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 here. 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?”

Paul reclined languidly against Tom—“his” Tom—in the long, heavy-duty lounger by the forty-foot pool behind the cozy desert rental under the still-hot crimson of the lowering late-afternoon sun, sunglasses on and straw cowboy hat pulled low, basking in the pleasure of a good meal and Tom’s hand possessively stroking his plump, hairy, perfectly sculpted chest. No, not caressing—adoring. Right now there were two things he knew more certainly than anything else: he craved adoration, and Tom and Finn loved giving it to him. These facts were revelations, unknown to him mere hours ago, and yet literally nothing could be truer. He was made for Tom and Finn to cherish with touches, mouths, and big beautiful cocks.

And cooking, maybe, he added with an inner smile. He loved cooking—who knew! When Tom had asked him, their jockstrap-clad, newly minted pool boy, to make them a nice dinner, Paul hadn’t been confident. Then Tom, just thouse few key inches taller than Paul, had moved in close and aimed those bright, soul-searching blue eyes at him, telling him he could do it, he was a natural, and he’d excited to feel the confidence billow up in him. It had actually made his big dick a touch harder, straining against the elastic of his snug, stretchy jockstrap’s wide, logo-printed waistband. The feeling of being imbued with that kind of raw self-assurance, it turned out, turned him the fuck on like only working himself into physical godliness at the gym had done before.

Tom had left him to it, but Finn had followed him into the large-ish, up-to-date kitchen and parked himself on the island counter to watch, a slight, knowing smirk on the bearded Middle-Eastern hunk’s handsome face. Paul wasn’t intimidated. They’d only known each other an afternoon, but it felt like forever, and Paul had Finn’s number. His happy was the effect Tom had on other people. Not just the initial hit of Tom’s insane, invasive charisma, either, which was a little surprising. He’d have figured the rush of one guy imposing himself on another would be like crack to someone who dug that sort of thing. Paul had sure been riled by being on the receiving end of it, in a way that was scary, unnerving, and a little thrilling. Especially in retrospect, thinking back on the first moment he’d felt that deep. penetrating stare… Finn, though, liked to watch the effects play out, too, they way you might enjoy the sculpting of an Adonis sculpture and then appreciate its newmade existence in all the days that came after, reveling in every detail… getting a job at the museum just to bask in its lines and curves… maybe feeling it up after hours when no one was looking…

Shit where had that thought come from? He was a hairy-chested ex-cop pool boy, not a pervert!

Anyway, Finn had watched, calm but attentive, making occasional conversation about things each of them had seen in their various travels as Paul made careful inventory of the contents of the fridge, freezer, and cupboards, then set about boldly making use of his kitchen confidence to craft a fine meal of cajun chicken and cornbread that surpassed even his own expectations and wowed his men at the dinner table, much to his gratification. After all, his memories told him that in his old life, as a cop, he’d mostly been a frozen-dinner-and-beer kind of guy. The last time he’d genuinely cooked for anyone had been a disastrous eat-in dinner date with Jenny Crenshaw from over to Monitor City maybe ten years back, involving heaps of burnt mac-and-cheese, an undercooked cheeseburger, and a break-up text the next day filled with frowny faces and barf emojis.

All he’d needed was a little pride, a little self-confidence, and that trusting smile he’d had aimed down at him from his Tom. It was that easy.

“You look happy with yourself,” Finn rumbled from the next lounger, that knowing smile never quite having left his lips.

Paul wanted to roll his eyes. Finn was just trying to stir the pot and get off a little more on Tom having “bent” him again. He hummed contentedly and let that be his answer.

He liked that they were both paying attention to him—it made both his holes twitch, the one in back and the secret one in front. He had an urge to switch things up and make Finn take the front seat for a change. Mostly, it was because his ass yearned to feel Tom’s perfect 8-inch tool driving deeper into him than it should be able to, as Tom murmured in his ear, narrating all the things Paul was feeling and wanted to feel, the way they had when they were face to face. On top of that, though, he kind of wanted to experience Finn’s prick up his super-tight front passage, too. It was big and beefy, like the rest of the colorfully tattooed man, and it had sure felt very nice pushing iron-hard into his tight, surprisingly eager ass.

Plus, he wanted to cum all over Finn. Buckets of cum, just to see him react. That would be hot—and funny. That was Finn to a tee, actually. He didn’t crack obvious jokes, he didn’t laugh raucously like Paul’s old bar friends, and yet hot and funny still described Finn pretty damn well.

He smiled at the image of him and the placid Finn coated with Paul’s inhumanly prodigious jizz while a big, sweaty Tom slumped satedly against him from behind, flushed and laughing.

“What’s got you so tickled?” Tom asked close to his ear. He sounded amused.

“Maybe you’ll find out,” Paul growled mysteriously. His own voice sounded rough in his ears compared to Tom’s smooth, commanding tones and Finn’s lower-registered purr, but the disparity didn’t bother him. His men liked exactly who he was and how he’d gotten this way.

Just then the doorbell rang, followed by three heavy knocks on the front door. “I’ll get it,” Paul said, jumping up and padding into the house through the glass doors before the others could react.

Moving through the relative cool of the house after enjoying the blazing late-afternoon sun for so long, Paul had an odd, slightly jarring moment of self-awareness. Had he really just jumped up to play butler for two other dudes? The old him would have sneered in disgust and called him a pussy, and that was just for starters.

He grinned as he approached the wide, sturdy front door of the rental. That was kind of the point, he thought. By some miracle, he had been completely freed from all that toxic machismo by means of a warm, adoring bright-eyed stare, a burning kiss, and a good double-fucking, and the biggest shock was what fucking relief it was. He’d heard people say they felt like they were a new man after being relieved of some kind of burden, and he’d never known the all-encompassing truth of that phrase until that very afternoon.

Turning the locks, he opened the door wide and aimed a big smile at whoever was on the front stoop. It turned out to be someone he knew very well.

Pointedly, he tipped the straw cowboy hat he’d been given as part of his new uniform at the glowering newcomer. “Chief Dankworth!” he greeted merrily. “Howdy do… sir.”

Duane Dankworth Jr. gave Paul a long, dubious look, taking in his lack of attire and out-of-character demeanor, and clearly came to a snap diagnosis derived from years of cop shows and watching his daddy do police work.

“Shanks?” he drawled, lip curled in disgust. “What the hell are you on?”

Paul leaned against the door, arms folded over his thick, furry chest, and gave Dankworth a look-see of his own. Now that he’d acknowledged his deep, carnal interest in strong, burly dudes, he could admit the young chief was a fine specimen of manly masculinity. Younger than Paul at 35, Duane Jr. had all but inherited his father’s lifetime post as Lizard Creek’s one and only police chief since the formation of the department in the wake of municipal corporation back in the 1990s. There were a few mutters of “nepo baby,” not that most people in this part of Texas had ever heard or registered the phrase, but the truth was that the young, stocky, square-shouldered man looked the part on a poster, and was the only real candidate. To Paul he was pretty boy who worked out for show, not results, like one of those smirkey muscle-douches people like Chesney jerked off to on that Instagram.

Paul had known he was the real deal, of course, not some poser like Duane Junior who didn’t even want to be chief—all Duane Junior wanted was to please his daddy, and everyone in Lizard Creek knew it. Paul had seriously pondered a run himself, back when scary Old Dank Senior was due to hang up his holsters. But a few days testing the waters with friends and important locals, none of whom honestly liked him that much outside the Brown Saddle Tavern, or had much faith in his ability to do more as a cop than physically toss drunks into jail cells, hadn’t ended up garnering much headway. It was just as well. Back then, Paul had been angry-sure he was needed on the damn roads, not pushing papers and kissing ass.

Now? Now he was happy to casually lounge here in the doorway of his men’s fancy rentral house and drunk in alla’ Pretty Boy Duane at his leisure, mirrored sunglasses, well-trimmed beard, snug uniform, and all, appreciating him for his fuckability even while knowing for absolute fact that he was ten times hotter, ten times the man Duane Junior was, and ten times luckier to escape the toxic, dead-end cop life for something more liberating and much, much more enjoyable.

Damn, that uniform was snug. Paul hadn’t cared much for the UPS-brown, short-sleeves-and-trousers patrol outfits Old Dank had ordered everyone. Partly this was on account of the polyester blend not breathing in the heat or doing much for the cold of the desert at night, and partly it was for how they managed to feel as baggy and ill-fitting as they looked. Not Duane Junior, though. Not only had he spent more time than any real man outta honing his shape in the frathouse gym before coming home to Lizard Creek, the way his uniform silhouette matched the man himself to a tee was more than a little suspicious. Had Duane Junior ordered his uniform special, with all his most intimate measurements? Taken a trip out to Archie the tailor over to Mondo Springs when no one was looking? Or had he gotten out the needle and thread and done it himself, taking in the official attire in all the right places and making sure he was the prettiest paper doll police chief he could be.

“Well? You too doped up on whatever the tourists gave you to even answer?” Dankworth sneered, hitching his thumbs in his front pockets in a way he had to know showed off his narrow waist, the sleek V of his lats, and the way his upper arms filled his shirtsleeves.

Paul gave him a lazy smile and flexed his half-hard monster dick, which pushed out his stretchy jockstrap enough to draw the chief’s attention that way, just for a flicker of a second. Duane Junior had been closer to the truth than he’d known, but there was no need to confuse things where Tom and Finn were concerned. “I’d say I’m just high on life, chief, but you used up all the chichés in your campaign,” he said.

Dankworth’s eyes narrowed behind the sunglasses, the mirroring effect not quite strong enough in the shadow of the stoop to fully obscure the chief’s judgmental haze. He seemed upset and a little confused. “What is with you, Shanks? You look all—” He hesitated, gesturing helplessly at Paul.

“Happy?” Paul guessed.

“Different,” Dankworth finished grimly, as if that were as much a code violation as drug possession or spitting on old Mayor Gorham’s twelve-year-old dog.

“How’d you even find me?” Paul asked. He knew he’d never filed that ticket he’d written on Tom, and the violation book was still here, with the rest of his discarded cop gear.

“The plate you called in,” Dankworth said tersely. “Owner’s registered here.”

“Ah.”

“And your Crown Vic is, like, right there,” he added, tipping his finely bearded chin in the direction of the front of the house. That was indeed where Paul had parked next to the cute little blue Corolla he’d pulled over, one exhilarating double-fuck and another lifetime ago.

“Right.”

The chief’s eyes flitted down to Paul’s equipment again. Paul smirked and obligingly flexed it for him a second time, making his junk swell visibly against the ribbed fabric of the jock. It felt nice to do it, and nicer for it to be appreciated, like a double-bi or a smouldering smile. Dankworth quickly looked away, first landing on Paul’s impressive chest, then jerking off to the side completely.

Paul wanted to laugh. For a guy who spent so much time in the gym, he sure didn’t know how to be around a big, heavy man-bulge in a nice, stretchy jockstrap. Maybe all his workout buddies weren’t as lucky as Paul was in that department.

“All right, Shanks, enough fucking around,” Dankworth said, still not quite looking at him. “Get some freaking clothes on and we’ll head on down to—”

“Not going anywhere,” Paul said in a relaxed tone.

“Shanks, I’m ordering you—!”

“I’m not taking orders from you,” he said tonelessly. He bit his lip, looking over the chief’s classically shaped physique in his strategically tailored brown uniform. “Might be fun to give them, though,” he mused, lips quirking at the idea.

Dankworth’s face clouded instantly. “What the hell are you—?”

Paul felt a warm, towering presence behind him and smiled as a strong hand slid over his thickly muscled shoulder. “What seems to be the problem, Sheriff?” Tom asked politely.

Paul suppressed a laugh, remembering how Tom had used that “sheriff” trick on him, too. Sure enough, the chief’s hackles were up.

“Hey, Tom, this is Chief Dankworth,” Paul said offhandedly. “New boss, meet old boss.”

Like a cat hearing a can opener, Finn silently appeared just then, leaning against the wall of the foyer just to the left of the door to watch Tom’s interactions. From his position he was able to see all three of them, but remained just out of the chief’s eyeline. Paul tossed him a wink, and Finn returned a small smile and a quick lick of his lips.

Duane Junior gave Tom an unimpressed once-over, clearly not thinking much of a guy wearing baby-blue drawstring lounge pants and nothing else, however well-muscled or charismatic he might be. “Mr. Wakefield, I presume,” the chief said gruffly after a second. “There… seems to have been a misunderstanding concerning my patrol officer, here. We—”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Tom said with a calm smile. “You know exactly what our ‘understanding’ is, don’t you? Sheriff?”

Dankworth blinked and then shivered slightly, as if his brain had filled with images he hadn’t been expecting. He glanced down at Paul’s bulge a third time before fixing his glare on Tom. “Look, Mr. Wakefield,” he said tightly. “I don’t know what exactly you folk are up to in there, but—”

“Why don’t you come in and find out?” Tom said. “You know you’re curious.” Even with Tom behind him he could feel the added potency as Tom added, “Very curious.”

Grinning, Paul straightened and pushed the door all the way open, leaning his 6-foot-2 bodybuilder frame against Tom’s larger, more elegantly powerful form. Dankworth cleared his throat, eyeing the opening into the house that had been made for him. He took a step forward, almost involuntarily, and then stopped, glancing at Tom. “I’m just coming inside to… check…” he gritted out. “With your permission… sir.”

Tom smiled beatifically, both hands now resting on Paul’s meaty shoulders. “Of course,” he said.

Dankworth cleared his throat again and walked into the house, and Paul quietly closed the door behind him.

Dankworth stalked into the living room, gradually growing more uncomfortable as has realized three intensely masculine men in various states of undress were ranged around him like tourists examining a peculiar sculpture. “Uh—I—” he stammered, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

Tom moved in closer, directly in front of him. Reaching out, he gently removed Dankworth’s mirrored sunglasses. Though he’d seen the man with his shades off many times, Paul now thought he looked oddly vulnerable without them.

Tom set the glasses aside and turned to look down into his eyes. They were all standing close now. “What’s your name?” Tom asked. Paul thought it sounded like a test somehow.

“Duane,” the young chief answered promptly, his eyes locked with Tom’s. “Folks around here call me Duane Junior.”

“Nice to meet you,” his host said. “I’m Tom.” Finn and Paul exchanged a knowing look. Finn was hard in his trunks, and Paul realized he was, too.

“What would you like to see, Duane?” Tom asked. “I know you’re curious. What are you curious about?”

Dankworth blinked at him, confused. “A-about?”

Tom gave him a small lopsided smile. “Would you like to see… me making out with my pool boy?”

Dankworth looked even more perplexed. Paul’s pulse started racing as Tom turned and bent to cup Paul’s beared cheek, pulling him into a passionate kiss that left him panting when it was over.

Paul glanced at Dankworth, whose handsome cheeks were flushed. He looked upset, staring first at Paul, then at Tom. “He’s not yours, he’s mine,” Dankworth said roughly.

Finn huffed a laugh. “There it is,” he said. “You stepped in it now, friend.”

Tom smiled, moving in even closer, so that Dankworth was forced to tilt his neck up to look at him. Finn and Paul did the same. In the cool of the house, Paul could feel the Texas heat coming off Dankworth’s uniform and body, warming his bare skin.

“It sounds like we have a problem, Duane,” Tom said reasonably. “I need a pool boy, and if it’s not Paul, maybe it’s… you?” And he moved in for a kiss that the pretty muscle-boy chief did not resist.

Paul couldn’t hold back a tiny gasp, irrationally shocked despite himself that Tom might even vocalize the prospect of taking this all-important thing from him. Of course, he knew better—Tom was playing with his new friend, just like he had with Paul, and Paul was more certain of his role in this house than he’s ever been of anything. Even so, he still appreciated Finn’s wink and the comforting stroke of his hand along Paul’s arm behind Duane’s back.

Their lips separated with an audible smack, and Dankworth let out a long, ragged breath. Paul could see that the hunky chief was just as aroused as the rest of them, though his brow was furrowed. “I can’t be your—your pool boy,” he admitted. “I have to be sher—I mean, police chief. I have to be police chief.”

Tom frowned. “Do you?” he asked. “Do you want to be police chief?”

“I want to,” he said faintly. “I want to—to serve!”

Tom’s face cleared. He smiled wide. “You do, don’t you,” he said. “You want to serve.”

Dankworth nodded earnestly. Tom slid a finger over Danksworth’s carefully sculpted chest. “You know what’s true about hunky, thick-muscled bottom-boy bodybuilder police chiefs like you?” he asked. “The ones that want to serve?”

Dankworth shook his head slightly. For a moment, his uniform now seemed too tight for some reason. Especially across the chest—the buttons were straining, the plackets bowing to show patches of tanned, melon-thick pectorals. Then it fit him again, conforming to the chief’s heavyweight proportions as it always had.

Tom bent to stage-whisper in Dankworth’s ear. “They wear their butt-plugs,” he confided.

Tom pulled back, noting Duane’s wide, rounded eyes. “Are you wearing your butt-plug today, chief? In your big, round muscle-booty?”

Dankworth shook his head. “I—I must’ve forgot.”

“Uh oh,” Finn remarked. “Bad bottom.”

“Such a bad bottom,” Paul echoed.

“No, I’m a good bottom,” Dankworth pleaded. Finn reached out to cup the nearer of Dankworth’s impressively round glutes. Paul followed suit, impressed by how incredibly firm and round it felt.

“See, if you’re not wearing your butt-plug,” Tom said, sounding disappointed, “you’re not going to be ready for Paul here when I bring him by once a week to bend you over your desk and drill you like the muscle bottom you are.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” Dankworth said anxiously. “I’ll wear it, I’ll be ready, I promise.”

Tom eyed him shrewdly as Finn and Paul stroked his ass. “See, the thing is, Paul here is big. Really big. And messy—lots of precum. And so incredibly thick,” he added. Paul beamed with pride, his ungovernable, ridiculously wide cock jabbing wetly at the upper reaches of his abs. Only his grapefruit balls and the lower few inches of his crazy-thick shaft were contained by his regulation jock, though at least the strong elastic waistband helped keep it in its preferred vertical position—when not in use.

“So you have to keep yourself ready for him,” Tom continued.

“Thus the need for the buttplug,” Finn added.

“You gotta be able to take me, sir,” Paul put in. “Not many can.”

“If fact, you’re the only one who can,” Tom finished. “Also, the only one who’s allowed. Becxause you need it so bad.”

“Th-thank you.”

“So you see,” Tom said, caressing the hugely muscled cop along his bearded chin, “you have to be ready when your service is called for.”

Dankworth was nodding. “I understand.”

Tom nodded. “Paul, maybe you could open him up a little? Just to make it easier for him to slide that gigantic buttplug in when he gets home.” To Dankworth he added, “Your uniform trousers—they all have that little gap in the seams for Paul to slide in, right?”

“Uh, yes?” Dankworth said. “Yes, I think so?”

“Should really install a zipper there,” Finn remarked.

“Uh,” Dankworth said uncertainly.

“Go ahead, Paul,” Tom said. “Just the head for now. Duane’s incredibly tight and we don’t want to split him open.”

Paul moved behind Dankworth and felt along the seam of his trousers, surprised to find a gap there just in front of where the anus would be, wide enough to accommodate his moster tool. He hadn’t noticed that there before, had he? Paul thought this was new. Good idea, though, for emergencies, because Duane Junior here could only go so long without this monster tool up his ass.

Bending his slippery cock down with some difficulty, Paul aimed it at the part and shoved.

“Oh! Oh fuck!” Dankworth shouted. “Oh god, I need that giant cock!”

“Just the head though,” Tom reminded Paul. “A little taste of that wide, wide cock. Careful, you know how powerful that cum of yours is.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Unnnhhhhhhh,” Dankworth moaned as Paul pushed the glans and a bit of shaft past Dankworth’s perpetually tight anus.

Paul let himself bask in the pleasure of his cock being swallowed by Dankworth’s always almost-virginal ass—even if it was just the first few inches. It was nice, fucking, though not nearly as hot as being fucked. He felt a surge of fresh arousal as he anticipated being on the receiving end of this feeling, twice over. Dankworth needed to leave, soon, so they could be alone and get down to some serious double-fuck lovemaking.

Suddenly, he realized what Tom had said. He looked up sharply eyeing Tom as he carried on stroking the chief’s cheek, Dankworth himself nearly insensate from the euphoria of being fucked just a little by Paul’s massive tool.

“Once a week?” he said.

Tom smiled. Paul looked at Finn, who was also smiling.

“Yes,” Tom said. “We’re staying. The three of us are staying right here.”

Paul couldn’t help himself. He started cumming, rocketing several spurts of high-pressure jizz up Dankworth’s tight channel before he could pull out, his dick instantly snapping to its usual 90-degree vertical so that the rest of his cum spattered messily all over his chest and abs, making Tom and Finn laugh as they smeared into into his skin and body hair. Paul was laughing too.

Dankworth, meanwhile was in an ecstatic daze, almost seeming drunk on that brief taste of Paul’s cum, and it took Paul and Finn both to help him back to his cruiser. “See you next week, D.J.,” Paul said, slapping him on the shoulder and closing the door.

He and Finn stood watching Dankwortgh drive off into the failing sunlight. “You sure you’re going to like it here?” he asked.

Finn chuckled deeply. “As bonuses go, you’re the best we’ve ever had. You are stuck with us, Paul, and I think there’s a lot to be had fitting this version of you into these here parts.”

Paul gave him a smirk. “I like it better the other way around,” he said.

“Good point,” Finn said, eyeing Paul’s crotch where that secret hole was, and Paul’s pulse picked up. “In fact, let’s go make that happen right fucking now.” They went inside, and Paul got what he was wishing for, that night and every night, because he was adored and gave equal adoration in return.

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