sir? Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Are you really a police officer?"

He laughed. "Course I'm an officer of the law! What, you think I stole this uniform and this cruiser?"

"I hope not..."

"What?"

"I guess not."

"You KNOW not, son. Relax, you're in safe hands here."

"So where are you taking me again?" I asked, referring to the Nowhere we were now in the middle of, traveling at about 85 miles an hour.

"A safe place." That word again. "Humor me. It's my day off. I just want to have a little fun." He put his right-turn blinker on and leaned forward. "Should be getting pretty close now..."

To what? The edge of the Everglades?

He turned right. Now we were traveling down a paved but VERY narrow two-lane road flanked by tall rushes and cattails on either side. And alligators, I'm assuming. We drove about a mile before he once again turned right, onto overgrown pavement that soon petered out. A dead-end.

"They were gonna build a development out here," the cop said, yanking the column shifter up into Park. "You believe that? My brother-in-law was in on it. Lost his shirt, stupid fuck."

The cop got out and left his pinging door open. He removed his patent-leather gunbelt, thankfully, and re-emerged holding my backpack. Then he opened the rear door, my door, and said: "OK, you hot little cutey, pull your panties down and get on your hands and knees, like you were on the beach."

"On the backseat?" I asked in disbelief. Or amazement. Or something. And they weren't panties, it was a Speedo.

"Where else, son? Just be forewarned. I'm a lot bigger'n your friend on the beach." He laughed as he unzipped. "Just ask my wife. But don't worry, I'll lube it up good..."

I stared, open-mouthed. He WAS big. He had a beautiful cock. A ten on a scale of...I didn't have to ask his wife. No shower dildo could've prepared me for this, however. I rolled into submissive position—what choice did I have?—my right knee sunk into the backseat, my left suspended in midair in the footwell. It was awkward. But my cheeks were spread as wide as they would go. The cop came forward and caressed them.

"What a sweet little ass you have," he said. "Wish my fat-ass wife had an ass this cute."

He guided the lubed head of his cock to my hole. I told myself to relax. Tried to. He pushed. He was inside me. A little ways. This was the easy part.

"You OK, Kemosabe?" he asked. What did that make him, in his own whacked-out mind? The Lone Ranger? Still, I appreciated the concern...

"Fine," I replied.

He pushed deeper. God, he was big. Already I felt it deep inside my body.

"I'm halfway in," he said, doing the play-by-play. "Tell me if it starts to hurt."

I was silent. I was too busy breathing.

"You OK?"

"OK," I grimaced. It was more an expulsion of breath than an answer.

"You like this, don't you cunt?" His hands were swirling over my buttocks, my lower back. "You love being fucked."

"Y...es!" I managed.

He grasped the minimal flesh of my hips. He yanked me back. He was in. All the way. I could feel his coarse pubic hair meshed against my crack. He was in to my throat, or so it felt. I gurgled a cry. Of pain.

"Hurt, faggot?"

Open-mouthed, speechless, I nodded furiously.

He did not pull back. He remained deep in me, still in me. But at least he was still. The deep pain began to ebb. I raised a supporting hand, wiped the drool from my mouth. He pulled back, slowly. Pushed deep in me again.

"OK?"

I nodded. I was not but...I nodded.

He fucked me slowly at first, almost tenderly. Keeping his own standing body still, he worked my hips, my hole, sliding it back and forth on his shaft. I closed my eyes and tried to envision it. The conjunction, the melding of asshole and cock. The rhythm. The machine-like precision of lubricated piston and cylinder. The sparking of pleasure with each thrust, timed to his open door's obnoxious ping...

Once my cries turned from questions to simple moans he began fucking me harder. Soon enough my cheeks were slamming, slapping against his relatively fixed belly. My cries could not keep up with his frantic rhythm. And on that improbable day I experienced my first girly, entirely internal orgasm, my rectum momentarily tightening around his big cock like a fist.

"Oh! OH! Oh...," my voice rising an octave with each cry. I had never felt more effeminate than at this moment. I imagined myself in a lifted, pleated skirt, with my panties down. Fuck me, sir! PLEASE!

The cop had an odd, unique way of cumming. When he reached the point of orgasm—his—he stopped his motion in me and let his cock do all the work. It was the first time I ever experienced the throb of an ejaculating cock in me. Normally this seminal moment gets lost in the frantic friction of the experience. Did you cum?

There was no question about it in this case. I fully felt his throb, his elastic release. I imagined the bright white of his sperm shooting up my dark tunnel. Like approaching headlights in the subway. He, meanwhile, remained silent the whole time. Not a peep.

Seconds passed. He remained deep in my hole but shrinking. He exhaled. Ran his hands over my backside once again. I believe he said, "Great ass." Then he finally pulled out.

I looked behind—at his flagging cock. "Want me to suck it?"

"Why?" he asked, looking at his Casio.

"Um..."

"Get dressed. Get out. I'm late for a...," his words of disinterest drifting off into the reeds.

As I backed out of the car I grabbed—in my handcuffs—my backpack. He was unloading my bike, meanwhile.

"Would you mind?" I asked, holding my wrists out. The nametag above his white-on-black badge said: SMITH. One in a thousand...

"What? Oh. Sorry..."

After unlocking me he said: "Get going. This never happened. My wife..."

Typical fucking guy.

As he sped past me on the twolane road to Nowhere I became aware of two things: the cop's semen was leaking from my dilated hole, and by the time I got home both the seat of my Speedo and my bike's minimally cushioned saddle would be sopping sticky wet; and...where the fuck was I?

I only knew to head east. I was, what, twenty miles from home? Thirty? It was midday and the sun was beating down. I'll be exhausted by the time I get to the house, I thought. I shifted to a higher gear. Karly will Jewish-mother me when I get to the house. Assuming I don't have a blow-out and never arrive. Or expire from the heat...

"Where have you been? You look...exhausted. What happened to you?"

My mouth will be dry, parched. "Ith...a lung thorey."

"What? You need to lie down. You're delirious."

I'll nod, eyeing the coiled green garden hose. Water! Please!

"Hey, by the way. Have you seen Michael's lunchbox? Thermos I mean?"I had just gotten into position on my hands and knees and my beach friend had just pushed his familiar cock into me. He'd pulled back and just begun his fucking motion—one thrust—when we heard the dreaded words:

"OK you two knock it off. You're under arrest. The rest of you...," he said to the weekly masturbators and casual onlookers, who were already scattering, "beat it!"

My partner remained six inches deep in me. I felt his dilemma. Pull out and he'd expose himself. At least this way the "evidence" was hidden.

"I said knock it off!" returning his attention to us. And with that my top yanked back, stood up and attempted to cover himself with a hand.

"You have clothes?" the officer asked.

"Yes."

"Put them on and get out of here."

"Y-Yessir!" my relieved "friend" stuttered, before abandoning me. I was still on my hands and knees. Well, one hand. The other was shielding my eyes. The cop was backlit by the morning sun. But at least he was blocking most of it. He appeared, from my lowly vantage, to be about eight feet tall. But he was more like six-one, 30-something and well built. Solid. He was one of those cops whose uniform fits him like a second skin. Not an ironed crease out of place. His right hand rested on his holstered pistol. He wore aviator's mirror shades under his cop. This guy was tough.

"You!" he said. "You have clothes?"

"Yessir. Right here," my Speedo, shorts and tank-top neatly piled atop my beach shoes. Forward of them sat my backpack.

"Put them on," he told me, with a lift of his dimpled chin. "What's in the backpack."

"Um...just some stuff."

"Hand it to me."

"Yessir."

"Anything in here that might hurt me? Sharp objects? Knives...?"

"No."

"Any drugs?"

"No sir."

"You sure?"

"No drugs." No knives, no...

The front pocket of the pack contained my wallet and keys, the main section, which the cop was now fishing through, condoms, lube and a Sesame Street thermos. The thermos belonged to my roommate Karly's ten-year-old son Itzack, who preferred being called Michael. I'd borrowed it.

"What's in the thermos?" the cop asked.

"Um...juice." That was half-true.

The cop uncapped it and sniffed. "And rum?" He poured it out in the sand. "How old are you, son?"

"22."

"Can you prove it?"

I gestured at my backpack. "My wallet's in there."

I was fully dressed—well, dressed—and standing now. And though the cop and I were about the same height, I for some reason felt about three-feet tall in comparison to him. My knees were shaking. And inside my Speedo my hole felt squishy with lubricant and phantom-full, as if whatshisname had left his cock behind. For some reason, at the tense moment, this secret sensation also bothered me. I felt like it was something else I was withholding from the police, like the spike in my fruit juice.

The cop was looking at me. And I was looking back at my miniature, distorted self in his mirror shades. He said: "I'm taking you in for indecent exposure and and public fornication. How did you get here? Car?"

At the time his locution—"I'm taking you in"—didn't strike me as odd. I had other concerns on my mind. It was only later, in light of subsequent events, that it occurred to me: he never actually said I was under arrest. So technically, I suppose, in his own warped brain, he felt he had an out.

"No, bike," I replied.

"Motorcycle?"

"Tenspeed. It's tied up over there," I said, pointing vaguely down the line of mangroves.

"Get it."

"Yessir."

After unlocking and unchaining my trusty Schwinn I pushed it along the path through the mangroves. I led, he followed.

"You're not going to try anything funny are you?" he asked.

Funny? Like jump on the bike and try to pedal away through the thick sand while you run and jump in your 500 hp supercar police cruiser? Or perhaps just shoot me in the back? That kind of funny?

"No sir," I replied meekly.

His cruiser was parked a few cars down the row and he directed me to put the kickstand down a few feet from his trunk. Then he told me to put my back to the driver's side rear door and put my wrists together and hold them out. He cuffed them.

"I'll read you your rights in the car," he said. He never did. And now I stood there wincing as my bike banged and clanked against his trunk's insides as the cop tried to squeeze it in, wondering all the while who the fuck I was going to call to bail me out. Not my parents, that's for sure. On charges of indecent exposure and public fornication? With another man?

I could call Karly, she was cool. She didn't know I was gay—well, bi—but...a latter-day hippy like Krazy Karly wouldn't care. In fact, she'd probably embrace me for it. "I'm so proud of you! For coming out!" On the other hand Karly was like me: no money. She had rich Miami Beach parents, however, and she could probably scrape the money together in a pinch...

"Get in," the cop said, opening the rear door. He climbed in up front and gunned the big V8. Another thing struck me as odd. His in-car police radio seemed to be turned off. There was no chatter. I wasn't an expert on the insides of police cars but wasn't the radio constantly crackling with 10-4's and whatnot? We were halfway across the causeway before he broke the silence, and it was not to read me my Miranda rights:

"That guy back there," he said through the steel mesh.

"Which...?"

"The one screwing you."

Yeah?

"You had condoms in your backpack but..."

"Oh. No."

"You have any diseases I need to know about?"

I need to know about? What are you, my health counselor.

"I'm healthy."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

After a pause to remove his cap—he had a full head of dark hair, in a buzz-cut—he asked:

"You go to that beach often?"

"Not anymore," I replied nonsensically.

"What?"

"I mean...I promise I won't go back there again."

He shrugged muscular shoulders. "I don't give a shit what you do. It's a free country. You just shouldn't-"

He glanced around at me. We were on the highway now, in heavy traffic. People in adjacent cars were staring at me. Look at that long-hair in the back of the police car! Drugs I bet!

"You realize ten years ago you could have been arrested for sodomy? Still can in some states. Twenty years in prison plus they castrate you. You're lucky you're not in Alabama..."

They have beaches in Alabama, I wondered? Let alone gay beaches? At any rate I was growing increasingly nauseated...

"So you say you're a regular at that beach?" the cop said, putting words in my mouth.

"Sometimes."

"And you have sex with somebody everytime you go there? You can be truthful with me. I can't arrest you for things you did in the past."

I cleared my throat. My mouth was dry. Sure wished I had that Sesame Street thermos. "Um...not every time."

"With that same guy?"

"What?"

"Is it always with that same guy? The guy today...?"

"I've had sex with him a few times, yeah."

"Always on bottom?"

"I bottom for him, yeah."

"He's older'n you. You like older guys?"

I shrugged in my handcuffs. "I'm really not all that experienced. It sorta just happened with him and me..."

"But you keep going back."

"I won't now."

"Let me ask you something," the whack-job up front said, switching gears. "I'm just curious. Does it hurt when he...?"

"He...?"

"I have this girlfriend—don't tell my wife," he laughed. "And she, sometimes she likes to poke her finger up my ass. When we're doing it you know? And I mean like, even that...I'm really tight back there, y'know? So I kinda wonder...doesn't it hurt when he...?"

"Maybe at first," I squirmed. "But you get used to it. You get stretched out, sorta."

"Oh, right." He glanced around again. We were on a straight fourlane road now. A road to nowhere, seemingly. The last westward subdivision having just flashed past. "Do you ever dildo yourself?"

"Um, yeah. Sometimes. I do myself in the shower before heading to the beach?"

"Yeah?"

"That way I'm kinda nice and ready if my friend..."

"Gotcha. I won't kid you, man," he snorted. "All this talk is making me hard. Were you ever in the military?"

"Um, sir? Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Are you really a police officer?"

He laughed. "Course I'm an officer of the law! What, you think I stole this uniform and this cruiser?"

"I hope not..."

"What?"

"I guess not."

"You KNOW not, son. Relax, you're in safe hands here."

"So where are you taking me again?" I asked, referring to the Nowhere we were now in the middle of, traveling at about 85 miles an hour.

"A safe place." That word again. "Humor me. It's my day off. I just want to have a little fun." He put his right-turn blinker on and leaned forward. "Should be getting pretty close now..."

To what? The edge of the Everglades?

He turned right. Now we were traveling down a paved but VERY narrow two-lane road flanked by tall rushes and cattails on either side. And alligators, I'm assuming. We drove about a mile before he once again turned right, onto overgrown pavement that soon petered out. A dead-end.

"They were gonna build a development out here," the cop said, yanking the column shifter up into Park. "You believe that? My brother-in-law was in on it. Lost his shirt, stupid fuck."

The cop got out and left his pinging door open. He removed his patent-leather gunbelt, thankfully, and re-emerged holding my backpack. Then he opened the rear door, my door, and said: "OK, you hot little cutey, pull your panties down and get on your hands and knees, like you were on the beach."

"On the backseat?" I asked in disbelief. Or amazement. Or something. And they weren't panties, it was a Speedo.

"Where else, son? Just be forewarned. I'm a lot bigger'n your friend on the beach." He laughed as he unzipped. "Just ask my wife. But don't worry, I'll lube it up good..."

I stared, open-mouthed. He WAS big. He had a beautiful cock. A ten on a scale of...I didn't have to ask his wife. No shower dildo could've prepared me for this, however. I rolled into submissive position—what choice did I have?—my right knee sunk into the backseat, my left suspended in midair in the footwell. It was awkward. But my cheeks were spread as wide as they would go. The cop came forward and caressed them.

"What a sweet little ass you have," he said. "Wish my fat-ass wife had an ass this cute."

He guided the lubed head of his cock to my hole. I told myself to relax. Tried to. He pushed. He was inside me. A little ways. This was the easy part.

"You OK, Kemosabe?" he asked. What did that make him, in his own whacked-out mind? The Lone Ranger? Still, I appreciated the concern...

"Fine," I replied.

He pushed deeper. God, he was big. Already I felt it deep inside my body.

"I'm halfway in," he said, doing the play-by-play. "Tell me if it starts to hurt."

I was silent. I was too busy breathing.

"You OK?"

"OK," I grimaced. It was more an expulsion of breath than an answer.

"You like this, don't you cunt?" His hands were swirling over my buttocks, my lower back. "You love being fucked."

"Y...es!" I managed.

He grasped the minimal flesh of my hips. He yanked me back. He was in. All the way. I could feel his coarse pubic hair meshed against my crack. He was in to my throat, or so it felt. I gurgled a cry. Of pain.

"Hurt, faggot?"

Open-mouthed, speechless, I nodded furiously.

He did not pull back. He remained deep in me, still in me. But at least he was still. The deep pain began to ebb. I raised a supporting hand, wiped the drool from my mouth. He pulled back, slowly. Pushed deep in me again.

"OK?"

I nodded. I was not but...I nodded.

He fucked me slowly at first, almost tenderly. Keeping his own standing body still, he worked my hips, my hole, sliding it back and forth on his shaft. I closed my eyes and tried to envision it. The conjunction, the melding of asshole and cock. The rhythm. The machine-like precision of lubricated piston and cylinder. The sparking of pleasure with each thrust, timed to his open door's obnoxious ping...

Once my cries turned from questions to simple moans he began fucking me harder. Soon enough my cheeks were slamming, slapping against his relatively fixed belly. My cries could not keep up with his frantic rhythm. And on that improbable day I experienced my first girly, entirely internal orgasm, my rectum momentarily tightening around his big cock like a fist.

"Oh! OH! Oh...," my voice rising an octave with each cry. I had never felt more effeminate than at this moment. I imagined myself in a lifted, pleated skirt, with my panties down. Fuck me, sir! PLEASE!

The cop had an odd, unique way of cumming. When he reached the point of orgasm—his—he stopped his motion in me and let his cock do all the work. It was the first time I ever experienced the throb of an ejaculating cock in me. Normally this seminal moment gets lost in the frantic friction of the experience. Did you cum?

There was no question about it in this case. I fully felt his throb, his elastic release. I imagined the bright white of his sperm shooting up my dark tunnel. Like approaching headlights in the subway. He, meanwhile, remained silent the whole time. Not a peep.

Seconds passed. He remained deep in my hole but shrinking. He exhaled. Ran his hands over my backside once again. I believe he said, "Great ass." Then he finally pulled out.

I looked behind—at his flagging cock. "Want me to suck it?"

"Why?" he asked, looking at his Casio.

"Um..."

"Get dressed. Get out. I'm late for a...," his words of disinterest drifting off into the reeds.

As I backed out of the car I grabbed—in my handcuffs—my backpack. He was unloading my bike, meanwhile.

"Would you mind?" I asked, holding my wrists out. The nametag above his white-on-black badge said: SMITH. One in a thousand...

"What? Oh. Sorry..."

After unlocking me he said: "Get going. This never happened. My wife..."

Typical fucking guy.

As he sped past me on the twolane road to Nowhere I became aware of two things: the cop's semen was leaking from my dilated hole, and by the time I got home both the seat of my Speedo and my bike's minimally cushioned saddle would be sopping sticky wet; and...where the fuck was I?

I only knew to head east. I was, what, twenty miles from home? Thirty? It was midday and the sun was beating down. I'll be exhausted by the time I get to the house, I thought. I shifted to a higher gear. Karly will Jewish-mother me when I get to the house. Assuming I don't have a blow-out and never arrive. Or expire from the heat...

"Where have you been? You look...exhausted. What happened to you?"

My mouth will be dry, parched. "Ith...a lung thorey."

"What? You need to lie down. You're delirious."

I'll nod, eyeing the coiled green garden hose. Water! Please!

"Hey, by the way. Have you seen Michael's lunchbox? Thermos I mean?"

duty   off  

Feb 13, 2018 in bdsm

Search

Tags