Character dossier
Beauregard Châtain Lemarquand (Chester “Chaz” Lemar)
Role: Rookie police officer; the dominant force who takes control of both Jacob and Brad.
Background: 23-year-old former Marine from a working-class background. Served three years in Afghanistan beginning as an 18-year-old Private First Class. Developed a stable reputation for skill, looks, and opportunistic man-sex among stressed troops. Returned stateside, joined the local force as a rookie, and married young. Currently living with his pregnant wife Carole in a working-class neighborhood.
Physical Profile: 6'2", muscular and athletic with a classic stallion build—broad shoulders, defined arms (full sleeve of professional tattoos on the left arm), strong legs, and a leftover high-and-tight softened by longer auburn hair. Flawless face, perfect teeth, deep blue eyes, easy cunning smile.
Cock Profile: Nine inches, thick and heavy, uncut; large smooth balls.
Prior Success / Sexual History:
- With Women: Steady and confident from his teens. Used looks, athleticism, and practiced charm. Married young; currently four months without sex due to his wife’s pregnancy, which has left him frustrated and restless. Views most female encounters as physical outlets rather than emotional investments.
- With Men: Extensive but strictly dominant history from Afghanistan. Skilled at fucking and rimming under stress and isolation, treating both as stress relief and proof of toughness. Never sucked cock or bottomed—those acts remained “too gay.” Has not pursued men since returning to civilian life, though the imprint and appetite remain.
Personality & Traits: Confident, opportunistic, naturally dominant. Blunt and efficient with a Marine’s directness and a cop’s authority. Quick to gauge and exploit weakness. Horny and restless under the constraints of marriage and duty, but controlled enough to play the long game. Views physical strength and sexual control as natural hierarchies.
Briercrest
Beauregard Châtain Lemarquand—Chester “Chaz” Lemar to anyone who had ever written him a ticket or shared a locker room—drove the empty stretches of Northern Louisiana with the windows cracked just enough to let the night air scrape across his face. Despite the blasting AC, the patrol car still smelled faintly of the coffee he had abandoned three hours earlier and the cleaner he used on the dash after every shift. His left arm rested along the door frame, the dense black-and-gray sleeve of ink from shoulder to wrist catching the intermittent glow of streetlamps. The tattoos had been finished in stages during leave, each session a purposeful claim on skin that had already belonged to the Corps. Now they belonged only to him.
Carole was at her mother’s again—feet swollen, lower back complaining, the pregnancy advancing into the stage where even the idea of his weight on her felt like an imposition she should not have to carry. She had texted earlier, polite and careful, telling him not to wait up. He had answered with the same measured care, the same small performance of patience that had become the shape of their evenings. The exchange left a hollow space behind his ribs that no amount of gym time or late-night paperwork could fill. His balls ached with a low, constant pressure that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with the simple biological fact that he was twenty-three, still hard-wired for release, and living inside a marriage that had temporarily closed that particular door without asking his body for permission.
On one side was the life he had chosen and still valued: the badge, the small house on the working-class street, the pregnant wife who still looked at him with a trust he did not always feel he deserved, the neighbors who nodded when they saw the patrol car and assumed he was one of the good ones. On the other side he still remembered Afghanistan—not the violence, not the sand, but the specific heat of another man’s skin under stress, the way taking could be wanted on both sides when the world outside the wire was trying to kill you. LCpl Johnny Briggs lived in that second argument like an enduring heat that never fully cooled. Johnny with the easy dimples and the tight, greedy hole that had clenched around him like it was trying to keep something alive in a place where everything else was trying to kill. Chaz had never put his mouth on another man’s cock. He had never offered his own ass. Those lines remained clean, carefully defended, the last markers of a boundary he still told himself mattered. Everything else had been fair game under the right conditions of heat, isolation, and mutual need. Johnny still surfaced at odd hours—when the shift ran long, when Carole would sleep with her back to him, when the night air smelled like distant rain the way the base sometimes had after a dust storm settled and the wind finally carried the cool moisture across the perimeter. The memory did not feel like nostalgia. It felt like unfinished business the civilian world had no language for and no permission to finish.
He was not on duty anymore. The radio was quiet. The badge was still on his chest because he had not bothered to take it off. Habit. Or maybe the authority of it still settled something in him that civilian clothes never quite managed. The badge was liberty and constraint at the same time. It let him move through the night with a certain assumed legitimacy. It also required him to remember that he was supposed to be better than the hunger that kept rising whenever the house was empty and the hours stretched. He took the long way through the college side of town, past the darkened storefronts and the occasional porch light, letting the car drift at the edge of the speed limit. The restlessness needed somewhere to go. He told himself he was only driving. He did not fully believe it.
* * *
Jacob Rensselaer had left The Cockatoo with the taste of whiskey still thick on his tongue. He had not planned to stay as long as he had. The bar had been a way to unwind in the hours after Brad’s message that he was coming down again—another visit, another night of the same carefully managed dynamic that left Jacob both used and strangely steadier, as if the surrender itself had become a compass. The company at the bar had been forgettable. The whiskey had not. By the time he stepped into the parking lot, the heat had already started to ooze through the thin jacket he had worn more for appearance than function.
He walked. The SUV stayed where it was. Something in him resisted the idea of getting behind the wheel; the world was already tilting in slow, syrupy arcs, and the idea of headlights and lane markers felt like more than he could negotiate. The residential streets of Briercrest at this hour were nearly empty. Pine needles and the occasional patch of damp gravel were underfoot. The air carried the mineral scent of the nearby woods and the damp, heavy charge of an approaching storm. His light-brown hair kept falling into his eyes; he pushed it back with fingers that felt slightly numb at the tips. The loneliness was not dramatic. It was simply present—like the heat, like the residual ache in his body from the last time Brad had been inside him, like the knowledge that he had started to look forward to Brad’s return more than he wanted to admit. He had told himself he was still figuring things out. Bisexual, maybe. Or just someone who had learned that certain kinds of surrender stifled the noise in his head better than anything else. The distinction mattered less after enough whiskey. He stopped at a low stone wall that bordered an empty lot near the edge of the student housing and sat. The warmth of the stone bled through his jeans almost immediately. He let his head tip back and watched the dim canopy of trees shift against the lighter sky. His phone was a dead weight in his pocket. He did not check it. Brad would arrive when Brad arrived. Until then, the night belonged to the slow spin of alcohol and the inventory of everything he had already given away and everything he was still willing to give if the right pressure arrived.
Chaz saw the figure on the wall from half a block away. The posture was wrong for someone simply waiting—too still, too folded in on itself. He slowed the patrol car without thinking about it, the way he had slowed for a hundred other late-night silhouettes that turned out to be nothing. This one did not straighten when the headlights swept across him. Chaz pulled to the curb, cut the engine, and sat for a moment with the ticking of the cooling metal and the low thrum of his own pulse in his ears. The pragmatic voice in his head said keep driving. The other voice, the one that still carried Johnny’s memory in the base of his spine, noted the lean lines of the figure on the wall and the way the head lifted too slowly. The tension tightened once and then loosened into something colder and more focused.
He stepped out. The night air was warmer without the car’s AC. Gravel shifted under his boots. The man on the wall lifted his head slowly, as if the movement itself required negotiation.
Light-brown hair. Young. Face that would have been clean-cut and almost pretty if it weren’t slack with drink. Chaz’s first assessment was automatic: student, probably, out past the point of good decisions. His second assessment was less professional and more dangerous. The kid had the long, lean frame of someone who had trained seriously at some point—shoulders that still held shape under the jacket, long legs, and the kind of sharp, light bone structure that looked good even when it was half-collapsed. The tangle in Chaz’s chest noted the resemblance to Johnny without needing to name it—not in age, but in the lean, raw build, and the distinct sense of someone who had been taught to perform competence and was currently failing at it in a way that made the older man’s pulse kick once, hard.
“You all right?” Chaz asked. His voice came out lower than he intended, the way it did when the shift was over and the badge was just jewelry he had not yet taken off.
Jacob blinked against the residual glare of the headlights, squinting as a high silhouette moved out of the beam and into the warm glow of the streetlamp overhead. As the spots cleared from his eyes, the face above him came into focus—older than his own by a few years, auburn hair longer than regulation, jaw clean, eyes a deep blue. The uniform registered a second later. Something in Jacob’s stomach tightened and then loosened again. Of course. The night would end with a cop. The pattern felt almost inevitable.
“I’m fine,” he said. The words came out thicker than he wanted. “Just… sitting.”
“At this hour? Looking like you’re about to tip over?”
Jacob almost smiled. The expression didn’t quite make it. “Didn’t feel like driving.”
Chaz stepped closer. The kid’s breath carried whiskey and something underneath it. “Name.”
“Jacob. Rensselaer.”
“You livin’ in this parish, Jacob Rensselaer?”
“Off-campus. Couple of streets over.” He gestured vaguely with a hand that wavered in the air before dropping back to the stone.
Chaz studied him. The decision formed without a clean moment of choice. “You’re not walking it, I reckon,” he said. It was not a question.
Jacob looked up at him. For a moment the alcohol cleared enough for something sharper to show—wariness, a flicker of the track athlete who had once run clean and fast under Texas lights. Then it sank again under the weight of the night.
“I can manage.”
“No. You can’t.” Chaz’s tone stayed level. “Get in the car. I’m taking you home.”
He reached down and took Jacob’s hand. The contact was brief, skin-to-skin, and Chaz felt the warmth of the younger man’s fingers and the slight tremor underneath. He pulled Jacob upright. The kid swayed, then found his balance against Chaz’s forearm. Up close, the resemblance to Johnny settled again.
Chaz guided him to the passenger side, keeping a steadying hand at the small of Jacob’s back—not quite an embrace, not quite professional. The contact was functional, but planned. Jacob did not pull away; the whiskey had burned off just enough caution to leave him compliant. Chaz opened the door, watched Jacob sink heavily into the bucket seat, and leaned over him to pull the seatbelt across his chest. For a second, Chaz’s chest brushed Jacob’s shoulder, the tight space of the cabin instantly trapping the scent of whiskey, warm skin, and night air between them.
Chaz clicked the buckle into place, closed the door, and walked around to the driver’s side.
As he pulled away from the curb, the hum of the engine and the blast of the AC filled the shadowy interior. Jacob’s head drifted back against the headrest, his eyes half-closed as the streetlights swept across his face in rhythmic intervals. With each passing streetlight, Jacob drifted a little further toward the center console, his shoulder resting against Chaz’s sleeve. Chaz didn't pull away. He was aware, with every shift of the gears, that he was choosing this. The badge on his chest did not stop him. The knowledge that Carole was staying at her mother's—their small house empty and silent—did not stop him. The ache simply outvoted the rest.
When they pulled up to the apartment building, Chaz cut the engine. He got out, walked around, unbuckled and pulled Jacob out of the seat, taking a firm hold around the kid's waist to steady him against the thick Louisiana heat as they headed toward the front door.
Chaz guided Jacob up the carpeted stairs. The physical effort was minor. The proximity was not. Jacob’s hair brushed the side of Chaz’s neck once; the faint scent of whiskey and bar soap and something warmer underneath rose between them and stayed. At the top, the landing was poorly lit by a single yellow bulb that buzzed intermittently against the humid night. Four doors. Jacob pointed with a loose hand toward the one around the corner.
The door was already ajar, a thin sliver of interior light cutting across the scuffed tiles.
Inside, Brad “The Blueprint” Montgomery sat behind the desk near the window, half-turned in the chair, a bottle of vodka open beside him and the smirk of someone who had been waiting long enough to grow bored and then interested again. He was dressed only in black briefs. The undercut was slightly disordered from the way he had been running his hands through it while he waited and edged himself. The frame—six-two, two-ten, the dense functional muscle of someone who still trained like the championships mattered—looked almost posed under the cheap overhead light. When he registered the uniform and the way Chaz was holding Jacob upright, the smirk widened into something sharper and more territorial.
Brad’s mind, still swimming in vodka, registered the stranger first as an interruption and then as an insult. He had been waiting for Jacob. He had been edging himself for the better part of two hours, replaying the previous visit, the way Jacob’s body opened for him, the way he still tried to pretend the dynamic was something less than what it was. The appearance of a uniformed cop with his arm around Jacob felt like a violation of an order Brad had already established in this room and in the night that had led to it. The alcohol made the feeling larger and less precise. It also made the certainty that he could still control the situation feel more absolute than it was.
“I’ve got it from here,” Brad said. The words carried the easy campus authority of a man used to being obeyed. “You can go find your own entertainment.”
Chaz did not answer immediately. He guided Jacob the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind them with his foot and a final click. The air inside was warmer and carried the sour edge of cheap liquor mixed with the cleaner scent of someone who had showered hours earlier and then gone out to undo the effort. Jacob sagged onto the edge of the bed without being told, the mattress dipping under his weight, and struggled out of his jacket. Chaz stayed on his feet and looked from Jacob to the man at the desk, the same calm inventory he had once used on unknown doorways in Helmand.
“Y’all having a night.”
Brad rose. The movement was less steady than he intended; the bottle had clearly been open for some time.
He was roughly the same height as Chaz, the same general build, but the difference in posture was already visible—Brad still carried the swagger of the man who had once owned every room he entered, while Chaz stood with the settled weight of someone who no longer needed to prove it. The swagger was still there, but it was already beginning to look like a costume that no longer fit the room.
“You live here?” Chaz asked. His voice stayed level, almost conversational. “Or are you just waiting with the door wide open in your underwear for the resident to come home?”
Brad’s face tightened. The question landed wrong. It made him sound like an intruder caught red-handed rather than the one who had been waiting with a claim already staked. “Fuck no, I don’t live here. And I’m not—” He stopped, searching for a word that wouldn’t dig the hole deeper. “He’s a friend. From back home. The door was unlocked.”
“Unlocked.” Chaz’s gaze moved over Brad with studied slowness—shoulders, chest, the black briefs, the way the fabric already showed the beginning of interest. “So you just let yourself in and decided to sit here half-naked drinking his liquor while he was out. Interesting way to wait for a friend.”
Brad’s temper, always close to the surface when he was drinking, flared. The room was already spinning slightly from the vodka; the presence of the uniformed stranger who had walked in with Jacob only made the edges sharper. Something in him—some leftover certainty from Highland Park and the championship years and the way people had always moved when he entered a space—insisted that this was still his to control. The insistence was already out of date. He did not know that yet. “Listen, I’m not the one who just walked in here with a drunk kid draped over him. If anyone’s the queer in this room it’s—”
He never finished the sentence.
Chaz moved with the economy of someone who had cleared rooms under worse conditions. One hand closed around the back of Brad’s neck, the other took the near wrist, and in a single continuous motion he turned the younger man and drove him face-first onto the surface of the desk. The bottle tipped and rolled, spilling a thin line of vodka across the wood near Brad’s phone. Brad’s breath left him in a surprised, involuntary grunt.
Before he could push up, Chaz drove a knee hard into the small of his back, pinning him flat. He yanked Brad's free arm behind him, and the cuffs came out of the pouch—two sharp, metallic clicks locking both wrists tight together behind his back.
The first clear thought that formed in Brad’s mind was not fear. It was disbelief. The second was a rising, almost childish outrage that someone had put hands on him this way. He had been the one who decided when a body was available and when it was finished. He had done it to Gabe in the parking lot under the orange lights. He had done it to Jacob in this same room on a previous night. The reversal arrived without warning and without language. He tried to twist; the cuffs and the weight on his back made the attempt useless.
“Breaking and entering,” Chaz said quietly against his ear. “Indecent exposure. Theft of alcohol. We’ll start there and see what else develops.”
“He didn’t lock the door, you fucking—”
Chaz reached out, snatched a pair of Jacob's discarded socks from the open laundry basket near the desk, and stuffed them efficiently into Brad's mouth. Brad tried to twist his head away, but Chaz's hand clamped over his jaw, forcing the fabric deep. The taste of sweat and the faint scent of Jacob's detergent filled his mouth instantly. From the same basket, Chaz grabbed a worn jockstrap, stretched the thick elastic waistband over Brad's face to secure the gag, and pulled it tight behind his ears.
The entire process took less than thirty seconds. When it was done, Brad was still bent over the desk, breathing hard through his nose, the black briefs already showing a more pronounced ridge against the wood.
Jacob watched from the bed, the alcohol still thick enough that the sight of Brad reduced to muffled noise produced a short, disbelieving laugh that he immediately tried to swallow. Brad’s eyes cut toward him, furious and slightly glassy. The laugh landed like a small, precise betrayal. Jacob only shrugged and stayed where he was, one hand braced on the mattress to keep the room from tilting further. The dynamic that had existed between them in this room on a previous night was already being overwritten by the presence of the third man, and Jacob, even drunk, could feel the shift.
Chaz stepped back and began to remove his uniform with the same practical care he used at the end of every shift. Boots first, set neatly side by side against the wall. Duty belt coiled and placed on the chair; keys and phone placed carefully on the dresser along with a small bottle of lube by way of silent threat. Shirt unbuttoned slowly and hung on an empty hanger in the open closet. The full sleeve of ink on his left arm became visible under the cheap light—dense, professional work that followed the lines of muscle from shoulder to wrist in interlocking patterns of black and gray. He hung the trousers carefully, smoothing the creases. When he returned to Brad, he was down to tight white briefs that did nothing to hide the thick, heavy shape of him, the outline of the uncut head and the heavy balls clearly visible against the cotton.
He pulled Brad upright by the hair and studied him the way a man might study a piece of equipment he was deciding whether or not to keep. The shoulders were solid, the kind that had carried pads and taken hits. The arms carried real muscle, not gym vanity. The chest was smooth and well-defined, the nipples slightly larger than average and already tightening from the stress and the remaining adrenaline. When Chaz’s fingers found them and rolled one between thumb and forefinger, Brad’s entire frame jerked. A muffled sound escaped around the gag. The sensation was immediate and humiliatingly precise. Brad had always known his nipples were sensitive; his friends had joked about it in the locker room years ago, calling them pepperonis in the casual cruelty of teenage boys who had not yet learned better. He had never had them used against him like this—deliberately, patiently, as a point of entry into the rest of his responses. Chaz repeated the motion on the other side, watching the reaction with clinical interest, feeling the way the nubs hardened further under his touch. He bent and took the first nipple into his mouth.
The suction was slow and meticulous. He used his tongue to press and circle while his free hand cupped the growing weight inside the black briefs and squeezed once, firmly, mapping the shape and the heat of it—the thick shaft, the full balls, the way it twitched against his palm. Brad’s knees buckled; Chaz held him upright with the arm around his waist and continued until the nipple was darker, wet, and distinctly swollen. He released it with a soft wet sound and moved to the other, giving it the same thorough attention. By the time he finished, Brad’s breathing had gone ragged and the front of the briefs was unmistakably tented, a spot of precum already beginning to show through the fabric. The arousal was not a choice. It arrived as a simple biological fact that Brad’s mind tried and failed to reject. He had been hard for Jacob earlier while waiting. He was hard now for entirely different reasons, and the difference was the part that had already begun to rewrite something inside him.
“Sensitive,” Chaz observed, almost to himself. “That’s useful information.”
He turned Brad again and bent him back over the desk, this time taking more care with the positioning so that the younger man’s chest and cheek were flat against the wood, cuffed hands resting in the small of his back, legs slightly spread. Chaz hooked his fingers in the waistband of the black briefs and peeled them down with both hands, slow enough that the elastic dragged across the hard glutes and the thick, already-leaking cock before dropping to the floor. Brad stepped out of them when ordered, the movement awkward with his arms locked behind him. The exposure was complete. The 7.5-inch cut cock pointed downward, heavy and flushed against the wood, the head already glistening. Chaz spread the cheeks with both thumbs and simply looked for a long moment, taking in the smooth skin, the tight pink ring, the way it clenched once under the attention, the faint scent of clean skin and lingering soap.
Brad closed his eyes. The knowledge that he was being examined this way—spread, found worth the trouble—produced a heat in his face that had nothing to do with the vodka. He had done versions of this to other people. He had looked at Jacob this way. He had looked at Gabe this way. He had never been on the receiving end of the look.
Chaz sat in the desk chair, scuffed it forward until his knees were wedged between Brad’s spread legs, and buried his face between the cheeks without further preamble. The first long, flat drag of his tongue from the base of the balls up through the cleft made Brad’s entire body lock. The second pass was slower, the tongue pressing firmly against the rim before the tip pushed inside. Brad made a broken, muffled sound that vibrated against the wood. His hard cock leaked a clear string that stretched, broke, and dropped onto the warm skin of Chaz’s inner thigh.
The sensation was unlike anything Brad had imagined. It was intimate in a way that pure penetration had never been. He had been the one who decided when a body was opened. Now he was being opened with a patience that felt almost instructional, and the worst part was that the instruction was working. His hips began to push back in small, involuntary movements despite every conscious effort to stay still. The desk creaked softly under the shifting weight. The room smelled of vodka, skin, and the growing heat of his own unwilling responsiveness.
When those involuntary movements became consistent, Chaz reached out to the dresser beside the desk and propped his phone at a careful angle. He adjusted the lens so the frame captured the desk, the cuffed wrists, the spread of the glutes, the wet shine of the hole, and the way Brad’s body responded, then tapped the screen.
"Hold still for the camera." Chaz gave the command low.
The decision to record was practical and psychological at once. Evidence was leverage. Leverage was control. Control was the only language the night still understood, and Brad, bent over the desk with Jacob’s underwear still tasting in his mouth, was learning the language from the other side for the first time.
He was being opened, he was responding, and the man doing the opening had already made certain there would be a record of both.
Then Chaz went back down and made certain the camera caught everything.
He licked and tongue-fucked the virgin hole until Brad was shaking, until the muffled moans had turned continuous and desperate, until the cock beneath him was dripping steadily. Brad understood, dimly, what the recording meant. The understanding did not stop his body from responding. He pushed back and was recorded doing it. The muffled sounds he made climbed in pitch. By the time Chaz finally pulled back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood, Brad’s face had gone from flushed to pale. Chaz played the video back at full volume. The room filled with the wet, unmistakable audio of what had just been done—the soft sounds of the tongue, the increasingly broken muffled reactions, the creak of the desk under Brad’s weight. He had been reduced to evidence. The evidence was of his own body’s refusal to stay still while another man opened him up.
Chaz picked up Brad’s phone from the desk. No passcode. He began transferring contacts with the same unhurried efficiency, scrolling through the list and sending every useful number to his own device. Family. Fraternity leadership. Names that looked like they carried weight in the O-Pi hierarchy and beyond. He did it while Brad watched from the bent position over the desk, still cuffed, still tasting the laundry detergent and Jacob, the evidence of his arousal still obvious and humiliating between his legs. When the transfer was complete, Chaz removed the gag fully and threw it on the bed.
He turned Brad’s phone in his hand so the screen faced the desk.
“Clear understanding.” A small nod toward Jacob on the bed. “You come after me, or you come after him, and every contact on this list gets the video. Your ‘daddy.’ Your ‘bros.’ Everyone who still thinks you’re the one in charge. Say you understand.”
Brad’s voice came out rough, stripped of most of its earlier swagger. “I understand.”
“Sir.”
A long pause. The muscle in Brad’s jaw jumped. The word cost him something he did not have a name for yet. It was the first formal admission that the hierarchy in the room had changed hands. “I understand, sir.”
Copyright © 2026 Trevor Carradine. All Rights Reserved. This story may not be reproduced or redistributed in any form without the express written permission of the author who may be reached via [email protected]
Author's Note: Your feedback would be very welcome! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving a rating or comment. We have about seven chapters left to go.
Disclaimer: All characters in this work are fictitious and 18+. Any resemblance to real persons ispurely coincidental. Please do not read this material if it is illegal for you to do so in your communityor country.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
