A Good Citizen
by Wrestlr
6.
Joe had lost track of time. He had not seen daylight since he had entered the building, and he had no idea of how long he had been a prisoner.
When the light went on in his small cell, he rose to shower and shave, the grogginess of being half-asleep never fully going away because of that cooperation collar that remained locked around his neck. When he returned, his breakfast was waiting on a tray inside the door panel, and he ate alone. Then Whit arrived, black-haired and swarthy and rugged as hell in his crisp, tailored uniform, and he snapped the handcuffs to Joe’s wrists. Then Whit marched Joe, naked and not giving a damn who saw, down the long corridors to the interrogation room, Whit’s heels clicking on the flooring, his strong hand resting on Joe’s bare shoulder.
Parker was waiting to question Joe while Lefty pounded away at his keyboard, and Whit stood by, watching and listening intently.
Sometimes Joe was sure the burly cop had a hard-on going inside his pants, but Whit never offered it. When Lefty or Chet or any of the others were horny, Joe was forced to go down on them, but not Whit.
That damn machine sent Joe through another scene, always as though the events were happening to him again for the first time. Sometimes he dreamed memories from his past; other times he dreamed of tortures, nightmare punishments to make him confess, where Parker told the men to take Joe into the other room, the room that did not exist when he was awake, and they tortured and beat him. Whit laid his belt across Joe’s back and ass methodically. When Joe was returned to his cell, Lefty came in to smear his battered skin with soothing ointment and drawl about wishin’ to fuck that fine-lookin’ tail, though Joe wondered if he dreamed those times with Lefty too.
Joe ate alone. When the light went out, he slept. When the light came on, the routine began again.
“Remember Mike?” Parker asked abruptly during a questioning session.
“Yes.” Joe had worked like hell to forget about that damn Mike. But yesterday—if it had really been yesterday—a memory-scene had brushed up against Mike, and Joe had known Parker would be sure to follow up, and now he was.
“Tell me about him, Joe.”
Joe had been twenty-one. a full citizen for a couple of years, working his assigned job, getting his rocks off with guys, exercising at the local state-run gym three or four nights a week. And then he met Mike.
Mike was about Joe’s age but shorter, black-haired, an almost boyish face, a chunky muscle-solid build; and the first time Mike came tromping into the gym, Joe felt the always-ready heat in his loins but did nothing about it.
Hell, Joe could find a stud any time he wanted some action—but Mike was kind of special. Yeah, right from their first meeting, Mike was damn special. Stripped down in the showers, his youthful features were countered by the athletic maturity of his stocky physique, the glaze of dark silk across his muscle-arched chest, the size of his heavy genitals—and he had the damnedest hero-worshipping eyes when he met Joe’s gaze.
Night after night, they worked out together at the gym, and joked around afterward, and had drinks at the local bar where one or both of them could always get a blow-job from some anonymous guy in the sex room in the back, but somehow they never got a blow-job from each other. Doing sexual stuff with someone he knew seemed too risky. But, finally, Joe suggested that they have a drink at his apartment, just the two of them, something he had never done before. He had always kept his home strictly for himself.
Mike seemed to fit in, hunkering around the place, growling and griping and kidding Joe while they had a couple of drinks.
“Got a bed?” the chunky stud asked suddenly.
“Sure,” Joe chuckled. “Why?”
“I figure it’s time we hit the sack together.” Mike faced him with a grin. “I’m real good when it comes to sex, and little guys like me got a lot of pep in the sack.”
Joe found himself hugging Mike, or maybe Mike had locked up to him first, and then they were hanging onto each other, kissing, moving into the darkened bedroom, falling onto the bed together. Hell, Joe had gotten his rocks off with a hell of a lot of studs, but suddenly he was as excited as a kid at his first jerk-off session!
And for once, he did not want to hurry. Yes, his heart was a pounding kettle drum and his prick was iron-hard, but he wanted to make this experience with Mike last, not like the slam-bang, suck-or-fuck action he had always wanted before.
With dreamlike slowness, Joe ran his palms over Mike’s chunky physique, and then he began unbuttoning the stocky young man’s shirt. Shit, Joe had seen Mike stripped and cock-swinging in the gym locker room and showers plenty of times, but for the first time he was touching the full chest, the silky-sleek hairs, the dark nipples, the muscle-solid maleness—and Mike was opening Joe’s shirt and finger-stroking his bared flesh—and they both peeled off their shirts and pulled up on their knees and grabbed onto each other, face-to-face, and clamped together again, half-stripped. Horny. Willing. Something more.
Joe’s fingers found the front of Mike’s work pants and opened them, and he felt his own pants being unzipped and pushed down his thighs. His rigid cock snapped forward and met Mike’s, and they continued to hold each other. Joe wanted to say something, to tell Mike how special-great he felt—like never before, dammit!—but the words refused to come.
They eased back down on the bed, squirmed out of their pants, lying clenched together, stripped and prick-hard, horny as hell but not rushing it. Joe rose on one elbow and gazed down at Mike, the boyish face, the short and stocky physique, the muscled shoulders and arms, the barreled, hair-washed chest, the taut, breath-quivering abdomen, the full-swollen cock arched back against the pale, flattened belly.
“You’re hung damn big, Mike.”
“So’re you.”
Joe bent down and ran his lips over Mike’s chest, lapped at the hair and hard-tipped nipples, worked lower and lower—until, yeah, he was sucking Mike’s nuts, his cock; and the hunky stud was twisting to suck him at the same time. Thrashing together, orgasm hit quickly, and they soared into the full fury of their shared too-soon climaxes, and Joe drank down Mike’s exploding cum as he poured his own load into the hungry stud’s throat.
Slowly, lazily, Joe descended from the summit, and he wondered if he had ever felt this damn satisfied before. He licked Mike’s massive, still-rigid prick clean and reluctantly released it, and he felt Mike roll free from his own cock.
“Say something, Joe.”
“I ... don’t know what to say.”
“Me, either.” Mike twisted back to nuzzle Joe’s genitals, then laughed happily. “I never creamed that hard before.”
“You shot like a damn geyser.”
“So’d you. We kinda match up, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
Joe lay back, unsure, half-afraid of these dangerous feelings, and then Mike was turning and scrambling up to sprawl on top of him, naked and chunky and holding on tight, nakedness to nakedness, prick against prick, no bullshit, just lying there, the short, hunky stud pressed up to him, drifting off to sleep.
Joe was no amateur at having sex with men, but he had never shacked up with any of them, and now Mike had given him no choice. Yeah, the chunky little guy had sacked-out easy as hell. Joe grinned, and held onto Mike, and dozed off himself.
And drifted awake to enjoy the relaxed maleness, to toy with Mike until he woke up with a raging hard-on. To trade blow-jobs again. And slept again. And woke with the warm sunlight pouring through the open curtains and the warm stud grinning at him.
“You sleep good, Joe.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t roll around and squash a little guy like me; you come on strong in the middle of the night; and you wake up with a rod going!”
“Crap!” Joe pulled up on his elbows and stared down at his hard cock, firmly held in Mike’s strong fingers, and then he frowned. “I’ve never spent a whole night with a guy before.”
“You sorry?” Mike asked, suddenly serious.
“Hell, no!” He grabbed the burly young man. “I’m damn glad that the first time was you, asshole!”
He felt Mike’s muscular, masculine body and powerful, aroused prick against his own, and once more he could not think of anything to say.
“This is the part I hate,” Mike grumbled at last, twisting away. “Having to get up and go to work.”
“It’s Friday,” Joe observed, watching the naked stud swing from the bed and head for the bathroom. “If you don’t have to work tomorrow ... uh, you know ... we could get together again tonight and take it easy tomorrow. If you want to?”
“Okay.”
Mike continued into the john, and Joe lay back, stroking his bared body and rigid dick. For the first time, he had spent a full night with a stud, and he had invited Mike to come back—and Mike had said okay, easily, like it was the simplest question ever.
Joe hopped out of bed and went into the bathroom, and Mike was already in the shower. Joe forced his cock to soften and took a piss, and then he climbed into the shower. Mike was faced toward the spanking spray, short and husky and bubble-butted, and Joe stepped up behind him, embraced him, held him, and felt so damn good!
“Mike—?”
“We’ve got to get to work, dammit!”
They laughed and washed up together, and Joe remembered the what-the-hell days in the school showers.
They got out and dried off and play-fought over who would use Joe’s razor to shave first, and Joe won the fight so he had to make the coffee while Mike shaved. And Mike had come into the kitchen alcove, still male-naked like Joe, and they had started the day that way, bare-assed and cock-swinging.
And that night, Mike showed up with his own shaving kit. They ended up the day the way they had started, bare-assed and cock-swinging, and locked up together in bed.
And the next morning, Joe felt so damn good about waking up with the chunky stud next to him, grinning, joking around, getting their rocks off, just being together all day long, all night long, all weekend long.
They said so long on Monday morning and met again after work at the gym, working out together and showering with the guys and going back to Joe’s apartment, and sucking each other off, and waking up together.
And Tuesday night, a night Joe usually went down to the local bar and got his rocks off with some unknown, nameless stud—
And every night that week—
Joe had always played the field before, but suddenly he was completely satisfied with Mike. He enjoyed watching the short, husky stud tromp around the apartment naked, hearing him gripe about this or that, joking and laughing with him, sharing their all-out sex, sleeping pressed together—everything!
“We fit damn good,” Mike murmured one night, lying half on top of Joe, their throbbing cocks side-by-side.
“Yeah.” Joe had his arms about Mike, and he rubbed his palms downward over the solid, muscle-marked back. “I’m getting used to shacking up with you, friend.”
“Ever had a partner?”
“Hell, no.” Partnerships were risky but mostly legal—lots of guys got into them—and the state made damn sure they kept to their Adjustment Appointment schedules to keep the passion and dangerous emotions tamped down to something like a strong friendship. Joe let his hands cup the firm, rounded cheeks of Mike’s ass. “Have you?”
“No.” He squirmed against Joe. “Maybe we should think about it? You and me?”
“Maybe.”
Joe took a deep breath, and his fingers stroked Mike’s upturned tail hungrily. Damn, he wanted to fuck the man so damn badly!
“Better get some lube,” Mike said quietly, anticipating Joe’s unasked question. “I’m a little guy, and you’re damn big, remember?”
His heart thumping with excitement, Joe rolled Mike over onto the bed, stared down at his boyish face and stocky physique, then swung his torso to reach the nightstand for the lubricant. When he turned, he saw Mike lying on his back, knees raised and vulnerable, and Joe hesitated. “Look, friend—”
“Lots of guys have screwed me before,” Mike interrupted with sureness, “but I’ve never wanted it like—you know—not like I want you to screw me right now.”
Shivering at Mike’s admission, Joe greased his inflamed prick thoroughly. Lifted the man’s legs and hooked them over his own shoulders, arching him back and exposing his deep-cleft butt. Added more lubricant to his fingertips and eased them into the shadowed valley. Found the puckered opening and massaged it gently. Felt the pulsing lips spread.
“Mike—”
“Don’t say anything, Joe. Not now.”
Joe gripped his steel-hard cock and brought the tip up to the flesh-ring, pressured, not brutally as he usually had, eased inward, saw Mike grimace and strain then relax, felt the ass-lips stretch and clamp about the collar of his invading tool, and he remembered the first time he had fucked a stud’s butt and had been so sex-hot that he feared he would pop in seconds.
He looked down and saw Mike grinning up at him, as if the hunky male knew Joe was on the verge of creaming like a damn beginner. “You damn son of a bitch!”
“Something wrong?” Mike asked with mock innocence.
“Shit!” Joe gulped a fast breath and controlled himself. “Ever have a guy shoot his load just from getting his dick up your butt?”
“Not recently.” That damned cocky half-smile.
“Well, you almost found out what it’s like!” Joe could not keep from smiling at the joking stud—and at himself! Then he pressed deeper into the warm, clenching nest, slowly, an inch at a time, deeper, deeper. Doubled back, Mike squirmed on his shoulders, adjusting to the powerful invader, and his own rigid prick slapped against his taut belly. Joe gave a final thrust and buried his rod in Mike’s ass to the root.
“Joe,” Mike whispered. “Aw, yeah, Joe!”
Joe gulped for breath, and then he began cock-pumping with gentle slowness. His eyes glazed as he watched the man thrash beneath him as if trying to increase their union, the speed, the depth, and Joe reached forward to run his hands over Mike’s muscled nakedness. He wanted to tell the chunky stud how great it was—but, shit, Fuck ’Em and Forget ’Em!
Mike jerked his legs from over Joe’s shoulders and locked them about Joe’s hips, heels digging into Joe’s back, drawing him even closer, and Joe gave in to a pleasure he had never known before.
Dammit!—Hunky, rugged partner!
Joe withdrew his ram to the crown. Hunched forward, face-to-crotch. Licked the bubbling stickiness from Mike’s swollen cock. Lapped upward. Tasted his sweat-hot flesh. Fucked his ass. Embraced him and tongue-washed his belly and chest. Plunged into him ravenously. Wanted him totally. Heard his mumbled, meaningless words. Tried to answer. Buried his face in Mike’s shoulder and humped uncontrollably.
“Joe—I’m gonna—” Mike’s thick dick convulsed against Joe’s tight-clamped stomach, cum-spurting. “Fuck! Yeah!”
And Joe wanted to get his rocks off, deep, rammed, wanted to share Mike’s ecstasy, clutched him—“Aw!” Sperm bursting loose, shooting from his ass-pressed nuts and down his channeled cock and into Mike’s guts. Blast after blast after blast. “Ah!” Like never before! More than just getting his rocks off. Soaring up to the skies. Hanging in the special world. Drifting back down. Yeah, holding onto Mike and drifting back down.
Joe held Mike as tightly as he could, but he could not keep from drifting back down, prick in ass, cum-stuck together, sweaty and male and exhausted like never before, feeling—dammit, Joe was not entirely sure what he was feeling, but it seemed so intense.
“Okay?” he asked at last. “Am I squashing you, little guy?”
“I don’t mind.” Mike ran his hands slowly over Joe’s back. “It’s kinda good, feeling your dick go soft inside me.”
“Yeah.” Joe inhaled a long, deep breath, trying for a safe distance. “We’d better clean up and get some sleep.”
“I guess so.”
Reluctantly, Joe pulled up on all-fours, eased his weary penis free from the warm, slippery flesh-ring, then swung to his feet and strode into the bathroom. Without turning on the light, he started the shower and stepped beneath the tepid spray; and a moment later, Mike joined him.
Joe was used to showering with Mike. Hell, he was getting accustomed to doing just about everything with the rugged little stud.
They lathered each other in silence, rinsed, dried off and returned to the bedroom, and Joe sprawled on his back on the bed.
“Drink, Joe?”
“Thanks.”
Mike strutted into next room and returned with two glasses of something. Joe looked over Mike’s naked maleness as he accepted one of the glasses. Their gazes met, and they both grinned. Joe took a deep swallow, not caring what he was drinking, and then he felt Mike settle back next to him, using his shoulder for a pillow.
“Worn out, Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too.” Mike drained his glass. “It was damn good, friend.”
“Yeah.”
Joe wished he could think of something to say besides yeah, and he wondered what being Mike’s partner would be like, waking up together every morning, lying together like this every night, committing himself—shit, Fuck ’Em and Forget ’Em!
They lay in silence, and then Mike slid over to lie flat on top of Joe, the side of his face pressed to the man’s shoulder. “Ever been fucked, Joe?”
“A couple of times.” He wrapped his arms about Mike automatically, rubbing his back and ass. “I don’t go that route.”
“I want to fuck you.”
“Bullshit,” Joe chuckled, working his relaxed genitals against Mike’s. “You’re as worn-out as I am, friend.”
“Tomorrow night,” Mike said quietly. “I want to make you feel as good as I did when I had your prick screwed up my butt.”
Joe knew that Mike wanted more than just another fuck-and-forget session, and he wondered what the experience would be like, to lie back and spread his buns for the muscular man’s powerful, rigid cock, to feel it pump into him, to look up and see Mike’s excitement and pleasure, to know he causing Mike’s excitement, to share Mike’s pleasure as Mike had shared his, to take the risk, to make the commitment Mike wanted him to make.
“Okay,” Joe whispered. “Tomorrow night ... partner.”
But Mike did not show up the following night, and his gear had disappeared from Joe’s apartment. Joe’s messages went unanswered. Joe never saw the husky, youth-faced stud again, and he forced himself to forget all about Mike, and he was grateful when his next Adjustment Appointment made the emotional intensity Joe had felt seem like part of the distant past, half-remembered, as if it had happened to someone else.
Yeah, Fuck ’Em and Forget ’Em—dammit!
But Joe moved from that memory into another dreamlike experience where Parker interrogated him with Lefty pounding at his keyboard steadily and Whit looked on, expressionless.
“Take Joe in the other room,” Parker instructed the guards. “He needs more exercise.”
They hauled him toward the open doorway, and he closed his eyes, resigned. He was used to the machine by now, was learning to tell memories from the dreams it induced; he knew this was not truly happening, no matter how real it seemed, but he could not break out of the images the machine forced into his head and made him experience.
The cops hung him up, arms and legs spread, his nakedness helplessly exposed. As before, they worked him over slowly, methodically, brutally. Unseen hands roamed over his bared flesh, exploring, teasing, pinching, tormenting. Clamps got attached to his nipples, and he writhed at the gnawing pain. A viselike device was hooked to his balls, and he howled in agony as it was tightened. They took him to the limits of his endurance, and then he heard the belt whistle through the air and felt it sear across his back.
Whit! Yeah, Whit was the only one who had ever whipped him!
Joe pictured the burly, black-haired policeman stripped to the waist behind him, his rugged features expressionless, his barreled chest slicked with dark fur, his muscles ridging beneath his swarthy skin as he raised the belt for a second stroke. Joe wondered if Whit were smiling as the lash ripped into him again.
“Confess, Joe!” Parker’s voice, from somewhere, or Whit’s. “Confess, dammit!”
Joe floundered in an ocean of pain, and a wave of blackness overwhelmed him.
When he regained consciousness, he was back in his cell. Was this really happening?—Or was it another dream caused by that damned machine in the interrogation room? Joe could not decide. All he knew was that he was face-down on the cot, feeling gentle fingers smear salve over the torn skin of his aching wrists.
“Hi, Lefty.”
“Howdy, Joe.” The drawling youth sighed. “Dang it, I’ve been wearin’ myself out, rubbin’ this stuff on your hands and waitin’ fer you to wake up.”
“How come?”
“I wish to talk to you. It seems like you talk more straight-out after you’ve been whomped by that machine.” Lefty laughed at himself, self-conscious but as always honest. “I reckon I would also enjoy playin’ with that fine, little ass of yours, Joe. Awww—dang it!—I forgot to ask Whit if it’d be allowed fer me to fuck you proper!”
“What the hell’s Whit got to do with who I fuck with?”
“Well, he’s told me about how you went down on him real easy when he came to arrest you and—Well, I ain’t an officer like Whit is.”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“I reckon you’re one of the fellers who wishes to give himself to a stud in uniform,” Lefty said gently. “Don’t you worry about it ’cause suckin’ off Whit ain’t the reason you was arrested. Gulpin’ on a feller’s prick ain’t no crime, right?”
“Right, but I’ve never gone for uniforms. I’ve never—”
“How about Bill? Remember him?”
“Bill?” Joe mumbled, suddenly feeling that dazed sensation again as the machine took him into another memory. “Yeah, I remember that son of a bitch!”