You can trust me. Everything I’m gonna tell you is true. Deputy Matt Gottfried doesn’t bullshit.

When I pulled into the dirt track leading to old Flint’s farmhouse, I sent out a notice over the radio. “Dispatch, this is one Papa Delta. My twenty is the Dusty Acres farm. I’ve got Flint in sight. I’ll see what he wants.”

Here in Jersey County, Dispatch was casual about radio protocol. “Now you take care, Matt. Judge Cutler’s got, uh, a dog in this fight, if you know what I mean.”

My jaw set. “Roger, Dispatch. One Papa Delta out.”

Fuck! Caleb Cutler. Caleb goddamn Cutler. Again.

Caleb Cutler was a delicate subject in Jersey County. His dad, Judge Cutler, wanted no one to know about the shenanigans his youngest son got mixed up with. The problem was acute this year, because Judge Cutler was up for re-election. Judge Cutler let us cops know — by the back channel — we were responsible for wiping Caleb’s nose. For whatever reason, most of the time I seemed to be the one with the Kleenex.

Flint, suntanned arms crossed as he leaned on his fence, eyed me as I drove up. Even though his cap was tugged low, I sensed his suspicion. Why Matt Gottfried again? That’s what he was thinking.

Climbing out of the cruiser, I grinned thinly. Beside Flint stood Jeremy, Flint’s eldest son. I wonder how little Jeremy explained to his Dad why I’d busted him for committing a lewd act in that truck stop restroom. That must’ve been one fucking hell of a dad/son conversation.

“Hello again, Gottfried.” Old Flint’s voice was whiskey-hoarse.

“I’m guessing,” I said, “this is about Caleb?”

“Fucker’s after my daughter again.” Flint nudged Jeremy. “Tell him, boy.”

Jeremy wore no hat. Shirtless, he looked like an anorexic scarecrow. He needed muscle. His loose jeans clung desperately to his tiny butt. Tangled locks of black hair hid his eyes. He kept his face lowered.

“Um. Um. I– I saw ’em. I thought Caleb had come over so as, you know, we could hang out. But he sent me to fetch him a Coke, and when I got back, I saw Penelope getting into that truck of his.”

“Wow. You can talk, Jeremy.” When I’d busted him, nervousness hadn’t made him gargle a bullshit explanation. Spooge, clotting the lad’s vocal cords, had done that. Jeremy had sucked a lot of cock at that truck stop.

“Ain’t that the damnedest?” growled Flint. “I had my motherfuckin’ shotgun loaded with rock salt but fucktard here –” he thumped Jeremy’s shoulder “– took his sweet time tellin’ me what was afoot!”

“I’ll bring her back.”

“Can you make him stop, huh? Can you make him stop chasin’ every girl in the fuckin’ county?”

I shrugged. “Doubt it.”

“You tell the fuckin’ judge that if his kid don’t keep his dong out of my daughter’s cunt, I’m votin’ Democratic! I’m that mad, Gottfried. I don’t want his grandson poppin’ out between Penelope’s thighs.”

“Gotcha.” I headed back towards my cruiser.

“You tell her if she’s got his spooge up her cunt, I’m gonna wash her out with the fuckin’ garden hose!”

“Where do you think they ran off to?” Jeremy called.

“Devil’s Hottub. That’s where he mostly goes.”

You get to the Devil’s Hottub by cutting down the dirt road between the Dusty Acres farm and the Guernsey Empire Dairy. Then you follow an old logging road up into the forest-clad foothills. Yep. My hunch was spot on. Tucked in a little turnout sat Caleb Cutler’s little red Nissan pickup. It was dusty. Dented. Scratched. Hay clotted with manure was strewn through the bed. The kid’s 30-30 Winchester rested in the rack. A hell-raisin’ cowboy’s truck.

I climbed out of my cruiser. I might be tall, I might’ve won my share of high-school wrestling matches, but I wasn’t about to take chances with Caleb cutler. So my nightstick went into its holder. I settled mirrored shades into place and screwed my hat down. Don’t want the wind snatching it in mid-lecture.

I eased my way down the path, walking with a bounce in my stride. Was I going to catch Caleb going at it again? Caleb in mid-fuck was a sight for sore eyes. Haunches rising, back arched, hips corkscrewing, hair flailing. Fuck if that punk didn’t know how to put on a show.

The churning waters of the Devil’s Hottub hissed and bubbled, but because of a thick bank of rhododendron I couldn’t see it. I smelled weed, and my mouth watered. Great high school memories flooded me. I used to be a hellraiser myself. Something about the musky pungency of pot smoke made me imagine a cheerleader’s fingertips stroking the underside of my nuts.

At last I heard voices. I knelt at the gap in the rhododendron I knew so well. From here I had a clear view of everything.

The Devil’s Hottub was a pool, roughly circular, that formed just before the Big Elk Creek started rushing through a gorge. Snow fed the creek, so the pool was damn near icy, and only idiots tried to swim the turbulent waters.

There he sat, on a flat, roughly rectangular boulder jutting into the Hottub. I doubted Caleb Cutler ever looked like a judge’s son. He sported long, strawberry-blond hair, indifferently trimmed. As always, it looked like it had been combed by the wind. Penelope, Flint’s daughter, huddled next to him. Both were topless. Caleb still had his jeans on. I was too far away to see if his fly was still fastened.

No need to go down there, was there? Not until there was something to break up.

Caleb had a young man’s build, sleek, streamlined, hard as chiseled steel. You find his type time and time again in the state pen, where young men have lots of time to lift weight but are on a limited-calorie diet. Impeccable definition but not much mass. Slim as a rapier, but unbreakable. Every time Caleb passed the joint to Penelope his biceps flexed and his forearms rippled.

Since Caleb treated shirts as optional equipment during the summer, he was bronze. Tribal-themed tattoos slashed his flanks from armpits to hips. A cursive scrawl lay above his left nipple; from past observation, I knew it said Born to walk alone. His back laid bare his soul. Satan’s face, executed in red and black ink, glared with predatory eyes. Between Lucifer’s horns a fire spitting skull-and-crossbones raged.

If only Janice, my wife, would let me, I’d get a tattoo. Nothing crude as Caleb’s, though. Just something to remind me of the way I used to be.

Caleb and Penelope chatted, toked, chatted again, re-lit the blunt, and toked some more. I could’ve — maybe should’ve — busted ’em for the doob. But I wanted to see him go at it. Caleb’s a poet with his hips.

Caleb smiled, touched Penelope’s arm, waggled his eyebrows, then leaped to his feet. His cheeks, upper lip, and chin were dusted with ruddy down. He let out a whoop and thumped his chest. Penelope giggled. He faced the Hottub. Caleb stripped off his jeans.

No underwear, as usual. The cowboy’s butt was sculpted to rule a bucking bronco. It was strong, squared off, and it flexed as he pranced. His furrow was tight, a slash from top to bottom, the only chink in that muscled armor. In profile Caleb’s ass looked like half a teardrop. It was trim, just like the rest of him. I pictured each cheek cupped in my palm. His butt must feel like supple doeskin. Dimples appeared and disappeared as he bobbed, preparing to dive.

Penelope shrieked: “Don’t!”

Caleb, grinning, eyed Penelope over his shoulder. Extending one arm as if to take her hand, he asked her something. She shook her head violently and hugged her legs to her torso. Caleb rolled his eyes. He looked like someone who’d just invited you to a wild party and thought you were stupid to turn him down.

Chest out, butt swaying, Caleb swaggered to the boulder’s edge. His arms shot up in classic diver’s pose. Again, he bobbed. Again, his butt dimpled. Penelope leaped up and stomped a foot.

Behind the rhododendron, I nodded silent approval. The cowboy was playing a clever game, and Penelope was moving exactly in accord with his wishes. If you’ve got Caleb Cutler’s magnetic grin, the world’s yours.

As they bickered, Caleb turned towards Penelope a bit. The next round in his game was to show off his cock. I saw it before she did. No matter how many times I’d seen it, I could never take my eyes off Caleb Cutler’s freak show.

What a fucking dong. Oh yeah. That cowboy had a horsecock.

Limp, Caleb’s firehose draped over his ginormous balls like a sand-filled athletic sock. It was ugly. Crude. A bludgeon. Fat. Swollen. Gnarled. It was knotted like a posing bodybuilder’s arm. It didn’t belong on his sleek body. It looked grafted on, stitched to his groin by Victor Frankenstein but taken from something mythic, like a minotaur or a centaur.

Christ, how could any woman stand the thought of having something so animalistic wedged inside her?

Penelope saw it. She shuddered. He pretended nothing was going on. But something serious began happening. His blunt cockhead sagged towards the boulder, almost reaching his knees before it began lurching. It struggled to bounce upright. Standing there, legs spread as if to steady himself, Caleb looked so unbalanced by his hardon that he might topple into the Hottub.

Penelope was rapt. She released her legs, swung around, ending up in a crouch. Worshipfully she looked up at Caleb’s back, and Satan glowered malevolently down at her. She said something. Caleb’s face lowered in fake embarrassment. Penelope begged again. Slowly, Caleb swung all the way round. He folded his arms across his chest, still talking as if nothing momentous was happening. Penelope didn’t hear a fucking word.

His attitude was this: What? This cock? Oh, it’s just something that, you know, is there. Caleb acted casual, but if you read him right, you’d see his bedrock cockiness.

Too heavy to smack his belly, Caleb’s dong jutted straight from his groin like a broadsword. Yeah, as if he was Arthur, his cock was Excalibur, and Penelope and I were pages about to be dubbed knights of Caleb.

Penelope babbled. Caleb’s expression subtly changed. Now his eyes glinted like Christmas sunlight on icicles. You ever see Rosemary’s Baby? Remember when good ol’ Anton LaVey pretended to fuck Frank Sinatra’s wife? Caleb was LaVey’s modern incarnation. Evil, and eager to be pleased.

Overwhelmed by Caleb’s omnipotent dong, Penelope slobbered. She waddled towards it on her knees.

Any other day I’d have let it go further, but I was in hot water with Flint. And he wasn’t kidding about a garden hose douche.

Penelope must’ve heard a twig snap beneath my boots. By the time I emerged from the rhododendron-masked path, she had covered her chest with her shirt. Caleb didn’t give a fuck. He stood right where he’d been, legs spread, arms folded, lips sneering, dong brazenly surging, balls swaying in the breeze.

The fuckhead was challenging me!

“Dep-you-tee Gottfried,” drawled Caleb. He popped the ‘p’ in deputy. “What is it with you? It’s always you. It’s fucking always you!”

“We weren’t doing anything!” Penelope shrieked. “I swear! Don’t tell Pa!”

“Don’t worry about your Pa. Let me get you back home.”

“Why? Why won’t he let me f– date who I want?” There was a wet patch on the crotch of her shorts.

I shook my head sadly. I saw the tears brimming in Penelope’s eyes. She’d wanted that dong badly. ” Get dressed, Penelope.”

Lip trembling, she looked at the smoldering roach. “I’m in deep shit.” At Caleb, she hissed: “It’s your fault, you — you — you fucking addict!”

Caleb laughed. “Hey, Penny, remember who put that joint to your lips? It weren’t me!”

“Fuck you!” She struggled into her shirt.

As she dressed, Caleb’s eyes radiated lust. Penelope, struggling into her shirt, seemed to bathe in it. But dropping his mask was just another part of Caleb’s game. He was asserting ownership of Penelope. He didn’t want me lusting for her. Stupid cowpunk. Matt Gottfried’s a family man.

“Later,” Caleb purred. “Definitely lllllllater. Right, Deputy?”

“I can’t say, Caleb. What your dad think about you smoking weed?”

Caleb smirked. “Well, since he sells it to me, I reckon he ain’t worried ’bout me smokin’ it. ”

“Let’s go, Penelope,” I said. “Mum’s the word. I’ll tell your Pa you two were just … holding hands.”

Caleb snorted. “Flint ain’t that dumb, Deputy.”

Penelope wasn’t the grateful type. She snorted as she charged past me like a bull.

Something very weird happened. I should’ve just turned and followed Penelope up the path. But I couldn’t. Rooted to the spot, I faced Caleb.

“You get stoned, Deputy?”

“No.”

“Ever been stoned?”

“Yes.” My throat was dry.

“I’d like to get stoned with you, Deputy. You’re the coolest cop on the force.” He smirked.

Again, I struggled to turn away.

“You like what you see, Deputy?” Caleb flexed his misshapen prong.

“You’re a pervert, cowboy.”

“You’re a faggot, Deputy.” His lips curled into a sneer.

My hand dropped to my nightstick. “You wanna repeat that, cowboy?”

His prong bounced with each word. “You. Are. A. Faggot.”

“Judge’s son or not I’ll rip your cock off.”

“Do it!” He eased his hips forward, presenting that gnarled tool as if he were a hot dog vendor and I was his customer. “I know you wanna touch me!” A strand of precum swayed from the tip. “Come on. Do it. I know you wanna.”

Suddenly I felt dizzy. Like I’d been drowsing on a kid’s merry-go-round and some fuckhead had given it a whirl. I almost dropped to my knees.

“I knew it.” He snorted. “You ain’t a real man. You’re just a clown. Maybe I oughta pay your wife a house call.”

I began easing my nightstick out of the holder. But only halfway. I didn’t dare expose my crotch.

Caleb snorted. He plucked the roach off the boulder, then fumbled in his discarded jeans for his lighter. As he lit up, he turned his back and sat on the boulder’s edge. He kicked his feet in the water.

“If you don’t mind, Deputy Gottfried, I’d like some privacy while I jack off.”

I gave him his privacy.

I delivered Penelope to Flint. Jeremy escorted her into the farmhouse, trying to soothe her tears. I warned Flint that I’d be back tomorrow. And that if I saw a bruise on Penelope’s body — if she hinted he’d beaten her — if his fucking garden hose even looked like it had been moved — he was going to the jail for abuse. He flipped me off as I backed down the drive.

 

Thrusting hard into Janice, puffing like a locomotive, I hoped my kids couldn’t hear the squeaking bedsprings. Surely, given how intense these last few days have been, they were used to it. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to stop. Dammit, I needed to get off!

Janice’s moans? That was a question we had both, stammering, failed with beet-red faces to answer.

I threw my head back and ground on. Fuck it! What did it matter what my kids thought? Dammit, I was fucking boned! I felt like a bonfire.

“Jesus, Matt, not so hard!”

Fine. So she needed to be calmed down. I bucked high and threw a patented Caleb Cutler-style hip-twisting thrust into her. Her complaint melted into slobber.

“Oh, I love that!” Janice gasped. “Do it again!”

I obliged. Goddamn, it was great to feel like a hellraising stud again!

Yeah, Caleb Cutler had taught me this magic. Up at the Devil’s Hottub, watching him with Penelope’s replacement. One of them, anyway. She was an out-of-county girl named Sasha. I watched them for a half-hour, hidden behind that rhododendron bank. No one had called in a complaint; I’d just seen Caleb’s red Nissan shooting down that same old dirt track, so I followed. Sasha had been stretched on that boulder beneath Caleb, spasming with each thrust. Juice had pooled on the boulder between Sasha’s legs. That ugly, mutant dong fucking ruled that girl. When my eyes flicked away from Caleb’s butt — he was gyrating like a go-go dancer; I just had to watch — I caught a glimpse of the delight — the triumph — glowing on the cowpunk’s face. Sweat glistened on his butt, and when that ass rose high enough I saw his enormous balls slung between his corded thighs. When his butt clenched for a thrust–

Suddenly my universe turned white.

“Yeah!” I thundered.

I burst, flooding the rubber. Shuddering, I collapsed onto Janice. I heard her oomph. Panting, I gathered myself. Sweat dripped from me. My prong was softening, but my balls had more to give.

Another scene flashed into my head. This one wholly imaginary.

Caleb. Penelope. His truck. An isolated road. His cowpunk hands sliding up her thighs, lifting her skirt, then appreciatively caressing her ass. Caleb throwing her down on the hood. Undoing his big belt buckle. His jeans dropping to his thighs. His butt, clenching, as he drove into her. Her squeals. Her moans. His grunts. His ass.

“Jesus, honey!” My wife thumped my chest. “You’re getting hard again! What’s got into you?”

I smiled at her, pumping my hips. I felt every muscle in my body move. Blood thundered in my ears. “I guess I’m just in love.”

“Dammit, I’m sore!”

Janice squirmed. I didn’t let up, pumping slowly, gnawing at her ear, hoping to change her mind. She grabbed my shoulders and threw me off. I folded my arms behind my head, watching her roll out of bed. My cock stood at attention. It throbbed, obsessed with being back where God intended it to be. The spunk swelling the condom looked like a big bubble of wax.

“Jesus Christ,” Janice murmured, reaching for her robe. “What has got into you?”

“Hell if I know,” I said languidly. “But I like it!” I patted the sheets. “Come on. Just a quickie.” Brazenly I thrust my hips.

She leaned over the bed and pecked my lips. “What I want, honey, is for you to get a raise, and if that’s going to happen, you’re going to have to be the good little cop and get to the station on time.” Her fist closed on my shaft. “I appreciate the complement. But. I’ve got to get the kids to school.”

After breakfast, I reassured Justine, my four-year-old daughter, that the police had swept her daycare and found no monsters. All was safe. She beamed at me as she climbed into Janice’s van. Brandan, my six-year-old, took a break from finger-combing his spiky blond hair to grinned slyly at me. He was in on the trick.

“Honey?” Janice called from the van.

“Yeah, babe?”

“You think you’re going to work late tonight?”

“Doubt it, unless something comes up.”

“You mind watching the kids? Me and the girls want to get a beer at Pedro’s after work.”

“Have fun!”

I drew patrol duty in town. Boring, but whatever. I wrote a few citations before lunch. But lunch at The Fishing Hole, a seafood joint downtown, got my blood boiling. Whoever the fuck had written my name, my phone number, and the words Jersey County’s Best Cocksucker on the bathroom stall door was going to suffer. I was tired of that shit.

I was walking out of The Fishing Hole when my radio spat static.

“Hey, uh, this goes out to all y’all deputies. Um. We just got a call from the County Superintendent. Um. You know. Mr. Ed Thorston. His, uh, son’s four-wheeler got ripped off. By these two bad guys. Um. They’re dudes. They’re white. They were seen heading west on Highway 22. Vehicle is a red recent model Nissan pickup. Tag — the tag number is three three — that’s thirty-three — uh, Hillary, Kool-Aid, fudge, teakettle –”

33 Hotel Kilo Foxtrot Tango 86. Caleb fucking Cutler. Again.

My jaw set. I slid into the cruiser. No lights, no sirens. Not yet.

Highway 22 cut across the north side of town. My timing was perfect. Something red streaked past, a strawberry-blond banner streaming from the driver’s window. I swear I saw a mocking grin. I turned and followed. He drove just five miles per hour over the limit, and he didn’t spook as I approached. A poorly-secured tarpaulin flapped, showing flashes of a four-wheeler’s fenders.

“One Papa Delta to Dispatch. You copy?”

“Oh, come on — when don’t we copy, Matt?”

“Suspect’s in sight and I’m in pursuit.”

“Um. You need to keep this real discrete, you know, Matt?”

“Dispatch, no shit. One Papa Delta out.”

My cruiser had twice the Nissan’s horsepower. He had no chance of ditching me. I rode his ass, begging him in my mind to break and run. The fucking cowpunk didn’t, casually flicking ashes out the window. A nervous face showed under the racked 30-30. Jeremy. Now I smirked.

I goosed the siren.

Caleb’s bare, lanky arm thrust out of the window and bent upwards. With all the slow grace of a flag raising ceremony at Arlington, his middle finger majestically extended to a full fuck-you-pig posture. Jeremy giggled.

Now I burned. I flicked on lights and sirens. Run, punk. Run.

Caleb’s brake lights flashed. He slowed and pulled over, his right wheels perilously close to the drainage ditch.

“Dispatch, this is one Papa Delta. Do you copy?”

“You bet, sweetie”

“I’ve stopped the suspect. There’s a four-wheeler in the bed.”

“Get him, Matt!”

I climbed out of my cruiser, my palm resting on the hilt of my Colt automatic.

“Hands where I can see ’em! On the fucking dashboard, you dumb punks!”

Jeremy, face framed by spiky, disarrayed black hair, looked as pale as it did when I busted him for sucking cock. His hands already clutched the dashboard. I snickered. Giggle at me? Giggle at Matt fucking Gottfried? The little queer would pay.

My eyes bored into the back of Caleb’s skull. He shifted in his seat, but his hands remained hidden below the window. My palm closed on the Colt. My boots crunched on the asphalt as I approached.

“Caleb! Do it! Now!”

Caleb’s stiff posture radiated contempt. Rebellion. I really thought this was going to turn ugly. Even violent. Finally, he shrugged and submitted. He lay his hands, palm up, on the dash. He grinned at me through a tangle of strawberry-blond strands. Then he batted his eyes.

“Why, Deputy!” he exclaimed in falsetto. “Don’t you look so fine in that uniform!”

“Shitcan that attitude, punk.”

“What’s the problem, dep-you-tee?” Again, Caleb popped the ‘p.’ He wore no shirt. His nipples were hard from the wind.

“You got stolen property in the bed of your truck.”

Caleb grinned. “That four-wheeler ain’t stolen. It’s Jeremy’s.” He slugged Jeremy on the shoulder. The force of his blow straddle the fence between playful and intimidating. “Ain’t I right, Jeremy?”

Jeremy’s soft, velvety lips parted to answer —

“Hang on, Jeremy,” I cut in. “Listen up. Your buddy’s setting you up for a fall. You tell me the truth, and things’ll go easier on you. ‘Specially with your Dad.”

Jeremy swallowed. His eyes nervously shifted back and forth between Caleb and me. “It’s — it’s not mine, Deputy.”

Dry as a winter wind, Caleb said, “Fuck you, Jeremy.”

“Both of you,” I snapped. “Out of the cab!”

The door creaked open. Caleb slid out. His jeans rode low, man, low. I studied the V-shaped creases running from his hips down under the sagging waistband. They ran all the way under a man’s balls, didn’t they? Hell, he showed an inch of pubic hair. Not treasure trail, but mahogany-colored pubes. The thicket was coarse as a Rottweiler-chewed rug. If those jeans slipped a millimeter lower he’d be showing cock.

“Ever been busted for indecent exposure?”

“Couple of times. But the cops were bigger faggots than you, so I didn’t need my Dad to get me off.” Again, Caleb batted his eyes. Then the smug fuckhead laughed uproariously.

I felt the hot blush rising over my face. But something in my eyes chilled him. His laughter died.

“Ah, come off it, Matt. My junk’s covered.” Caleb slipped his hands into his pockets. His jeans sagged much lower. Slowly he tugged them back up. His eyes glinted with challenge.

“Hands out of those pockets now!”

Shrugging, he pulled them out. The base of his mutant dong was visible. My blush turned purple.

“Come on, Matt!” Caleb cried. “You got me for the four-wheeler! Don’t go all nuts over a little skin!”

I said nothing, studying his groin. Just a bit more and I would —

“I’m up here, Deputy!”

“Watch it, punk.”

Caleb’s chest swelled. He looked like a MMA fighter ready for action. “You know, my Dad doesn’t like it when you call me that, Deputy.”

“He isn’t gonna like hearing you got busted. With stolen property, this time.”

I cuffed Caleb’s wrists. He was the dangerous one. Jeremy was harmless queer fluff, caught up in Caleb’s magnetism, so I left his wrists free. He whimpered a bit when I bent him over the hood for the frisk. Not from pain. The little deviant got off on being manhandled. Jeremy was going to have a swell ol’ time in lockup. Those round, smooth little globes were something to tempt guys into trying something they never thought they’d ever do.

Now for the dangerous one. I grabbed Caleb’s elbow. That crossed a line. His eyes flashed fire. Now he was ready to fight.

My chest swelled. “Swing, cowpunk. Swing. Let’s settle this.”

Fuck, let the smug shit start it! I wanted to wrestle him to the ground. Feel his wiry body straining against my muscles. My authority. Let him writhe. Let him twist. Let him buck his butt against my groin, trying to crush my balls. It wouldn’t work. Matt Gottfried was the bull here. Caleb was just a punk.

Caleb swelled with anger. Then submitted with a derisive snort.

I whirled Caleb round to face the Nissan. I stared down his naked back. Satan’s eyes taunted me. My breath caught. Were Caleb’s fingers groping towards my swollen groin? I shook my head. Nah. He was just fucking with me.

“Don’t enjoy this too much, Caleb,” I said. “Wouldn’t want your queer buddy getting ideas, would we?” I drew out the ‘u’ in buddy.

Reflex. It was just reflex. That’s why I fucked up the frisk. From habit, I started at his shoulders. It didn’t register with me until it was too late they were bare. Once I started I didn’t stop. Couldn’t admit I’d fucked up, could I?

The cowpunk’s skin was hot as fresh-baked bread. It did feel like doeskin. Caleb stared at me over his shoulder, suspicion glinting in narrowed eyes. I went on as if this were a normal frisk. My fingers slid down his tattooed flanks. He giggled like a toddler. A fucking weird sound, I tell you, reminding me of Brandon’s laugh but coming out of a strong, well-built young buck.

Caleb smelled like rut. Like he was trapped in perpetual spring, and his fancy hadn’t turned to love, but lust, golden and omnipresent and omnipotent as God Himself. I breathed the musk of a young stud, brimming with juice — a rebel whose neck was always stiff with pride.

I knelt. I patted up Caleb’s jeans from calves to thighs. I thumped him.

“Spread ’em, punk.”

A third of Caleb’s butt peered at me over the jean’s waistband. It was a sculpted, streamlined masterpiece. His furrow was tight. You couldn’t slip a playing card between his cheeks. Sunlight glinted on the peachdown dusting him. His buttocks squirmed against each other as if he gathered energy. Dimples formed on those marble-hard globes.

“Do it, punk,” I croaked. My mouth was dry. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach.

“Do what?” Caleb sounded hoarse.

“Run. I’ll catch you and beat the shit out of you!” The sweat gleaming on Caleb’s ass looked refreshing.

“Caleb Cutler doesn’t run, you fucking pig!”

I stood. His long hair had parted, hanging over his pectorals, exposing the back of his neck. The curly down below his hairline rustled from the hot breath snorting from my nostrils. Down at the base of his spine was the Y-shaped entrance to his cleft. That arrowhead pointed south into the dark valley. I knew, I positively knew, a queer like Jeremy would kill for this view.

I rummaged through Caleb’s back pockets. His buttcheeks trembled through the jeans against my fingertips. They were brick-hard, but I still didn’t know if they felt like doeskin. Finally, I realized he didn’t even have a wallet on him.

“You’re clean.”

A weird flame flickered in his eyes. It was like looking at votive candles burning on Lucifer’s altar. This fucking punk was accusing me. Me, Matt Gottfried. Again, I felt like wrestling him to the ground and showing him who was boss.

“I can do something for you, Deputy,’ Caleb said quietly and gravely, “that your wife can’t.”

“And what’s that?”

“Fuck you in your ass!”

I froze. My mind just left me. I was poor Matt Gottfried, a body filled with angry venom. I wanted something to happen. I needed something to happen.

But what?

“Talk like that again, and your Dad will be burying you.”

Caleb sniggered. “And you’ll be at my funeral, crying hardest of all!” His lip curled into a sneer, and he chuckled. His head turned away. “‘Cause you’re a faggot.” He spat onto the hood.

Jeremy’s eyes, luminous with revelation, glowed at me from the other side of the truck hood.

“That’s it, punk!”

I grabbed Caleb’s cuffed wrists and slammed him into the hood.

“Say it again, cowpunk! Say it again! ” I grabbed my nightstick. “You looking for some of that NYPD-style rough handling? ’cause I’ll give it to you, if you want me to!”

Caleb guffawed. “I knew it! I knew it! You can’t think of anything but my ass! You weren’t savin’ no girls from me — you was perving on my ass!”

I slammed Caleb down again. Hard enough to dent his hood. He shut up. Jeremy’s eyes, peering from beneath a lock of disheveled black hair, disturbed me. So did the arch to his back. It made him look as if he were offering himself.

Down at the station, I watched them book Caleb and Jeremy. Caleb’s eyes flashed with resentment. What flashed in Jeremy’s eyes gave me the creeps.

Naturally I called Judge Cutler. He shocked me, declining to make bail for his son.

“Let him stew,” said the Judge. “Maybe that’ll straighten him out.

Christine Kirk, the department’s duty nurse, walked Caleb towards a private room. She cradled a box of rubber gloves under her arm. I hurried after them. I bumped into Jeremy on his way out. He was still buttoning his shorts.

“Matt?” said Christine, surprised. “You don’t need to be here for a cavity search.”

Caleb’s eyes widened in shock.

“Caleb’s got a mean streak in him,” I said. “I’m gonna make sure it doesn’t come out.” I shut the door.

Grinning, Christine said, “OK, young Mr. Cutler, drop your jeans and get on the table.”

Christine gasped when Caleb stripped. His freak dick swayed between his thighs like an elephant’s trunk. The paper lining the examination bed crackled as he climbed aboard. Both of us watched Caleb from behind. His dong was a third leg. Long as a baby’s, just as thick, not quite as crooked, framed by his tanned thighs. You ever see those rubber nuts rednecks hang from their truck’s trailer hitches? Caleb’s sack could have been the model for them.

“Ready?” Christine asked, snapping on a glove.

“Lady,” Caleb pleaded, “I ain’t got nothin’ up my butt! I ain’t never had nothin’ up my butt –”

“That’s what they all say,” Christine said with mock weariness. “Butt up and spread ’em, cowboy!”

I was dizzy. The room smelled of him. Where was Janice when I needed her? I felt his eyes seeking mine. I snapped mine from his butt to his face.

“Don’t let her!” He begged. “Please!”

I managed a snort. “Now who’s the faggot? Do what she says and arch your back! You’re in jail. You gotta look pretty for your new boyfriends!”

His back remained level. His jaw set. His eyes shut. His fists bunched on the paper. I knew I’d scored. It felt awesome.

Caleb’s rubbery dong hung almost all the way from his groin to the table. The fat head swung just a few inches above the paper. He looked like a colt that had just dropped its cock from its sheath for a piss. There was Caleb, prize stud of Jersey County, on his hands and knees, stark naked, butt exposed, balls swaying, his tiny little pucker vulnerable and targeted.

“Ready?” barked Christine.

“Hell no!”

Christine snickered. Caleb watched the nurse pour KY onto one gloved finger.

“Y– you know, lady, there ain’t no need to be stingy!”

“You men and your dainty little assholes! Jesus, my gynecologist’s been up me to his armpits!”

She wormed her finger between Caleb’s cheeks, probing gently. Wincing, Caleb emitted a strangling sound. He jerked when she found it.

“It’s cold — aah!”

Christine stabbed in. Caleb’s head shot up. His rubbery dong flailed against his thighs, sounding like someone smacking big, meaty, moist sausages against each other.

“Jesus, Christine,” I said hoarsely. “At least you could’ve bought him a drink first.”

“He’s not my type,” Christine said drily. “Now don’t you worry about a thing, Caleb. Remember that scene in that Austin Powers movie? You know, Elizabeth Hurley and Myers in the tent? This is going to be just like that.”

Her finger sank to the webbing. Caleb’s head lolled forward like a beaten dog’s. She dug deeper, twisting it around. She hit something up there. I saw it the moment she made contact. Caleb’s eyes rolled up and a huge shudder passed through his body. Caleb’s head and butt shot up.

“Nice arch,” I said thickly. “I’ll tell your Dad. I’m sure he’ll be proud.”

“It’s your prostate,” Christine said in the weary tone of a woman thoroughly tired of fingering male rectums.

“Fuck,” Caleb sighed.

I watched it happen. The blood filled that freak cock. His ponycock grew until the head kissed the rustling paper. I watched his legs spread as if he were showing off. To me, or to Christine? I don’t think it mattered. Both of us were mesmerized as Caleb’s cock got hard. We groaned when we heard his hardon slapping his flat belly.

Christine, recovering first, eased her finger free. Caleb yelped. She stripped off the glove.

“Only thing up there is the same stuff he uses for brains. No dope. Nothing he can use for a shank.”

“I’ll take it from here.” I handed Caleb a spanking new, bright orange prison jumpsuit.

Caleb’s hardon didn’t merely strain against the baggy fabric. It christened it with a dime-sized drop of precum.

I stared him in the eye. “Welcome to jail, Caleb.”

“Fuck you, pig.”

 

I swapped duties with the guy in charge of monitoring the jail’s CCTV system. It meant night shift, but it gave Janice a break.

Jeremy went into the big pen because he was a nobody. Caleb was a somebody, so he rated one of the “special” cells. This was a single room, private except for the cameras, with cot, sink, and toilet. It had a solid door — no bars — with a reinforced glass window. We used it to distract the media from our overcrowded big pen.

Caleb slept on his back. Probably not well, because his private cell was never fully dark even after lights out. Every night, as Caleb dreamed, his cock sprang to life. I zoomed the camera in on his crotch. The county stud was boned like a teenager. Poor bastard. He was woefully shortchanged in the knockin’-boots department.

Some nights his meat pointed south, thrusting along his thigh, bouncing, wriggling, desperate for freedom outside of that baggy jumpsuit. Other nights it pointed north, his blunt cockhead spiking the jumpsuit somewhere just above his sternum, rocking like a fucking see saw up and down, up and down, all goddamned night.

The craziness came over me slowly. But it came.

I resumed jacking off. Between going cold turkey with Janice and Caleb’s nightly porn show, what choice did I have? I went through box after box of Kleenex. Then that wasn’t enough. I started using a mop and bucket to clean up.

Fascinated by Caleb, I missed the start of the shenanigans in the big pen. But one night, still shaking my goo off my fingers, I saw on one monitor Jeremy slip out of his bunk. Loose white prison Jockeys glowed in the dim light. He padded down to a nook where one of the thick brick pillars supporting the station’s upper floor blocked one of the bunkroom’s corners. There was no camera angled to inspect that nook. When another inmate eased from his bunk and strutted down there, vanishing behind the pillar while he lowered the front of his Jockeys, I knew Jeremy was kneeling back there, mouth gaping in anticipation of another lewd act.

Interesting.

The next night I got to the station early. Lights out was minutes from being called. I pulled Jeremy out of the big pen.

“I know what you’re doing, kid. You’re being stupid. It’s just as illegal here as it is in a rest room. But I like you, Jeremy. I wanna help you.”

A shy, knowing smile appeared on Jeremy’s face. He began to sink to his knees. I hauled him up.

“Not yet. Be ready after lights out. For anything. OK?”

Jeremy batted his eyes at me. Stupid queer.

It took forever for the big pen to settle down. By that time, Caleb had been dreaming of pussy for an hour. Everything was set, except for covering my tracks.

The CCTV’s software has a feature, never publicly mentioned but always taught by the vendors to users, that allows scheduled interruption of the video feed. It’s not just the CIA that has need for extraordinary renditions. You trigger the feature, and the recording gets glitched for a pre-set period.

I triggered it and moved.

I unlocked the big pen. Surprisingly, Jeremy was in his bunk, not the nook. I’d figured the cockhungry kid would’ve forgotten what was up. His luminous eyes were fixed on me. I crooked my finger, and he rose from his bunk. His cock was hard, tenting his loose Jockeys, but it was nothing compared to Caleb’s majestic monstrosity.

“Where are we going?” Jeremy asked softly as we padded down the corridor.

I didn’t answer. I fetched a towel from the closet just outside the inmate’s shower. In another minute, we stood outside the door to Caleb’s private cell.

“Let me make this clear,” I said. “I’m not the faggot. You’re the faggot. OK?”

Jeremy nodded eagerly. I unlocked the cell door, flipped the towel up, and hooked the camera mounted on the bracket above the door. A backup, in case this took longer than I’d set in the glitch switch.

Caleb snorted, gasped, then rose on one elbow. He blinked against the bright corridor light. “Huh? What the fuck, man? What the –” His hardon throbbed

I hauled Jeremy into the cell behind me and shut the door.

“Jeremy?” Caleb said sleepily.

“Get out of bed, punk,” I snapped.

The cot’s springs squealed. Caleb stood, eyeing us warily. I don’t know which disturbed him more. My narrowed eyes, or Jeremy’s nearly naked, lanky form. Jeremy wasn’t shy about showing off his hardon to his buddy.

“What’s up, dep-you-tee?”

It happened before I could stop it. My eyes flashed down to his groin. They snapped back to his face in an instant, but by then his sneering grin had formed. “It’s payback, cowpunk.”

“Payback for what?”

“Calling me a faggot.”

Caleb smirked. “But you are a faggot.” His groin eased forward. His big hardon strained against the jumpsuit. He looked pregnant. He folded his arms, cocked his head back, and eased his legs open. “You can’t hide shit like that from a guy like me.”

“I’m here to show you who’s the faggot, punk.”

He beamed. “Then on your knees, pig!”

“Jeremy! Show him who’s the faggot!”

Jeremy, tense as a cornered bobcat, looked nervously at Caleb then me. He eased towards Caleb.

Confusion clouded Caleb’s face. “Huh? You? Jeremy? What the fuck?”

Jeremy clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, Caleb, I kinda been tellin’ you some lies.”

“What’re you talkin’ ’bout?”

Jeremy simply opened his mouth. His tongue rolled out like a red carpet. His gleaming eyes pleaded with Caleb.

“Fuck,” snorted Caleb. “You mean it’s true? You mean you’re a cocksucker?”

Jeremy nodded emphatically. A drop of spit fell off the tip of his tongue.

“I know what you’re up to, pig. Fuck you. I ain’t doing it! I ain’t no fag. I’m a motherfuckin’ man!”

“No, you’re not. You’re inmate number 113455, and you belong to Jersey County.” I cleared my throat. “Unzip that jumpsuit.”

“Fuck you, pig!”

“Unzip it, punk!”

“Let me,” begged Jeremy, staring at Caleb’s hardon. “Oh God, please!”

A cunning look came over Caleb’s face. “This is your revenge, ain’t it? You’re just getting’ revenge for all those times I fucked your wife!”

I froze. The smug fucker had just smacked me where I lived. I blazed. For a moment. Then I was cold steel. The cocky shit was fucking with my mind —

“Yeah,” the cowpunk sneered, “all those times I hooked up with her at Pedro’s, she whined about how you were such a boring lay. Man, she barely felt it when you put your little dink up her. She joked ’bout how it just swished around in her like wet noodles –”

“Shut! The! Fuck! Up!”

“You ever notice how Brandon’s got my hair color?” Caleb snickered. “Fuck, Matt. You know why you’re so queer for me? ‘Cause every time you slid up Janice’s cooze my spooge was doin’ the greasing! Fuck, maybe I’ll marry her after she dumps you. She likes rich men, and I’m gonna be rich as fuck when Dad dies –”

Finally, my expression shut him down. Jeremy, feeling the tension, looked terrified.

My boots thunked on the floor. I circled behind Caleb. He tensed, expecting my nightstick to crack against the back of his skull. I studied his ragged mullet. I sniffed him. He smelled sweaty, like a locker room after a wrestling match, when the guys — victors and vanquished — are stoked, thumping their chests because they triumphed or screaming defiance against the fates because they lost.

He flashed a warning look at me.

“You better play this right,” I said. “Sometimes, us jailers slip an inmate a shank. I bet your too chickenshit to wanna die bleeding in the shower.”

“You ain’t got the balls to do it, faggot.”

The heat of his butt bathed my groin. I wanted to pull it against my crotch. Rape would terrify him, and I wanted this cocky shit a puddle of quivering tears. I didn’t make the move. Christ knew what names he’d call me after that.

I hooked my arms under his. He jumped, and glared over his shoulder. My fingers crawled over his hard chest until they found the zipper. I dragged it down his body. He squirmed.

“Don’t get romantic,” I whispered. “Not with me. Faggot.”

The zipper travelled on and on. I felt his hot slime oozing through the jumpsuit and my breath caught in my throat. Damn if this unbroken colt didn’t need to get off. My hand slid down his bulge, still drawing the zipper. He gasped, twisted, even bucked back as if he didn’t want me near his junk. His butt brushed my bulge. His wiry pubes scoured my knuckles.

“God, Caleb,” Jeremy said reverently, gazing up at his buddy’s exposed body. “I mean, Penelope told me about it, but Jesus!”

Caleb’s naked hardon, throbbing with blood and semen, brushed my fingertips. I hastily yanked them away. I didn’t want to touch his nasty equipment. That was Jeremy’s job. I slipped my fingers into the jumpsuit’s collar and slid it off his shoulders. The baggy thing fell all the way to his feet. His naked ass swayed two inches in front of my groin.

“Be nice to the faggot, Jeremy,” I whispered.

Jeremy leaned forward. Caleb twitched when Jeremy’s tongue swiped off a strand of precum. Jeremy moaned. I shivered; it was like hearing a ghost who just got his first taste of blood. Jeremy sighted down his buddy’s gnarled, twisted rod. From that perspective, Caleb’s thing must’ve looked fat as a Civil War mortar. Jeremy’s boner thrashed in his Jockeys.

“Suck that faggot’s cock,” I murmured.

Caleb’s groan started as a warning. But it transmuted when Jeremy’s lips closed behind the flare of Caleb’s cockhead, transmuting into a whimper. A whimper like a dog happy to see its master again. Jeremy’s cheeks hollowed.

I lifted a strand of hair off Caleb’s ear. “You like that, faggot?”

He started nodding rapidly, then caught himself. He tried to glare over his shoulder, but he fucked that up too.

“It’s all clear why you chase after Penelope,” I whispered. “You’re just covering what you and Jeremy get up to.”

“Bullshit!” The word exploded from between his clenched teeth.

“Maybe. But they’ll believe a cop. Not a punk.”

Jeremy’s lips, stretching thinner and thinner, slid down that shaft. A long, grateful sigh shuddered out of Caleb. Jeremy gurgled with delight. I gotta hand it to the queer. He swallowed the whole thing. It was like watching a Discovery Channel show where a snake gulps down a deer. A fat bulge sank down Jeremy’s throat, straining it to the bursting point. Jeremy didn’t gag. He seemed to be gulping, eager for more. His chin, lips, and nostrils sank into Caleb’s thicket.

Jeremy’s head bobbed. Caleb writhed.

“I ain’t gonna cum,” growled Caleb, clenching his fists. “I don’t care what you two freaks do with me, my spunk belongs to me, not some … goddamned … oh, shit! … queer!”

Let the punk swear whatever the fuck he wanted. I was in charge here, and I knew things Caleb didn’t. A man’s gotta drive his cock, and moving his butt in the poetry of sex is the only way he can do it. The cowpunk’s butt ground. He swiveled his hips. Once, things got very dangerous. His butt jerked towards my crotch. This weird feeling came over me … this feeling like I was plunging down a roller coaster. It was thrilling, and terrifying. I groaned, but his own moans drowned me out.

The show disappointed me. Caleb just wasn’t moving his butt the way I knew he could. The way I’d seen as he fucked chicks at the Hottub, or down some country road, or in a hayloft. I needed to see Caleb’s ass rise. Fall. Drive. Thrust. Twist. Skewer. Dimple.

What the fuck could I do?

A strained sound, like a man in pain, filled the cell. I thought it was Jeremy, choking to death. Wrong. It was Caleb. You ever see that old movie, The Hitcher? He writhed like that girl tied between a semi and its trailer as the maniac revved the engine. His body wanted to cum. His spirit didn’t.

“Juice him,” I whispered. “Shoot it. Come on. You know you got to … faggot!”

Gurgling, sucking noises, sounding like someone working a toilet plunger, radiated from Jeremy’s throat. Spit gushed over his chin. When his lips drew back so that he nuzzled Caleb’s cockhead, a froth of bubbles spilled from their corners. Strands of mucous painted his chest. Once he ripped his head off, craned it back, emitted a thunderous belch, then impaled his face on the cowpunk’s prong.

Caleb writhed. Caleb bent. But Caleb didn’t break.

“Do it,” I whispered. “That faggot loves what you got. Show him you’re the man. Pretend he’s Penelope. Fuck his throat like it was his sister’s cunt. Juice him. Drown the fucker in your spunk!”

That almost did it. Writhing, groaning, fingernails biting his palms, Caleb resisted Jeremy’s lewd act and my lewd words.

Well, I wasn’t going to lose to this fucker. I came to this cell to break this punk, and goddamn it that was what I was going to do.

I cupped Caleb’s right buttcheek. Not doeskin. Buckskin. Jeremy’s tongue was doing something magical to the underside of Caleb’s cock, and he was too tied up in resisting to notice me. But then Caleb let out a long, rolling moan. Fuck, I felt like a god. His muscles sizzled. Heat. Power. They moved like a nest of serpents under my palm.

My fingers slid towards his furrow.

“You know what fingerbanging is, Caleb?”

Something about my question weakened the cowpunk. His head lolled back, and I knew I was on to something. His crack was a swampy morass. This made my index finger’s journey so much easier.

“Yeah, you do. Don’t lie. It’s a great little trick, isn’t it?”

Millimeter after millimeter, his sweaty, buckskin butt slid across my fingers.

“Yeah. That’s right. You got a chick, a sweet little pullet, and it’s her first time, and she’s nervous about that huge tool, so you slip your forefinger up inside her and swish it around.”

His pucker — tiny, crinkled, delicate — was slippery with sweat.

“Don’t,” he breathed, thrusting and churning. “Fuck, Matt, have some goddamned mercy!”

I probe his cunt. He bucked, but the gate didn’t yield. I got rough. I jabbed hard. Caleb’s knees sagged. Before he fell, I caught him by the hips, steadying him. Something moist and gritty sucked on my finger. I was inside him. I wore a ring of spasming muscle. My finger was up another man’s ass.

“In prison, sweet young punks like you get fucked in the butt.” My lips almost nuzzled his earlobe. “But they don’t fingerbang guys. Why warm ’em up? It’s better when it’s tight. Riiiiight, stud?”

Caleb yammered, too blown away to say anything.

My index finger curled, its tip pointing towards his tailbone. I rotated it until the tip jabbed his prostate. I stabbed forward into the bloated bulb.

“Fuck!” Caleb roared.

His sphincter clamped down, almost pinching off my finger.

A loud, rude wet noise ripped from Jeremy’s gullet. Caleb’s spurting dong tore free. That freak dick painted ropes of spunk on Jeremy’s face. Shards of spunk went spinning off into the cell. Splatters of milky goo forced Jeremy’s blinking eyes shut.

Awed, my jaw dropped. I’d never seen anything like this in my life. Sheets of creamy white sperm draped over Jeremy’s lips as if he vomited a giant amoeba. The spunk oozed down his chest, drowning his spiked nipples in an ocean of goo. By the time Caleb’s cum fountain died away in a series of smaller and smaller spurts, Jeremy looked as if someone had flung a pot of oatmeal in his face.

I patted Caleb’s butt with my other hand. “Only faggots get off on buttplay. We all know that. Right, Jeremy?”

Jeremy, wiping spunk from his eyelashes, nodded eagerly.

“Ow!” Caleb winced as I popped my finger out of his socket. “You’re a bastard, Matt”

“Get dressed, punk,” I said, my voice level, my face cool. “You’re not supposed to be naked in your cell.”

He bent over, grabbed the jumpsuit, and hauled it up.

“Let’s go, Jeremy.” I opened the door, pushed Jeremy into the hall, then reached up and snagged back the towel. “If you’re really nice to me, Caleb, I’ll arrange things so you and Jeremy get to cuddle up in the same bunk.”

“Get out of here, faggot!” Jumpsuit still unzippered, he sagged onto the cot. His dong, hanging in an arch, twitched as if it was about to rise again.

I slammed the cell door and locked it. Jeremy’s gaze rose from my groin. He looked at me curiously. Chortling, I took Jeremy’s elbow. He stumbled but I strutted. He murmured in surprise when I took him into the CCTV room. At least this time I wouldn’t need a Kleenex nor a mop.

(c) 2017 R. Keith Peck. All rights Reserved.