PlayBall

Rashid Doin’ Da Man

The only sound in that room was their ragged breathing, stock still as they lay wrapped in each others’ arms and legs, draped across that table.

Walking up to that mirror onto Interview Room #2, pulling at that cord and lifting the blinds on that two-way mirror, P.O. Christopher Koch coulddn’t believe what he was seeing.

It was as if it were an all-out action movie but was running without sound as if a silent film, the furniture being pushed across that room, those bodies thumping across the floor, rolling frantically across that grey industrial carpet, Jack’s shoes slipping off followed by those loose regulation uniform pants, his shirt ripped wide and slipping off his narrow shoulders.

The prisoner kept his arms wrapped tightly around his upper torso, and as they rolled suddenly Jack Harding was sitting atop him and Rashid now reached lower, his handcuffed wrists plunging into that opening in those plaid boxers ripping away at that flimsy fabric, pushing those ragged scraps down his thighs as Jack wriggled like a fish.

With just a gentle push, they rolled forward and that large black boy was now crouched atop his partner, splayed helpless below him.

Spreading Jack’s legs Rashid pulled him backward flush to his chest, kneeling together on the floor, and that’s when Officer Christopher Koch saw that large black truncheon jutting up between his partner’s legs.

Jack clearly felt it as well sitting atop those hips and tried to use his knees to crawl forward, to escape that weapon. This scene was playing out just as Rashid had hoped and, as that stiff rod slipped up from beneath those tight balls wet from the sweat they had both worked up in that tussle he thrust forward, the thick plum head of that long dick plunging through the tight vice of Captain Jack Harding’s asshole.

The look of surprise was apparent on both their faces, each with their eyes closed and mouths agape, both holding their breath.

If the sound from the speaker had been broadcast from that room those different moans would have been easy to identify, but as it was they both were braying like donkeys, necks extended and lips pulled tight against their teeth in a grimace, Jack swinging his head desperately side to side, Rashid almost the noble steed, his own head bobbing to the steady incremental movement of his knees as he held Jack tight.

With that practiced move he had learned from those Saturday morning wrestling shows he would watch with his dad, Rashid slowly rolled back slightly and now balanced on his ankles, he stood and lifted Jack straight up.

This only increased Jack’s desperate jerking, his legs  dancing a jig in midair from some strings not seen, the ragged scraps of plaid boxers hanging from his ankles, a semaphore flag flashing that distress message no one would read. 

Rashid held his upper torso as Jack slowly slid down half the length of that long black truncheon.

Suddenly stopping in freeze frame, the prisoner holding his partner in that bear hug, pinned by those thick arms wrapped around from behind, Rashid turned and gently placed Jack face first, both now splayed headlong across the table.

The strain of those big black biceps was cartoon-like, those ropy veins and sinews of muscle seeming to slither just under that deep chocolate skin. This Nubian God glowed under that harsh fluorescent lighting, the flat blue lighting caressing the topography of his broad shoulders, seemingly to slither down the expanse of his back, that sheen bouncing off the high round curves of his bubbled butt, a black chasm deeply etched from the base of his spine directly down, disappearing into the spread of those massive muscular thighs.

The study of contrasts was amazing, the pale skin of his Irish partner sporting wiry black tufts peeking from his underarm, coating those thin arms and suddenly cropping up between his pecs, only accenting his wan and ineffectual lanky frame, his arms locked by that crumpled short-sleeved shirt across the middle of his back, bunched in the crook of his elbows, his face blank in that frozen howl as his fists beat out a desperate tattoo on the metal expanse of that interrogation table bolted to the floor.

Watching this fight playing out on the other side of this mirrored window set into that wall of the Interrogation Room it was as if Officer Koch was back in HS class studying male anatomy, these straining muscles choreographed to a unheard rhythm. 

They continued that slow rutting for quite some time, the sheen of sweat now coating both their bodies. The hold Rashid had over the arms of his partner allowed him to assume that pushup position even as those handcuffs tightly held his wrists immobile. Jack’s face was turned toward the window as his shoulders lay flat against the tabletop, the look of exquisite torture and ecstatic surrender flashing across his face in time with the jackhammer pounding of those powerful black buns.

Only Rashid’s hips were moving, Jack now twitching like a rag doll below him, sending him back and forward against that table edge, the fold of his thighs and the root of his pink hard dick stopping him, his dick waving like a metronome with each stroke.

Rashid was speaking to him in short commands directing the action, Jack’s lips fluttering, pursing and relaxing at this constant pounding of those hips holding him flush to the tabletop, twisting his head as he brayed to the changing rhythms of this slow tango.

On one downward stroke Rashid plastered his hips tightly against his prisoner, Jack raising his head in a silent howl, turning toward that mirror and suddenly chewing on that forearm, Rashid pulling away and placed a fist against that wooden surface, his thumb placed deep in that gaping maw and pushing down at Jack’s chin, now pulling it free and replacing it with two fingers.

Jack’s tongue licked at this prize and began suckling down those knuckles as he drooled, his face slack and calm as a baby nursing on a pacifier, his lips puckering on those long fingers.

Rashid had turned his head and was staring directly into that mirror and, in that moment, P.O. Koch was sure he was suddenly spotted, holding his breath, stock still as if a deer caught in the glare of headlights, silhouetted against the black background of this room.

Rashid’s eyes wandered up and down that reflected scene, flexing his hips slower, a smile skittering over his face as he watched for a response from his partner, reveling in the control of this situation, bending over that plaything he was working, whispering into his ear.

Officer Ken Koch had been about to step into that room Captain Jack Harding had brought the black teenager into for this interview. His own interrogation of that Puerto Rican street thug had not gone well, he hadn’t meant to hit him, at least not hard enough that he would draw blood.

He had come to find Jack after returning that punk to the cells, to see what his commanding officer would suggest his next step might be.

Officer Koch had seen Ricardo and Rashid talking in that cellblock and, after he had interviewed Tony while Captain Harding watched through this mirror just as he was doing now, they had believed Tony’s lies, told only in a desperate attempt to assure a break from the obvious personal trouble he was in with Officer Harding, and Jack now thought there was a clear opportunity to break down some information on the ongoing drug connections through the surrounding Towns, and this might be their first real opportunity.

When Ricardo had sullenly sat there refusing any information Officer Koch had mistakenly mentioned the conversation he witnessed with Rashid in those cells. Ricardo mistook that news as suggesting Rashid had somehow, some way also had seduced this blond stud policeman, had an inside track on the Police.

Knowing that this news would never get out among the precinct or Ricardo’s own crew, and the thought of having his own direct line of information about any Police activity in the Town, he blatantly had made a pass at this uniformed stud puppet.

Ricardo had sat there smirking, then winked before lowering his gaze to stare intently at his crotch, licking his lips before lifting his eyes to Officer Christopher Koch’s astonished stare, who suddenly smacked him hard across his cheek.

It was a shock to both of them, each experiencing the shame of recognition of their actions. Ricardo had long learned never to tip his hand, to always wear that mask of masculinity when with his crew, having learned the language of machismo and bravado as an only child at the hands of his father's wrath.

“Chris” was a name only used by his older cousin when he wanted his attention, when Kurt wanted to reminded him of his secondary status in the Kowalski hierarchy and finally as an endearment when as they started to play those sexual games of show and tell all teenagers would need to have, that manipulation and abuse only ending when his father caught them playing with their dicks in that rear shed, his explosive anger leading to blows.

It had been all too simple for Kurt to shift that blame to Christopher, who had been sitting in that chair staring up admiringly, his cousin towering over him telling him tall tales of the girls who he had his way with, both wanking away as his father suddenly strode through that door.

Kurt never again would get anything but distain and dismissal from his father from that day forward. 

If Officer Koch hadn’t turned and walked into the bathroom to wash the blood from his fist he might have been able to prevent what he was now witnessing, with no clue as to what he was expected to do in this situation.

He had thought to look in, to see the progress of that interview but now stood mesmerized, a voyeur to this stage play that could only remind him of those more aggressive videos he had seen at those Porn Store booths in Boston albeit with genders and roles that were more traditional if always more kinky, involving skimpy costumes, sex toys and canned groans.

This straight-on display of dominance and relentless skewering he was now witness to between his partner and this prisoner upended his entire understanding of his relationship with Captain Harding, his security in wearing a badge that demanded respect and deference. 

Officer Christopher Koch suddenly realized that he had a raging hard-on snaking down his pant leg, straining against the front of his uniform.