Murder in Wichita

Lance turned his black Miata MX-5 into the driveway of his house on South Green Street and pulled under the carport. Sighing, he turned off the headlights and stepped out of the convertible into the muggy night air. Since it had still been misting out when he had left the office, he hadn't even been able to put the top down, something which he really enjoyed. That had been the goddam point of buying a convertible in the first place. All through college he had driven his father's Ford sedan, and while he had appreciated the free wheels, he had spent all four years of his higher education wanting to drive a hot new convertible. Once he had gotten his job at the accounting firm, he had immediately started looking for a car, but the natural caution with money he had been born with, combined with the fiscal conservatism his parents had drilled into his head as a teenager had gotten the better of him, and when he had seen a run-down house for sale at a fraction of its appraised value, he had decided to put his initial earnings into real estate instead. His parents had enthusiastically approved of his decision, and he had spent the next year and a half continuing to drive the old Ford, until a careless UPS driver had slammed into the side of him while he was driving down an icy Douglas Avenue on the way home from work on a snowy February evening. The insurance settlement on an eighteen-year-old car hadn't been worth much, but it had given him the excuse he needed to finally get the kind of car he wanted without having to hear a lecture from his parents. He had known even a used BMW was out of his range, but a Mazda Miata had always been his first choice anyway, and he had gotten a shitload of options thrown in to make it the baby of his dreams. He especially liked driving a stick shift, after all the years of being stuck with an automatic transmission. It was way more fun to drive, and whenever he took a random bitch home to fuck, they always seemed to be captivated at his expert skill in shifting gears. Women could be so easy to impress. Stupid cunts.

No cunt tonight, though. The on-again, off-again rain that had been occurring all day had apparently discouraged enough people that it had killed off business at the sports bar, and very few customers were sitting at the tables scattered throughout the place, definitely no one he had the slightest interest in hooking up with. He had sat at the bar and ordered his favorite sandwich and a Bud Light from Sherry, his regular waitress, whose names for him included Sugar, Honey Babe, and Sweet Britches. He had finished off the first beer before his food had finished cooking and ordered a second, and had then wolfed down his food, getting more tired as each minute passed. He thought about maybe looking for a hookup at Club Indigo, his favorite dance club across the street that was usually rocking on a Friday night, but finally he decided he would just go home, rub one out, and get some much-needed sleep. Besides, he was kind of depressed, and he couldn't really figure out why. Maybe it had something to do with Eric and Samantha. Lance had heard some hard-luck stories before from different clients, but for some reason he felt kind of sorry for this couple, especially Eric, whom he suspected was stuck married to a bitch he didn't really love.

Jesus fucking Christ, look at him, worried about something like love. Love was something Lance normally didn't give a shit about. Like Christian Grey in Fifty Shades, Lance didn't make love, he fucked. He had started fucking when he was fourteen and had never stopped, and he wasn't going to start worrying now about what was going on in other people's heads and hearts. Fucking was about feeling good and getting off. Selfish? Maybe, but he knew he made his too-many-to-count sexual partners feel pretty goddam good while he was fucking them, so why shit all over him for being selfish?

Lance had shaken his head at his stupidly wasting his time worrying about Eric and Samantha's love life, and he stood up and took out his wallet, laying a twenty on the counter to cover his food, the two beers, and a decent tip for Sherry. Heading for the door, he realized he really needed to take a piss, so he changed course and walked into the men's room instead. Standing at one of the urinals, he unzipped his pants, reached into his Calvin Klein low-rise trunks, and pulled out his cock. After shaking it in his right hand a couple of times, a steady stream of warm piss soon began flowing from his piss slit into the porcelain urinal. He pissed for nearly thirty seconds before shaking his cock in his hand again to finish up the last few drops, then inserted his dick back inside the trunks and zipped his pants back up. Standing at the sink to wash up, he smelled something familiar. It was coming from one of the stalls next to the urinals, and it sure as hell wasn't shit or piss. After he had dried his hands on a paper towel, he walked over to the stall where he could see a slight haze of smoke rising. He rapped his knuckles against the door, and said quietly, "Dion, it's Lance."

The door opened, and Dion, the head dishwasher for the bar, smiled at Lance. Lance returned the smile with a big shit-eating grin. Without a word, Dion took the blunt he had in his mouth and handed it to Lance, who took a few drags on it and inhaled deeply several times.

"Goddam, that's some good shit," Lance said, as he handed the blunt back to Dion. "That's the best fucking thing I've done all night. Thanks, dude."

"Any time, man," Dion said in his heavy Mexican accent, and closed the door. Feeling better from the weed, Lance had left the restroom, walked through the bar, and gone out to his car. It had been a short ride home, less than a mile and a half.

Lance unlocked the back door to his house and stepped into the kitchen, the smell of fresh plaster and paint hitting his nostrils. Not nearly as good as the weed he had just smoked. Looking around, he sighed at the amount of work he saw left to do. The house had been a wreck when he had bought it two years ago, with aging plumbing and totally inadequate wiring. Lance had picked up a few carpentry skills working with his father around the house when he was growing up, but he was far from a professional and knew it. At first he had attacked the broken-down house with enthusiasm, knocking down walls which had been covered with broken and cracked plaster, but very quickly he had run out of steam, as well as knowledge of what the fuck he should really do first in the total-house makeover job. An overflowing toilet in the house's one very ancient bathroom had resolved that question for him. It had also cured him forever of his curiosity about trying scat with another dude. Nothing like a floor covered with your own shit to make a dude decide he'd be better off not venturing into the scat scene. After getting a new toilet, he had replaced the bathtub and shower combo, and finally moved on to the sink and vanity. By the time he had finally finished with the bathroom, he had lived in the house for over a year and considered himself to be, if not a pro, at least an experienced amateur when it came to plumbing. Next had come an unexpected crisis which had required strengthening the floor joists in the area of the kitchen which was above the partial basement, which was really nothing more than just a storm cellar to escape to during one of Kansas' infamously frequent tornadoes. Lance had finished clearing that major hurdle just last week, and had started with the job of having to patch up the plaster in the areas where he had torn down a non-load-bearing wall between the living room and kitchen. He had decided he would leave the kitchen redesign and remodel until last, after he had finished repairing the cracked plaster walls in the two bedrooms. Besides, a new kitchen would end up costing a shitload of money, and he preferred to defer until later having to pay the sizable bills he knew it would require. In the meantime, he would just have to live with a gas stove whose pilot light was always going out and a small refrigerator with a tiny freezer in the top, which was all that the antiquated wiring in the house could handle. A regular-sized refrigerator would end up blowing the goddam fuse just about every fucking day with the electrical system he had now.

Lance reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Bud Light, pulled off the top, and took a drink. Setting the bottle on the counter, he went into his bedroom, taking off his suit jacket, necktie, and shirt on the way. He hung up the jacket on a hanger in the small closet and hung the tie on the circular tie rack, then deposited the shirt in the laundry hamper. Toeing off his shoes, he pulled his socks off and put them in the hamper as well, then unzipped his suit pants and hung them up in the closet next to the jacket. He walked over to his dresser and opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a pair of 501s. Before he put them on, he thought for a few seconds, then pulled off the bright orange Calvin Klein Steel trunks he was wearing. Tonight he was going to freeball. He pulled the Levis on and buttoned up the fly, leaving the top button undone. His cock, which had settled down finally in the office, was coming back to stand at attention now that he was home for the night, and his jeans were tight enough already, even before he got a full hard-on.

Leaving his bedroom, he went back into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of beer and took another swallow, looking out the kitchen window. In the house next door, he saw his neighbors, Ellen and Sharon, sitting on their back porch. The two women were both in their late seventies, and had lived together for at least thirty years. Most people in the neighborhood figured they were probably lesbians, but being from the generation they belonged to, they had never quite come out of the closet. Lance wasn't so sure. He had noticed that both of them watched him especially closely when he worked in his yard shirtless. Ellen, especially, was always making remarks to him about how sexy his body was and how it gave her goose bumps.

Lance took a couple more swallows from the beer bottle, then walked through the living room and opened the front door. He reached into the mailbox on his front porch and pulled out a few pieces of mail, then went back inside and sat down on his leather couch to open the mail. Gas bill. He would pay that online tomorrow. Annual renewal form for Instinct Magazine. He'd take care of that online, too. Catalog for Undergear. He flipped through it to see if anything, or anyone, seemed interesting. Not particularly. Although the clothes were cool. But the models, well, it seemed like with every issue that came out, they got more facial hair and more ugly-as-shit tattoos all over their chests and stomachs. Definitely not his thing. Lance liked a full head of hair and the rest of the face clean-shaven, and if they shaved their chest, even better. And while a tribal tattoo on a dude's shoulder and arm could get him hard, most of the other shit they were inking up their bodies with he just found repulsive.

He reached for his laptop and opened it up. It only took a few seconds to boot up, and he got on to the internet. On YouTube, he checked out the latest video from Mark Miller, which was about his latest vacation trip with his boyfriend Ethan, and then he watched the latest freestyle rap by Timeflies. Goddam, Cal was fucking hot. And Rez was pretty smoking, too. Lance would be glad to go down on either one of them. Finally, he watched a music video of Mike Stud singing "Batter Up," before shutting down the laptop. He walked into his bedroom and lay down on the bed. By now he was horny as hell.

Lance reached into the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out his Fleshjack and a small bottle of lube. He pulled his cock out of his jeans and squeezed some lube onto the head. Reaching down with his right hand, he pulled on his dick a few times, spreading the lube over his shaft and getting himself good and slick. With his left hand, he pushed the Fleshjack onto his cock, moaning as his mushroom head slowly slid into the asshole tunnel. Even though his dick was so lubed up, the ribbed canal grabbed his cock and fought against him, making it feel like the tightest ass he had ever fucked. Finally he pushed the opening all the way to the root of his cock. Closing his eyes, he began jacking his cock as he enjoyed the feel of the pulling sensation against his dick. Images of several of his tricks flashed through his mind, mostly women, but quite a few men. Then, almost to his surprise, he pictured the hot bitch from his office today, Samantha. He had never fucked a pregnant woman before, and the thought was a serious turn-on. Goddam, what he could do to her. He was sure he could fuck her so hard he could pull that baby right out of her pussy. That little mutherfucker would be born covered in his cum. How hot was that?

Then, almost without realizing it, the image of Samantha changed from a seriously hot black woman to an even hotter white dude, her husband. Once the picture of Eric flashed into his mind, Lance completely lost control, shouted, "FUCK!!" and immediately started shooting a huge load of hot cum into the Fleshjack. After about three ropes of cum had flung their way out of his piss slit into the inner lining of the tube, he caught his breath after about ten seconds of stunned amazement. Normally he could feel his load travelling up from his balls into the shaft of his cock, but this wad had shot out almost on its own, without any warning. Goddam. What's up with that? Lance was proud of his ability to keep from cumming for several hours, so he could make a long night of fucking last as long as possible. How could just the thought of Eric have the ability to cause him to totally lose control of his cock like that? Shit, now he had a sticky mess inside his Fleshjack to clean up. Mutherfucker!!