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Clint woke up—in his own bed—with the feeling of pressure in his head and across his chest. And then he realized he was awake because there was pressure down further too. His cock was being fisted and slowly worked. The pressure on his chest went away when he realized it was a chocolate-brown, brawny arm that was weighing him down. He pushed it off him with a mutter of “Oh fuck.” The pressure in his head, he knew, wasn’t going to start going away until he got to the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. The fisting of his cock he tolerated until he got his bearings better. He was rather enjoying that particular pressure. He turned his head. The beefy black guy in bed beside him had his eyes open and turned toward him. They had a questioning look in them. Clint didn’t have any difficulty deciding what the guy wanted.
Clint didn’t have the foggiest notion who this guy was. He could guess, though, what he had been doing in his bed, although fuck knew how he’d gotten there.
“Has anyone ever told you you look like—?”
“Oh, fuck fuck,” Clint growled, not letting that sentence finish. He rolled away from the black guy and stumbled out of bed and to his bathroom. Sun was streaming through the gauzy curtains of his bedroom window and he could hear the street noise coming up from below the window. He’d lived better than this when he’d been with Brad and he could live better than this now if he wanted to—he was a regular million-dollar-baby. But going back to the way he’d been living before he’d won, and then lost, Brad was part of his punishment of himself for being alive when so many others, including Brad, were dead. So, what he had here was a main living room with kitchen L on the third floor above a neighborhood grocery closet and a bedroom small enough that it only took him three steps to reach his bathroom.
Once in the bathroom and having turned the lock on the door, he took a quick piss, flipped the top off a Listerine bottle, poured a slug into a glass, and swished it around in his mouth to try to get rid of the sour taste. The he leaned over the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. How the black guy out there could come up with him looking like any kind of movie star in this condition was beyond Clint. He did sort of like the swarthy look of the day’s growth of beard, though, and thought maybe he’d keep that for a while. It would be classier if it was darker, of course, but he was cursed with being a natural California blond.
He reached for the bottle of Tylenol—what had he been doing that had him hung over like this?—and then reached over and turned on the shower to let the water heat up while he brushed his teeth in another effort to get rid of whatever that taste was in his mouth. It was a slightly musky taste, and that told him maybe he didn’t want to dwell on what he’d been swilling around in there.
The door rattled and there was a knock on the door.
“You takin’ a shower in there?”
“That or someone turned on Niagara Falls,” Clint called through the door.
“You let me in and I’ll shower with you. Show you more of what I can do inside you.”
“I’ll bet. I’ll just be a minute. Meantime maybe you can find the front door.”
“Ah, come on man. You were hot for it earlier. God, you were a good fuck. And, come on, let me in. I gotta take a piss.”
“I’ll be just a minute.” Clint groaned. He wondered how many times they’d done it without him remembering any of it. The guy was a chunk; he didn’t mind doing it with him. He just would have liked to have been there for it.
And he wasn’t much more than a minute. As he came out of the door, holding a towel around his waist, the black guy, standing a good foot taller than Clint and a whole lot beefier, grabbed for the towel and whipped it off the smaller man. He pulled Clint close with one arm around his waist and reached for Clint’s cock and held both Clint’s and his together in his fist.
“Shit, you have a body to die for,” the black guy muttered. “Come on into the shower.”
“I’ve just showered and you said you needed to piss,” Clint answered, but he gave no resistance when he was pulled into the shower, the water was turned on, and he was pushed up against the back wall, facing the black hulk, with the guy pressed against him.
“I’m gonna be good to you again,” the black guy growled as he palmed and spread Clint’s buttocks; raised Clint’s feet off the wet floor tiles, sliding Clint’s back up the soapy tiles of the back wall; and settled Clint’s channel on his cock. The cock was as beefy as the rest of him, and yet he slid right up into Clint as if he’d already reamed the space he needed. And, of course he had.
Good to me again, Clint thought as he sucked in his breath, lost now to the possessing cock as he always was when one slid inside him, especially when it was this thick. Wonder how many times he’s already been good to me? And I don’t even know who the fuck he is and what he’s doing here.
He did, though, know what the black guy was doing here right at the moment. And poker oyna he was doing it very well. Clint hooked his ankles around the small of the black guy’s back, took the guy’s head in his hands, and pressed their foreheads together, his not throbbing as much now as when he got out of the bed, thanks both to the Tylenol and the attention his body had transferred to his channel. Resigned to what came next, he established and maintained eye contact with his master. That’s want Clint wanted when he got into this position—to be mastered.
“Oh, shit, yes. Fuck, fuck. Deep in. Oh, fuck, yessss.”
The eye contact told Clint the guy was really, really enjoying being inside him. This was about as good as it got. The pumping stopped and the guy was trembling slightly. So was Clint. Then a long slide out. And in. And out. Clint began to pant.
“Now, dammit,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Got chu now. You’re all mine now,” the black dude growled, slammed deep, and jerked twice as he filled up the head of his condom.
Clint started to lower his legs, but the black dude growled, “No, don’t. Jus’ gimme a minute or two. I do doubles.”
“Oh, God,” Clint whispered.
Afterward Clint left the guy finishing his own shower and went into the bedroom. He picked his towel up from the floor, dried himself off, and then pulled on fresh briefs from a bureau drawer and a pair of jeans. As he pulled on the jeans he looked down at the floor next to the bed and saw the three spent condoms, thick as slugs from the wad of cum inside them. God, he hadn’t remembered that. If those fucks had been anything like what the guy had done in the shower . . . Why couldn’t he remember? He shook his head, zipped up the jeans, and padded out to the living area.
Guess he’ll expect a breakfast for his efforts, Clint thought as he moved into the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator. Not knowing what they’d done earlier, he’d been prepared to send the guy on his way—in fact, he’d already tried that. But after knowing now what the guy could do, the dude at least deserved breakfast.
He took a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator, extracted three, put them in a bowl, and returned the carton to the shelf. He scrounged around in the refrigerator and came up with some cheese and butter, a carton of milk, and mushroom slices. He’d make them an omelet. He was going over in his mind how to get that done as he started the coffee going.
Swinging up from under the counter with a frying pan, his attention was arrested by the black guy standing in the bedroom door, leaning up against the door frame—posing for him, naked and smiling knowingly. Knowing he was hung and cut and knowing that he had fucked Clint thoroughly, putting some meaning behind that “You’re all mine now” comment. Declaring with the open ease of his stance that he had marked territory.
Clint took one look at what was swinging between the guy’s legs and remembered how hard and long the guy had taken him in the shower, the second time harder than the first, the two of them moving against each other just like long-time lovers. They had wound up sideways in the stall, with Clint’s feet leverage off the glass shower stall sliding door and the two pounding against each other to get the black guy as deep inside him as possible in a rapid-fire pumping. And Clint had been impressed at how the guy’s muscles bulged in the effort and how much grunting he could do in the process. Near the end, Clint had just collapsed in ejaculation and exhaustion, and the black guy had turned him on his cock, Clint held in front of him like a loose rag doll, his feet and arms dangling, and the black guy had finished him by gripping his waist and slamming him back and forth on his cock. Clint begging for mercy but not wanting any; both of them knowing he didn’t.
Three eggs wouldn’t do for that performance. He opened the refrigerator again and took out two more. Then he began breaking them against the side of the bowl and letting the contents slip into the bowl while butter sizzled in the frying pan.
“Fixin’ somethin’ to eat?”
Were all of this guy’s brains in his balls? This was the second dumb question he’d asked, and the guy was the silent type. He hadn’t said much else other than that. But he cocked so well, Clint would be forgiving.
“Breakfast. I figured we both could use that before we both shoved off—in our separate directions.” The guy was good. Well, better than good. But he wasn’t anything permanent. Clint wasn’t taking any of this “You’re mine now” crap.
“Breakfast? It’s three in the afternoon. But, yeah, I could use some grub. After that, it’s back in the bedroom. I haven’t finished balling you good yet. You’re one of the best pieces I’ve ever had.”
“Three in the afternoon?” Clint asked, shocked. The sun had been shining, but it came up early this time of year. “What happened to the morning? And why are you even here?”
“I’m here because you wanted to be fucked. Couldn’t get enough of me. Blew me as soon as you got canlı poker oyna in the truck and then begged me to ball you. Didn’t have any rubbers on me, so you said we should come here.”
“I . . . I don’t remember any of that.”
“Maybe not—at least fully. You acted like you were on drugs. But you sure remember my cock, I’ll bet.”
Yeah, Clint did, but only as long ago as the shower. The drugs reference rang a bell, though. He’d been in the back of the limo with the Sicilian guy and his driver. And they’d been using poppers on him while they worked him over good, wanting him to be awake for it.
“Where was this you picked me up?”
“Out on Long Island, next to a cemetery. You were stumbling down the road, just in briefs, with the rest of your clothes under your arm. Don’t you remember this?”
“Vaguely. It’s coming back. And you stopped for me?”
“Yeah, and you wanted to give a blow job right off. And then you wanted to be fucked, but you kept saying you wanted me to take you home because we needed rubbers. Good thing we did; I don’t carry around enough to satisfy you. Listen. You ain’t gonna say you didn’t want to do this, are you? You ain’t sayin’ you don’t want me to take you back into the bedroom and stuff you good after we eat?”
“It’s three in the afternoon. I’ve got to get to work. You’ve probably got to get to work too.” Then Clint remembered that he’d been told to take the whole day off because they’d worked through the night looking for the body that had been found in the New Jersey landfill.
“Yeah, yeah, I want you to fuck me again after we eat. But then I’ve got to get to work.”
“To work after a couple of hours?—’cause if I get to start fuckin’ you again, it ain’t gonna be in cut time—and I like to do doubles. What kinda work do you do?”
“I’m a cop. A homicide cop.”
If a black guy could blanch, this one did. But Clint didn’t see him do it. He was working on getting the omelet set and not burned. When he looked up the guy had already returned to the bedroom, quickly pulled on his jeans, black athletic T, and sneakers, and then, in a silent flash, the door from the living room to the outside hall was hanging open.
Seeing that he was alone, Clint looked down at the five-egg omelet and wondered how he was going to eat all of that himself.
“Shit, he never even gave me a name.” And then he thought, because he couldn’t bear to say it out loud. I’m such a slut. I blew him and he fucked me who knows how many times and I don’t even know who he is. And, fuck, I’m already mad that he’s not going to fuck me again after I eat this—or at least try to eat all of this.
* * * *
“Thought you were sleeping this day out.”
The first one—practically the only one—Clint saw when he walked into the squad room was Danny Thompson, his most-of-the-time partner and his off-and-on-again lover. Danny was black and a big bruiser, and it wasn’t until Clint walked into the squad room that he realized that it had been Danny he’d been associating the black guy in his apartment this morning with. If anyone alive could be said to have marked his territory with Clint, it was Danny. Pairing the black guy in his apartment with Danny, who he closely resembled, had probably been why Clint hadn’t been set off by finding a man in his bed when he woke up.
That thought gave Clint some comfort. He’d been berating himself all the time he was eating that five-egg omelet that he’d gotten so loose he’d bring a man home with him even when he was semiconscious. He was familiar enough with murder cases in the gay community to know that this wasn’t safe behavior.
The squad lieutenant, Burton Kahn, was in his office too. But then, Kahn always seemed to be on duty. Danny had been returning from a vacation out of town the previous day, so he hadn’t been out on the street all night like the rest of them were. So he was at work, while most of the rest from the Special Homicide Unit were off catching up on their sleep. That’s what the police squad Clint worked for was called—the Special Homicide Unit. But he was in even a smaller squad of that. The special unit combined Vice cops with Homicide cops because so much of the crime in New York city was sex-based. But Clint and Danny’s little unit was more specialized than that. They were assigned to gay male homicides. And to help in the investigations of these—to let the cops go where they needed to go and do what they sometimes needed to do to get the bad guy—all of the guys except for the lieutenant, Burton Kahn, were gay themselves.
Danny and Clint had been lovers for some time, starting shortly after Clint had been assigned to the unit. Danny was the forceful kind. Already knowing Clint was gay and a bottom, he just cornered Clint one day in a room in the tombs and fucked the wadding out of him. Like the guy from earlier today, he’d made it clear he was marking his territory with Clint, making sure all of the other guys in the squad knew that he had. Clint liked it that way, so they’d melded, and internet casino the other guys had kept away, some more willingly than others. They’d even commandeered that room in the tombs so that Danny could conveniently relieve Clint’s need for sex.
But then along came Brad Roberts from Vice in a combined operation, and Clint was hooked. Brad was handsome and all finesse. He too showed Clint who was boss from the beginning, meeting him in a club in Chelsea, paying the cover, ordering the drinks, and, after paying the tab, just telling Clint they would go back to his place, where he fucked Clint three ways from Sunday on his queen-sized bed, on the thirty-fourth floor in front of a full-wall glass window with a panoramic view of the city.
It turned out that Brad—secretly—was as rich as Clint was, also secretly. The difference being that Brad had great taste and style and knew how to spend his money. Brad was well trained in the martial arts, and he taught so many things to Clint in the short time they were lovers, quite a few of them sexual positions in which Clint was powerless to Brad’s invasion. He knew what to do with Clint even better than Danny did.
Clint moved in with Brad, but they were looking for another place they both would consider they’d picked when, during a combined operation trying to trap a gay mobster with murderous appetites, Brad had become a victim. Clint followed the mobster to Europe, relentlessly pursuing him until Brad’s death was revenged. But Clint needed more than revenge to assuage the guilt of having lost Brad and having, he thought, permitted him to be lost.
Danny, who had not given Clint up to Brad quietly or willingly, swept back into Clint’s life. Wounded and scarred, Clint hadn’t given up full control to Danny the second time as he had the first, so their relationship was a bit rocky now. Strangely, it was at its best when Danny sensed Clint was antsy in his sex life and just hunted him down like a warrior and a stag, jumped his bones, and rode him to the ground with his cock.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Clint said to Danny. “And we’ve got this case. It was knocked out for a day by the call to search for that witness’ body found in Jersey. With a serial like this, a day goes by without work and it could be another life.”
“Couldn’t sleep? You need some? You want to go down to the tombs? Or we could go to the break room. No one much is here.” Danny was giving Clint, sitting across from him, the backs of their desks pushed together, an intense look. The “some” he was referring to was a fucking, and Clint understood it to be. Danny knew that Clint was a satyriasist, a guy who needed sex almost constantly, and Danny was more than happy to oblige.
“No, I just need to get into some work.”
Danny gave him an even closer stare. If Clint was out canvassing the city over the previous day and a half, he would have been a day and a half without getting any. So who had given it to him in the meantime? Clint looked entirely too calm and sleek now not to have been screwed in the last day—and screwed good too. “I called you last night. No one answered.”
“When I want sleep I plug in earphones,” Clint answered, “listen to waves crashing on the shore. The neighborhood I moved into is too noisy at night without the earphones.” He was looking down at papers he was shuffling around on his desk.
Danny didn’t like it. If there was a scale for jealousy and possessiveness going up to ten, Danny was like a twelve or thirteen.
“Cruising. You been—?”
“Anything breaking on the Santora case?” Clint broke in.
Danny paused. Clint was being assertive today. So, yeah, he’d been screwed good in the last few hours. But he’d drop that in another couple of hours. Another couple of hours and Danny would be begged to do him. Danny could wait.
“Autopsy should be done. I was just about ready to go to the morgue. You wanna come along.”
“Yeah, of course,” Clint said, standing up from his desk again.
Dix Santora was a blond stockbroker last seen alive in the Splash bar on 17th Street in Chelsea. The next time he was seen was between two sea containers on the docks below Christopher Street. He’d been beaten to death. He was the third guy found like this in the last five months. It looked like a serial killing case, but there was an irregular length of times between killings, which was a bit odd for a gay male serial. All three were good-looking blonds in their early thirties cruising gay bars for tops. And witnesses were indicating that all three of them liked it a little rough. All three of them certainly had gotten what they got more than a little rough. The first two had been last seen in Christopher Street bars and had had sex before they died. But their bodies had been washed and no fingerprints or DNA had been found. The first two had been beaten badly and the witness hadn’t, but the cause of death of all was asphyxiation, possibly by a plastic bag held over their heads while they were being choked. The autopsy on Dix Santora would be determining whether he’d had sex too. The speculation was that perhaps circumstances surrounding the death accounted for why the witness wasn’t also beaten; maybe for some reason there hadn’t been time for the full routine.
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