Retribution

Somewhere Hardesty was hearing buzzing. It increased in intensity and insistence. He forced his eyes open. They were focusing on the nightstand in the show bedroom, where a cell phone was vibrating and complaining. It wasn’t just that there was buzzing. It felt like he was on a rocking boat. He reached his hand across Jan, who was spooned into his body, sheathing his cock, and made a grab for the cell phone. He missed as Jan, awake, turned his face to him and took his mouth in a kiss. Jan’s hand grabbed the one Hardesty was reaching out toward the phone and pulled it down to his crotch, encouraging the detective to latch on to his cock, which Hardesty did. He was hard inside Jan and, when the phone stopped ringing, he gave in to his needs and started deep pumping the rent-boy. He grabbed Jan’s hips and forced him back hard into his crotch as he thrust forward. Jan was jerking and giving a little cry of “Yes, shit yes” each time Hardesty slammed him hard with the thick, long cock.

The bed was still rocking gently in a counter move to Hardesty’s bed shaking. It was moving horizontally and vertically at the same time. Hardesty didn’t think it was all in what he was doing with his yelp-inducing thrusts up inside Jan. He turned his head enough to see that Paul was beside him, crouched over Toby’s prone body, Toby on his belly, his tail raised, and his wrists tied off at the headboard over his head. Paul was the one rocking the bed in counter movement as, in a straight-bodied pushup stance, he rose and fell on Toby’s body in long, languid strokes, fucking him vigorously in the ass. How long had the man been at it? How long could the old man go? From the glazed look in the eyes of Toby, a professional bottom, it had been for some time and it had been very, very good.

This is what Toby had wanted--to take Paul and Jan into their bed that night--not their bed, actually, but the show bed, which was larger. And he wanted to be fucked by Paul with the plow belt, which happened as soon as they had invited Paul and Jan over. Toby had never been taken this way before by Paul. He wanted it and he got it. And Hardesty and Jan watched. Paul performed with the belt and Paul performed in the bed with Jan and now he was performing with Toby. Who would have known the old man could stay hard so long and had so much cum in him, Hardesty wondered.

When Jan had come and Hardesty had finished, the bed was still rocking. Paul was still riding Toby’s ass, murmuring how sweet Toby was, how he could go on forever. And he was going on forever. Jan rolled out of the bed and headed for the bathroom, Hardesty turned to Toby and the two went into a deep kiss, as Toby hummed and Paul pumped on.

The cell phone buzzed again and this time Hardesty grabbed it and turned it on. “Speak.”

“Hardesty?”

“Yes, didn’t I say not to use the phone?”

“Would you prefer I visited you at the police department in all my finery?” Jim or Justine, depending on what was being worn at the time, answered.

“I’m not at the department now.”

“Then you must be fucking Jan now. I know he went to see you and he isn’t here.”

“I’m not fucking him at the moment, no.”

“But will you fuck me again after I’m done in here?” Jan called from the bathroom.

“No,” Hardesty yelled back, and then turned back to the phone. “Jan won’t be back with you until we get a handle on this Leslie and Victor business, Justine. You won’t want a target in the house. Why have you called?”

“Have you seen the morning paper? The Washington Post?”

“No, I’ve been busy fucking Jan.”

“The obits. It’s in the obits.”

“What is?”

“Mr. T. A photo of him. There’s an obituary. His name was really Curtis Talmadge. And, fuck, Hardesty . . .”

“What?”

“He was CIA. Retired, but the paper said he was a senior CIA official. It says he had a heart attack. He’s fuckin’ CIA, Hardesty, and he had the Russian--”

“The phone, Jim. Don’t say it. I get the point.”

“Then you wouldn’t want to hear about the fierce-looking man who showed up at the door, a black Cadillac van idling at the street, and asked for Jan.”

“What did you tell him, Justine?”

“That it was Christmas and everyone had the day off. That he should come back tomorrow. He didn’t look happy, but he left.”

“Did he look like government?”

“Walked like it; talked like it; smelled like it too. Fucker had a hand on his holster; if I hadn’t answered the door with my own piece showing, it might have gotten ugly.”

“Shit. OK, keep telling him Jan isn’t there and that you don’t know where Jan is. That’s going to be the truth, so you won’t be lying to him. Jan’s not going to be here in my apartment. But thanks for calling. I’ll track it down from here. Hold tight--and stop using the damn telephone.”

When he disconnected, he already was sitting up on the side of the bed, which was still rocking. He reached for a packet of cigarettes. He didn’t smoke anymore. Except for times like this.

He lit up as Jan was returning.

“Fuck me again,” Jan said, nearly cooing the words.

“Not now, Jan. There’s too much going on and it’s getting shitty. And you need to stay hidden for a while--and not in this apartment.”

He rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom. Paul was still languidly doing pushups on Toby’s ass, and the small blond, his tail elevated to the effort and salt-and-pepper pubic hair mashing into the curly blonds with each slide of the nearly foot long, wasn’t complaining a bit. Jan rolled back into the bed and lowered his face to Toby’s. Their lips met in a deep kiss as Jan’s hand reached for Toby’s cock.

Hardesty had gulped down a cup of coffee and was about to leave the apartment when Jan floated out of the show bedroom, all grace and perfect Michelangelo’s David statuesque. It was all Hardesty could do not to reach out for him.

“There’s something I just remembered,” Jan said, looking sheepish. “Something about Mr. T and Kim.”

“Yes?” Hardesty said. What he was thinking, though, was, just thought, my ass; just now decided to trust me enough to tell me.

“The last time Mr. T sent for me--three days before Christmas--he and Kim had a great row.”

“A row? Over what? Do you know?”

“I suspect it was about Mr. T bringing Leslie and me in. Kim is the jealous type--and has a temper.”

“How bad of a temper?”

“Kim had a gun that day and was threatening Mr. T with it. Victor took it away and pistol whipped Kim before he took me back to Justine’s. I just thought you should know that.”

“Yes, thanks, very good to know, Jan.” Hardesty said. What he really wanted to do was pistol whip Jan with the pistol he kept on a shelf under the kitchen island, by the sink. The little turd surely knew that was important information for Hardesty to know. But he had other instincts too, including a reengorging cock, seeing Jan standing there, naked, highly desirable. Using his better judgment, though, he turned and walked out of the apartment.

“Triple lock the door behind me,” he growled as he exited.

* * * *

The first desk to be encountered when one entered the Vice Homicide unit at D.C. police headquarters was that of the unit clerk. It’s where the detectives picked up the results of records research before passing by the coffee bar and then on to their own desks.

Larry was on duty, his eyes going big and soft and his tongue darting out of his mouth and running over his parted lips, when Hardesty approached the desk. “Captain wants to see you first thing, Detective. And I have these results for you,” he said. His eyes darted around the large room and, not seeing anyone watching them, he moved his hand over Hardesty’s. “I loved every thrust of it yesterday,” he whispered, the statement coming out in breathy tones. “Anytime, anywhere.”

“I was afraid I might have been too rough,” Hardesty answered, knowing for a fact that Larry had loved every second of it.

“I’ve never had it like that,” Larry whispered. “Anytime, anywhere.”

Hardesty felt his balls tighten--and not in arousal--but he didn’t take his hand away. Other than screaming what he was in every move he made, Larry didn’t really repel Hardesty. He just wasn’t, in any way, a type who turned Hardesty on. But the young man was so needy and so worshipful. And he was basically a good egg. He would do anything for Hardesty that Hardesty wanted. He had made that clear. It wasn’t taking advantage of him if it was his job anyway and all was in pursuit of getting Hardesty’s cases closed. Or that, at least, was what Hardesty told himself. He didn’t think about how it sometimes worked out when Hardesty wasn’t paying attention to the man anymore. Some of these guys were certifiably needy. Larry showed every indication of being one of those.

“What are these reports going to tell me?” Hardesty asked, keeping Larry’s hand in his, folding his thumb under Larry’s palm and rubbing rhythmically there. Larry was trembling and there was a danger of him hyperventilating on the spot. Hardesty was playing the young man’s need to the hilt.

“The owner of the car from the Georgetown boathouse case.”

“Curtis Talmadge, a retired CIA big wig,” Hardesty said. “Does the report give an address?”

Larry raised his eyebrows at providing information he’d worked hard to get that Hardesty already knew, but he went on. “Talmadge has a wife. Lives in Wesley Heights. The address is in the report. Thought you would like to know as well about gun permits.”

“Yeah that would be good to know.”

“Talmadge has two registered. One’s a Glock G30S. A military man’s pistol. I think you said one like that was found at the scene. The registration on that one says it was issued to him by the government. The issuing agency isn’t given. But he has another one registered privately, a .22. You said the secret agents thought that was the caliber that was used on the two vics. Talmadge has a Ruger SR22, with a silencer. Pretty serious toys for a D.C. retiree. You don’t need a silencer for protection.”

“He was a pretty serious retiree--CIA,” Hardesty said. “Interesting information, though.”

Larry continued, “The younger vic’s name is Leyland Larson. From Tulsa Oklahoma. Run by a local pimp.”

“Yes, by Tony Fielder.”

Larry gave him a startled look, but one that wasn’t anything like the look and shudder he produced when Hardesty added. “I didn’t know Larson’s real name, but, between you and me, I knew him biblically. He was a great lay.” He knew he was giving the clerk a sexual charge, but he needed Larry to give him priority attention, and he knew the young man was going hard for him.

“The guy under the ice was one Pietr Stanislov, an immigrant visa. He’s--”

“Russian mafia, I’ll bet,” Hardesty said. So that was who Victor was--and who his friends were. A retired CIA top honcho palling around with the Russian mafia. No wonder the feds were taking an interest.

“You already knew,” Larry said, putting on a pout. His emotions were volatile and his piques were a little bitchy. He made to take his hand back, obviously disappointed that his research hadn’t resulted in revelation for the man he worshipped. Hardesty didn’t release his hand, though. He squeezed it hard, forced his index finger between two of Larry’s fingers, and moved it in and out between the fingers, an unmistakable signal in Larry’s circles, Hardesty knew, although his own circle took more direct routes of signaling. Larry nearly melted on the spot.

“I didn’t know all of what you had to report, and you have confirmed what little I had found out on my own. Great work, Larry. You were first in with what you had. I’m very grateful to you.”

Larry mumbled something, clearly mollified, pleased, and preening now.

“When is your morning break?” Hardesty asked, leaning in to Larry, his voice lowered.

“What do you mean?” Larry was trembling again.

“You know what I mean. I want to show my gratitude. I want to fuck you again. When is your morning break?” It came out in a commanding growl.

“Whenever you want it to be.” The answer came in total submission, with Larry lowering his head, a signal of surrender in both of their circles.

“I have to go in and see Crane. After that, though, before I settle in to work, we’ll meet and I’ll do you well. You’re the supply clerk. You have a key to the supply room in the basement?”

“Yes, of course.” Larry could hardly contain his excitement.

“Move in that direction as soon as you spy me leaving Crane’s office. I’ll stop at the men’s room to make use of a rubber packet and then meet you in the supply room.” Then and only then, he let loose of Larry’s hand, lowering it to the desk and patting it.

Larry, speechless and shuddering, watched Hardesty walk, reports in hand, to Crane’s office. He had been to the drugstore that morning himself to buy Trojan Magnum XLs to be prepared for what he dreamed about. That the man walked around with his own supply made Larry hyperventilate.

Crane waved Hardesty into his office and gestured for him to sit down in a chair facing the desk. Hardesty was relieved. If this was a dressing down, he’d have had to stand in front of the desk, tail between his legs.

“Miracle of miracles, Larry has passed me some reports on the Georgetown boathouse case,” the captain said, lowering his face and looking at Hardesty over the top of his reading glasses. “Fast work for Christmas Day. You pumping your sources for information? So to speak,” he added, giving Hardesty a little smile.

Hardesty had hinted he had sources to pump. He doubted that Crane knew he was pumping his unit clerk too, and Hardesty wasn’t wild about that getting around--if for no other reason than he wanted to keep his reputation intact on his taste in young men.

“We can credit Larry with most of that,” Hardesty answered. “He humped his ass doing research yesterday.”

“And I gather you humped his ass in getting the work done,” Crane said, dryly. “He’s floating around above the ground today, and I know what he wanted for Christmas. Everyone in the squad knew. Larry’s not very good at keeping his wants secret.”

Couldn’t get much by Captain Crane. It was a good thing he was so forgiving and flexible on these matters. There was no indication that he himself was anything but a straight arrow on sex. That’s what made him so effective as a buffer between the unit and upstairs.

“Well, the bad news is that the feds have already closed the case on this Talmadge guy,” Crane said, turning to business. “Died of a heart attack, they say. All so natural. The body was found under an overturned kayak not more than a 100 yards upriver from the boathouse. Over in a swampy area on the Virginia side. What they didn’t tell me, but a friend of a friend in the Intell Community’s medical examiner’s office told me, was that he had a bullet in his back.”

“.22 caliber?” Hardesty asked.

“Right. Probably the same gun that got the rent-boy and the Russian. So, the feds are satisfied and there’s no federal case.”

“Well, then, that’s it, I guess,” Hardesty said, making like he was about to get up.

“Don’t play me, Hardesty,” Crane said, but he attached a laugh to make clear that he was in on the game. “You don’t plan on leaving it there, do you?”

“Nope,” Hardesty said, settling in his chair again.

“Well, you don’t have to. Because the good news is that this leaves us free and clear to make our own case. We can ignore the stiff up the river without a paddle. Two men were killed on our turf--your rent-boy and the Russian.”

“He wasn’t really my rent-boy,” Hardesty said.

“You fucked him, didn’t you? More than once, I’ll wager. And he was one of your informants, wasn’t he? Therefore a secret asset of this office.”

Hardesty had never used Leslie--or Leyland, he guessed--as an informant, but if the captain wanted to believe that--or pretend to believe that--that was OK with Hardesty. He could tell that Crane didn’t want to let loose of this case any more than he did. He couldn’t say he hadn’t fucked the young piece more than once, though. So, he answered, “Yes, by extension, he was useful to the unit.”

“So. Go, go, go.” Crane was waving a hand toward the door. “It’s your case. Yours and Whitehall’s. Bring me the murderer of”--he looked down at one of the reports--“Larson and Stanislov. We’ll just assume that takes care of the CIA guy too.”

Hardesty was at the door when Crane spoke up again, “Oh, and go easy on Larry. It won’t be the first unit clerk you’ve ruined for us. He’s a sensitive guy and he’s good at his work. Make him happy, but don’t leave him unhappy. Don’t break the heart and ass of another one, Hardesty.”

“Got it, Captain,” Hardesty said, turning and nodding to Larry, who immediately got up from his desk and headed for the steps to the basement.

“Strip,” Hardesty commanded, as he closed the storage room door behind him and locked it. He turned the overhead lights off. There was an emergency light next to the door that gave enough light for him to work with. He could do Larry better in the dark--he could think of him as more desirable and give him the good time he deserved.

The young man was all arms and legs--gangly, but not a bad torso and face, at least in the dark. His cock, now rock hard and jutting up toward his flat belly in anxious anticipation, wasn’t bad, either. He probably had someone fucking him, but it would be vanilla and probably amateur. No excitement. No one who could work him to the max.

Hardesty excited him, and Larry’s moans, grunts, and groans and the distance he reached when he shot off showed that he, indeed, was sufficiently excited by what Hardesty had to give him. Hardesty found a large roll of cloth tape and used it to tape Larry’s wrists and feet to one of the supply shelves--a sturdy one that, nonetheless banged against the cinderblock wall--luckily an outside wall of the building--while Hardesty was banging him.

Arms raised and spread and taped to the front edge of a shelf overhead, and legs spread, and bent, with feet and ankles taped to the second shelf from the floor. Larry’s body jutted out from the shelf, his bare tail waving in the air. His briefs stuffed in his mouth completed the ensemble.

He’d quite willingly worked up Hardesty’s cock before he was bound. He was an expert at blow jobs, Hardesty found. This, he decided, was Larry’s primary talent among his friends. Hardesty made him a nice bottom that morning too, though, crouching behind him, grasping his hips, thrusting up inside him, and slamming the young man’s ass up and down on a thick, long, throbbing cock until Larry got fully into it himself, and then Hardesty just stood there, arching Larry’s torso back with one hand buried in his head hair and jerking back and snaking the other hand around Larry’s waist to stroke his cock, while Larry used the leverage of his bound feet against the thumping shelf section to bounce up and down on Hardesty’s staff until both of them had come.

There was no doubt now that Larry was Hardesty’s willing and enslaved bitch, tool, and servant whenever Hardesty wanted him--or needed something from him. Hardesty didn’t feel guilty. Larry wasn’t getting slighted in the deal.

And he’d gotten his own rocks off again. Something he needed to do a couple of times a day, at least, as highly sexed as he was, to keep his balls from aching to evacuate cum. It meant one fewer self-service hand jobs needed.