Lorenzo, a newly minted p.i., is taken aback to learn that his first case as a licensed detective involves his secret fetish—one of those rare, mysterious, and strangely hot three-legged men, or “trips”, that have started cropping up around the world in recent years. Now he has to maintain his professionalism while solving a mystery that takes him where he least expects.
Sean explained, more or less, as they walked over to the campus sports center.
In deference to the cool morning he shrugged on a shirt, a loose but very thin long-sleeved heather tee that left as little doubt where his nipples were as his sweat bottoms were disclosive of his lower endowments, and stepped into a pair of new-looking sneakers. He’d then bid Lorenzo to follow him as he tumbled noisily down the stairs and out into the radiant sunshine. As they made their way toward the school, Sean hit the high points.
It all went down two weeks ago. His housemate, Aaron Silva, a linguistics grad student at the university, had been out walking his dog in the quiet, dark neighborhood. (It turned out that the canine he’d met was Aaron’s dog, not theirs or Sean’s. His, for reasons relating to a story Sean promised to tell him someday, name was Chocky.) Dusk was settling in and it getting hard to see. Suddenly someone in dark clothes turned a corner from one of the dead-end side streets. Before Aaron knew it, Aaron was spun around with his own leash wrapped around Aaron’s legs. The two men were close all at once, like a dance, and Aaron had time to register mirrored sunglasses and a thick brown beard before the stranger’s mouth was slamming hard against his. At first Aaron was kind of stunned by the firm kiss, but the shock of the stranger’s tongue in his mouth stirred Aaron to action. He shoved the man away, hard—but the stranger was ready for him. He bent himself backward, letting Aaron unbalance himself with his own forward momentum while the stranger ducked aside. Aaron stumbled forward, and by the time he gained his footing the stranger was gone, and his leash falling away from his legs as Chocky danced around him. Aaron tried to figure out where he’d gone, but the shadows were so dark on these unlit side streets he could have been under a bush five feet away and Aaron wouldn’t have seen him.
Lorenzo thought there was zero chance this was anything but a carefully planned attack and said so. Sean agreed reluctantly, especially as Aaron had conveyed a sense that the beard might have been fake. But Sean was also sure that Aaron hadn’t had any trouble with stalkers or aggressive fans before now.
Lorenzo understood this. Something about the energy trips put out kept people generally respectful of them even when stirred to intense arousal, to the point that trip movie stars (say) had to worry about stalkers, or even intrusive paparazzi, far less than their two-legged colleagues. The trips’ semi-pacifying effect on most norms was one of the least well understood aspects of the trip phenomenon and tended to spark debates just as passionate as those about the trips’ origins and place in the universe, whether human, celestial, or metaphysical.
Aaron knew this too, and Sean’s insistence that he take steps to prevent such vulnerability was a hard sell, even if they were only temporary. For now, Sean told him, his safest option was not going out alone, and hiring someone to watch his back when he needed to be out in public, and in the end Aaron agreed, though Sean suspected it was mostly for his peace of mind, not Aaron’s.
As far as Aaron was concerned, Sean explained, Lorenzo was there for protection. But Sean wanted more—he wanted Lorenzo to get to the bottom of this, if it was possible to do so. And Lorenzo knew why. Someone with the balls to kiss a trip in public would probably try again… or, more likely, would try something even ballsier.
The thought of balls caused Lorenzo’s treacherous brain to slip sideways to the gonads sloshing around in Sean’s loose sweats as they headed into the sports pavilion before racing ahead to the double, trip-sized packages awaiting him somewhere in the complex before him. What was Aaron going to be wearing? How much would Lorenzo get to see, and how much would be left to his imagination? His own long, thick cock was achingly hard again, straining against his slacks under the lower reaches of his blazer, and he could feel his blood and his very skin gettin hot at the very idea he was about to meet his trip face to face. How beautiful would he be? Would he be so much the embodiment of Lorenzo’s deepest fantasies as to be exultant—or intolerable? Lorenzo wasn’t sure he wanted to find out, but there was no way he wasn’t going to.
Lorenzo thought they might be heading for the weight rooms, and he could feel his anticipation (and his mostly hidden dick) ramping up higher. Would they see Aaron working out? Would they go over the finer points of his case while the unknown trip was sweating with exertion doing butterflies, or bench presses, or (sharp intake of breath) squats? Perhaps they’d follow Aaron into the showers, or—no, the sauna first, then… Get a grip! Lorenzo told himself fiercely, though even this remonstrance made his hefty cock flex with excitement. Not that kind of grip, he thought, gritting his teeth. Saints and garters, how was he going to survive this gig?
They didn’t go onto the facility proper, though where presumably all kinds of sporty pastimes were protected under curving, white arch of one of those crenellated domes that always reminded Lorenzo of bouncy castles. Instead Sean lead them around it to the far side where behind tall chain-link fences an expanse of green and white tennis courts spread into the distance. It was still early enough that relatively few of them were in use; but Lorenzo’s gaze immediately riveted on the centermost court. The little crowd of rapt spectators told him their destination without having to ask.
Sean headed for the court in question and sidled through the little crowd. Heart pounding, Lorenzo followed him—and then, all at once, he got his first, overwhelming look at a man in sleeveless, three-legged tennis whites facing off against a automatic serving machine as if he were casually warming up to play tennis full-on for a month. It was him: Aaron Silva, trip, grad student, subject of his latest case and object of his every desire. Lorenzo stilled at the edge of the spectators, gripped in a panic born of far more appreciation of the man before him even than he’d feared from the moment he’d first heard Aaron was a trip. The calming sthoop… whap of serve and return the only counter to the too-muchness of the moment.
It wasn’t just that Aaron appeared almost flawlessly beautiful. His handsome features were deeply pleasing; his golden skin, only a shade lighter than Lorenzo’s, seemed so saturated with life as to be not far short of luminous; his long, lightly wavy, strawberry-sunlight hair bounced easily as he moved; and his obvious contentment warmed Lorenzo inside, cradling his soul even at a distance.
Nor was it simply that his body was magnificent, agile, and captivatingly muscled. Aaron’s powerful, bared arms and tapered torso radiated elegant, if boundless, strength; but of course it was Aaron’s legs that drew his stare, and his eyes slunk down along three lightly hairy, sun-dark, exquisitely sculpted thighs, knees, calves, and (Lorenzo licked his lips) three Nike-shod feet.
Aaron moved easily as the serving machine pivoted, Lorenzo saw, stepping or running or lunging to meet the balls being spat at him with a fluid grace that Lorenzo had until now seen only in HD video in the privacy of his bedroom. Sthoop… whap. Sthoop… whap. He used all three of his legs instinctively in the way that made the most sense: moving to the left, he stepped first with the left foot, then gained ground with the middle foot before stabilizing his new position and balance with the right, while a full on run across the court meant all three legs pumping in turn, left, middle, right, middle, left, almost too swiftly to see. And as Lorenzo traced back up those legs he had to clamp his lips closed to prevent actual drool as he took in the way those tight, white three-legged tennis shorts stretched across two separate baskets clearly struggling to hold back such prodigious dicks and round, heavy balls that Lorenzo thought he would have given his own left nut to suck on them forever.
None of that was what stopped him from following Sean out onto the court, intending (Lorenzo guessed) to turn off the serving machine so they could talk. No, what froze Lorenzo where he stood, just outside the court, gaping at the man he’d come to see was a completely unexpected recognition. Aaron wasn’t the name of a trip he recognized from his sites and newsfeeds, and there was a reason for that. Just then, as the noise of the machine’s engine fell away and the serves stopped coming, Aaron straightened from his ready stance and looked up, catching Lorenzo’s gaze all at once and piercing him with brilliant cerulean eyes that he knew better than any other man’s. Aaron Silva, it turned out, was the real name of the social media king he and millions of followers knew as Blue. Blue, the trip Lorenzo coveted most out of all the others.
Lorenzo had beat off to hundreds of trips, both the real images posted by the men themselves and the fictional versions imagined by talented artists, whether out of simple appreciation or carnal interest. But Blue was the one he dreamed about. Blue was the trip Lorenzo had sucked off and fucked and rimmed and caressed and held and kissed senseless over and over again, in nightly dreams and countless erotic afternoon reveries. He’d pictured making out with him in the shower, holding him tight against him under the pelting cascade as they kissed, rutting his belly as he rutted back to either side. He’d all but tasted the huge, salty cocks he and countless others had had no trouble extrapolating from Blue’s straining crotches in shorts and swimwear, getting off on teasing them to near eruption, edging one mercilessly before suddenly switching to the other, until they both came spectacularly in a long torrent of arcing, spattering jizz. He’d imagined… fuck, he’d imagined everything with Blue. Everything but this moment: Blue’s eyes locked with his, the other man drinking Lorenzo in with playful appreciation while Lorenzo had to keep reminding himself not to cum, all while a dozen or more half-remembered athletes and random students watched with fascinated interest.
“Is this him?” Blue—Aaron—said. The question was directed at Sean, but Aaron didn’t look away from Lorenzo, and Lorenzo was, in that moment, completely incapable of looking away from Aaron.
“Yah,” Sean’s voice said from somewhere to his left. He sounded amused. He should be furious on his friend’s behalf, Lorenzo thought somewhere in the part of his brain not blinded by Aaron’s amazingly, deeply blue eyes: after all, Lorenzo was being a total dick, standing here staring and behaving totally without courtesy, much less professionalism. He wasn’t sure how to break free of what was happening to him—he only knew that catastrophic embarrassment was imminent, assuming it wasn’t already sloshing all over him like an oil spill and he just hadn’t noticed yet.
Aaron addressed him, and the world tunneled to just them. “You look like you play,” Aaron said appraisingly, nodding down at Lorenzo’s obviously athletic physique.
“I’ve swatted a few balls,” Lorenzo said, and immediately felt his cheeks burn. Was that the cheesiest thing he’d ever said? It had to be. Stack up all the cheesy come-ons he’d ever uttered—no, ever heard—and lay them end to end, and that line would be a leviathan by comparison.
But Aaron smiled winningly. “Come play with me, then,” he said, and he managed to say it with only hint of sexual innuendo. “You can use the spare racquet in my bag.” He nodded toward a red satchel parked mid-court to one side of the net.
Lorenzo made to agree, then realized it was impossible. “I’m not dressed—” he started to say.
“We can swap bottoms,” Sean broke in helpfully.
There were some murmurs at this from the spectators around him, who seemed intrigued or titillated by the prospect of the two-legs exchanging pants so that the newcomer could play; Lorenzo was too focused on the offer itself to pay them any attention at all. It was so strange that Lorenzo was able to tear his eyes away from Aaron and actually look at the man, who was indicating the gray sweats Lorenzo had already spent plenty of time noticing. Was he actually proposing—? “What about… up top?” Lorenzo asked slowly. He was feeling slightly disoriented.
Sean shrugged, but it was Aaron who spoke. “Bottoms will be enough,” he said. Then he added with just the intimation of a wink, “Don’t you think?”
Now that he was sure now that he was being played with, just as much as the balls—the tennis balls, that is—Lorenzo tried to think of a witty reposte regarding bottoms being enough for now, but he knew he couldn’t pull it off in his present state. He’d find some other way to let Aaron know that while he loved sucking cock more than just about everything, it was Lorenzo’s hefty dick that regularly plowed Aaron’s (or, rather, Blue’s) tight, hot asses in the privacy of Lorenzo’s dreams.
Maybe Aaron wants to see my hairy chest, Lorenzo thought. The idea seemed too much like his own self-scripted erotrica to be real, but the way Aarin was looking at him, it seemed almost possible.
Play it like it’s a given he’s into you, came a stray sober word of advice. Stay in control of yourself, and this might not be a disaster.
This was so crazy. And yet… well, there was a lot of merit in gaining Aaron’s trust. Not to mention that of his close friend and housemate, who also happened to be the one paying Lorenzo’s considerable fees and expenses. More to the point, getting to know Aaron (and Sean), including their behaviors, habits, and social circle, was the first priority in finding a path to uncovering Aaron’s stalker, if stalker he was. Lorenzo had a hunch that somebody that brazen, especially with enough info to catching him the way he had, was connected somehow to Aaron’s private world more than his public one. Lorenzo would need to be completely on the inside if he were going to bring this case home—shit, that was definitely the wrong way to put it. His dick, man, his fucking dick—!
He’d best face the truth. Lorenzo’s dick was going to be hard and desperate every day all day for this whole gig, most likely. Only the certain knowledge that Aaron was used to men being incredibly aroused around him stopped him from collapsing through the asphalt straight into hell in that very moment. As for everyone else: well, who did he know in Tampa?
He glanced over to see that Sean was already walking backwards off the court toward the changing room door a few courts behind him, an inquiring expression on his boyish face. Lorenzo knew that he didn’t have much choice. This was the path he needed to take. “Lead the way,” he told him, finally unrooting his own feet and managing to track after a smirking Sean as the other man turned and trotted for the darkened doorway. Lorenzo followed him across the courts, conscious of Aaron’s bright eyes on his butt as he walked away even as Sean’s firm ass bounced suggestively in front of him—in sweatpants that were very shortly going to be hugging Lorenzo’s own ass, and his junk, too.
This… is going to be weird, he thought, as the damp tip of his dick streaked back and forth along his hip. He also knew, without a doubt, that he might just be having one of the hottest and most erotically memorable days of his life, and on that score he could not help follow see where this path was leading him.