The road to Perdition

by BRK   

A bad-boy down-under detective crosses one line too many and is reassigned to a remote, unheard-of town where the unusual residents welcome him with great affection.

“You’re a disgrace, Mercer,” sneered the gray-faced central member of the tribunal, his gray eyes glinting sadistically with the keen savor of his outrage. “By your actions, you have demeaned not only the New South Wales Police Force but the police forces of Queensland, Victoria, British Columbia, and Hackensack, New Jersey.”

“And you don’t even work for them,” added the tribunal member to his left unnecessarily, an older woman with short, slicked-back hair dyed that unnatural shade of black previously most associated with the tar monster that ate Tasha Yar.

“Even the wallabies are ashamed of you,” the chubby-cheeked third one chimed in. Mercer had thought he looked like a squirrel. Giving him a second look, though, he figured “squirrel molester” might be closer to the mark.

He shook his head as if to clear it of red-tape nonsense. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I live and breathe this city. I know every night club, every bartender and go-go boy—”

The dominatrix snorted. “No doubt,” she said.

“I’m a fantastic detective,” Mercer insisted. “I clear 90 percent of my cases.”

Gray-Face’s expression darkened, adding a bit of patchy scarlet to the whey. “You slept with three murder suspects this year alone!” he broke in.

“Three suspects,” Squirrel-Molester repeated, as if three were the magic number that consigned you formally to hell. “All three of whom were later found guilty.”

“Not the first one, the driver,” Mercer objected quickly. “Not the actual murder. He just, you know, drove the car, after. And, okay, before. I mean, it was his job, right?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Mercer couldn’t help being distracted by the little wave of heat that washed through him as he remembered how he’d peeled the lithe Malayan immigrant out of his well-tailored chauffeur outfit, one button at a time.

“That’s hardly—” the Dominatrix began sternly.

“And the hot widower wasn’t officially a suspect until after our little night of, hrm, passion,” Mercer persisted. “As for Richard Lattimer—well, I doubt even you, Chief Inspector,” he said, addressing the middle of his three judges, “could resist those big blue eyes or that sexy, sexy stubble. Or that perfect, round ass.” Mercer considered bringing up young Lattimer’s impressively wide, choke-a-throat cock as well, but he decided that particular detail didn’t need to be entered into the transcript.

Gray-Face harrumphed. “He killed five backpackers!” Squirrel-Molester objected hotly. “He was a goddamned serial killer!”

“A very sexy serial killer.”

The three of them glowered at him for a full five seconds. Clearing his throat very extensively, Gray-Face then spoke the words that Mercer had been dreading.

“Your career in your beloved Sydney is over, Mercer,” he pronounced with a kind of contemptuous relish. “Effective immediately, for the next year you are officially… reassigned.”

Mercer narrowed his eyes at the man. “Where exactly?” he demanded, keeping his expression defiant even as his stomach sank to his toes.

Grey Face smiled for the first time. With palpable vindictiveness he added, “As far from night life, rent boys, and civilization as can possibly be arranged.”

There was hardly anyone on the flight, just himself and a sleeping, middle-aged woman who smelled of oatmeal, tucked away in the back corner of the eight-seater turbo-prop. Mercer hated these little planes and the way they jostled and rolled in the turbulence like gods were batting them around for fun. He wasn’t afraid of flying per se, and with his rugged sandy-blond good looks and strong build he’d never risk his masculine image and admit to it if he were; but when a flight felt more like what would happen if he were an inch tall and desperately holding onto the carapace of a drunken ladybird, he figured he could justify feeling a little less sanguine about the trip than he might otherwise have been.

After a landing that he judged slightly better than smashing into the ground, he deplaned and shortly thereafter found himself alone on the edge of the tarmac, his heavy duffel slung easily over his shoulder. He looked around at the distant, rolling horizon and the wild, picturesque, utterly barista-less highland wilderness it enclosed. A strong breeze ruffled his loose black pocket tee, ticking his thin, curly chest hair.

He sighed. The tribunal had made good on their threat, and then some. Perdition, New South Wales, was the remotest, obscurest flyspeck of a town a shamed playboy city-lovin’ detective could be sent to. Mercer had never heard of the place, and he was certain no one else in the police service had, either. As exile venues went, it had to top the list. Augustus might have consigned his much-maligned daughter to the dinkiest, most unprepossessing island the Romans had ever trod, but on this occasion his shrivel-dicked bosses may just have topped the old emperor.

He was about to wonder where his ride was when a red, well-kept old ute pulled off the two-lane road and into the now abandoned-looking airport, drawing up right in front of him. The driver was visible in the open winder, a roughish, startlingly handsome thirty-something with loose dark hair, killer blue eyes, a two-day beard, and a tan, well-shaped arm folded to rest with elbow out. Even from this angle it was clear his dark blue shirt was intent on showing off the man’s naturally heavy pecs and distractingly thick shoulders. As Mercer looked up the driver made eye contact, tossing him a saucy grin that swelled his cock and sent his libido to defcon three.

“You Mercer?” he called.

Mercer smiled back. “Sure am,” he said, already feeling a warm and potentially penetrative connection. He offered a hand, and the handsome driver unfolded his arm and took it with a firm grip.

“They call me Keener,” the man said. His voice was a friendly, alluring baritone that seemed to scrape over some previously known internal erogenous zone with every syllable. The handskake felt a little strange, and a glance in the direction of their joined hands told him why: Keener, for some reason, seemed to possess one more finger on his strong, sexy hand than the usual complement.

He met the driver’s eyes, and the raised brow and the amused glint told him his little spot-check of their respective mitts had not gone unnoticed. “Uh, why Keener?” he asked, to distract himself. His natural charisma kicked in and he added with a smile, “Keener than what?”

Keener smiled back. “Just about anyone,” he said coyly. He nodded behind him. “Toss your bag in the back and get in.”

Mercer did so, dumping his duffel in the bed of the ute and jogging around the front to get in the passenger side. No sooner had he gotten in and belted than they were under way, rumbling smoothly down the long paved road into the settlement.

Mercer craned around at the unfamiliar countryside, clocking first arboreal bush, then more settled farmland. “So what do you do here?” he asked as they passed through what was obviously a vinyard, remembering that this area was known among other things for its climate-compatible wines.

“Town lackey,” Keener said casually. Then he added, “I do what needs doing.”

Mercer grinned over at him. “That right?” he said, only a touch suggestively. The grin sort of froze on his face as he took in the country boy’s long and shapely denim-clad legs. Guess fingers aren’t all he has one extra of, he thought a little dazedly, glancing up at Keener’s hands on the wheel to make sure he hadn’t imaged that, either. The sight of him was so shocking he was barely aware of the searing erection in his own jeans, burning his skin and pressing wetly into his hip.

Kenner’s grin went rakishly crooked. “You’re not going to ask?” he teased.

“Uhh, nope,” Mercer said, trying for glib. “How many legs a man has is his own business.”

Keener laughed, and even that sound tickled something pleasing and sexual on the underside of Mercer’s happy, fast-beating heart.

The town center was, as expected, small, but not as small as Mercer had expected. Constructed around a central commons adorned with shady dogwoods and gum trees and a complex abstract iron-wrought sculpture that drew the eye and invited consideration, there were several wide, well-maintained streets and even a few traffic light intersections, and the buildings were a mix of handsome heritage architecture and clean, attractive modern design. Mercer’s misgivings about his exile eased slightly with the knowledge that he was at least consigned to a place with obvious civic pride and a strong sense of community. And if the locals were anything like Keener…

As they passed through town, he got his answer. Perdition wasn’t exactly bustling on a sleepy October Wednesday, but many of the angled parking spaces along the main drag were occupied with well-kept vehicles of various vintage. A few cars and utes passed them as they went, waving a hello to Keener and casting Mercer curious looks. Maybe couple dozen pedestrians were out and about, too, walking the sidewalks or strolling the green, and Mercer worked hard to keep his cool the more of them he saw. Though they varied along most of the usual axes—age, height, hair and skin color, that kind of thing—the residents of Perdition showed a remarkable uniformity in certain key categories Mercer and his throbbing cock couldn’t help noticing. From the sample size so far, it seemed to Mercer that ninety percent of this town possessed the same four attributes: namely a Y chromosome, handsome to the point of remarkable features, a tight, hard, athletically sculpted body most male models would kill for, and the same mesmerizing configuration long, well-built legs as the supremely sexy man that sat inches to his right and was marking his reactions with quiet amusement. Many were shirtless in the warm January weather; and the minority, like Keener, wore tees, button-ups, and henleys that, while snug and form-fitting, did not hide the townsmen’s consistently impressive physiques. He wondered what the winters were like here, and whether the men here wore coats if they had to but kept up the regimen of routine shirtlessness otherwise.

Before Mercer could figure out how to ask about the sexy leg situation—and his prior remark seemed to exclude any kind of query regardless—they were pulling into an empty slot in front of a narrow, three-story brick building that, from its classic design, looked like it might be a museum or some other heritage site until Mercer saw the sign reading MUNICIPAL SERVICES.

“Here we are,” Keener said, putting the ute in park and switching off the engine. “Police on the ground floor, mayor and that lot upstairs, fire around back.”

“Sounds efficient.” They got out and headed into the building, the Mercer walking at Keener’s side to prevent the temptation to stare at the round, tripled ass he’d briefly glimpsed as Keener retrieved Mercer’s bag. He was still distracted enough by the ass in question, even without staring at it, that he surfaced from his thoughts a moment later to find they were already in the cozy bullpen of what passed for the local police HQ. A man with a quizzical smile, light brown skin, and short, platinum-blond hair was eyeing Mercer assessingly as he leaned against the back of the main public service desk, elbows behind him on the counter.

Mercer immediately noticed three things about this man. First: he was three-legged like Keener and most of the rest of the town, the middle one projecting forward slightly owing to how the booted foot rested against the back of the counter. Second: the legs in question, packed into tight police uniform trousers, looked even more long, gently muscled, and inviting than any of the rest he’d seen so far. Third: despite being in uniform as far as the lower half and wearing the regulation hat with the checkerboard band and all, he was utterly naked across the entire naked, hard-muscled, heart-poundingly godlike space in between. His abs were firm and chiseled, yet at the same time organic and natural-looking, like the soft, rippling washboard was just there in his genes next to the legs and the ludicrous levels of handsomeness and classical, perfectly proportioned silhouette. The pecs were a bit heavier than Michelangelo would have preferred in his works, perhaps, but nonetheless received full points for symmetry, distribution of heft, and perkiness of nipple. This was not to mention the narrow smudge of platinum chest hair (wait, was that his natural color?) that was the only follicular complement to his deliciously bronze and otherwise hair-free torso.

If Mercer hadn’t already been painfully hard, the very sight of this man would have done it. Fuck, if this was who he was going to be working with, he was going to have to get used to being hard all day every day. He sent up a prayer to Themis, the Greek goddess of law and order, that the station had a cold shower in it somewhere he could use on a regular basis.

“What’d you bring me, Keener?” the shirtless cop drawled, as if he were trying to deliberately first-impression himself as an easygoing country boy.

Keener grinned. “Brought you your new boss, Lover,” he said cheerily, patting him on the back and leaving his hand there. “This here’s Mercer.” He put a hand beside his mouth and stage-whispered, “He’s a city boy.”

The shirtless cop had noticed Mercer reacting to the use of the word “Lover” with a quick glance at Kenner and grinned. “Lover’s my name,” he explained, straightening from his relaxed pose to move a few steps closer to Mercer—close enough Mercer thought he could feel the man’s body heat. The action also revealed that unlike Keener the cop had a couple of inches on him, which definitely did not help Mercer’s red-lining arousal. “I love everyone,” the cop continued, adding with a rakish tilt to his smile, “Some more’n others.”

Keener was still standing close behind him, his hand resting gently but firmly against the middle of his back. Mercer felt so hot he wondered how Keener could stand the contact. “I see,” he said, his voice sounding rough.

Suddenly Lover grinned wide, as if he had been holding back to toy with the newcomer. “All right, c’mere,” he said, spreading his arms. “I’m a hugger.”

“Go on,” Keener said. “We’re pretty affectionate around here, but Lover has us all beat.” He gave Mercer a nudge, and Mercer, unable to resist the pull of Lover’s perfect body, submitted, moving into what quickly turned into a tight and very erotic bear hug. He was so wrapped up in his mortified elation at the strong, muscular embrace that it took a second for him to be aware of Keener joining them from behind, holding Mercer just as tight from the other direction. Mercer wasn’t sure at this point he wasn’t on the verge of outstripping the levels of arousal he was physically capable of and sublimating into a very horny man-vapor.

There was no way Lover wasn’t aware of the very hot, very wide erection along his hip, but the affectionate cop only settled closer against it. Lover reached down and made a quick adjustment, and then Mercer had to contend with a matching pair of similarly hard bulges, one to either side of his own. Mercer was not at all surprised at how their size seemed dramatically more massive than his own considerably above-average cock. Behind him, Keener was similar hard, shifting his erections playfully against Mercer’s ass. Mercer shuddered with need.

Lover spoke in his ear. “I’m a kisser, too,” he said genially, like he was talking about his rock-collecting hobby. “It’s pretty normal around here.”

Kenner hummed into the side of Mercer’s neck. He cleared his throat, which suddenly seemed dry. “Well,” he said, “when in Rome…”

Mercer pulled back and they they looked at one another briefly, and Lover’s small, easy smile was the most welcoming sign yet. Then they were moving into a kiss. It was brief but decidedly not chaste, and apart from almost instantly driving Mercer to a near-orgasm he barely held back, the lingering taste of it made him relaxed and serene. As his thoughts drifted he found himself wondering just how long and talented a tongue his hot, three-legged, perfectly muscled Adonis of a subordinate possessed, a question he couldn’t help but want to explore further.

As they broke and stared at each other a beat, Mercer enjoying the smile in Lover’s light-green eyes, he put an extra check mark against the man’s superior height as an advantage in situations like this—Lover’s high-riding cap hadn’t gotten in the way at all.

“And the uniform?” Mercer asked slyly after a moment, his cock—and those of his hug-partners—still impossibly hard. He let himself tentatively stroke the broad, hard back of the man he was embracing. “Do you always police the town half-naked?”

Lover grinned. “I got the hat,” he said with a wink. “Who needs a shirt to tell people who I am?”

“Uh huh,” Mercer said. “Does that go for the whole department? Us two-legs and all?”

Lover nodded. “Absolutely,” he said, and Mercer thought he might even be sincere.

“Ha-hem,” broke in a voice from the desk behind him. Mercer looked past Lover’s brawny shoulder to see a hard-bodied thirty-something redhead standing at the counter. Though not as ridiculously handsome as Lover and Keener he exuded a charismatic air of confidence that to Mercer, having worked with city bureaucracy all his life, suggested “politician.”

This was confirmed when Lover looked over his shoulder and smiled a greeting. “Afternoon, Mayor,” he said.

The Mayor—or was it his name, like Lover and Keener? Mercer wondered—gave Mercer a quick once-over. “This him?”

“This is him,” Keener and Lover agreed. Laughing, they disengaged.

A little shamefaced, and very glad of the counter that hid his erection, Mercer went to shake the mayor’s hand—then stopped. “One second,” he said, pulling off his black pocket tee and tossing it on a nearby wooden desk chair. Then, feeling self-conscious but a little liberated, he stepped forward and shook the redhead’s hand. “Call me Mercer,” he said, thinking full names not a thing around here.

“Welcome to Perdition,” the mayor said. “It so happens I have your first assignment. On my way here to greet you I noticed that there was a goat loose on the green, and it’s currently engaged in fucking the centenary pride sculpture.

Mercer snorted. “Really?” he asked.

The mayor was dead serious. Fuck, he was kind of cute up close after all. That red sandpaper stubble was pretty hot. “Really,” the man answered flatly, though his lips quirked with the ridiculousness of it all. Small town living, he seemed to be saying—it’s weird but you’ll like it.

Mercer nodded. “All right, we’re on it.” He turned to Lover. “Let’s—” He paused, noticing the steel-hard, slightly damp erections poking several inches past Lover’s snug waistband. “Uh…”

Lover looked down, then smirked back up at Mercer. “Aw, they’ll stand down soon enough,” he said, reverting deliberately to his country aw-shucks drawl. Then his gaze seemed to heat a little as he took in Mercer’s thick, hairy chest and taut abs, and he added, “Or maybe not.”

Mercer nodded slowly. Neither Keener nor, glancing over his shoulder, the mayor had any reaction to the prospect of Lover walking around town with his cocks shoving out of his uniform trousers. Maybe it was a regular thing with those monsters. “All right,” he repeated. “Let’s go. Keener, want to help us wrangle a horny goat?”

Keener’s blue eyes were glinting. “Absolutely.” As the three of them left together, the mayor leading the way and stopping to introduce him to hunk after three-legged hunk, Mercer couldn’t help thinking he might not be as much of a city boy as he thought.

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