:: Robby ::
He was going to die. He was going to die and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to save him.
I glared across the moonlight-mottled expanse of warehouse space, desperately fighting the trembles of fear that were coursing through my body and causing my .38 to waver from its shadowed target. Nothing in all the years of my police officer training and field work could have prepared me for this. But nothing could have prepared me for the love of my life, either.
“Don’t be a pussy.” I growled, angrily. ”Be a man and step out where I can see you!”
The two forms moved forward, the smaller one stumbling slightly within the taller one’s grasp. I kept my eyes focused on them, hoping against hope that I had been wrong, that it wasn’t my Mike standing before me with the silver muzzle of a .45 pressed against the side of his skull. I released a shaky breath, the blood pounding in my head as I surveyed Mike’s dirt-smudged and tear-streaked face, his eyes boring his desperation into me.
“Robby, please.” His whisper sliced through me like a hot knife. “Please. Save me.”
His words catapulted me back to our first meeting …
It had been a crazy night. A couple of feisty domestic disturbances, the usual assault and battery calls from the local watering hole, Vince’s, and a lost potbellied pig who’d been found wandering along Highway 40. Clark Bristow, my partner of 8 years, was silently eyeing me from his place in the passenger’s seat.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Rob.”
“Nothing.” I mumbled. I did not want to start yet another conversation with him about my love life, especially when I had none. Now, I’m not a bad-looking guy, if I may say so myself. I’m 5’ 11”, weigh about 187 pounds and I have brown eyes and short dark brown hair. My dad was part Cherokee Indian and I have his coloring with my mom’s Huguenot features. I keep myself fit for my job, which means that I work out regularly and I practice tae kwon do, which keeps me limber and fluid. The problem?
Yeah, make all the jokes you want about it, but the fact still remains. When I go to bed at night, I have sweet dreams of sweaty, muscled bodies, cum-filled mouths and tight assholes. I’ve endured my share of problems with other guys in the department, but they’ve learned to steer clear of me, especially after I participated in a departmental martial arts demonstration. Guess they all decided that it would be easier to leave me alone than worry about having their heads torn off.
Clark has been the only constant in my tired dance of life. He’s married with three kids and is about the coolest black guy I’ve ever met. He always reminds me of Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction but he’s much more conservative. He tapped a Salem Menthol out of its box and lit it, inhaling while still eyeing me.
“C’mon. Spill it.”
I squirmed in my seat and aimed the Ford towards the downtown area, trying to ignore him, but I knew I couldn’t. “It’s nothing, Clark. Really.”
“You lie like a rug!” He laughed, snorting out smoke. “It’s because of your birthday, isn’t it?”
“And the fact that you’re still alone.”
“BINGO!” He laughed again, pausing to take another drag. “You really are a rotten liar.”
The radio crackled. “72-05.”
“72-05.” Clark responded.
“A robbery in progress, 3117 Wentworth Boulevard. Repeat, robbery in progress.”
“10-4. ETA 2 minutes. Send a backup unit.”
I was already pressing the accelerator to the floor as Clark threw on the siren and lights. He checked the computer for additional information. “Says it’s one guy with a weapon. Cashier and one poker oyna customer still inside.”
“Shit.” Hostage situation. I hate them. Innocent civilians break my heart when they’re caught in the line of fire.
Clark killed the siren and lights as we approached the convenience store. Bright red letters announced “Peppy Mart – Your Last Stop” and I shook my head at that. I certainly hoped that it wasn’t. I pulled the Ford up to the side, doused the lights and jumped out, pulling my revolver out of the kid lamb holster. Clark moved up behind me, his blued revolver in hand. We maneuvered our way to the front double glass doors and peeked in.
The cashier, a young girl in a smock, was pressed against the cigarette rack, her hands in the air. She stole a quick glance at us, then returned her vision to something hidden behind a metal rack of snacks. I moved out to the side and could just make out an arm, clad in denim and holding a large automatic. It took a few tense moments, but the perp finally moved into view and my heart both skipped a beat and sank at the same time.
The perp was a tall white guy, hippie-haired and evidently in need of cigarettes. He was ordering the cashier to load a plastic bag full of cartons and she kept going, visually upset. Just then, the perp caught the cashier’s furtive look and turned toward us. In his arms was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
He was well-built as evidenced by his muscular arms and the way he filled out his ripped jeans. As I raised my weapon, I couldn’t help but gaze into the hostage’s sea-green eyes, fringed by tousled blond-brown hair, wishing that I could run my fingers through those soft curls and press my mouth against his trembling lips. Clark’s voice cut into my reverie.
“Let the hostage go and put your gun down!”
I inched the door open on my side, drawing the perp’s attention as he swung his weapon back and forth between us but my eyes were drawn to the hostage. I felt my groin tighten as my eyes traveled over his smooth skin, wondering how it would feel under my rough fingertips.
“Please,” I looked away from the tears boiling over in his eyes. “Save me.”
“Shut up, faggot!” The perp screamed. In one second, all hell broke loose. The perp cracked the hostage on the head with the butt of the gun, then turned towards me. My partner was faster, his gun bucking in his fist as a bullet drilled through the perp’s shoulder. My bullet crashed through his hand and the gun went flying. I kicked it clear and flipped the groaning perp over and away from the unconscious hostage.
“We’re clear, partner!”
It was only a matter of moments before our back up arrived, along with the ambulance that Clark had called for. The cashier was in the corner in tears and the perp was screaming in pain as the attendants wheeled him off. Another attendant was kneeling by the hostage, dabbing at a cut in the back of his head, while another took his vitals. My heart took another leap as I saw that he was awake. Those beautiful eyes connected with mine.
I couldn’t think the rest of the night. When the shift ended, I dashed home and could barely contain myself, my hand massaging my growing bulge as I thought about that guy’s beautiful eyes. In my living room, I ripped my shirt open, kicked off my shoes and shed my pants, freeing my straining tool. All eight inches sprang out, slapping my stomach and I quickly sat down, assuming my favorite position: right hand on my dick, my left hand working a thick finger into my asshole.
I groaned as my finger sank deep past the ring and I spit on my hand, wrapping my fingers around my thick cock, beginning to stroke. Tingles burst through my body, canlı poker oyna radiating outward from my balls and asshole to my thighs and I gasped at the sensation. Ah, yes, so good. I imagined him kneeling between my legs, his lips stretching as he took the slick helmet of my meat into his mouth, tongue gliding over my heated skin. I groaned again, my cock flexing between my fingertips. God, I want him!
I polished the head with some pre-cum and stroked again and again, sighing at the pleasure that skipped up and down my spine. In my mind’s eye, I slid over his body, his sock-shod feet dangling over my shoulders as I pushed my hard dick into his pink pucker. I saw his eyes close, his body trembling in pleasure, his hands caressing my arms, urging me to continue. Then, our bodies moving together, those eyes locked onto mine, climbing the mountain of desire, aching and panting toward the summit, cresting the peak and cumming together, my spunk in his glorious ass and his covering our stomachs. Oh, God! Oh, God!
I exploded all over my chest, ropes of salty-sweet cum erupting from my purple-red cock and lacing into the hair on my chest. I flexed the finger in my asshole again and nearly shouted as I came and came again, my toes curling.
I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of my spent sex, wondering what I was going to do about my attraction to him and his beautiful eyes.
I couldn’t have been more irritated the next day. Not only did we have three department meetings to attend, but the Chief wanted to see us. I was attempting to finish the previous evening’s reports when his soft voice broke into my world of self-flagellation. I looked up into his eyes, noticing the hint of blue in the glare of the fluorescent lights and ordered my penis to stay asleep.
“I’m Michael Winston.” His lips were beautiful, lightly glossed and curved like a cupid’s bow. They would have been perfect on a girl, but on him, they were magnificent. For some odd reason, I found myself licking my lips as I looked at him. “I was involved in the Peppy Mart robbery last night.”
“Uh, yeah. Have a seat.”
He plopped into the leather-cushioned seat next to my desk and pulled an interior designing magazine out of his bookbag, found his bookmark and contented himself to read while I continued typing. I paused for a moment, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t believe that someone who had nearly been killed last night was calm enough to read a magazine while waiting to talk to a cop about it.
“Sorry. I have to finish this.” I couldn’t believe that I was apologizing but he was just too beautiful. “Give me a few minutes, okay?”
“Sure. No problem.”
:: Michael ::
When I awoke this morning, I had secretly hoped that last night’s events were just a dream, except for the cop. Unfortunately, I was wrong. My head pounded like an anvil and my eyes throbbed in their sockets. I was grateful that I owned my own business and could afford to close the shop for a day. I wouldn’t have been able to work anyway because all I could think about was this cop from last night.
GOD, WAS HE HOT!!!!
He had rescued me and I was grateful, but I thought I felt something more when he pressed his business card into my palm and our fingers touched. The horny part of me saw only his sexy, dark eyes, the size of his hands and the bulge of his crotch that he tried to hide, once I was safe. But the larger part of me, the soft and romantic side, saw the pain in his eyes. I knew at once what type of guy he was. He would accept a fuck, but wouldn’t want to kiss. He was an unemotional prostitute, looking to get his rocks off internet casino without a connection.
Nothing that I was vaguely interested in getting involved with.
But something happened. When I sat down at his desk, I made the mistake of looking into his eyes again. And regardless of my previous analysis, I knew that this was deeper than what I saw on the outside. I saw the way he looked at me and I saw him struggling with himself. I saw that he wanted to change and was looking for a lifeline. And I was suddenly determined not to help him in any way. I wanted him to figure out what his own problems were. I saw potential but I was damned if I was gonna help him figure it out.
Now, I love Martha Stewart. I have to say it. I LOVE MARTHA! I pulled out one of her Weddings magazines when I sat down and he shot me an evil glare, but I, of course, ignored him. It was the July issue and I was in desperate need of some Fourth of July ideas. While I was waiting, Manhattan clam chowder, grilled pork tenderloin and blueberry tarts swam before my eyes, forming my red, white and blue celebration. Mmmm, yummy! Now, if I could only have this guy covered with sugared strawberries and whipped cream.
“Thanks for waiting. You ready?”
I waited until he looked up at me, indicating that his computer was ready. “Let’s start with your name first.”
“2960 Windsor Lake.”
I felt a little cheeky. “Old enough.” He looked up at me, half-smiling. “All right. I’m 25.”
“25? And you own your own business?”
I saw a new appreciation of me spring up in his eyes and I decided to turn on a little charm. I found out that his name was Robert Munroe, known as Robby and had been a cop for nearly 17 years. He wouldn’t tell me his age but I guessed that he was in his late thirties. He wasn’t a native and he hadn’t been married and that seemed to be all that he was willing to share while interrogating me. From time to time, I would see a real person emerge from behind the officer blues, a far different individual that wanted to be conquered, but he would always disappear. I changed my mind.
“Are you busy later?” He just glared at me. Maybe I’d made a mistake. “That’s okay. Never mind.”
He lowered his eyes and continued to type the report. “I have to work.”
I was so astonished to hear the words that I sat stunned. “Oh. Okay.”
He kept typing for another moment, then looked up at me. “But I could have breakfast when the shift ends.”
We stared at each other for what seemed to be a long time. Then, a big black guy sat down at the adjoining desk, glanced at him, then turned to me. “Clark Bristow.” He shook my hand. “You’re from the Peppy Mart, right?”
“We’re just finishing up the report.” Office Munroe stammered. I sensed that something else was going on between these two. Maybe they were a couple …
I shook my head at Officer Bristow. “No, sir.” He proceeded to show me the pictures of his beautiful wife and children. I suddenly noticed that Officer Munroe’s desk had no pictures, no personal items. Was that a sign? “They’re lovely, sir.”
Bristow laughed. “Yeah, and they’re a goddamned pain in the ass!” I noticed that Munroe cracked a smile at that. So, the connection’s not sexual.
“Sign here.” I picked up the sheaf of papers that he had presented to me and grabbed the pen he offered. A warning bell suddenly clanged in my head. I couldn’t sign this paper. The saliva in my mouth dried up, my brain kicking into overdrive.
You see, I don’t exist.
“I can’t sign this.” Munroe and his partner looked up at me.
“What the hell did you say?”
“I – I’m sorry.”
I grabbed my pack and Martha and I went sailing out of the police station, the demons of my past hard on my heels.