Catfish Looks for Loot 7 By Bald Hairy Man
This is a story for adult men. It depicts gay sex. If this offends or bothers you, DO NOT READ IT. It is a fantasy and is not a sex manual, or a discussion of safe sex. If you have, comments send them to bldhrymn@yahoo.com or bldhrymn@aol.com
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I thought the art recovery effort was over, but Toby and Townsend came to see me about a month later. The European investigators had traced some of the Hirsh collection to England. They suspected a British Army officer had taken some works to his home in rural England. He died in 1982, and his heirs had been selling off some of the paintings to a local art gallery-pawn shop.
It seemed to me that it would be easy to recover these works. That wasn't the case. The heirs weren't telling who had bought the works and the local gallery owners weren't telling. There was no proof the paintings had been in the officer's possession, and the investigators thought the gallery owners knew what they had.
Anyone with an ounce of common sense would know these paintings had been stolen. An officer in the Army wouldn't have a few Rembrandts hanging in his living room. Gallery owner needed to find a clueless buyer with big bucks, preferably a man who lived thousands of miles from the U.K.
Since the museum had been involved in recovering part of the Hirsh collection, they had been kept abreast of the investigation. If you needed a clueless country bumpkin for a distant land, Toby was the perfect candidate.
He was wealthy and unknown. There were big time collectors, but the police and the looting investigators knew who they were. Had the paintings been legitimate they would have sold for millions. The prospect of long jail terms would be a reason to keep the price modest. $200,000.00-$400,000.00 might be a bargain price, but not chicken feed.
I knew Toby was wealthy, but he had just sold off his recycling business. He was the sole owner and the purchase price had been near five hundred million. He had been in the news as "Trash Man makes Good." The article emphasized his rags to riches tale and did not mention any connection to the museum or art collecting. Toby's last name was Smith and there was a Smith Endowment at the museum. The endowment was in his late wife's name, with no mention of him.
He agreed to go to the U.K. and see if he could find the painting. He said he loved to fish and trolling for Rembrandts might be fun. I agreed to be his companion and bodyguard. I thought a trip to England would be nice. Two weeks later we were at Scotland Yard with their art theft investigators, Angus Maury, and Clive Jones-Allen. While Clive was Oxford educated and looked like an academic, Angus looked like Rugby player for a team that didn't win often.
It took us a while to adjust to the Scots and Oxford accents. It took a little longer for Angus and Clive to adjust to the Virginia drawl. They had heard hillbilly accents in movies, but never encountered the real accents.
I had memorized the paintings from the Hirsh collection photographs. Townsend suggested that I not memorize the correct pronunciations of the artist names. That might give me away.
The galleries were in an area called the Cotswold's, and it was famous for pretty villages. Little galleries and antique shops dotted the area. They were geared to what Angus called the punters. Apparently the punters might go to a little gallery in the Cotswold area, but they might never visit a gallery in London. Most things were modestly overpriced, but attractive for the amateur collector.
Clive had a list of galleries to visit. We were to wander in, flash some cash and see what happened. Toby had rented car, but the Yard provided a driver, Colin. With names like Colin, Angus and Clive I felt like I was in a British sit-com. Colin was young and had what was described as an East End accent. Colin was helpful, tall, thin and had an impressively vacant face. Somehow he gave the impression that the lights were on, but no one was home. This turned out to be a good characteristic. No one would guess he understood what was being said or done. He was also a good driver. I had trouble on English Roads.
Colin was pleasant and informative when we were alone in the car. In public he was listless and barely polite. He made it clear to anyone he met, that he only worked for the money and this was the least he could do and call it work. At night he went to pubs and he came back with the low down on each village we visited.
Toby was loud, outgoing and throwing money around, He said he wanted to buy some culture. That probably turned off many of the people we met, but I did notice no one said no when he paid for a round at the local pub. He was also a good dart player. He may have been vulgar, but he had some skills. The first two days we visited one beautiful town after another. Some had mid-level quality stuff, few had paintings. I figured the good stuff was in London or other big cities.
The Jungle drums worked their magic. No place could be less jungle like than the Cotswold's, but the word that a rich American millionaire was on the prowl was soon known just about every were. We were at a fancy hotel located in a big 18th Century country home, when an art dealer just happened to be at the table next to us.
They did the "We just happened to over hear that you were looking for paintings" opening gambit. It was a husband and wife team, John and Pippa, with their stunningly effete associate, Trevor. Toby was friendly and welcomed a chance to see what they had. We made an appointment to see their gallery the next day at 10:00 in the morning.
We went to a pub; Colin went to a less stylish pub hoping to find something on John and Pippa. Toby got into a cut throat darts game. I went to the Gents and found Trevor at the urinal. At the hotel, Trevor gave me the "look at what the cat dragged in" stare. There were no partitions between the urinals, so Trevor had a good look. He was a bit uneasy but continued to stare. I had seen that stare before and I am afraid a little admiration tends to make me a little hard.
I often think that my Southern accent and country mannerisms have mellowed through the years. That may be true, but that is not the way most people see me. In England, I was an over-the-top hillbilly type. I think Trevor wanted to be an Oscar Wilde type Victorian dandy. We returned to my table and talked a little. I suspected Trevor had an urge to slum once and a while. I think he was 90% dandy, and 10% down and dirty cock hunter. We talked some and he went home. Toby was dazzling the locals with his dart skills and got along with the locals.
The next morning, I woke early and went for a walk around the village. Trevor was jogging. When he saw me he came over.
"You are an early bird?" he asked.
"I wake up with the sun, that seems to be real early over here," I said. "It is a pretty village."
"I live in a thatched cottage around the corner," he said. "The coffee is ready now, would you like a cup?" I said sure and we went down very narrow street to beautiful small cottage.
Trevor was nervous. He had readjusted his running shorts a few times. He was getting hard and wanted to hide it. We sat down to a cup of coffee.
"What would you have on your schedule today?" he asked.
"The visit to your gallery is the only planned activity," I said. "I'm always ready to add activities." I paused and added. "I often get horny first thing. If I told you I would like to suck the cum out of your balls, would you be shocked?" I asked.
"Yes I would," he replied, then he added, "I would be pleased too, really pleased."
"Why don't we get naked and see what we can do," I suggested. We went to his bedroom and stripped.
"Blimey, you're ugly," he said and then added, "It's huge!"
I smiled and asked, "Is it the ugly part, or the huge part you are interested in?"
"If I said the huge part turns me on, would you be insulted?" he asked.
"I smiled again. "It takes a lot to insult me," I replied. Trevor was shaved smooth. He had a nice uncut cock.
"What if we sucked each other. I would like to see it close up," he suggested. We got on the bed and after a few tentative licks, he made his first effort to deep throat me. He made a few more efforts and came close to taking my entire cock. His cock had looked good soft. It was even better hard. He was already oozing precum. Things became really good, real fast. I don't think Trevor was a virgin.
"Are you a top?" he asked.
"I'm only a top if you are a bottom," I replied.
"I bottom a little. John screws me. His marriage to Pippa is business only. People trust married men," Trevor explained. "It is okay for me."
"I have a feeling you want more?" I said.
He smiled. "I do, but I don't know how much more," he replied.
"You know if you don't try my cock, you will be wondering about it for years?" I said. "I like to get every inch into an ass, and then fuck until I shoot. That doesn't happen much. Usually my playmate shoots off before and loses interest."
"Are you disappointed?" he asked.
"A little, but it is exciting to be in an ass when the other guy is shooting. It's the ultimate up-close and personal experience," I said.
"You would shoot off in my ass?" he asked.
"Only if you want it," I replied. When he asked that I knew he wanted it. You don't worry about taking the cream, if you don't want the cock. Five minutes later I was fully embedded in his ass. he was on his back, spread eagled with his legs on my shoulders. "I wasn't 100% about not shooting off in your ass. Sometimes I get carried away," I said. He had opened up for me and welcomed my tool. My cock head had rammed his prostate, and after that it was clear sailing.
"Do you usually shoot deep?" he asked.
"I like a little variety. Sometimes I pull out as a shoot and lubricate your ass shaft; Sometimes I concentrate on your prostate. It gets a sperm bath, followed a buff and shine," I said.
"That sounds intense," Trevor said.
"It has been known to cause a hands-free orgasm," I remarked.
He briefly seemed indecisive, but them decided to go for it. I asked him to get on his back, I wanted him open. I spread his legs and saw a glistening of lubricant at his hole.
"Have you guessed I'm not a virgin?" I asked. He nodded.
"Is that lube for John?" I asked.
"John's in his business mode; it's for George. He's the town constable," Trevor replied. "He sometimes drops by in the morning."
"Will I be a problem?" I asked.
"No, the worst thing that might happen is might he might join in," Trevor said. "He likes sex with men, but this is a small town." I nudged into his pucker and gave a hard thrust. I was hoping to pop through his sphincter. A half second later we were bush to bush. I was in. he was stunned, but it was a good stunned. The flood of feeling left him dazed. I let him get used to it, and then jiggled a little. He moaned.
I then made a few thrusts, pulling out a little and then in again. On the third thrust he shot off. He had a dozen shots, the first hit the bedroom wall. I felt his ass twitching with each shot. I pulled out halfway and then thrust in again. He shot off a few more times. I repeated that until he was drained. I pulled out and dressed. I didn't think he could take any more. I hadn't shot off, but I did start my day on a high note. As I left I saw a beefy constable coming down the street. He looked at my crotch as he walked by me. I assumed he was Trevor's constable, George.
I returned to the hotel and had a massive breakfast. Toby was in good mood. We went on a drive with Clive and he gave us what he had learned in the pubs the night before. John and Pippa were well known, but not well liked. They catered to the tourists, the people Colin called the punters. They weren't exactly criminal, but they took advantage of people, both the people they bought antiques from and the ones they sold to. They lowballed purchase prices and high balled to punter price.
"With Antique Roadshow, you would think that everyone had some sense of what things are worth," Colin said. "Jon and Pippa go to all the funerals in case an heir was to sell quickly. Some people might say it's just business, but other think they cross the line."
We arrived at the gallery promptly at 10:00. John and Pippa were waiting. An "attributed to Constable" painting sat in the first room of the gallery. John gave a long talk on the painting. He said it might well be a Constable, but its provenance was murky, and "One can't be too careful" in those matters. I assumed that was to lull the buyers into a false sense of security thinking he was honest.
In some ways this was an upscale version of the store in Petersburg. It had okay stuff in the front, junk in the rear and a "special" gallery upstairs. Toby occupied John and Pippa; I looked around. Trevor was in the front gallery with customers. In the back corner of the junk area I found a door. I opened it and found an oversized closet-storage room. I noticed it was a fire door and the room was air-conditioned.
The paintings were all wrapped up, except for a small painting sitting on the floor. It was a golden haired woman with a dark background. I know shit about art, but I have a good memory. The woman was Saskia, Rembrandt's wife. It could have been a forgery, but a woman's portrait by Rembrandt was in the Hirsh collection although the it was at the rear of the photo and couldn't be clearly seen. I was out of the room before anyone knew I was there.
Toby was having a grand old time with John and Pippa. He was doing the hayseed in the big city. Toby was good at letting them know that was both artistically illiterate, and rich as hell. He also let them know that he would love to have some paintings by "one of the famous" guys, like Rembrandt, Van Gogh or Picasso.
John said he would go looking around to see what he could find. He said he knew some old families who might be willing to sell some of the family heirlooms. Toby said we could come back the next day.
Back in the car, Colin thought that Toby must have been really convincing as a country bumpkin if John thought he would believe there were some Rembrandt paintings floating around the neighborhood. I told him about the painting in the closet. He thought that was too good to be true, but it certainly was interesting. I spent the afternoon wandering around the village as Colin and Toby went off to report to Scotland Yard.
I was a pretty village and beautiful countryside. On my wandering I ran into George, Trevor's constable friend. George was well over six feet tall, beefy and bearded. I thought he was older, but when I got close he was maybe in his later 20s. His bulk and beard were deceptive. He looked at my crotch as we walked towards each other. Trevor must have mentioned me.
He said hello and we talked. I said was a tourist and body guard for a wealthy man. he was looking for some paintings to zip up his home. he said he would love to travel, but his job here was mostly to break up fights in pubs.
"They seemed pretty quiet to me, except for the guys playing darts," I said.
"It is the weekends that are a problem. I'm on duty every Friday night and every weekend," he said. "I am the newest man here, so I do the morning too." He paused and then added, "I'm on the way home now. I'm done for the day." We were in quiet lane, out of view of the main road. George scratched his balls.
Scratching balls is the equivalent of an engraved invitation for a gay man. he lived in a little cottage in an overgrown garden. We went in for a cup of tea.
I decided to skip the preliminaries. "Did Trevor tell you we connected this morning?" I asked.
"Yes, he said you were good," George replied in a near whisper. "Trevor has done a lot more than I have. I'm new to this. I need to avoid the locals. This is a small place and word travels quickly."
"Have you enjoyed what you have done?" I asked.
"I've played with Trevor. I loved that," he replied. "I don't know if I want to do more." He looked me in the eye. "Actually, that's wrong. I do want to do more, but I'm afraid. I don't really know what more is. I'm embarrassed at that. I'm a big guy who makes his living breaking up brawls. I'm still uneasy."
"Well, I can fill you in on what gay guys can do," I said. "Unfortunately telling you is not the same as doing. Some things that sound strange are real turn on when you do them."
"I would like to try somethings," he almost whispered.
"Are you willing to get naked and see what happens?" I asked.
George began to unbutton his uniform. "I'm really hairy," he said. "That seems to turn off most of the guys I meet."
"I like a man who looks like a man," I replied.
When we went to his bedroom he was clearly nervous. He had a good look at my cock and that didn't relax him. "It is awfully big," he said. I dropped to my knees and sucked him. He had a nice six incher and bull balls. He was thick, muscular and hairy everywhere.
It is often a surprise when I find a big, bruiser of a man with an ultra-sensitive cock. He was soft when I started sucking and I used by tongue to peel back the foreskin. I had my tongue between his skin and his cock head when he began to shiver and ooze. He became fully erect in a minute or so, and my tongue seem to have an almost mystical effect on his knob. He moaned. I know that a moan can be faked, but the sex juices flowing from his cock are always real.
We went upstairs to his bedroom. It was an attic type space. It was good for me, but George must have had to duck his head continuously. He got on the bed and I sucked him again. After a minute or two we shifted so that he could suck me as I did him. He shot off quickly. I took his load and continued to suck, taking his post orgasmic drool.
He remained sucking me and he didn't stop when I told him I was getting close. As I popped, he shot off a second time. His second load was a generous as his first. George was taken aback by the intensity of the sexual sensations.
We relaxed and caught our breaths. I looked out a dormer window and saw the rear of the art gallery. There was a van making a delivery. I asked if he had binoculars. He did. The van was from a gallery in Stratford. George was still horny, so we returned to the bed. I told him I was surprised he had taken my load.
"You aren't half as surprised as I was," he replied. "It wasn't what I thought it would be like. it is better warm than cold. Did you like mine?"
I nodded. "This may sound strange. The taste in okay, but I do get a warm and fuzzy feeling tasting it warm, straight from the balls."
"I've tasted Trevor's load. It was a bit watery," he said.
"I could use yours as a filling in a pie!" I replied.