Country roads

by BRK   

At a traffic stop on a lonesome highway, a small-town cop named Paul encounters two cocky out-of-towners, one of whom seems able to get inside Paul’s head.

Patrol Officer Paul Shanks put his 2020 Chevy Tahoe PPV in park and, in the resulting quiet, considered the vehicle he’d pulled over with a reflexive frown. Late model Camero, metallic blue. Well maintained, if a little dusty from barreling down Texas backroads like a jackass.

Virginia plates. “You’re a long way from home, suckers,” he muttered. Without taking his eyes off the offending sedan he reached for the radio handset and brought it close to his face, just out of reach of his bushy dark mustache. “Unit 5 to dispatch.”

Static. “Go ahead, Paulie. What’s cookin’?”

Paul ground his teeth, holding back his annoyed response. Chesney, the new weekday dispatcher, loved flouting procedure, especially if it involved bugging Paul. Just because a guy went to the same small-town high school with you didn’t mean everything was all beers and Fritos around the watering hole. Breaking the rules just to get under someone’s skin? Well, that was a damned insult, if you asked him. Harassment.

“Run a plate,” he gritted out tersely. He gave the state and the numbers.

“Will do. You gonna go rile ‘em?”

Paul ignored the question. “Stand by. 10-6.”

“Okie-doke.”

Replacing the handset, Paul switched off the Tahoe and climbed out, pocketing the keys and slamming the door. The noonday sun was blaring down like nobody’s business on the flat, baked earth that made up most of this end of the county. He squinted and adjusted his Aviators, waiting for his eyes to compensate. Not for the first time, he wished that the cops in this flyspeck town wore hats with their uniforms like the Troopers and the Rangers did. Heck, he thought as he stalked the twenty yards to the Camero, gravel crunching loudly under his boots, even the county sheriffs out here wore those cowboy hats. But Chief Dankworth, and his daddy, the Chief before him, thought they put people off and wouldn’t allow ‘em. So, no hats. It was a cryin’ shame.

He arrived at the driver’s side door and stared down at the window. It was still rolled up, presumably to preserve the air-conditioned chill within for as long as possible. Out-of-towners. They come someplace it’s hot, and then seal themselves up to keep cold. What was the point of that? Might as well stay where you are.

For a moment, before the window buzzed down, he was looking at his own reflection. He looked like a cop, he thought, hat or no hat. Good. He didn’t mind putting people off, especially if they’d done something wrong. Chief Dankworth could take a running jump.

A huff of cool air emerged from the car as the window lowered, quickly dissipating in the arid heat. No smell of pot, Paul noted, not that that proved there wasn’t any.

He looked the driver over carefully. Caucasian. Loose sandy blond hair, bright blue eyes. Muscular build. Youthful but not a kid. Mid-thirties, maybe. The hint of gray at the temples made him revise his age upward slightly, closer to 40, though his easy smile told Paul he was energetic and vibrant enough most folks probably thought he was considerably younger.

Those eyes, though, and that smile. Something turned over in the center of Paul’s chest as he met the driver’s penetrating, knowing gaze, and he looked away uncomfortably.

As he did so, he caught sight of something dangly hanging from the handsome driver’s left ear, and Paul’s expression hardened. Great, he thought. One of them. Why they kept coming to Texas Paul had no idea, but he wished they would stay the hell back on the coasts where they belonged.

“Problem, deputy?” the driver asked. His tone was cheerful and confident, like he was well used to handling any and all situations he found himself in through the sheer force of his personality.

Paul didn’t bother correcting him about his title. He wasn’t no sheriff, but he wasn’t about to make this traffic stop about himself. Letting the driver wait, he crouched a little to peer into the back. Groceries in three neat paper bags from Jenny’s Supermart in town sat perched on the rear bench seat. So, they were staying somewhere local for at least a couple nights, maybe longer. There were online rental properties a few miles down the highway the way the Camero was headed, out near the museum and the state park where all the trails were. Reasonable bet they were staying at one of them.

He looked past the driver at the passenger. Another handsome fellow. Middle Eastern, Paul reckoned, with dark, short-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Medium build—beefy, Paul thought, but not fat. This side of 40, like the driver. His arms sported intricate, vividly tinted sleeve tattoos that reminded Paul of his mama’s brother Raúl.

It bothered him that he liked the colorful inking. The good-natured smile rankled with him, too, like the guy was ready to find the humor in anything. He’d probably be telling his butt-buddy here all kinds of demeaning jokes at Paul’s expense the moment they drove off. They’d be laughing all the way across West Texas at the small-town cop from Nowheresville.

Bristling, he returned his attention to the driver. “License and registration,” he barked.

Immediately, the driver offered him the required documents—he must have had them ready in his hand, though Paul hadn’t noticed. The light caught on a simple titanium wedding ring as he handed them over. Paul hmphed and straightened, checking over the papers. Thomas Wakefield, aged 40, address in Raleigh. Car registration in his name. Wakefield had even included the passenger’s license as well, though it wasn’t required. Finn Elias, aged 38, same address. He grimaced, guessing he was supposed to notice the two men shared a home, and that they had done so long enough for it to be on both their licenses. Noted, he thought grimly.

Paul crunched back to the prowler without a word and called in the licenses to have dispatch run wants and warrants. Chesney responded a moment later. The car and both occupants were both clean, he said.

Maybe, maybe not, Paul grumbled. He wrote out the speeding ticket and walked back to the car, handing them back their papers. He looked at the two of them again. A couple, for sure. Two city-bred gay guys coming to small-town Texas to flaunt their perversion. It was Clint and Aaron back in 7th grade all over again. Well, he wasn’t a pudgy middle school misfit anymore to be pushed around by a pair of arrogant jock east-coast interlopers like these two.

He moved back from the door and fixed his best cop stare on the driver. “Step out of the car please, sir,” Paul said sternly, catching the blond by surprise as he was putting away his license. It wasn’t strictly necessary, or even called for, in this situation; but he wanted these two out of his jurisdiction, and a 6-foot-2, reasonably fit cop in a buzz cut, mustache, and Aviators telling you to move on usually made folks move the hell on.

He waited for the moment of panic, but it didn’t come. Instead, the driver—Thomas—gave him a wide, wicked smile that made Paul’s insides futter inexplicably.

“Sure thing, deputy,” he said agreeably. Popping open the door to the Camero, Thomas unbent himself and stood, up and up, until he was looking down on Paul from a height of at least 6-foot-5.

“Nice,” Thomas said smoothly. “I like men who are a little smaller than I am.”

The man was standing a little too close, as if to emphasize his superior height and the breadth of his shoulders in his gray, thin top. It was a loose, short-sleeved four-button Henley, with the buttons undone to show a smooth chest and a bit of cleavage. Paul already sensed, without closer inspection, how near this guy’s rangy, hard-muscled, long-legged body was meeting to the classical ideal and then some. Bodies like that were meant to be sculpted, worshipped, and emulated. Paul’s arrogant pride in his own ex-football-star’s frame, complete with an ex-footballer’s softening belly, eroded like a seashore under a hurricane. Another flutter stirred in his stomach, like this dynamic between their two bodies was somehow important and significant.

Quickly, he pulled his eyes up off of the suggestive swells of Thomas’s well-developed pecs and onto the other man’s face, but this gave him no respite. Thomas was a little too handsome, his skin was a little too touchable. Those eyes seemed almost to glow even in the blazing Texas sun, boring intrusively into him. Paul wasn’t sure if that stare was merely unlocking doors Paul had wanted kept closed and sealed forever, or if the stranger was making doors of his own that hadn’t been there before. Either way, Paul didn’t want any of it.

“Especially I like country boys like you,” Thomas went on, one corner of his lips curling salaciously. The two of them seemed to be standing slightly closer, though neither of them had moved. Repulsed and uncomfortable, Paul yearned to take a step back, maybe even retreat to his patrol car, but he’d be damned if he was going to show any weakness.

“How about you, hun?” Thomas purred, his gaze fixed on him as he leaned toward him slightly. Those eyes seemed even more intense with proximity. “You like tall, muscular, good-looking city boys, Deputy—” He glanced down at Paul’s name badge and smirked. “—Shanks? You do, don’t you?”

“You might as well give in,” offered a low, genial voice to his left. Tearing his gaze away from Thomas, Paul saw that the movement he’d clocked in his peripheral vision had been the passenger, Finn, getting out as well and positioning himself to casually lean against the front left wheel well, his tattoed arms crossed over his thick, meaty chest. His ring matched the driver’s. So why were they out here needling Paul instead of locking the door to their AirBnB and fucking like wildebeests?

“He usually gets what he wants,” Finn explained. “He’s uncannily… suggestive. Things tend to bend the way he likes.”

“Finny’s just smug because he’s immune,” Thomas added, not taking his eyes off of Paul. “But he does like to watch me work. How about you? Don’t you want to watch me, Deputy… Shanks?”

Yes, Paul thought instantly. Most of the humiliation and envy that had been churning through him a moment ago at Thomas’s superior muscular beauty was slowly twisting into an uncomfortable sexual appreciation that kind of terrified him. He did want to watch Thomas—watch him walking, easy and graceful… watch him working out, slowly honing his perfect physique… watch him slide out of these clothes, one piece at a time…

Fuck where were these thoughts coming from?

One thing was for sure, there was no way he was going to admit any of that. In case he might have given something away with his face, he tried to harden his expression. “I’m not bending the way anyone likes,” he said defiantly. “And it’s Officer, damn it. Patrol Officer Paul Shanks, Lizard Creek Police.”

Thomas smiled, and Paul prepared himself for the sneering scorn that outsiders always lavished on so-called “hick,” “backwater,” quirkily named towns like his. No malice or derision twisted Thomas’s expression, however.

“Lizard Creek,” he repeated, almost fondly, his eyes bright. “That’s adorable. Like you, Paul. You’re adorable. Like us, me and Finn. You like being adored. You crave it. And you crave the chance to adore us, too.”

Paul blinked up at him. He felt Finn’s presence, was even drawn to it, but he couldn’t look away from Thomas. I… I’m not…

His thoughts stuttered. Who would adore him? Maybe in high school, when he was still in peak condition, but now… He gulped.

Thomas seemed to guess his thoughts. They were very close now, still without either of them seeming to have moved. “You have a nice body,” he said, his smooth deep voice seeming to reach deep into Paul. “Maybe we’ll work on making it nicer.”

“Fuck, Tom,” he heard the husband’s voice say from some distance. Finn sounded impressed and aroused. “You’ve really got him. I can see it.”

Thomas—Tom?—remained focused on Paul. “You can touch my body, Paul,” he said, speaking directly into the core of Paul’s being. “It’s okay. I know you want to.”

Paul’s hand was on Tom’s firm, heavy pecs, stroking across them, before he’d even realized he was doing it. He snatched his hand away in alarm. He wasn’t one of them! Okay, so for some reason he couldn’t explain he wanted to touch Tom all over and worship his perfect body. And maybe have Tom and Finn do that to him, too. But he wasn’t—! He couldn’t—!

He shuddered with animal satisfaction as he realized he was feeling Tom up again. Fuck, he didn’t understand anything about reality anymore.

Tom’s brilliant blues seemed to become even more intense, even more the focus of Paul’s being. He could look away, but only a few inches: to admire his loose, sandy hair as it fell in tiny little cascades across his neck; or to observe his lips, which were starting to look ever so slightly dry. One of us needs to do something about that, he thought vaguely. Then his gaze snapped back to Tom’s.

“Paul, I want you to tell me. You want to tell me,” Tom said, low and rough. “Paul, how big is my cock? Is it bigger than yours?”

Helplessly, Paul slid his hand down Tom’s front, feeling the swell and curve of the thick pecs give way to a flat, chiseled abdomen. Then, in Tom’s jeans, the backs of his knuckles found a long, thick tube of hard flesh pushing out the denim.

His breathing turned shaky. He’d never felt another man’s cock before, and… he did. He did want to adore it.

Slowly, reverently, deeply shocked at what he was doing, he let his knuckles slide along the length and breadth of the flexing erection. Somehow it was a victory he wasn’t using his fingers, wasn’t gripping the boner through the fabric like a hussy.

“Well? Is it?” Tom pressed softly.

“Yes,” Paul breathed. Tom’s long, hard torpedo was at least eight inches and very thick. Paul wondered if it was cut. Easterners were more likely to be circumcised, he’d heard—

“Are you sure?” Tom asked then, scattering Paul’s thoughts.

Reluctantly, he moved his hand to cup his own wide, flat, four-inch erection. He’d always thought it was a nice cock, and Missy Sheehan had told him his erection was “beautiful”; but here was Tom, taller, handsomer, fitter, and literally twice as big as him down there.

Tom’s warm hands grasped his upper arms reassuringly. Even through his polyester uniform the firm touch was gratifying and arousing. “You are adorable,” he repeated. “You like to be adored, and you like to adore us in return.”

Yes, he thought, because there was no question that Tom’s words were true. Tom… Tom said true things.

All Paul said aloud was, “Fuck.”

Finn was suddenly standing behind him, and being sandwiched between the two men he wanted to worship made him shudder. “Why don’t we let Officer Shanks here finish his patrols,” Finn suggested. It sounded like practical advice from a practical man, casting Tom as the impulsive hedonist of the two; but Finn’s tone was just as steamy as Tom’s.

Paul felt a slip of paper being slipped into his right front pocket. “Here’s our address for when you’re off shift,” Finn cooed.

Tom winked, and then all at once Paul was bereft, abandoned in the blazing, bright sun, as both men sauntered back to their Camero and climbed in. The noises of the doors clacking shut and the engine starting up sounded unnaturally loud in the empty landscape.

He stood there for several minutes as they pulled off the gravel shoulder and onto the tarmac, tooling down the long, straight two-lane road until the little blue car vanished into the hazy distance.

Damn it, Paul thought suddenly. I forgot to give them their ticket. He glared at the horizon, half furious, half longing. Bastards! Now he had to eat a citation and hope the Chief didn’t notice one was missing from the book. Smug, sexy bastards.

And—fuck, what the hell was he going to do with this hard-on?

Paul did not drive directly to Charleyville where the rental properties all were when the early shift was over at 3 p.m., however much he had to push down a strong and inexplicable wish to do so.

Instead he walked down the three blocks to Lizard Creek’s only gym. What he needed was to pound iron and sweat his brain clear.

The impulse was strong. As he stood there in the locker room, half out of his cop uniform, it was like the keys in his pocket were physically tugging him toward his personal car (a genuine 2011 Crown Vic in cherry condition, parked back behind the tiny stationhouse) and the straight half-hour run down the narrow state highway. The same solitary, dusty road his Tom had disappeared down in his sweet blue Cam—wait, “his” Tom? Where the hell had that thought come from?

His heart twisted in angry confusion. Not “his” Tom. Sure, the taller, sexier, more perfect man had lavished all his considerable attention on Paul, forging a solid, reaffirming presence deep in Paul’s mind he couldn’t ever eradicate, but—no. No. That… that outsider was “his” nothing. His collar, maybe. If Paul ever actually served him with the ticket, that is.

Actually, he should drive down there, just to give him the ticket. That was a good reason to go. Chief Dankworth would be cheesed off with him if that ticket wasn’t processed. That was all—no other reason. Maybe he’d get to touch Tom’s chest again. Slide his hand up those sensitive flanks. If the couple were at home, in private, Tom would be more relaxed. More playful? Maybe he wouldn’t be wearing a shirt this time, and—

“Paulie, watcha doing?” asked a sing-song voice, mocking but friendly.

He blinked and met the amused hazel-eyed stare of his dispatcher and former schoolmate, Chesney, his boots off and his uniform shirt unbuttoned. Chesney had the same shift as Paul, so it wasn’t a surprise to see him yhere. What baffled Paul was the teasing tone, at least until Chesney nodded toward Paul’s densely furred chest… which Paul was currently feeling up like he was trying to get to second base with himself. Quickly he dropped his hand and glared at the other man. “Mind your own business,” he growled.

Chesney shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said amiably as he pulled off his uniform shirt and hung it on a hook in his locker. With a smirk, he gave Paul’s burly bare chest a quick ogle and added, “If you need any help with that, though, all you have to do is let me know.”

Paul glanced sharply over at Chesney. He’d always been a pretty boy, short, lean, and well-defined; the kind of guy who with a bit of dark stubble, a tank top, and a tilted-down cowboy hat could have passed for one of those image-focused country singers that were more concerned about Insta likes than their actual music. In high school they’d teased him for looking “totally gay,” not in an abusive way but the way you’d razz a girl who looked like Taylor Swift for all the silly Taylor Swift tropes people knew. Chesney had leaned into it, jokingly coming on to his alpha-male buddies and keeping up a flirty and sassy persona just to make them laugh.

He hadn’t really believed Chesney was gay. As his father had always said, women existed to be fucked and fertilized, so what point was the point of faggots in God’s creation? He’d believed in this principle, handed down from father to son on the Anglo side of his family, and his Mexican uncles on his mother’s side hadn’t spoken all that differently. Paul had modeled his relationships on it, himself in charge as was natural, not that any of them had gone very well or lasted very long. A lot of women in Lizard Creek looked at him with hate and bitterness, but at least he knew no good man could be homo.

Now, he wasn’t sure about anything. Maybe it was the passage of a few years, maybe it was his encounter with an actual gay married couple from back east earlier that day, but as Paul stared at this older, buffer, even cuter Chesney he couldn’t help thinking he sounded like he meant exactly what he had said.

Would Chesney… would he be willing to adore Paul, the way he craved?

Fuck, why was he hard?

He took a step toward the smaller man, then another. Chesney glanced up at him sidelong, workout tee in hand, one eyebrow raised.

Paul stood over him and swallowed. “Say that again,” he rasped.

Chesney looked up at him uncertainly. “Paulie—” he began.

“Say it again,” Paul repeated. He wasn’t sure what was happening, except that in place of the challenge that should have underlain these words, in his own ears he heard only supplication and lust.

Chesney tilted his head at the larger man—he seemed to have heard it, too. Slowly, he smiled, his hazel eyes glinting. Dropping the tee shirt into the bottom of his locker he raised his hands and spread them across Paul’s massy but unsculpted, fur-covered pecs. He didn’t move them yet. “Maybe I’ll say it this way,” he purred suggestively.

“With your mouth,” Paul insisted, trying to look stern.

Chesney smiled crookedly, pushing a dimple into the fringe of his perennial country-idol-style one-day beard. “You want me to smooch you, Paulie?” he taunted.

Paul, his sensations already ramped up by the physical contact he couldn’t deny he wanted, shivered at a thought he should have found repulsive. “Yes,” he grunted, pulse racing at the wrongness and rightness of what he was doing. “Kiss me.”

Chesney, his hands still splayed across Paul’s soft, hefty pecs, pursed his lips and made little back-and-forth jerks with his head, humming a staccato “mm—mm—mm” in accompaniment.

“You kiss me,” he countered.

Paul blinked at him, fighting to understand how he could be both intrigued and appalled. “You’re the one who needs to be worshipped, Paulie,” he said, adding with an up-and-down glance, “Inside and out. I can see it.” His pretty, gold-green eyes locked with Paul’s, daring and aggressive. When had Paul even noticed Chesney’s eyes, anyway? Or how long his lashes were, or any of that shit?

“Show me, Paulie,” Chesney persisted, his light, native Texas drawl thicker than usual. “Show me that need.”

Fuck you, Paul thought desperately. Unable to help himself he bent and mashed his lips against Chesney’s. But then Chesney opened for him and their tongues brushed, sending a massive illicit thrill through Paul’s ex-footballer body and making his fat, four-inch cock throb convulsively in his uniform pants like it was emitting frantic, nonstop Morse code, and Paul jerked away in alarm. Chesney’s gaze was sultry now, and accommodating.

Paul swallowed. “Adore me,” he commanded, finally releasing his innermost desire. But his voice wavered pathetically on the words, and when Chesney just eyed him knowingly he added, “Please?”

Chesney smiled wickedly and began moving his hands at last. Pleasure that was more than mere contact burned through him as Chesney’s fingers slid along his chest and outward, up his delts and around, painstakingly mapping Paul’s physical, imposing masculinity. The whole time, he held Paul’s gaze. Was this the adoration he yearned for? He needed it from Tom and Finn, and to return it to them, but this would do. Would it be even better?

Chesney was in no rush, sliding his hands slowly down Paul’s upper arms and coursing around to feel his triceps. He flexed them, and Chesney smiled, nodding. “Go ahead,” he said. “Make a muscle for me.”

Paul raised his arms reluctantly into a double-bi pose and flexed. “Nice,” Chesney said, running his hands over the rounded ridges of his biceps. “Now, hold that position.”

“What?” But Chesney was already sliding his hands down Paul’s torso, over his pecs, then his furry, soft but still more or less flat belly, and finally to the waistband of his uniform pants. Paul, startled, began to lower his arms as he stared down at the smaller, prettier man, but Chesney looked up at him sharply and Paul kept the post. Deftly, Chesney undid the pants and let them drop with a muffled clang of keys to Paul’s stocking feet, exposing his gray boxer-briefs and the jumping bulge of his extremely hard cock, the detail of his glans visible in the wet spot it had created.

Paul had to swallow a moan of protest as Chesney moved his hands around Paul’s decently firm butt and down his furry legs, giving them the same attention he’d given Paul’s torso. The pleasure of Chesney’s touch seemed to build in him, rocketing toward a point of no endurance.

Finally, the hands slid up to the elastic waistband and, excruciatingly slowly, he began peeling his briefs down, inch by inch. Paul let out a whimper, and Chesney smiled up at him. “Do a Superman,” he coaxed.

Paul glared back, his cock jumping as he planted his fists on his hips, just above his partly removed undies. Chesney went back to lowering his Fruit of the Looms, and a moment later Paul gasped as his cock jerked free of the fabric like an animal liberated from its cage, splattering precum in a little arc as it jumped to its standard position along his hip, thrust out at just the perfect angle for pleasuring by hand or mouth.

The two of them stared at it in admiration. It was perfectly hard, wide and red and ready. It had achieved its full four inches and then some, Paul thought. He must really be turned on. His mind drifted to the feel of Tom’s much larger erection under his knuckles, rigid and compelling even through thin denim. What would it be like, he wondered, if he were to be where Chesney was now, kneeling in front of Tom while those bright, almost luminous eyes gazed down at him. Could he even bring himself to—

All thought though fled his mind as Chesney wrapped his hot, skillful mouth around Paul’s cock and began working him to climax. Giving up his arms akimbo pose, Paul moaned and slid his hands into Chesney’s short, silky hair, knowing that deep down, for all the pleasure Chesney was giving him, he wanted it to be Tom’s longer, sandy-blond locks his fingers were pushing through.

Chesney’s intense fellatio was a revelation, in more ways than one. Paul had had plenty of blow jobs, some expert, some indifferent, some bitter, but none were as passionate or as effective as Chesney’s. And yet, even as orgasm welled up unstoppably in him, Paul knew that cumming with Chesney wasn’t enough. He existed to adore and to be adored, and only he, Tom, and Finn could truly fulfill that need together.

It was while imagining this threesome, this specific trio of hot, naked, unstoppably aroused men, that Paul came hugely and recklessly in Chesney’s throat. Chesney swallowed eagerly, his hands stroking Paul’s ass and thighs, and Paul let everything drain away.

Finally, Paul was done cumming. Chesney rose to his feet and gazed saucily up at him. “Well, that was unexpected,” he said, his cocky half-smirk a little spoiled by the smears of cum and spit on his lips.

I’ll say, Paul admitted, though he didn’t do it aloud. He let a finger trail along Chesney’s jaw and the downy, near-black bristles there, then turned and returned to his locker, pulling his uniform shirt back on. His heart was still pounding, and his skin itched in anticipation, knowing his plans and needs were shifting moment by moment.

“You’re not going to work out?” Chesney said. “I was looking forward to seeing you all sweaty.”

Paul pretended to sneer at him. “Some other time, queerboy,” he said, with enough deliberate irony for Chesney to know he was joking. He buttoned up the oddly tight shirt and added under his breath, “I have a speeding ticket to deliver.” He wondered a little at the weird, half-formed feeling that told him it might be the last citation he served as a Lizard Creek patrol officer.

Tom lay by the pool of his sprawling, high-end West Texas rental, basking in the still-blazing afternoon sun. He was more than aware of the mouth-watering picture he made reclining on the streamlined teak chaise lounge: a 6-foot-5 sandy-locked Antinoös in classic smoky-black Wayfarers, a well-filled rainbow-themed, black-elasticked pouch-front bathing thong the only interruption to the long, scintillating eyeful of golden, perfectly sculpted muscle. He smiled at his mental image, relaxing into the thin cushions of the lounge as though he might melt right through them. For all his beauty, he knew he was grounded, practical, and poised. Nor was he particularly obsessed with his appearance. He didn’t have to be, he thought with a tiny quirk of his lip—others eagerly performed that function for him.

He watched as his lover and husband, Finn, effortlessly lapped the forty-foot pool, the colorful mandala-themed tattoo sleeves on his arms and lower legs looking slightly iridescent in the sunlit water. Finn was the perfect partner, and his almost unique immunity to what Tom could do with a little concentration and sustained eye contact was a gift he prized even above his strange, eldrich abilities.

After a while the rhythmic splashing ceased and Finn pulled himself out of the pool, grabbing a heavy beach towel and padding around to Tom, leaving dark, distinct footprints on the sun-whitened cement. He smiled fondly at his ogling lover as he vigorously dried his powerful tawny-skinned form, making sure to let Tom admire his thick, beefy upper body and even beefier backside.

“You think he’ll come?” Tom asked, eyeing his partner through his Wayfarers.

“Like a fire hydrant,” Finn joked. Tom snorted a laugh as Finn rubbed the towel along his painted arms. “What are you planning? Something radical, or something subtle?”

Tom hummed, appreciating Finn’s ass as the other man just happened to turn it toward him, not at all minding the resulting and considerable swell in his stretchy, multihued swim thong. “Not sure,” he said. “I want to get a closer look under the hood. I did get a strong sense that he’s not used to treating women well.” He tsked cavalierly. “That will have to go.”

“Not just women, is my guess,” Finn suggested blandly, glancing up at Tom as he bent to dry his legs.

Tom nodded. He’d noticed the unwelcoming look the cop had given him when he’d spotted the earring, and how it had sharpened considerably at the sight of his non-Caucasian husband. He’d already planted a few ideas that would help erode both of these flaws in an otherwise potentially remarkable man. “Yep,” Tom agreed. “Texas is definitely better off with one less bigoted asshole.”

Finn straightened up with a grin, his white teeth splitting a thick, well-groomed obsidian beard. Tossing the towel onto the next chaise he climbed onto Tom’s, straddling his long, fine-haired legs. “Oh, don’t get rid of his asshole,” Finn said, sliding his hands up Tom’s chiseled, ideally proportioned torso. “I have plans for that.”

Tom made a pleased purring sound as Finn lowered his lips onto Tom’s, their languid kiss only broken some moments later by the sound of car tires crunching on the white gravel driveway just the other side of the 12-foot privacy fence. Finn pulled back an inch or two and smiled. “Just when I was getting all randy,” he said.

“Perfect timing, then,” Tom said, his smile matching that of his loving, equally irrepressible husband.

Paul got out of the Crown Vic and slammed the door, doing his best to ignore the erection that seemed to be seeping through his whole body, infecting his muscles and skin with its sensitivity and need. He navigated around the tall wooden fence and found the front door, shocked to see it standing ajar. His cop-sense irritation at the needless security fail was quickly drowned by the thrill he felt at the invitation. This was obviously meant for him—a personal welcome from his men.

He pushed the door open—it was blue and round at the top, as though he were entering the lair of a creature escaped from fantasy lore—and entered the large rental house, closing it behind him. Something made him pull off his boots and leave them by the door. Pocketing his Aviators, he proceeded in his stocking feet, letting his eyes adjust to the simply furnished home as he left the foyer and stole through a cool, well-equipped media room full of couches and cushions.

The rooms all seemed lived in but momentarily empty. He wanted to call out, but he knew no slasher-victim “Hello?”s were needed. They knew where he was, and the low, rhythmic music coming from the bedroom told him where he needed to go. The only other sound as he padded down the short, carpeted hallway was the crashing of his heart against his chest.

The bedroom door was ajar. When he entered he saw the largest bed he had ever seen, occupying pride of place against the main wall to his right. It lay opposite a closed sliding glass window that led into what seemed to be a pool area. The deep, quietly throbbing music came from a smartphone mounted in a dual speaker station set on a low bureau behind him.

He moved further into the center of the room, seeing no one. He considered the bed worriedly. Knowing this was a seduction he half expected rose pedals strewn across the surface and champagne chilling on a nightstand, but there were just the clean, smooth midnight-blue sheets and the thick, matching pillows, ready to stuff under his belly as he was fucked.

No, he thought. That’s not me. I’m not like that. The fact that he didn’t believe his internal protests was even more upsetting than the idea of being fucked.

He felt a warm, strong presence behind him. “Hello, Officer Shanks,” said a voice. He glanced over his shoulder quickly to see the husband, Finn. He barely had time to register the essentials—dark, mirthful eyes, thick beard, brawny bare shoulders—before another voice spoke from in front of him.

“Welcome to our home,” it said, and Paul whipped his head back to see the bristly sun-kissed chin of his Tom. He looked up, meeting those potent blue eyes. Tom’s stare seemed even stronger and more penetrating in this intimate space than it had been back at the traffic stop, and all at once Paul felt utterly exposed and open. He wondered at how little he minded.

Tom and Finn were standing close enough that he felt buffeted by their body heat in the gently cooled room. Then the space seemed to contract, and the ridge of Finn’s hard tool was brushing lightly against his clothed ass. Tom’s cock, too, was broaching the edges of his senses, the hard bulge just barely touching the tented surface of his patrol uniform trousers.

He wanted to push forward. Or back. He wasn’t even sure. His pulse was bounding and he tried to keep his breath from sounding ragged.

Tom slid his hands along Paul’s shoulders, making him shiver. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” Tom said, those intense eyes smiling down at him. “You don’t like wearing clothes. Do you, Paul?”

Paul shook his head, mutely. He really didn’t. Finn hummed from behind him, close to his ear, as he snaked his hands around Paul’s waist. He knew Finn’s intent, and he welcomed the freedom of being released from the constriction of pants. He watched Tom hopefully, waiting for those nimble fingers to move to his shirt buttons.

Tom’s face seemed to move closer. “You’ve worked so hard to build and maintain this body,” he said approvingly. “Your muscles are an aesthetic masterpiece. So worthy of adoration.”

Paul nodded, warmed by the praise. He was in better shape than ever. Not a single guy from his high school team had kept their much-admired physiques, but Paul had not only tightened his six-pack but his BMI was even lower than his senior year peak, and his pecs and delts were harder and thicker than anyone in Lizard Creek. His classic, carefully honed proportions made everyone look twice. He loved it.

Tom was finally undoing his shirt. Why was he even wearing one? At the same time, Finn was wrapped around him from behind as he undid Paul’s trousers, his steel-hard tool now pushing enticingly into the firm flesh of his well-crafted glutes.

“Your body should not be hidden,” Tom instructed as he liberated that very work of art, button by button. “You display it always. Because you are to be adored.”

He nodded. And to adore, he thought, though he could not say the words. And Tom and Finn knew, anyway. He did not have to speak aloud his core, immutable need to return their adoration of him. He raised his hands, letting them coast along Tom’s divinely muscled arms as he worked.

“The only thing you wear, when not having sex,” Tom cooed, opening the last button, “is a snug… stretchy… jock strap. Straining from your mighty prick. That is what you want.”

He nodded again. That sounded right. Then he remembered. A jock strap was open at the back. That was good—right?

In the space of a single beat of his thumping heart, Finn relieved him of his shirt and Tom pulled down his pants and briefs. He stepped out of them and they were kicked aside, and he was gloriously naked, his furry, impressively built body on full display for the pleasure of others, as it should be. His partners were equally nude, as attested by the erections now rutting lightly against his bare skin. His raging, massive erection likewise shoved along the smooth planes of Tom’s bare groin and lower abdomen. He found the feeling reassuring, like this mutual rutting showed he was the equal of these two beautiful, adoration-worthy men, all their cocks pushing and shoving sympathetically in a kind of messy, tactile harmony.

Finn’s fat uncut cock found his crease and began sliding provocatively up and down, directly past his clenching, virginal butthole. “Are you ready, beloved?” Finn asked, his low voice seeming little more than vibrations in his ear.

Paul stiffened, meeting Tom’s gaze.

“You are to be adored,” Tom reminded him, speaking only truth as always. “We will adore you inside and out. You crave to be ministered to by hands and fingers, by lips and tongues, and most of all by cocks.”

“Your cocks,” Paul clarified. He didn’t yearn for anyone to know him this way, inside and out, but Tom and Finn.

Tom smiled fondly down at him. “Our cocks,” he agreed, caressing the finely striated swells of Paul’s carefully sculpted delts. “Our tongues, too.” And he kissed Paul as Finn rutted him from behind, his tongue penetrating his mouth far deeper than Paul expected. At the same time, both men used their hands to pleasure his model-worthy muscles, gratifying him from all directions. He moaned in pleasure.

After some unknown amount of time passed, Tom broke the kiss and began kissing along Paul’s jaw. When he reached his ear, he whispered, “You are always ready for us. Ready to take us. In fact, you can take us both at the same time.” And with that, both Tom and Finn slid into him at once. Finn pushed into his lubricated, prepared, but still impossibly tight ass, while Tom shoved into a similarly ready but extremely tight opening right next to Paul’s cock, one that only he and Finn could find and gain access to. The shock of overwhelming pleasure made Paul cry out, his heart twisting as he experienced a need he had never known he had before.

Blearily he grasped at Tom’s shoulders for balance, even as Tom gripped his shoulders and Finn held him by the delicious flare of his classically perfected lats. Together, the two men made love to him for what seemed like ages, building and escalating his pleasure until finally he reached a plane of euphoria that demanded release. He pulled out of a kiss that felt as intimate and loving as the mutual penetration he was receiving below and gasped, “I’m going to—I’m—”

“Your orgasms are our orgasms,” Tom rasped. “When you cum, we cum.”

“And you cum a lot!” Finn added.

“You cum a lot!” Tom agreed. “As often and as much as humanly possible!”

“And more!” Finn urged.

“And more!” Tom shouted. “You are the god of cumming!”

Paul couldn’t hold back anymore. With a newfound sense of control he released a torrent of spunk as a colossal orgasm seized all three men at once, and as Paul came and came and came they matched him, cumming inside him in quantities that should have been beyond capability. Finally, satiation washed over him, and the triple climax ebbed slowly, letting them descend in slow, wafting curved to the planes of mundane reality.

Finn and Tom pulled their heavy, softening cocks free and Paul regretted the loss, though it was exchanged for a tight, strongly muscled three-way embrace Paul thought anyone would envy for how good it felt. The idea of this cum-soaked embrace ending, with the implication that they would separate, Tom and Finn moving on, Paul returning to his empty life—was utterly, agonizingly heartbreaking.

Tom pushed Paul back enough to look him in the eyes. He seemed oddly chagrinned and uncharacteristically unsure of himself, as though something in the encounter had gone beyond his original intent. He met Finn’s gaze, nodding, and then locked eyes with Paul, his confidence returned. “Paul,” he said, “I think being a cop is not your true calling. Maybe you want to stay with us? Share your body with us, and we’ll share ours in return?”

“You could be our hot, hairy-chested pool boy,” Finn said with a chuckle, holding Paul close from behind while miming thrusts against his ass.

Paul grinned, and Tom’s vivid blue eyes glinted in amusement. “What do you say?” Tom asked. “The uniform will be more to your liking.”

“A stretchy jock strap and nothing else,” Finn reminded him in his ear.

Paul stroked the swell of Tom’s back thoughtfully. Finally, he looked up again, meeting those beautiful eyes he never wanted to not see again.

“Just one question,” he said with a crooked half-smirk. “Can I wear a cowboy hat?”

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