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“Come on, baby, you can go deeper. The surgeon gave me the Grade A nine-inch-deep special. Oh, fuck baby. Yes, baby!”
It was the dark hour of 3:00 a.m. on Hardesty’s bed. Angelique had agreed to go into the unit and give a deposition on her encounter with the creep if Hardesty fucked her one more time. He was complying. Her wrists were still restrained at either side of the headboard, but Hardesty had freed her ankles and her legs were raised and spread, her booted feet daintily posed in the hollows of Hardesty’s broad shoulders. Her weight was on her shoulder blades, as Hardesty was raised, in his knees, between her thighs, bringing her pelvis up to his groin, her butt raised off the mattress.
“Oh, yes, baby, baby. There, rub the end with that big dick of yours. Cream me. Oh, shit, BABY! There too. Take it all, baby. And keep workin’ them tits.” Hardesty had pulled out of the new cunt and entered more familiar Angel territory. The fit was tighter up the anal canal, but neither Hardest nor Angelique were going to complain about that. Angelique moaned deeply as Hardesty continued the thrust in her ass.
Hardesty was more comfortable in this territory.
Hardesty’s cellphone rang and he fumbled around on the nightstand for it, holding Angelique in place with his other arm around her waist, holding her up.
“No, baby, leave it. Finish me,” Angelique whimpered.
“Speak,” Hardesty growled into the phone, still slow pumping Angelique, and then, after listening for a moment, said, “Turkey Run Park. I’ll be there in a half hour.” He clicked off, replaced the phone on the nightstand and, “We’ve got to finish this fast. Duty calls.”
“I’m your duty now if you want my deposition… oh, shit, baby. Yes, back in the cunt. Fuck me like that, stud. All the way in. Shit, I should have gone for the eleven-inch cunt. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Cream me, baby. Give me your cum! YESSS!”
Hardesty did and was quickly out and headed for the shower. When he came back, half dressed and working on getting it all done, he leaned over the bed and released Angelique’s right wrist. He moved around to the other side of the bed and did the same to the left. Angelique was lying there, her eyes following Hardesty around his bedroom. She was purring.
“Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone,” he growled. “Stay right here.”
“You’ll find me right here in your bed with my legs open for you when you get back,” Angelique purred. “Thank you for respecting me and finishing in my cunt.”
“No, I mean in the apartment. I’ll take you in to give your information and then we’ll find somewhere safe for you to stay until we have this guy in cuffs.”
“I can stay here with you, in this bed.”
“No, too obvious a place. I have someplace else in mind. And, no, you don’t have to stay in bed. Just don’t leave the apartment and don’t answer the door. Toby should be here sometime, if he isn’t here now. Tell him I told you to stay put until I got back. Don’t fuck around with this, Angel. This is serious business.”
“Angelique wants some more serious business from you, Mr. Vice Cop,” she murmured from the bed, but Hardesty was already out of the bedroom and on his way to the scene.
At 3:30 in the morning it was a smooth sail west, up the George Washington Parkway, following the southern bank of the Potomac River up to the Turkey Run Park, once famous for spy encounters, as the CIA’s Langley headquarters was just over the treetops to the south of the small riverside park. Hardesty was met as he drove through the cordon of policemen at the entrance to the park’s parking lot, and held for an ambulance to pull out of the entrance, by his detective partner for the last year and more, Glen Whitehall, who had been the one to call him in on the scene. Whitehall was a strapping, young, athletic all-American-looking blond, who stood in contrast to Hardesty’s “been through the ringer” forty-year-old scruffy–but sexy–thuggish look. Still, it obviously was Hardesty who was the senior partner. The two actually worked out well together, making the most of their contrasts, which included them both being prisoners of the sexual vices that they encountered in their work. Whereas Hardesty worked over male prostitutes in his pursuit of keeping them alive and prospering, Whitehall took on the female prostitutes. Together, they knew everything and everyone to know in the red-light district world of Washington, D.C.
When Hardesty exited his twelve-year-old Hummer H3 and approached Whitehall, who was standing with another detective from the city’s vice unit, Maurice Stiles, a Virginia State cop, and a Fairfax County of Virginia vice detective, Brandon Baines, Hardesty did some liaison work with, all of whom were drinking coffee from Dunkin Donut cups, Whitehall handed Hardesty a cup of coffee and gave him a “walk carefully” face signal.
“That’s another one,” Baines said, gesturing to Hardesty. “Crane coming too?”
“He’s been notified. He’ll be here in a few minutes,” Whitehall said. “So, who is taking this one? I was just talking to Baines here about that, Hardesty. What do you think? The vic falls mecidiyekoy escort into the profile of the serial assaulter we’ve been working on and the ID has him living in the District–small, blond, androgynous, a known male hooker. He pole dances at an Alexandria gay bar. Fits our case.”
“Let’s wait for Crane,” Hardesty said. He’d counted noses and figured that their side could use greater strength in this if it came to a vote. It was a chore when the scene of the crime was outside the District. Washington was surrounded by Maryland and Virginia. Crimes didn’t contain themselves well in these close quarters. He turned and looked at the Virginia State cop. “Your oar in this is…?”
“The park is state property–Virginia,” the trooper said. “And one of our guys found the victim. We cruise into here regularly at night. We don’t have any interest in leading. We’re just here to provide information. This isn’t our favorite kind of case. Any of you guys want to take it, that’s fine with us.”
“Good to know,” Hardesty said. It was very good that the state cops wouldn’t be making a grab for this too.
Baines interjected, “The scene is in Fairfax County and, according to what we found in the guy’s wallet, he works at a club in Crystal City. Freddie’s Beach Bar.”
“Know it well,” Hardesty said. “It’s near my place. A gay bar. Maybe some information until Crane gets here,” he asked, turning back to the state trooper. “Was that the vic in the ambulance that just pulled out? Dead or alive?”
“Alive,” the trooper said. “But messed up bad. I’ve never seen a case like this. Not beaten up, but tied up and his pecker’s been carved up.”
“A jealous boyfriend case?” Hardesty asked. “Off with your cock if you’re going to dip it somewhere other than in me?”
“Not this one,” the trooper answered. “Carved up from the inside.”
“Ouch,” Hardesty, Baines, Whitehall, and Stiles responded almost in unison.
“The vic was babbling about steel rods, a crazy john, and a big white truck,” the trooper continued.
“Ah, a white truck,” Hardesty said. “That sounds like it might be the case we’re already working.” Whitehall gave him a surprised look, but Hardesty muttered. “I’ll tell you later. Developments.” He was about to ask the trooper another question, when another police car–a District one–pulled up and out stepped his boss, D.C. Vice Squad Captain Crane. The big, imposing black took command as he strode up to the group. He was the tallest and most muscular of the lot. He could have been a double for a Marine Corp general–or master sergeant–cut physique, buzz cut, piercing intelligent stare and all.
In short order, he’d gotten the D.C. unit’s control established, barring determination that this wasn’t the case they already were working on, with cooperation from the Fairfax police, through Brandon Baines, who would be kept so close in the loop that he could take the investigation over smoothly if it didn’t pan out as the continuing D.C. case.
Crane quickly directed everyone to their individual slot, and Hardesty, telling Crane, Whitehall, and Stiles that he had a witness on ice who had good information, he thought, on the case and would bring her in to the unit, was cruising back up the George Washington Parkway in the early morning rush traffic to do just that.
“Her?” Crane had asked.
“Her now–post-op transvestite,” Hardesty had said. “Name was Angel. Now it’s Angelique. Small, blond, street hooker–and quite possibly an escapee from our twerp.”
At the apartment, he found Toby and Angelique having breakfast at the kitchen island. Hardesty briefly filled them in on the scene of the Turkey Run Park attack and the similarity between the two of them and the victim of a particularly nasty assault.
“Ron Dunne? Yes, I know him. A dancer at Freddie’s Beach Bar. I saw him, dancing the pole, just yesterday.”
“And you saw that he was quite similar to you and Angelique,” Hardesty said. “Small, blond, available for a price. You two are in danger until we button this one up. So, Toby, you will call your escort agency and tell them to refuse any appointments that aren’t your long-standing regulars. While you’re talking to them, get a list of everyone who has requested your services, including those who got them, for the last three weeks. Tell them the list is for Hardesty and, if they provide an accurate list, they won’t be made any part of what I’m investigating. When I get home again, we’ll go over the list.”
“Yes, sir,” Toby said, saluting.
“And you,” Hardesty said turning to Angelique, “are going to go under wraps after our visit to the police unit. You can’t stay here, but I have someplace else to stash you.”
“Paul’s?” Toby asked.
“Yes,” Hardesty answered.
“I don’t know why I can’t stay here, with you,” Angelique said to Hardesty.
“Trust me, you’ll like Paul just fine,” Toby said. “And you’ll be just down the hall from here.”
Then Hardesty and Angelique were off to the District police department and the vice unit. Angelique entered the unit apprehensively, but Larry, the unit’s research sisli escort clerk, and of a flamboyant and flaming disposition, took her over immediately and had her comfortable in an interview room.
After describing the physical characteristics of the man who had engaged Angelique’s services, had wanted to fist her, and had gone ballistic when he’d learned he was now a she, they got down to the most helpful information.
“He said he was from Baltimore–that he worked security in office buildings during the day and as a bouncer at gay clubs at night.”
“Did he say where the clubs were in Baltimore?” Glen Whitehall asked.
“The Block. He called it The Block. East Baltimore Street.”
“And he was driving a white truck?”
“Yes. A newer one. A Dodge Ram double cab. My brother has one like it.”
When Hardesty drove Angelique back to Crystal City, he took her down the hall in his apartment building and rapped on a door. Toby had already made the arrangements.
Paul, early sixties but a very well-preserved former male model, tall and trim, opened the door. Paul was a personable, rugged Western type, having starred in a series of TV cigarette commercials in the 60s, and still alive because he’d never smoked. Most notable about Paul, though, was that he had a ten-inch dick with which he drove the boys wild.
“My, isn’t this one a cutie?” Paul said when he opened the door and took the figure of Angelique in. “Won’t we have fun?”
“You’re old,” Angelique blurted out.
“Old enough to know all the positions and I’ve got ten inches that still can get hard,” Paul said, pulling Angelique into his apartment and closing the door on Hardesty’s grinning face. Paul would indeed keep Angelique occupied and out of trouble, he was thinking as he walked back up the hall to his apartment. He was contemplating next steps. He saw a trip to Baltimore in his near future.
He hadn’t forgotten what he told Toby they’d do when he got back to the apartment, and Toby had been good about getting a list of everyone who had engaged his services–or tried to–over the previous three weeks from the escort agency. Hardesty then called Larry, the vice unit’s research clerk.
“I have a list of men I’d like you to run through the systems on the quiet–discreetly. Nothing is to come back at them from this check. Can you do that?”
“For you anything,” Larry said. Hardesty had taken Larry around the block a couple of times and the openly gay bottom melted to him. It was no surprise he’d do whatever Hardesty wanted him to do if it could physically happen.
To ensure he’d be thorough and private, Hardesty said, “If you find a connection from one of these guys to anything I’m interested in, I’ll take you partying.”
Larry nearly melted down in his desk chair.
* * * *
“This isn’t the police station,” Davey had said as he was being hustled upstairs. He gave a wary look at what one of the cops was carrying in his hand–what looked like leather handcuffs and a bar.
“No, it isn’t, Sherlock,” the white cop said. “You’re selling yourself on the street, so don’t do no choir boy routine with us. You can either take us here, or we can take you into the station house and a couple of bruisers can share you in the pen. They love doing scrawny pretty, blond boys like you. Which do you think would be best for you? You’re a pretty little thing–prettier than some girls I know. Even if we took you in and put you in the tank, you’d probably wind up rough fucked. Put out for Tyrone and me here and we’ll let you go. No official cop stuff. It’s the way of the street, dude. You’ve got to pay your dues to hold your place on the curb. Which is it?”
Davey didn’t think long on that. They were going to do him here anyway. He knew that for sure. They already were stripping, and both sported erections–Tyrone hugely so. Davey had called it on that guy being a hung bull. After everything was off, they tied their utility belts back on.
“Give you a thrill here,” Ernie said, as he tied the butt end of his holster off at his thigh, “and our guns–the ones on our belts and the ones swinging between our legs–will be close by then in case you resist.”
Davey didn’t resist, but in the end he nearly fainted.
They took the cuffs off long enough to strip him down, but they recuffed him, this time using the restraints Davey had seen the white cop come in with. One of the leather restraints locked his right wrist to his right ankle. The other did the left. The bar attached between them spread Davey’s legs. His cheek and chest were pressed into the thin mattress on the cot, with his tail raised high. He was effectively hogtied and immobile.
“You know what we do to a guy when we spread his legs, don’t you?” Ernie asked. Then he laughed. “You first, Tyrone.”
Davey whimpered as Tyrone mounted him and fucked him in a doggie. Davey nearly died and went to heaven. So much did he love the thickness, length, and backstroke of the big black that he felt the gates of his soft core open to the cock and hungrily suck it right in, the muscles of his walls caressing escort taksim it and undulating over it. The big black shaft reached deep into his softness and breeded him. The black bull grabbed his hips and pumped him and pumped him, lathering him deep with his cum in multiple releases. Davey lay under him, panting hard, and not able to keep himself from murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes.”
The black bull was only in Davey’s soft core for some thirty seconds but it was then when the beleaguered circumstances and the fear and the dingy room and rickety cot melted away and the young man was gliding on the clouds, a man making love to him, caressing him deep, Davey’s legs trembling and the big black moving a strong forearm under his shimmering belly when the pumping became intense. More than ten seconds went to the big black cock pumping its prodigious, warm cum deep inside, with Davey moaning “fuck” with each release. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Davey had been breeded.
When the big black bull was done, opening Davey up like he’d never been opened before, Ernie, the white cop sat beside him and, with a smile, waved his Billy club in front of Davey’s face. He’d greased the club up. Davey gasped and arched his back as Ernie pushed the end of the Billy club into the young man’s ass and fucked him with it. The saving grace was that Tyrone had just reamed Davey’s channel gaping open with his shaft, which rivaled the Billy club in circumference. Also, Ernie didn’t try to get too much of the club inside Davey’s passage. Ernie continued club-fucking the young man, rocking Davey’s pelvis up and down with the strength of the club and beating off Davey’s cock, until the young man came.
This was the central passage in his story. Kit rechecked it one more time before pushing the submit button. He’d like to go through the whole story again, but he needed to put his rear in gear and get over to the National Art Gallery, where he was supposed to give a visiting German artist a full tour of the what went on behind the scenes.
Before he went, though, he decided to check the e-mail account he had through that Internet story site. Once again there was an e-mail from that crazy Danny dude:
Really, Sandman, if you’d just tell me where you are we can hookup to do some of that shit you write about, and this other shit wouldn’t be happening. You write about it, so you must know how to do it right so that it’s sexy and we both would get off on it. If you’d just tell me how we can get together. I’ve seen you. You’re really something. All I’d ever want. And we’re getting closer to meeting. I’m with your sounding boyfriend now, getting him to help me get closer to you, but he’s not much help. Not anymore. If you’d just stop being coy, we could be together and none of this other shit would be coming down. Let me know. I’ve seen you. I don’t know quite where you live, but I know where you roam. Don’t make me wait too much longer. Getting closer. Danny.
What sort of shit is this? Kit thought. I have no fuckin’ idea what this dude is talking about, but it doesn’t sound good. That guy Toby is living with. He’s a vice cop, Toby says. It might be time that I show him this. Or maybe I should just stop posting the stories.
Something to think about some other time, though. If he didn’t get a move on, he’d be late meeting up with this German artist. Kit powered down the computer and went in to decide what a guy wears to meet a German artist whose paintings were really wild, but, in some ways sexy, especially the male nudes.
I wonder how we gets his models? Then Kit did a little wondering what the German artist did with his models.
* * * *
“Oh, honey baby, keep pounding that wall. Give it all to me. Kiss that end of my new pussy! Put it all in. Silver fox me, you stud.”
“I can’t give it all to you. You told me you were only given a nine-inch one.”
They were in Paul’s bedroom. Angelique, naked save for her knee-high black boots, was kneeling on the edge of the bed, facing the mattress. Paul, behind her, completely naked, had one hand palming one of Angelique’s melon-sized, store-bought breasts. The thumb and forefinger of the other hand had what was left of the T-girl’s penis between them and he was rubbing that out and causing Angelique to squirm, pant, and moan. Paul wasn’t unusually thick, so he wasn’t taxing Angelique’s new cunt in the stretch, but he was magnificently long and his thrusts were pounding against the deepest end of surgically provided sac and sending the T-girl over the moon.
“All of it! Give me all of it!” Angelique cried out. “You… are… THE STUD!”
Paul gave her all of it.
* * * *
His name was Todd and he worked for a high-class escort agency. He was a male whore. He deserved to be used hard and he was there to be used hard. Ian had the number of the escort agency. It had been rough getting just that much information, but he was a bit closer to Sandman. He had seen Todd going into a couple of apartment houses. One of them must be where he lived. If Marcus could just get inside these buildings when Todd was there, maybe he could find out where, specifically, Todd lived. If he could get Sandman alone in his apartment… or, better, if he could get Todd alone in an out-of-the-way place of Marcus’s choosing. There was so much to try: sounding, fisting. Maybe a good whipping. Make him sob.
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