I woke up in pleasure. I was on my side on my bed, strong arms encasing me from behind, and a thick thigh between my legs. A hand was stroking my cock, and I felt the cock of another inside me, sunk shallow, its knob rubbing back and forth on my prostate.
This was nice--nice to be taken so languidly after the night of domination, control, and rough sex. That had been nice too, mind you. But this was a very nice way to wake up.
Although, as I rose more and more out of sleep and into a realm of want being satisfied, the more and more I realized that it wasn't like last night. No feel of the leather of boots on the heels of my feet as I stroked them to the beat of the fuck. And I felt wider open--of necessity--than last night. And a different feel of the cock inside me. Dave had a thick cock ring. I wasn't feeling that.
"Gordon," I murmured as I turned my head toward the man holding me from behind and saw who it was.
"Yes, of course. Not who you expected?" It sounded like a challenge, and his embrace tightened. He had an arm around my throat and, although I could breath, I was on the edge of that being a problem.
Memories of Gordon with my father began to filter into my brain, remembrances that hadn't surfaced in years. I remember my father almost being afraid of Gordon, and some fights they had--both verbal and in ugly looks and tense silences--when Gordon found my father with other men. When I'd last been with Gordon in Key West, I hadn't sensed any of that--hadn't remembered how he once had seemed to me.
"Gordon," I whispered. Using the crook of his arm, he turned my face to his and we went into a kiss. He was moving deeper inside me, and pistoning harder, faster. I broke the kiss. "Gordon! God, Gordon. Oh, Fucccckkkk!"
He pushed me over onto my belly and he was saddled on my hips. His hands were around my throat, and he was riding me deep and hard--and long and thick, Trojan Magnum big.
* * * *
When I left the ranch that morning--later than I'd planned--I saw that Dave's truck was still there, parked next to the stables. The pinto was in the training arena, prancing around and whinnying and jerking his mane about.
"Feeling frisky this morning?" I asked him in passing the corral on my way into the stables. I looked around, but Dave wasn't there--at least as far as I could tell. And he didn't answer my call for him. I didn't spend long in looking for him, though, because I already was late getting into police headquarters.
I had wanted to see him, if only for a moment. He'd been right last night. I had wanted it rough. I'd wanted to be controlled and dominated--and punished. I wanted to tell him he'd given me what I wanted.
Danny was there, at his desk when I reached the station. It was almost noon. The L.A. traffic hadn't helped a bit that morning.
"Gotten your beauty sleep again?" he asked.
"The jet lag. It finally caught with me."
"I'll bet. Didn't you say that actor you used to fuck is renting your ranch?"
"Yes. He's pretty busy working on a movie over at MGM, though."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
I drew his attention over to the desk near the door, where the squad clerk sat. It was, as I expected, unattended today. "Your Sandy didn't make it in today, I see."
"Yeah, he called in sore and bowlegged." Danny laughed at his own joke.
"Thought you'd been told about that back in New York, Danny. Fucking with the other detectives is one thing, but screwing the clerks gums up the works, holds up progress."
"You forget that Sharenda was a precinct clerk."
"No, I haven't forgotten that at all," I answered, giving Danny a level stare.
"Sandy manages," he came back, quickly backtracking on the discussion.
"I can see how well he's managing today. So this isn't a new thing with him?"
"Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. For a couple of months. He doesn't usually take it so hard. That's your fault, of course. It was supposed to be you."
Again, I didn't feel bad about dropping in between Danny and Sharenda now. Danny was already well off the reservation.
"Anything to report?" I asked. "I'm going up to Ventura now, to see Tilton. But it would be good to have something solid to go on when I talk to him. Anything on Dix, Gustav, or Gene?"
"Nothing on Dix or Gustav. It's like Dix fell off the earth yesterday--and Gustav did back about the time your parents died. Your parents' financial manager was a help. Gustav Gunnerson did get some paychecks from your dad back then--according to Holifield Tasker, he was recommended for employment to your father by the actor, Gordon Fields. In checking, we found Gustav did have a minor rap sheet--but there's no indication in the financial manager's files that this was revealed to your father. But the records on him just stop--around the time of your parents' death. Suddenly there was nothing on him at all; he just melted away. Better luck on the guy named Gene. You won't believe what he's doing now."
"His last name's Shelton--he goes by the first name Eugene now. He's been a high school principal after being a football coach. Then his connections got him on some corporate boards and he mostly cashed checks for doing nothing for a while. Now he's the mayor of a burg named Hemet--downstate, beyond your ranch. A wife and four kids."
I had to admit that this surprised me. He'd been all sorts of willing to earn a movie role the "service" way twenty years ago--and, as I remember from watching him do Robert, he was a great and interesting fuck. Of course in those days, the early days of my sexual liberation, any of the studs my father brought to the ranch were a good cocker in my book.
"Maybe I'll hit him tomorrow. Not give him any warning. Maybe you can get the local police down there to make sure we know how to find him."
"So, you want me to go with you?"
"Not unless you've found the other two by then. I think I can handle him. Sounds like he's tamed down now."
"You want me to go out to Tilton's with you this afternoon? Should we check to see if he's there?"
"I've already called and he's there and expecting me this afternoon. And, no, Danny, I think I should do this one alone."
I didn't want to tell Danny, but of all the men who had taken me back then, Tilton was the one I remembered the most--the one who got the most out of me, took me to the highest passions. I couldn't tell Danny, but I wouldn't mind another taste of that. Dave had been right last night. I was in the mood for rough. But Tilton hadn't been just rough. He'd been nasty. He'd given me a taste for the nasty in the process--he'd set me up for life for wanting that sometimes.
"You think Tilton could be our guy?"
"It's quite possible," I answered. And I had to be honest about that. "He had a lot to hide, and my parents were at his house before they died--we now know that. And he had motive. My father was loaded for bear when he saw what Tilton had done to me. And he thought Tilton had been my first. I never told him that Klein and Fields had been there before Tilton. Among a few others."
"God, you were a slut," Danny said. But he laughed.
"You object to that?"
"Not in the slightest. But you say he roughed you up?"
"Worse than that. He filmed us together and, I think, made sure my father saw the film. He was into filming himself with young guys then and selling the films to a special clientele. I think my father was more upset that I'd be seen on film under Tilton than that Tilton had fucked me. Of course, he left me bruised and almost incoherent, so my father's parental instincts might have belatedly clicked in because of that. Not much Tilton's fault though. I went to him and begged for it."
"Let's go to the motel before you go up to Ventura," Danny said. His voice was husky, and I could see the lust in his eyes.
"Can't," I replied. "The trip will take all afternoon as it is. I want time with you the next time we fuck."
"Bastard. Tease," Danny muttered through clinched teeth.
"Yeah, but you like it like that. Put you in the mood for Sandy, didn't it? And I bet Sandy is still yodeling over the encounter."
"You coming back here after visiting Tilton."
"If it's not too late, I'll be here. Maybe I'll have a lead on Dix and Gustav by then from what I can get out of Tilton."
* * * *
I couldn't help myself. On the way up the Route 1 Pacific highway to Ventura, I stopped at the location where my parents' Bentley, coming the other way, had gone off the road, over the rail, and into the rocks below in the ocean's surf. It was right at what was both a particularly nasty curve and one of the most scenic sections of the roads. I'm sure my parents would have enjoyed the drama of it all--the perfect ending or beginning of one of their motion pictures--if they'd been around to enjoy the movie's premier.
Each time I'd come out to the coast--including when I came out for their funeral--I'd come to this spot. It was easier to find now than in the intervening years. I first found it because the railing was obviously missing and the site was covered with wreaths. The public had eaten the story up. My parents would have enjoyed this too. In subsequent years, the railing was replaced, and many of the fans forgot. But not all of them. This being California, the home of the film colony, there now was a stone pillar at the side of the road where they'd gone over, with a bronze plaque on top of it, engraved with their names and the circumstances of their lives and deaths--or at least the Hollywood version of that. I, naturally, wasn't mentioned on the plaque.
It was funny--funny peculiar, not funny ha, ha--that when I came here, I felt closer to them than I ever had when they were alive. And, still, I could not put out of my mind that they might had died here because of me--that perhaps my name should have been on that plaque in explanation for their tragic end. My explosive, rocky thrust into sexuality and caused them to actually acknowledge that I existed--and they blamed each other for not having produced the perfect son, having spawned someone too much like each of them. Perhaps that was the real mystery I was trying to solve here. Not that they died or whether it was murder rather than an accident or suicide-murder, but why it had happened. And, the biggie, whether it was because of me.
I was happy with the accident explanation--if they had to go that way at all. Being drunk was an occupational hazard in the film colony. Even being on drugs, although I don't think they were into that. Their lives came somewhat before the height of the drug scene in the movie colonies. An accident would be tragic, yes, but it would be noble in movieland terms. And there would have been no motive, no deeper reason, behind it than that they couldn't gauge how much liquor made them dysfunctional on a particularly treacherous road.
But suicide and/or murder? I couldn't buy into there being anything between the two that would have lifted one or both of them to the heights of anger or passion that would have become suicidal or murderous. They both loved life--and themselves--too much. I had found out for myself that they were leading separate lives and each with a sex life that no longer included each other--or even the gender of the other. They couldn't have been jealous about the sex life of each other. They both knew what the other was doing--and who they were doing it with--and they so obviously didn't care.
Reflecting on the challenge Magda Nadar said my father flung at Gordon on that fateful day--to go with my mother's lover, Magda--made me smile a bit. It was the ultimate insult. For all four of them: Gordon, Magda, my father--and even my mother.
I could see where Magda Nadar would be upset--even murderously so--with my mother if Penny Lane had entered the picture. If my mother sloughed off Magda, Magda would have sunk far down the pyramid of status in Hollywood. But Magda never had seemed the kind who could have organized a garden party, let alone a murder. She always was crazier than a loon; this wasn't something that had set in with her seventies. But my father most certainly wouldn't care. Nor would my mother care who was fucking my father or being fucked by him.
Except where it concerned me. My mother had certainly been angry enough to discover my father and me in each other's arms, close to being "in the act." And my father had begun to show anger that the men of his circle were buzzing around me, just waiting for their opportunity--or, in Charles Tilton's case, not waiting.
So, if this was a purposeful act by either of my parents, it was, I had to believe, because of me. This was what I'd always tried to put out of my mind--why I preferred to think it was just an accident.
But now the possibility had arisen that it was murder--and for a reason entirely unrelated to me. This I had to try to run to ground.
As I stood there, I supposed I should be trying to find out Penny Lane's connection to all of this, but, Magda Nadar's vindictiveness aside, I couldn't believe that my mother was the angle I should pursue in this. I was even more convinced this was the case because of the crude attempt--albeit successful--to depict her as the driver of the car when it went over the edge. Whoever had orchestrated this hadn't been paying the least bit of attention to my mother not to have known she couldn't drive a car. It was certainly a mistake Magda wouldn't commit. So, in my mind, I marked Magda off of the suspect list--despite the bitterness against my mother and distaste for my father that she hadn't bothered to hide. Not bothering to hide it was yet another indication she hadn't committed the crime.
As always, I left the scene of my parents' death with more feelings of guilt and uncertainty than when I had come there. I drove the rest of the way to Charles Tilton's beach house in Ventura with a heavy feeling of the morose and in dredging up that sexual encounter I'd had with Tilton there--seeking him out, wanting what he had graphically described he wanted to do to me in whisperings in my ear while trapping me against the side of the pool house at my parents' ranch and feeling me up. Not letting me come then, but bringing me to the brink and promising that I would melt to what he could give me. Which I eventually did--which I sought out myself. The remembrance of it flooded in.
The kiters were out, flying their fancy-structured, many-colored kites along the beach, taking advantage of and using the breezes coming off the water to make their kites dance high in the air. They looked so free and elegant. I loved watching them. I wanted to be free like that--to dance on the breeze like that. One of the kites went off balance and careened down to the sand up the coast from the house. My eyes followed the line of descent.
I never saw the kite hit the ground, though, because I first saw him. Leaning against his car on the road above the sand dunes, dressed just in shorts, loafers, and sunglasses. Just standing there, looking at me.
He didn't gesture. He didn't have to now. The isolation had been too much for me. I descended the deck steps and started to walk toward him--and then run.
He stopped the car ten miles up the coast toward Ventura on the Pacific Coast highway, turning away from the beach into an isolated picnic area, deserted on this weekday. He parked the car as far inland as possible, the trunk pointed away from the ocean. He roughly pulled me out of the front seat of the car and around to the trunk and slammed me down on my back on the trunk and jerked my shorts down.
He fucked me hard and long and deep there, each thrust moving my bare back on the sun-baked surface of the trunk. Seven, eight, nine deep strokes. He didn't stop. He kept pumping. I had held my breath until he reached eight strokes, afraid he'd tease me again and pull out. But he didn't. He kept on fucking. And my spirit flew up into the air and floated like a kite on the beach. He lowered his teeth to my nipples and punished me. I gasped and groaned and moaned and loved every deep stroke of it.
I came fairly quickly. He didn't.
The door to his house was open when I pulled into the tight parking apron between it and the Pacific highway. "Follow the sounds you know so well," the note pinned to it said.
And indeed, I could hear the sounds--the sounds of a young man being taken. Maybe for the first time, as plaintive as the sounds were--as familiar as they were to me when I'd first come to this house.
I knew where to go. I knew where the steps were down to his basement. I had been down those steps before. It had been more than twenty years, but I had relived that journey on those steps--the anticipation of going down; the pained but fully satisfied feeling of coming back up. The exhilaration of thinking I'd experienced it all now--and that I wanted more of it.
The room below was much as I remembered it. Black, padded walls. Well insulated, because the houses here were set close together, beachfront being at a premium. It wouldn't do for Charles's neighbors to know what happened between these walls. But of course they knew. Black ceiling and floor. The various equipment of bondage located around the room also black. Whips, canes, chains, and harnesses hanging on the walls. Stage lighting and video cameras around on the walls also at various levels, capable of being redirected to whatever equipment Tilton wanted to use at the time. And the various machines and apparatuses on the floor, available for whatever scheme of painful pleasure Tilton had that day.
The film I'd been in had started on a vinyl cube with restraints for wrists and ankle.
He gathered me up in his arms and carried me over to the vinyl cube and pushed me down on it on my belly. My wrists and ankles were bound to the restraints at the bottom corners, and he was behind me, hunched over me.
"You want it, boy, you got it. We begin." I was blinded by the studio lights when they flashed on, and I heard the whirring of the video cameras start. He grabbed my hair in one fist and arched me back sharply while slamming his cock deeply into my channel and making me cry out in pain, surprise, and passion.
I didn't care. I begged him not to stop--ever. And he didn't for nearly a week.
The young Hispanic man whose plaintive groans and gasps I'd heard was also bound to a vinyl wedge, but the top surface of this one was a steep incline that had his head well below his buttocks, with his arms bound to the side of the cube and his legs spread on extenders projecting from the side of the cube.
Charles Tilton, still the dark satyr, pronouncedly hairy in his nakedness, was an older version of the man who had possessed me for days in this room. But he was still achingly sexy and dangerously desirable. I still wanted him inside me.
Both of them were naked. Tilton was working the ass of the young man with a thick, black cock dildo.
"Nice to see you, Clint boy," Tilton said, looking at me sideways, but not lessening the stroking of the dildo. "You've grown into your father. I'm sure you get whatever you want from men now. You don't even have to whine for it, I'll bet, as you did for me."
"Charles, we need to talk," I said.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, ignoring what I said. "I've heard you're a cop now. But it's not worth your time and effort to get it on with me. I've been quite careful since I returned home. He's eighteen and he wants it. Tell him, if you don't want it, Felipe."
I didn't really think I needed to bother to check on that. I could tell by the sounds he was making that he wanted it. But, since Tilton brought it up, I went through the motions. "I didn't come here because of what you're doing here. But, Felipe, if you want to leave now, just make a sign. If you want to stay, you have nothing to worry about from me."
"I . . . I . . . oh shit, yesssss!"
I took that as a statement that he wanted to stay.
"See, he gives consent. Good thing, you're here. Anything come out of this, and I'll call you as a witness. I even took photos. Made him bring his birth certificate and driver's license. Photos of him sucking me and holding his certificate for all to see are right over there on that table. You can check it out yourself. Everything's legal now."
"You got busted for this sort of thing, Charles. Why did you return to it?"
"I didn't return to what I'd been imprisoned for. What I do here is all legal--and the market's so much more forgiving and accessible now. They can consent. I don't enjoy it half as much, but I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder. And I've got to make money doing something. I've been out of circulation too long, and have too big a black mark on my name, to be in motion pictures. I do make some commercials. But this is so much better at making money. What's happened with the Internet since I was sent away is phenomenal. I'm making more now than I ever did with the feature movies."
"Look at Felipe here, Clint. Isn't he about the sweetest little cunt you've ever seen? He's fresh--a virgin. Answered the invitation on my Web site. Not as sweet as you were, but fresh and new to it. And in a minute or two I'll give him his first fuck. You can stay and watch if you want. Hell, you can have at him after I'm done, if you've changed your spots."
"Charles. This isn't--"
Tilton laughed. "Didn't change your spots, did you? I could tell you were going to be exclusively a bottom--that you wanted to be worked."
"Charles, I've come to ask some questions--about something else. I can return with a couple of detectives if you'd prefer."
"OK, we can talk. No problem. But time is money, and Felipe here's being paid on the clock; I continue to film as we talk. The cameras are set on him, not on my face. And the glories of film making now, I can filter out whatever we say and we'll just hear him on the film. Does he sound familiar? You made those sounds when I fucked you too."
This was more overwhelming than I'd thought it would be. I had thought that maybe he and I . . . but this was so arousing. It was all I could do not to take myself in my hand.
"I'm here about my mother and father . . . that day, starting here."
"Ah, so you know about that, do you? Who blabbed? I bet it was that crazy Magda or the wimpy Dix. Here, could you hand me that case on the table, please."
I shuddered as I saw that he was motioning to the kit with the silver sounding rods in it. He'd used those on me too. He'd said I needed calming down--needed to fully be under his power. And then he'd fucked me while using the sounding wands. My dick clutched even now at the remembrance of them. I handed him the kit, and he placed it on a table next to where he was working.
The dildo was gone, and Tilton was starting to work his condomed dick inside the channel of the young Hispanic, who was crying out at the loss of his virginity enough so that I almost believed this, indeed, was his first time. And he was writhing against his bounds like now he wanted free. But when I repeated the offer, he didn't signal that it wasn't what he wanted. I didn't ask again. When I'd been in his place, I'd wanted to experience it all too--no matter how scared I was of it.
After Tilton explained what he was going to do with the sounding wands and how important it was for the young man to remain perfectly still--and having taken the young man's cock in one hand and carefully beginning to spin a thin silver wand into his piss slit with the other hand--the Hispanic youth went very quiet, except for his heavy breathing and stifled whimpers. Tilton's cock had bottomed in his channel, but he was holding it still--deep and still.
"Now, where were we?" Tilton asked in a low, hoarse voice. "You discovered that your parents left from my house, not Theo's on that fateful day. So, are you sniffing around on your own?"
"No, I'm afraid this is an official investigation. Andrew Dix is making deathbed confessions."
"Ah, Andrew then. Not Magda."
"She did tell me you were out of prison and living here again."
"Bitch. I didn't have anything to do with your parents' death. I must assure you of . . . you must hold very still, Felipe. This one is larger, yes."
I heard Felipe sob as the smaller wand was extracted from his urethra channel and a larger one slowly twirled inside. I also sobbed myself, and I couldn't help myself. My hand went to my crotch.
Tilton laughed, and I looked up and saw that he was looking at me. "It's OK, Clint. You can take it out and stroke it. I know what you like. And we're all adults here."
As if what he said was natural living-room chit-chat, he continued. "It's true that there was a group of us--most of the regulars--here at my house, not at Theo's. You can understand, I'm sure, why we all agreed it would be at Theo's--and why we also agreed to say that only Theo was there when they left. It was so much simpler and more elegant that way--even for your parents."
"That's what Magda said."
"Yes, she would. She was being downright ugly to your mother, and your mother was ugly back. Nothing like two harpies going at it. We probably should have implicated Magda in it. But it was so much better for everyone that it be an accident, which it probably was. Ah, yes, Clint . . . I knew you'd want to."
I felt my face blushing. I hadn't realized it, but as Tilton had replaced the wand with a larger one, and left it buried deep inside the young Hispanic's penis as he now began to slow pump the young man's channel with his cock, I had unconsciously unzipped and taken my cock out and was leaning against a table and slowly masturbating. The young man was moaning, and my eyes fixated on cum burbling up around the shaft of the wand and flowing down the sides of the young man's erect cock.
"A very nice cock that is that you have, Clint. You were blessed with it all. You've kept your beauty and your look of innocence, although I'll wager you're anything but innocent."
Thanks to you I'm not, I wanted to scream. But it would have been false of me to cast blame or to pretend that I regretted how I had chosen to enjoy life.
"You may come over here and have Felipe suck your cock while I'm fucking him, if you like. I think we'd all enjoy that."
"Fuck this, Charles." I worked on stuffing my cock back into my trousers and stood up from the table. "One question and I'll leave you to this. I didn't come out here because I thought you were involved in my parents' death."
It struck me at that moment that this was true. Danny and I had speculated on the possibility that Tilton was involved and had put him on the list of suspects. But if I was honest with myself, I would acknowledge I didn't believe he was guilty of anything other than his perversion with young men. I'd come out here to see what I could get from him in another way than any having to do with the case.
"Magda kept saying that Gustav, the physical trainer, drove my parents from your house that day. That can be taken more than one way. Was Magda jerking me around or can you shed light on what she said?"
"She was literally right. Your mother's chauffeur was in the hospital, so your mother hired the young man named Gustav as her chauffeur--but they were driving your father's Bentley that day rather than her car. The three of them left in the Bentley. None of us mentioned that--that Gustav was driving--as it didn't go with the story we had formulated to protect me and each other. I don't give a fuck about covering up where they were that day anymore, though. I've done my prison time for everything related to that. I don't care if it's no longer a secret."
"You're confirming Gustav was behind the wheel when they left here?"
"Yes. I have no idea what happened after that. But we didn't see Gustav again. The car crashed down into the ocean. I just thought--as the others probably did too--that Gustav's body had been washed away."
Tilton turned his eyes from me and looked back at Felipe. "Just one more, baby, followed by Daddy's favorite stuffing; then I'll introduce you to the sling. Remember, you said you wanted that?" Tilton was speaking in soothing tones as Felipe was moaning and sobbing at the exchange of a thick wand for a thicker one. Nothing else was said for a short while, as I saw Tilton tensing up. I watched his buttocks clench, and he arched his back and sighed at the ceiling. Then he twirled the wand out of Felipe's penis as the Hispanic youth gave a little cry and came again in a gusher around the metal of the wand.
Tilton leaned over and kissed Felipe on the mouth, as his cock came out of the young man's ass. Tilton stripped the spent condom off his dick and picked up another packet from the table nearby and crowned himself again before inserting three fingers in Felipe's ass and spreading the hole out and then sliding back inside the young man's channel between the fingers without extracting them. Felipe was moaning and breathing in raspy breaths at the added stuffing in his channel. Tilton laughed and began a slow pump between his fingers and inside his cupped hand. With his free hand, he picked up the black dildo he'd been using before and pressed the tip of it against Felipe's rim, above his buried cock. Felipe began to babble incoherently, and I felt a chill running up my spine. Tilton's fingers came out, but as they did so, the dildo was pressing in, along the top of Tilton's cock. Felipe writhed against his bonds. But he didn't signal that he'd had enough.
"Now, where were we?" Tilton turned and said to me. "Ah, yes. I didn't see why it couldn't have been an accident anyway and that Gustav's body either was carried out into the ocean by the current, or, if he survived the crash, he absconded. In the end none of us thought it mattered. It wouldn't bring your parents back, and it would get messy if we told the police he'd been driving."
I stood there, in silence, while Tilton began to show more interest in pumping the young Hispanic with his dueling, now counterpunching cocks, and the Hispanic was totally absorbed in his first double fucking and in trying to relax when it was the last thing he was thinking of doing.
"It was a very nice funeral, Clint. Your parents got a wonderful audience and press. It was exactly what they would have wanted."
"Fuck," I said under my breath and started for the door.
I stood there, wanting to resist, to continue to the door. But it was Charles Tilton.
When I came close to him, he wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and brought my face to his for a kiss. He took my hand in his and moved it to the base of his cock, where I could feel him moving in and out of the young Hispanic's channel. Then, with the same hand, he unzipped me and pulled my cock out and started slow stroking it. I opened my lips to him, giving his tongue entrance and whatever possession he wanted. All of the time he continued double fucking Felipe, and the young Hispanic's moans combined with mine.
When Tilton let my lips free, he looked into my eyes and whispered, "If I ask you now to strip and go over and climb into that sling over there, will you do it?"
"Yes," I whispered back, without hesitation.
"It's a pity that you are too old for me now, Clint. I only fuck eighteen year olds now. Preferably virgins."
Stung and angry at myself, I jerked away from him, uttering a "fuck you," and turned and stumbled toward the staircase.
His laughter overrode my sobs as I climbed the stairs as quickly as I could and stormed out of his house.
I sat for a few minutes in the Mustang, castigating myself for giving in to him so easily and arguing with myself over whether I should have left the young Hispanic under his power. I knew, from my own experience, that Tilton would get more possessing and challenging with Felipe in this session. But it was Felipe's choice, just as it once had been my choice. Would I have wanted anyone to intervene before I had experienced it all? Disgustingly, I knew the answer was no.
I raced down the Pacific highway toward L.A. at high speed. I have no idea how I managed to avoid the same fate my parents had suffered on more than one of the hairpin curves.
I was angry and frustrated--and horny.
Danny was still in the squad room--the only one still there--when I returned to police headquarters.
"Didn't go so well?" he observed dryly, as I stumbled into the room.
"He didn't do it--but Gustav is now as important as ever. Two of them have said he drove my parents away from Tilton's that day."
"Well, we can go over the files again. We can see . . . what?"
Danny looked up at me and caught my wild-eyed stare. I was breathing heavily enough for him to clue in on that too.
"You want to go to the motel now?" he asked.
"No. I . . . want . . . to fuck. Here. Now. Be mean to me."
Danny's captain had his own office down the hall. It wasn't locked. And he had his own private bathroom off the office too. It wasn't big, but it was big enough.
There were towel bars at either side of the toilet.
At my urging and his lustful acquiescence, after we stripped, Danny turned me toward the back wall straddling the toilet stool, my belly pressed into the edge of the water tank. He handcuffed my wrists to the towel racks at each side, mashed my cheek into the back wall, mounted me from behind, reached around and fisted my cock, and fucked all my frustration away. I crouched there, ramming my channel back on his monster cock in sledge-hammer rhythm and staring down at the open condom packet on the toilet tank, grateful that Danny, like Gordon, required Trojan Magnums.
"Maybe I should let you visit this Tilton guy more often," Danny said, with a throaty laugh.