Jury Duty

The usual disclaimers apply. If you are under age or live somewhere with laws that prohibit you from reading material of an explicit sexual nature do not continue. The same goes for anyone who might be offended by descriptions of sex between two men. Please go.

This story may not be excerpted or reproduced in any form anywhere else without my consent.

Like most of my stuff, "Jury Duty" is based, very loosely, on an actual event and runs a little long. Don't be dismayed if you don't find references to dripping dicks and hungry holes in the first ten pages. I think the characters should have some shading and nuance before they drop their drawers. It is for the most part, a work of fiction and should be considered as entertainment.

Constructive comments may be directed to MICHAELM6@attbi.com. Flames will be worked, unflatteringly, into a plot line involving Reverend Phelps and his nasty adventures in a male brothel located in a seedy part of Tangiers where the booze is cheap and watered down but the whores are clean and listen your sob story for a five spot. Most will be ignored.

The road from the first word to the last has been a long and torturous one for "Jury Duty". I began writing it while serving time on a Jury way back in 1996. Disaster struck somewhere around page 15. That's when my computer died and I was forced to turn my attention to more pressing issues.

As it turned out, once I got back to my writing, Jury Duty was the one story in progress that was not fully saved. Trust me on this. A "hard drive back up" is not a new sexual position and should be taken very seriously and done with alarming regularity.

Fortunately, I had enough bits and pieces scattered around on Zip disks that I was able to salvage most of what had been done before putting it aside for another four years.

A few months ago, having just completed a marathon rewrite binge on "JOHN", "SATURDAY NIGHT STAKEOUT" and 'THE ARMORED CAR GUARD" I came across the pitiful remains of "JURY DUTY". I decided to finish it before going on to something completely new. I think it was worth the trouble.

JURY DUTY by MICHAEL MORAN

It came lurking among bills, pre-approved credit card applications with a "low, low" interest rate that would quadruple after six months and mountains of junk mail asking for contributions to help save the forests. It was that most dreaded demon of democracy: the summons to jury duty.

For the benefit of those who qualify but have never gotten one, be assured that somewhere out in the vast bureaucratic sea is a pink and white shark with your name etched on its perforated edged, razor sharp teeth. Perhaps it's headed toward you at this very moment: circling" watching" waiting for the most inconvenient time to strike.

There are ways to repel these creatures, though hitting them on the nose when they venture too close isn't one of them. They involve an indictment, giving up your citizenship or having a job crucial to the public's well being. Only in rare cases will being related to someone of importance or being married to a cop get you out of service.

A note of warning; never try to mix and match. A guy tried getting himself arrested by fucking his cousin, a CHP Officer, on the counter of the Starbucks where he worked part time on Wednesday and Friday. The judge, a staunch Mormon, ruled that providing a caffeine rush to the masses didn't count as crucial to the public's well being. The case was dismissed and he was chosen to serve on a jury. To this day, he breaks out in a sweat each time someone says: "If the glove don't fit you must acquit."

As a good citizen with no prior arrests, Tom dutifully filled out the lower half, detached it at the dotted line and sent it back with a ten dollar bill stapled over his name. The bill must have fallen off because within a month he was being ordered to appear at an address on Temple Street at the ungodly hour of 7:45.

Tuesday morning he tied the order to a piece of top round steak and threw it into his supervisor's cage. To say he was not pleased would go down in record books as the premiere understatement of the second quarter ending June 30th.

"Cheer up," he said holding him at bay with an executive swivel chair. "It'll probably be some jerk who ran a red light while talking to his shrink on a cellular phone. By the end of the day I'll be back at work, my obligation will have been met and the defendant will be back on the street with a whole new set of rejection issues."

He grumbled something in Armenian that didn't sound like it translated to "Live long and prosper" and went back to moving papers from stack "A" into stack "C" while bypassing stack 'B'. He was not convinced.

The big day arrived with an overcast sky and a promise of long hours staring out an eleventh floor window. Since, like everyone else in Hollywood, what he really wanted to do was write he'd printed out several chapters of his book with the intention of proofing them during the long hours of sitting around being civic minded.

He donned his three piece suit, a practice that began and ended the same day, and left the house a full ninety minutes early. What was he thinking?

It occurred to him that the court system might want to reconsider usage of the words "convenient" and "nearby" in their description of juror parking. A half a mile, straight down, beneath the streets of Los Angeles, in what people swore would someday be the Disney Hall parking garage, hardly counted as nearby and may, in fact, have constituted false and misleading advertising.

Tom left his precious truck in the capable hands of two parking attendants named Hades and Persephone and started off for the Criminal Courts Building. It was on that trek that he first saw Officer Velasquez.

They were standing at opposite corners at the intersection of Temple and Broadway. He was heading north toward the Hahn Building. Tom was going south but would much rather have been going north: right behind him.

He prided himself on being observant, and what he observed at that moment was flat out the hottest man to ever strap on a 357 Magnum. He was perfection in blue. Everything about him: from the way he stood, shoulders squared and head held high to the fit of his dark blue uniform put to rest the image of the cop on a perpetual jelly doughnut rush.

The light changed and Tom shifted his attention to fine detail mode. Unless he was willing to tackle him and run the risk of an assault charge, he'd have maybe fifteen seconds to take inventory before he passed from view. Beep. Scanners on. Name: Velasquez (see name tag). Height: 6"2" Weight: 195 Race: Hispanic. Build: muscular. Pecs: huge. Arms: see massive. Legs: powerful. Hair: buzz cut, hidden under hat: dark stubble indicates black. Eyes: mirrored, hidden by glasses. Probability of being brown: 95%. Facial features: strong jaw. Indications of broken nose, probably not recent. Moustache: neatly trimmed. Other: tattoo on right and left forearms. Equipment: unknown. Underwear: unknown. Probability of underwear being jockstrap: 35%. Butt: unknown: damned bus. [Enter] Data is incomplete. Save? Yes: [enter] Saving: please wait.

Officer Velasquez disappeared behind a herd of stampeding Secretaries before Tom could safely turn around and amend the file to include his butt. All he could do was replay what he'd already committed to memory. The rest he could fill in as the fantasy dictated. He shifted his knapsack to the other shoulder and started for the entrance.

In spite of the metal detector with an intense dislike for his steel toe boots, the Criminal Courts building was a revelation for someone with a thing for uniforms. There was a uniform everywhere he turned, running singularly and in groups, free as the wind just as nature intended.

While not all were filled as spectacularly as that of Officer Velasquez, the sight of a patrolman striding across the polished terrazzo floor with the morning sun reflecting off his helmet was one Tom had come to appreciate on many levels. Mostly it made him hard just to think of what was hidden beneath all that gabardine and leather. He was looking forward to having hours and hours of sitting around watching them.

The "hours and hours" turned into exactly 93 minutes. That's how long it took from the time he walked into the assembly room to the time his name was called for a panel.

It was on the second day of jury selection that he was seated as one of two alternates. Number six juror was excused on the third day and Tom was picked as his replacement. His fate was sealed.

Gone were the best laid plans that would turn a tedious duty into an experience he could draw upon when his book made the Times Best Sellers list and he was making the rounds of the talk shows.

"Ya see, Mister Leno," he'd have said with a touch of irony in his voice. "Chapters one through fifteen were finished while I was doing my civic duty."

Real life had reared its ugly head and it was time to take things seriously. Two guys, each young enough to be his younger brothers, were on trial for murder. They were gang members accused of "doming" a fellow gangsta by the name of Little Happy Face. They'd mistakenly thought him guilty of snitching on yet another member.

It was on the third depressing day of testimony, after the lunch break, that the jurors were called from the jury room and things got really interesting. Tom had made a point of never looking directly at the spectators, but something at the far end of the first row of the right side caught his eye as he perused his notes. It was the unmistakable glint of a metal shield: the shield of none other than Officer Velasquez.

He was chatting with the Bailiff and a plain clothes officer who would look like a cop no matter what he was wearing. All three were amazing, each in his own way, but it was Velasquez that held Tom's attention. While he talked, his eyes swept over the courtroom until he got to the jury box. Then, starting at the far end, he studied each juror until he got to Tom. His expression remained impassive and unchanged but there was something about the way he looked at him.

Tom returned his steady gaze until the spell was broken by his responding to something the Bailiff said and averting his eyes. Either he'd seen something that bothered him or there was a really interesting stain on the carpet that commanded his attention. In either case, he didn't look up until the court was called back in session and testimony resumed.

"The prosecution calls Officer Anthony Velasquez to the stand."

Judging from the reaction of the spectators, his was a familiar name. A hush fell on the courtroom as he got up from his seat. Whether the familiarity came from fear or respect remained to be seen.

Unlike most of the witnesses he sat ramrod straight and didn't play to the jury. His responses were matter of fact and directed at the Attorney asking the questions. He'd arrested the first witness for the prosecution, and was there to recount the details of how Baby J had volunteered the incriminating evidence.

Yes he was aware that Baby J had clamed up tighter than Jerry Falwell's butt at a Gay Pride parade (not his exact words) but insisted the reasons for his sudden amnesia were more sinister than those suggested by the defense.

It was a good showing made better by his confidence and commanding presence. His voice was clear and strong and hinted at an upbringing on what some considered to be the wrong side of the tracks. The defense made a half-hearted stab at undermining his credibility, but gave up after a few lame questions regarding his background.

Tom took copious notes during the ten minutes that Officer Velasquez was on the stand. Not only did he note what was said but also how he said it. He noted the reactions of the defendants, their Attorneys and even the judge as Velasquez fielded the questions with aplomb.

It would all come in handy later on when they began to pour over the testimony. Only one notation was made that in no way involved the case. That one came as he was leaving the stand and was walking past the jury box.

Revise data entry. [Enter] Eyes: green. [Enter] Overwrite existing data? Yes. [Enter] Updating information; Please wait.

"Green eyes, huh?" Tom thought to himself. So much for the laws of probability.

While all of this drama was going on, Tom was spending a good part of his lunch breaks staring at the old Hall of Justice across the street. You've probably seen it from the Hollywood freeway or in Dragnet episodes from the fifties.

It's one of those enormous buildings they used to erect to remind people of their lowly place in society. In the eyes of those who get paid to make such decisions, it had outlived its usefulness and was closed after the earthquake of 94.

The only thing preventing it from being pulled down was the expense of demolition. Perhaps somebody highly placed had a secret hope that somewhere on the street was a vagrant packing a couple of thousand pounds of explosives, an itchy trigger finger and a grudge against the system.

Sometimes Tom would walk around it trying to imagine what it looked like before it was incarcerated behind chain link fences and plywood. It looked so forlorn: like an old Civil Servant put out to pasture with nothing to do after years of service.

It was during those times, while staring at the blank windows and wondering what lay behind the dirty glass, that Tom started seeing Velasquez on a semi-regular basis. On two occasions he was walking toward City Hall with two other LAPD Officers.

Another time he was deep in conversation with a CHP Officer as they stood outside the cafeteria. Once he was even alone and crossing Temple Street against the light but it never once occurred to Tom to attempt a conversation. With the nature of the trial being what it was, there were rules about jurors and witnesses, past or future, not being allowed to speak. He wasn't about to jeopardize the trial by allowing his libido to run amok.

In a perverse sort of way it helped when Tom realized that Velasquez probably didn't know that he was alive and that it would no doubt stay that way. Of course nobody said he couldn't think about it at night when he was alone in the darkness with just his right hand for company.

It was always the same. Tom would climb into bed, mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted, and Velasquez would be waiting for him under the sheets. The instant he closed his eyes he'd see him in his uniform and things began to happen.

It didn't seem to matter what his intentions had been or how much he needed to sleep. He'd roll over on his stomach and the scene in the courtroom where he walked past the jury box and he got a close up view of his butt would replay itself. Suddenly that same butt would be under him. A voice would be begging him to fill his hole and he'd be humping the pillow and jacking himself off to a messy but satisfying climax.

As it turned out, the trial phase took less time than the deliberations. For six days the jurors showed up at the same time to pour over the evidence and go over the testimony. Most of it was useless crap stammered out by witnesses intimidated to the point where a sudden move by anyone in the room would have them peeing in their pants.

Only the solid and unshakable testimony of Officer Velasquez held up to close scrutiny. It seemed that everyone liked him. Tom had never met the guy, yet he had to admit to taking some satisfaction in his choice of lunch time fantasies.

They finished just before the Fourth of July weekend. Thanks mostly to some minor issues and technicalities that couldn't be explained (or justified) only one of the two hoods went to jail. The other one would have to be retried. Once again the legal system had been shown to work, warts and all, when given the chance.

Later, after they were excused and given their pardons, Tom took his last elevator ride with a sense of relief and, strangely, loss. He read the gang graffiti on the walls as the tiny car bumped and jolted between floors, and wondered how anyone found the opportunity to deface public property.

There were people everywhere he looked, all wearing the same expression of grim determination to either beat the system or use it to their own end. Except for sporadic Velasquez sightings, there was nothing he'd miss. It was a mystery as to where was the sense of loss was coming from.

He was standing just outside the main entrance, taking a last look at the immense gray hulk across the street, when he noticed that someone was standing at his side. He turned, half expecting to see one of Crazy J's family members out for revenge, and nearly fell on his ass.

It was none other than Officer Velasquez, in all his glory, looking at a point about half way up the side of the building. Tom had never thought it possible, but he was even more spectacular when he was close enough to kiss: which he very much wanted to do.

"Damn he's a hot fucker," Tom thought to himself.

"What's so fascinating?" Velasquez asked gesturing toward the granite façade.

Tom waited for a bus to rumble by before answering. Surely he hadn't noticed him staring. He'd been so careful. Yeah. Right.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Tom replied at last. "What makes you think I'm fascinated with y... uh... It... It's just an old b... building."

"Because you don't strike me as the type to write something off before all of the facts are presented. Every time I've seen you, you've been staring."

"There's n... not that m... much to look at around here," Tom stammered. Aside from still not being sure of what they were talking about, he was mortified at his sudden inability to communicate without stammering.

Velasquez just laughed and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Tom hoped it would go unnoticed when he jumped.

"Depends on where you're looking," Velasquez said taking a step backwards. "Well, it was nice talking to you."

Tom's heart was pounding as he watched the good-looking policeman turn and start across the plaza. He'd have to think of something" fast.

"You silver tongued schmuck," Tom muttered to himself when his mind remained blank. "Now he thinks that you're not interested."

Then, just when it was starting to look as if he would walk out of Tom's life forever, he came back. "Listen, I've got to go now, but would you be interested in getting a closer look?"

"A closer look" A closer look at what?"

"The building" The one you've been staring at all week."

"Yeah sure. I guess that would be..."

"How's tomorrow afternoon around one?"

Tom didn't have to think twice. The next day was Saturday and he shelved all social engagements for the duration of his jury service. Now that he was a free man, he couldn't think of a better way to celebrate his freedom than with a guided tour of a musty old jail."

"Yeah. Okay," Tom said glancing at the massive plywood barriers. "Should I bring a hammer and a chain saw?"

"No need for that. I've got the key. I stop by a couple of times a week during my off duty hours and keep an eye on the place. I'll meet you at the parking lot entrance."

He jotted down Tom's phone number, in case there was a change in plans, and sauntered down the hill to his cruiser. The way he sort of swaggered when he walked made Tom hope the elevators in the Hall of Justice were shut down. How bad could eleven flights of stairs be with that butt leading the way"

He was ramming his cock up Ben Affleck's ass, while Hugh Jackman masturbated on his face, when the phone rousted him from his sex-drenched dream. Still hard enough to shatter brick, he stumbled from the bed and grabbed it before the machine kicked on.

"Huh?"

"Hey Tom. This is Anthony Velasquez. You up yet?"

"Funny you should mention that," Tom said looking down at his stiffie and giving it a couple of strokes. "Yeah, I'm definitely up. So" uh" What's happening?"

"I'm going to be up in your neighborhood today. I was thinking that instead of you driving downtown, I could swing by and pick you up. It would save time."

"Uh, yeah. That's fine. What time should I..."

"Great. I'll see you at eleven. Dress for action."

"Eleven" I thought you said... Hey don't you want my address?"

It was too late. Velasquez had already hung up. Tom glanced at the clock and groaned. It was just after eight. That meant he had less than three hours to get an entire day's errands out of the way. How could he have known that his ability to perform under pressure would be put to the test several times over the course of the day"

Velasquez, still in uniform, was knocking at the door, on time, at the stroke of eleven. Thinking he'd been called in to work unexpectedly, Tom's heart sank a little.

"Last minute change of plans?" he asked cautiously as the sexy cop walked in.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You're in uniform," he responded stating the obvious.

"I'm just now getting off. There's a change of clothes in the trunk. We've got a lot of ground to cover, and it seemed more practical."

"I see," Tom mumbled lamely, offering a silent plea to whatever deity happened to be in charge of such things to keep him soft. They were alone and Velasquez was in his uniform. If you asked Tom's friends to describe his good points, self control when confronted by a uniform wasn't something that readily popped into their heads.

"I hope being seen leaving with a cop doesn't screw up your reputation with your neighbors," Velasquez added seeing Tom's distressed expression.

Tom looked over his shoulder toward the houses across the street. His Gay neighbors had already congregated at the base of Mark's driveway, watching to see what happened next. How did they know?

"Don't worry about them," Tom said as he locked the door. "There are as many who know me to be a good, law abiding citizen as there are people who'd figure it was just a matter of time until I got caught. The others would just assume that I... uh..."

There was no need to take the conversation in that particular direction and he didn't bother to finish the sentence. They were just getting in the car, a late model BMW, when Tom made the mistake of looking up.

"Don't worry, honey," Mark called out. "We'll bail you out."

Velasquez observed them from the rear view mirror while adjusting his seat belt. "Which are they?" he asked.

Tom waited until they'd backed out and were half way up the block before stealing a glance at the assemblage of neighbors waving from the curb. "I'm not sure," he muttered through clenched teeth.

For the most part, the conversation on the way downtown centered on the trial and why the jury arrived at that particular verdict. Velasquez didn't seem especially surprised when Tom mentioned the weakness of the prosecution witnesses.

"It happens all the time," he said quietly. "People get themselves all fired up to testify because they want revenge. The big day comes and they show up ready to put the fuckers away and all they can see from the witness stand is an audience filled with gangbangers. The reality hits and they go brain dead and forget all about the friend they saw die in the street. The bad guys walk and we're left standing there with shit on our shoes."

"I'm not sure the public would like to hear that."

Velasquez gripped the wheel tightly but kept his eyes focused straight ahead.

"They shouldn't," he answered while keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Maybe they should get mad enough to do something."

Fearing that he might have hooked up with one of those law and order extremists who keeps a year's supply of freeze dried emergency rations in his cellar, Tom didn't ask him to elaborate.

"You never told me how you knew where I lived," he said nudging the conversation toward something less socially relevant.

"I'm a cop," Velasquez answered matter-of-factly as they turned on to the south bound freeway. "I know a lot of things about you."

"I don't think I like the sound of that," Tom replied flatly. He looked out the side window. The tinted glass made the sunny day appear dark and overcast.

"You've got nothing to worry about," the cop said with an enigmatic grin.

Tom would never know what was going through Velasquez's mind when his right hand left the steering wheel. Maybe he'd intended to pat his leg reassuringly and reconsidered the move. The sight of it coming to rest on the center console left him as disappointed as he was confused.

The weather had warmed up considerably by the time they pulled into the parking lot. Let the records show that in the name of propriety, Tom successfully resisted the urge to throw him to the ground and lick the sweat from his forehead when the cop unlocked the sliding gate and wrestled it aside.

It seemed wise to focus his attention on his bulging and stretching biceps and leave the hardcore fantasy stuff to Chi Chi LaRue. If he noticed Tom's appreciative stares he didn't let on. He simply dusted off his hands and glanced up at the unusually blue sky.

"Looks like we're in for a hot one today," the cop observed as he started up the loading ramp.

"I sure as shit hope so," Tom thought once he realized that the partial erection that first came up when he opened his front door still hadn't gone away. It was still rubbing uncomfortably against the seam of his Levis as he followed at his heels.

He listened intently while Velasquez rattled off a string of facts as easily as if he'd given the tour a hundred times before. It was something that he'd failed to consider before.

"How often do you conduct these tours, Officer Velasquez?" Tom interrupted.

Velasquez came to a stop outside a formidable looking metal door. His expression was one of genuine surprise as he looked over his shoulder.

"Never. You're the first one I've brought here. Why do you ask?"

"No special reason. All of this information makes you sound like a tour guide."

"It's funny you should say that. My first job after getting out of the Marine Corp was as a studio Tour Guide. I believe in knowing everything there is to know about anything I'm involved with. Does that bother you?"

"This is just fucking great," Tom thought to himself. He shook his head and looked out across the desolate loading dock. "He's a cop... and a former Marine. This boner is never going to go down."

Truer words had never gone unspoken. Everything he did from the moment they stepped through the door seemed calculated to keep Tom hard. He hadn't realized the full extent of the cop's actions until he was standing in the middle of what used to be the booking room watching him turning on lights.

Velasquez was pushing him with a word here, a phrase there and a seemingly innocent gesture thrown in for good measure. Toward what Tom could only guess and fantasize.

"Come on in here while I change. It's the old locker room," Velasquez said guiding him toward a door marked Authorized Personnel Only.

His hand lingered on Tom's shoulder, then slid down his back until it stopped just a couple of inches from his belt and a whole new level of involvement. Tom gritted his teeth trying to will his whopper woody back to parade rest as they started through the door.

Once inside, Tom left Velasquez to change his clothes unmolested and set out on a self guided tour around the room. He peered down the rows of metal lockers and poked his head into the white tile shower stalls. Thanks in part to the lingering smell of old cock sweat and the effects of an already over-stimulated libido, he could easily imagine them filled with wet, naked men laughing and joking above the steady hiss of water.

From there, they'd walk back to their lockers. Some would be wrapped in a towel. Others would be naked... their damp cocks flopping in the steamy air... balls swinging from front to back" right to left.

Some would be coming on duty and would don their uniforms for the first time that day. Others would be finishing their watch and would put their uniform away still smelling of whatever surprises the day had provided.

There'd be locker room talk about wives, kids, girlfriends and barroom pickups. They'd discuss Lana Turner's knockers and the gams on that street walker that worked the corner of Sixth and Hill, but they'd never speculate on how well hung Tyrone Power was.

Back in the late twenties, around the time that it was built, there would've been snide, some might say bitchy, remarks about a bunch of pansies, including William Haynes, being arrested in Pershing Square. Nobody would ask why the cops were even bothering them. That wouldn't happen for another sixty years.

The subject of all the Gay men who disappeared into the shadows out of fear would be studiously avoided. Many of them would end up in this very building watching their futures being destroyed with the rap of a gavel.

"Talk about your sexual depressant," Tom thought to himself as he wandered back to check on Officer Velasquez.

Tom had gone completely soft long before he reached the end of the row of lockers. Officer Velasquez looked up and grinned as Tom peered around the corner and cleared his throat. The hot young cop was down to a very well filled jockstrap but hadn't gotten around to pulling on the white tank top hanging from the locker door.

Seeing the cop astride the scarred bench, jockstrap clad and gleaming with sweat, should have brought Tom's erection roaring back to life but didn't. He ambled over to the next row of lockers to wait.

"Screw it," Tom muttered softly. "Don't do that to yourself."

"Sorry to take so long," Velasquez called out. "My uniform has to make it through another shift. I'll be just a second."

"Take your time," Tom called out nonchalantly. "There's lots to see over here."

Truthfully, there was nothing new to see on either side of the bank of lockers. He'd seen well filled jock straps numerous times in the Athletic Club locker room, and just as many banged up lockers with names scrawled in black marker pen.

Tom thought that perhaps Velasquez had wanted him to see him like that. Maybe it was all some kind of test to see how he'd react. If so, what did he think he was going to do: drop to his knees and beg for the privilege of sucking his cock"

"Not fucking likely," he thought. Under other circumstances he just might have taken the bait, but not this time.

If Velasquez was playing games, Tom was having no part of it. He was past that stage in his sexual development and had no desire to relive the experience. He had better things to do: things like examining a short length of bench that had been dinged and scarred by three generations of handcuffs and dildo-shaped Billy clubs.

Velasquez appeared, fully dressed, from around the corner. Tom's disinterest seemed to have a galvanizing effect on Officer Velasquez.

"All ready to do some exploring?" he asked brightly.

"Lead the way," Tom replied while silently asking himself the question of the hour; "What the hell am I doing?"

He'd been asking himself that question a lot, and was no closer to an answer than he'd been that first morning of jury duty. Had he been so taken with the stud cop and what he might be packing between his legs that he was ignoring something more significant"

Granted, there'd been a guard at the parking lot entrance, but what if the two of them were in on a plot to bash an unwitting fag? The old building was the ideal spot for a mugging. If the intention was for him to not survive the ordeal, who'd be the wiser?

His neighbors saw a guy in a uniform, and that could describe half the guys he went out with. That, and the knowledge that there was an entire city block over their heads to hide the body, led him to wonder why he hadn't thought twice about accepting the invitation.

Tom hadn't experienced such paranoia since his drug dabbling years at Mount San Antonio College. He missed the good old days when you met someone and had his pants down around his ankles inside of ten minutes: never thinking of ulterior motives.

A long corridor with a low ceiling and walls painted institutional green led to a giant holding cell, roughly forty feet on a side. Velasquez stepped up to the bars and stared into the gloomy interior.

"This is where they kept the perverts before taking them upstairs to the jail," he said tensely.

"Uh oh," Tom said to himself. "Here it comes."

Officer Velasquez's hands gripped the bars tightly, pressing his chest against the cold steel. The friendly demeanor was gone: his voice an icy echo in the cavernous room.

"Imagine what it was like to be crowded in here with fifty other guys like cattle waiting to be slaughtered. Imagine having to endure the jokes and the taunting of people who went out of their way for a glimpse of what a queer looked like. Imagine what it was like being looked at as inferior to murderers and rapists."

"Every minority group has its stories of degradation and discrimination," Tom replied stepping up to the bars. He was unsure of where his line of thought was headed.

Velasquez turned from the dingy cell without comment, pausing to look deeply into Tom's eyes before continuing down the hall. Conversation became sporadic and tense after that.

The two men advanced through a maze of corridors and rooms that seemed to push them forward and in circles at the same time. One room, however, was a dead end. Officer Velasquez shined his flashlight into the tiny windowless cubicle.

"They uncovered this room after the 94 quake. There was some bad shit that went down in there... back in the old days... stuff they didn't want the public to know about. They hid it behind a false wall back in the late fifties."

Tom shined his flashlight against the back wall and shuddered. The brown smears on the dirty green paint left little doubt as to the nature of their dirty little secret. With all of their faults, the LAPD had at least made that much progress.

"Suddenly jury duty doesn't seem so bad... considering the alternative," he muttered as he backed away.

"No shit," Velasquez responded softly. The beam from his light traced an arc across the ceiling and back down the narrow corridor. "We'll go this way."

"Right behind you, Ossifer Sir."

The tour made its way upward. Tom observed Officer Anthony Velasquez intently from a respectful distance. There was something that went beyond how great he had looked in his LAPD blues that fascinated him: something that made getting into his pants less important than getting into his head.

The oppressive weight of the building began to lift the moment they emerged at the north end of the ground floor. The grime encrusted windows kept the vast marble clad lobby in a state of perpetual twilight that not even the powerful beams of their heavy flashlights could overcome. The old place had endured a lot of years of indifference and neglect.

A threadbare carpet of paper, sluggish dust bunnies and broken glass crunched flatly beneath their feet as they crossed the lobby in a straight line toward the long bank of elevators. It was an odd contrast to the lower levels where each sound constantly doubled back on itself and walking more than twenty feet in a straight line was out of the question.

Officer Velasquez stopped to examine a sheet of paper wedged between the metal track and the marble floor outside elevator Number Five. He played his flashlight across what appeared to be random doodles and stuck the wadded paper into his back pocket. The door slid open and they stepped into the gloomy interior.

Velasquez punched the eleventh floor button and joined his companion at the back of the car. Tom's stomach remained nailed to the ground floor as the doors shut and they began the slow, lurching upward climb..

Tom was no Humphrey Bogart, and Velasquez sure as shit wasn't Mary Astor, but the old fashioned arrow pointer edging its way across the dial toward the right side reminded him of one of those black and white detective movies from the forties. There'd be a fifteen minute trial on one of the upper floors in which a surprise revelation from an unexpected source would either convict or exonerate the accused man. His heart began to race.

"God, I'm getting delirious," Tom thought to himself. Only the heat from Velasquez's arm as they were repeatedly jostled and bumped against each other could distract him from thinking too much. He had a rabid dislike of riding in creaking old elevators inside neglected old public buildings with someone he barely knew.

The tour began with the actual jail at the very top and worked its way down floor by floor. They passed through the old law library, still heavy with the acidic aroma of old books and silver fish, to the cafeteria that would smell of fish and meat loaf for as long as the building remained standing.

There were stops at office doors that bore the ghostly outline of famous names in legal history. The doors were locked, but Tom was assured that anything worth seeing had long since been removed.

What little light there was came from a couple of widely spaced fluorescent lights and from between the slowly turning blades of the giant vent fans at either end of the wide empty hall.

"Shit!"

They'd come to a set of double doors marked "Superior Court A - Room 900". Finding them locked, Anthony cursed softly as he searched for the key on a ring as big as his fist. Tom stood by patiently until the doors flew open with a flourish.

"Another court room? " Tom asked as he followed him inside. "Haven't you had enough court rooms for awhi..."

Tom fell silent as he looked over the cop's shoulder. Compared to the one that stretched out before them, the court rooms across the street were wood paneled toilet stalls with foam padded seats. The flag poles behind the judge's bench were empty, and the city seal was missing from the wall but other from that, it looked as if court had simply recessed for the day.

"This is impressive," Tom said easing past the handsome cop. "How long did you say you've been a museum curator?"

The cop pushed the giant doors closed. "It's not as anal as it appears. There's been talk about using it to take some of the load off the Criminal Courts Building."

"And in your spare time you come in and tidy up?" Tom offered as he strolled across the last row of the spectator gallery. "I've imagined you assuming a lot of positions, but on your knees with a scrub brush wasn't among them."

It was a lot less subtle than he'd intended. Velasquez followed him down the row, brushing dust from the bench seat as he went along.

"I don't do any of this," he countered. "City workers do it all. I just come in to make sure it's been done right. What kinds of positions have you imagined me assuming?"

"Say what?"

"I asked what kinds of positions..."

"I... uh... You know...The usual," Tom replied shakily. He stepped over the bar and approached the defense table. Was it his imagination or were they playing cat and mouse? If so, what part was he playing?

Velasquez advanced toward the witness stand with the same self-assured stride he'd shown across the street. He turned and leaned against the dark polished wood of the judge's bench. Bathed in the diffused light of the floor to ceiling windows to his right, one thing was certain; the cop knew how to present himself.

"Define usual positions."

"You know... On your knees... Holding a gun... Getting ready to shoot," Tom blurted out.

Thankfully, nothing came to mind that involved his being on his back with his legs in the air. Tom felt that he was already knee-deep in double entendres. He wiped a thin film of perspiration from his forehead and sat on the edge of the table.

"Really? I don't get to use it as often as some of the other guys," Velasquez repled. An enigmatic smile playing across his full kissable lips.

Tom's eye dropped to the rising bulge behind the buttons of the policeman's faded 501s. Earlier conservative estimates of size would have to be revised upward to allow for double digit inflation.

"I've heard that a... gun... should be used..."

Velasquez trapped and held him prisoner with his incredible green eyes. His right hand slid downward from his waist band. His thumb disappeared between the third and fourth buttons.

"Were you ever in the military?" he asked, stroking the lurking beast in his basket.

"N... No. Why do you ask?" Tom stammered.

"We had a saying in the Marines. 'This is my weapon. This is my gun. One is for killing. The other's for fun.' Which one are you talking about?"

"You left your holster downstairs... in the locker and I'm strictly non-violent," he whispered hoarsely. He wanted to say more but his throat had gone dry.

Velasquez pushed away from the polished mahogany witness stand and slowly approached the table. Tom's erection, now unencumbered by the whims of propriety, gleefully charged down his left thigh and was once again pushing painfully against the inner seam of his pants. Velasquez stepped between Tom's legs as he spread them to relieve the pressure.

"Nice gun you've got, buddy. You up for some target practice?" he whispered, rubbing his hand up and down the length of Tom's swollen, rock hard cock.

As you might imagine, Tom was pretty fucking confused. The guy liked him; that much was obvious from the way he pressed their crotches together. The questions that came to mind centered on the word "why". Why on the ninth floor of the Hall Of Justice? Why not some place private where there was a guaranteed supply of lube?

Los Angeles was as well known for its good looking men as it was for smog, freeways and earthquakes. Why had he been signaled out? He'd been told that he was quite a good looking guy in his own right. As a strapping 6'4", 190 pound blonde with blue eyes and a big dick he embodied, at least on paper, a sort of Tom of Finland ideal. In real life he was just a regular guy.

Thankfully, Velasquez didn't seem to agree. Who was Tom to turn down such an appealing invitation when there were men going to bed celibate and horny all over the city?

Tom couldn't remember the exact words that came to mind as the silence of the ninth floor enveloped them, but he was sure they weren't "stop or I'll shoot" or "fire when ready". He was positive that he didn't say: "don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes". He was looking right into the cop's eyes and so far there was only a small sticky spot near the tip of his dick. He still hadn't popped his load.

It didn't really matter what was said. What did matter was the fact that weeks of fantasies hung in the balance: fantasies that could come to glorious reality or go down in a hail of misfired bullets.

The prospect of touching Velasquez for the first time threw Tom's brain into overload. How would he remember the sensation when he wasn't sure that even his ever vigilant scanners could be trusted.

He could say that touching the cop's skin was like running his fingers across a silk sheet at the height of passion but decided that it sounded too much like Barbara Cartland on a poppers rush. Thinking of the cop's chest in terms of being as being smooth as that of a young boy weirded him out. It was also inappropriate and probably illegal.

Given the intensely sexual nature of the situation, he wasn't particularly surprised when his thoughts turned to jerking off. He thought of a day in the not too distant past when he was especially horny and spent an entire rainy afternoon engaged in a marathon masturbatory orgy. He remembered the sound of the rain falling on the leaves of the tree outside his window and how the sound brought out the sexually insatiable beast in him.

Most of all he remembered laying on the bed in the cool gray light watching a pool of cum run down his chest and collect in his navel. Touching it, savoring its perfection made him forget all about the cum towel. Maybe that would be how he'd remember the first time that he placed a trembling hand on Velasquez's muscular chest: touching perfection.

He buried his face in the crook of the cop's neck and inhaled deeply. His natural scent and the heady aroma of clean sweat made him dizzy with lust as he worked his way down his right shoulder and back.

Some people say that the first kiss is the toughest, even if the reasons are unclear. You can suck his cock dry or fuck him senseless. You can shove your tongue, your finger or even your fist up his ass and he won't raise a single objection but for some the kiss is the last great frontier.

For all his bravado, Velasquez was no exception. He resisted as their lips brushed on their way to some other less threatening spot. Ears? No problem. Neck or throat? Ditto. Shoulders? Don't stop Dude. Lips? Later, amigo: or so he thought.

Tom was on his way to the other side when Velasquez's full, kissable lips came within snapping distance. He grabbed the back of his head and pulled him forward. The cop shook his head and tried to pull away but Tom's grip was too strong.

"I don't kiss," he whispered, urgently pulling at as many buttons as he was pushing.

"Yes you do," Tom countered.

"No," he insisted. "Not for a one shot... Oh fuck."

"Again with the guns? What makes you think this is a one shot fuck? Tom mumbled as he pulled his fly open and shoved his hand inside.

Tom wrapped his strong fingers around the cop's prodigious piece. Velasquez took a deep ragged breath and let it out slowly.

"What makes... you think... it isn't?" he asked with a surprised gasp.

"Because you didn't go to all this trouble just for a quick blow job. He had something else in mind," Tom replied.

"Maybe I like to do it in exotic places," Velasquez offered while shoving Tom's pants down around his knees.

Tom found himself sitting on the edge of the table. The wood felt cool against his naked butt as he leaned back. That was when it hit him.

"You've never kissed another guy, have you?"

"Sure I have," Velasquez protested: albeit lamely. "I've done it lots of times with..."

"I know: with lots of guys. Every one of them was a meaningful relationship, huh?"

It was a mystery to Tom why he was copping an attitude instead of a feel. Officer Velasquez's defensiveness told him everything he needed to know, yet he was compelled to go on. Officer Velasquez was a true romantic adrift in a world of quickie blow jobs. Something that he'd read about D. H. Lawrence came to mind. It described the great author as being a sexual idealist trapped in a repressed age. If his instincts were right the hunky cop was about to be set free.

"No, but..."

Tom stroked himself but was careful not to get carried away. Already so hard that it actually hurt, there was a point that had to be made.

"Uh huh. See I don't like games unless I'm in on the rules and I don't like to be kept in the dark. Up to now, that's exactly what's been happening so I'll tell you what I'm going to do. If all you had in mind was getting your rocks off, I'll put this back in my pants and we'll finish the tour as if all of this never happened. No hard feelings. It's your call, Officer Velasquez."

Velasquez stepped out of his pants and stretched out on top of him. His face hovered above Tom's as his eyes searched for a hint of deception. Yeah, it was that obvious.

Frankly, Tom was as surprised at his own candor as Velasquez appeared to be. He clamped one hand around a bulging tricep, the other around the back of his neck and started to pull him forward.

"You won't find it. Stop wasting time," Tom said as he closed the distance.

Let the records show that Officer Anthony Ruben Velasquez's first ever kiss by another man took place on the defense table in Superior Court A, Room 900, on the afternoon of July the third at approximately two in the afternoon.

Tom's sense of vindication was immediate. Once his reservations were put to rest, it was like a flood gate had been opened. Suddenly the hunky cop was all over him, his tongue probing and pushing against Tom's in a first kiss neither one wanted to end.

Not surprisingly his jockstrap, having been stretched to capacity, relinquished its hold and his huge uncut whopper joined Tom's in the warm still air of the courtroom. Now with their cocks pressed together, skin against skin as they rolled across the table, nothing else mattered.

The intermittent rain of keys and coins falling from his pockets reminded Tom that his pants were still down around his ankles and there were things that he might need rolling beneath the chairs. Anthony closed his eyes and took a deep breath as Tom pulled out from under him and slid from the table.

"What's wrong?" Velasquez asked. Confusion clouded his strong, masculine face as Tom stood with his boner waving in the still air.

"Not a thing. I'll be with you as soon as I get my pants off," he said pointing to the jumble of fabric covering his shoes.

Velasquez glanced at the floor, then scrambled off the table and dropped to one knee to help him undress.

"Let me give you a hand with that."

"How cool is this?" Tom thought to himself as the cop untied his boot laces. "The man of my dreams is at my feet... on his knees with his big hairy balls swinging beneath a big uncut dick bobbing up and down between his powerful legs. All I have to do is stand here and enjoy the show. How many writers would kill for such inspiration?"

Free at last from the last remnants of his sartorial respectability Tom pulled him, slowly, to his feet. Never once did their bodies lose contact. Never once did he doubt that his fortitude was being tested as Velasquez dragged his silky smooth chest upward: first against his crotch, then rising slow and unhurried over his stomach until Tom could his heart beating against his own. A dazzling ray of white light streamed in from the south end of the room as their lips met.

"Jesus," Tom croaked. "You should come packaged with a vial of Nitro tablets. That trick could give a lesser man heart failure."

"You liked that, huh? Don't expect it too often. It's hell on the knees," he replied as he led Tom back to the Prosecution table.

Tom no longer knew what to expect. The shy, reserved officer of the law was gone. In his place stood a man who, based on early estimates, could send even the best of lovers back for a refresher course. This, in turn, led to the question of whether he'd ever existed at all.

Tom stretched out on the gleaming oak surface and closed his eyes while the handsome cop arranged his legs and himself between them. When he looked again, Velasquez was flat on his stomach. All he could see was his head poised above his erection.

Their eyes met as Velasquez grasped Tom's quivering, quaking column of cock flesh (don't ya love euphemisms") and grinned. The time had come.

"Buckle up and spread your legs, big guy. You're in for the ride of your life," Velasquez said with a low, sensual growl.

Buckle up? No sweat. Spread his legs? How far? Tense with anticipation and driven to the edge of total abandon by lust unparalleled in the annals of sexuality, Tom would have done anything asked of him.

As it turned out, the hard part was upholding a measure of dignity once Velasquez got behind the wheel. In no time at all, Tom's universe was turned inside out and backward.

Most guys who engage in public sex or as in their case, semi-public sex, get right down to business with none of the usual preliminaries. In this respect, Velasquez was no different. He began at the perineum, that little piece of sexual paradise between the balls and the butt hole, and lapped at the hyper-sensitive flap of skin until waves of pleasure totally engulfed Tom's brain.

"God, Velasquez. It feels so fucking good," Tom cried out, mindless of who else might be around to hear.

"Call me Mphmphmph," the officer replied from between Tom's spread legs.

"What?"

"I said to call me Anthony," he repeated. "My name's Anthony."

"Anything you say... Anthony. Just don't stop eating my hole."

Velasquez... Anthony... responded to his words of encouragement by redoubling his efforts at turning him into a mindless prisoner of sex. While clouds of dust, raised by the beating of Tom's fists on the table drifted toward the ceiling, Anthony's tongue plunged into Tom's twitching bung hole.

"Do it Anthony!" Tom roared as his butt cheeks were pried apart. "Eat my ass!"

It felt good to give himself over to this man: to just lay back and enjoy the ride while his tongue did all the work. Tom had been tongued before, but never with such a level of expertise.

Even in the old days, back when sex could be as adventurous as you could stand, it was rare to find someone willing to go down that particular road with such eagerness. Whether he was a throwback to those hedonistic times or he'd just been repressed for too long,there was something about Tom that inspired Anthony Velasquez to act out his impulses with total abandon.

Anthony went from eating ass to sucking cock without missing a stroke: so to speak. One minute Tom was writhing breathlessly on the edge of the table with his legs draped over the cop's wide shoulders, mulling over the erotic possibilities of chin stubble on tender skin. The next thing he knew, Anthony's warm mouth engulfed the head of his rigid, dripping cock and the acoustical tile ceiling erupted into a galaxy of shooting stars.

Tom felt compelled to raise his head and witness the spectacle. As a veteran of numerous blow jobs, Tom was aware of the enormous "turn-on" potential in seeing his favorite external body part being serviced by such a hot man. The simple act of watching it slide into the horny cop's mouth until it bumped against the back of his throat flipped every switch on the board. As for the way it looked as it emerged, glistening with saliva; it made his heart race.

"Okay. This is it," he thought to himself, placing his hand on the back of Velasquez's head and urging him on. "This is what you've been waiting for."

As if reading his mind, Anthony looked up from between his legs and winked. He paused just long enough for his tongue to pass over and around the hyper-sensitive corona.

"That's it, Anthony. Suck my big cock."

Tom grinned once it became clear that it was to be a wet suck, with equal measures of saliva and eagerness. He liked his blow jobs wet. He liked seeing the little rivulets of spit running down the length of his shaft and collecting in his pubic hair. He liked the way that it felt when a breeze whispered over his moist prick. The soft slurping sound it made as it slid between Anthony's soft lips was like music to his ears. The steady up and down movement lulled him into a trance-like state where he heard only bells.

It seemed as if the carilloneur had no sooner begun his lengthy bell solo than he heard Anthony speak and opened his eyes. Anthony stood over him holding his big beautiful boner just inches from his face. Tom blinked once, swallowed twice and opened his mouth wide.

"You want to give it a shot?" Anthony's voice was low and insinuating as he rubbed it teasingly across Tom's sweaty forehead.

"I'll do more than that," Tom growled, swinging his legs over the side of the table. "Get up here and spread 'em. I'm gonna eat me some cop butt."

Anthony looked dubious as the two men changed places. He wasn't accustomed to taking orders from a civilian. He'd always been, in every aspect of his life, a take charge sort of guy. Whether it was making a bust or making a good appearance on the witness stand, Anthony was used to people doing what he wanted them to.

Now he was the one with his knees shoved up around his ears with his tight, smooth butt cheeks spread wide. Tom forced his tongue into his puckered hole.

"Oh fucking hell!" Tony rasped as Tom buried his nose in the under side of his balls and pushed his tongue upward into mostly unexplored territory. "That's so fucking hot!"

"Haven't had a lot of action down in these parts, huh?" Tom asked from behind the erect cock that blocked his view of the cops face like a tall tree swaying in the breeze.

"Not like that... I mean not the way you do it."

"Then you've been with some pretty stupid people who didn't know what they were missing."

"I've never gotten to know any of them well enough to... I... Oh Jesus... Screw that. Don't stop."

For Tom, things were turning out to be too good to be true. Anthony was the embodiment of every fantasy that his overactive brain could conceive. The way he filled out a uniform was not to be believed. He was experienced, but not so much so that he'd become jaded. He could still be impressed.

Across the board and without exception, absolutely everything about this guy excited him: from the way his crotch smelled (a given) to the peculiar way he breathed. At some point Tom realized there were two extra intakes of breath for every long one and even that was sexy. It may seem like a pretty odd thing to find exciting, but it made him mortal because a deity doesn't have irregular breathing.

He was also intelligent, sensitive and above all was a man of convictions. That alone was enough to inspire Tom to try that much harder. If it turned out that Anthony was available and looking for someone to share his life with, it might as well be him.

"Me'teme en el culo," Anthony whispered.

"Huh?"

"Put your finger up my ass," he repeated in English. "Just go easy."

Tom wet his right index finger and placed it against the puckered butt hole, moving it in a tight little circle to relax the muscles and prepare it for what was to follow. Anthony moaned and spread his legs wide.

"Go ahead" I can take it."

The question was whether or not Tom could. He spat on his finger again, repositioned myself and pushed inward while swallowing the groaning officer's cock down to the base. They'd have heard his surprised yell at the front gate if not for the thick concrete walls.

"Damn!" he screamed. "Suck my cock, man. Suck it hard!" He was practically doubled back with pleasure.

As a long time practitioner of the oral arts, Tom came to the table equipped with a long repertory of cock sucking routines. While most were highly specialized and usable only on those for whom they were named, a few were easily adaptable to a wide number of recipients.

Based on his reaction, Tom pegged Anthony to be a Number 47: the Joe-Bob knob-job. For the record, Joe-Bob was a Fresno motorcycle mechanic who also had a big, uncut torpedo-shaped dick. Like Officer Velasquez, J.B. loved to be finger fucked while being sucked off.

Number 47 required a bit more concentration than most. It involved exerting a tighter grip around the base, extra tongue action along the shaft, more than the usual amount of suction at the head and a steady in and out prostate assault. Like any well executed routine, timing and coordination were all important.

He'd seen a lot of beautiful sights up to that moment, but not one was as exhilarating as the sight of Anthony laying on that table bathed in a shaft of filtered sunlight. Tom loved the way that he played with his nipples, slowly rolling them between his thumb and forefinger while staring, trance-like, at the ceiling. All the tensions and anxieties of his job were gone from his face.

"So what do you think?" Anthony asked after a long time.

"About what?"

"This table. Think it'll hold both of us?"

"Hard to say. It looks sturdy enough," Tom replied. He peered underneath.

"Then get your ass up here."

"If it falls, do I get to sue the city?"

"Nope. Just me... and you'll have to take it out in trade... but it'd be worth it for another shot at sucking your cock."

"Slide over."

Tom extracted his finger from the stud cop's butt. Even if the legs gave out, assuming they didn't break their necks in the fall, it would take a hell of a long time for him to work off a twenty million dollar law suit. The table creaked ominously but held firm as Tom stretched out at his side, ready for round three.

There are times when it's just plain stupid to waste time on formalities and Tom figured this to be one of them. Officer Velasquez groaned softly as he took up where he left off and drew his cock back into his mouth where, as far as he was concerned, it belonged. He attacked his friend's genitals with seemingly boundless exuberance, determined to drain every last drop of cum from Anthony's nuts by the time they were finished.

Anthony took a more leisurely approach. His innate sense of what made people tick was proving to be especially useful in determining what threw Tom's switches. He knew that Tom wasn't so impressed with his big dick that he'd be content with having it waved in his face while jerking himself off.

Anthony wasn't lying when he said there'd been others. His past was littered with mouths without faces. He'd left them where he found them: lurking behind glory holes in restroom stalls and in the alleys behind bars in towns where nobody knew who he was.

Who was this man between his legs: the one sucking on his dick like there'd never be a second chance? What was it about Tom that made him open himself up in ways he'd never thought possible? Was it the way he'd caught on to his bullshit game playing and had called him it or was that just another part of the mysterious something that had first caught his attention that day in the courtroom?

Anthony slid his tongue back and forth along the sensitive underside of Tom's rigid shaft before engulfing it in long, unhurried strokes. He was determined to have the answers if he had to keep him there all day.

The taste of Tom's sweat churning in his mouth made it hard to concentrate. Now and then Anthony would have to stop and savor it, allowing it to settle on the back of his tongue like a fine wine. He loved the way it mingled with the sweet pre-cum that oozed from his beautiful cock with every stroke.

"I think it's time," Anthony declared as he sat up, stretched and slid toward the end of the table. He sounded as if he'd just reached a verdict.

Tom laid back and stared at the water stains on the frescoed ceiling while collecting his thoughts. They were down to the main event. Pretty soon they'd both cum and maybe go their separate ways.

"Keanu Reeves has pee stains on his tunic," Tom observed.

"What?"

"The guy in the mural... above the jury box. He looks like Keanu Reeves and he's got a big 'ol pee stain on his crotch."

Anthony strained to see what Tom was talking about. "That's Zeno of Citium. He founded the Stoic school in... Hey! Are you bullshitting me?"

Aside from making absolutely no sense whatsoever, Tom couldn't say what he was thinking at the time. The thing about Keanu Reeves essentially just popped out: as did his reply to his understandably baffled question.

"Maybe you should think about it first," he said sounding as if he was trying to talk him out of it.

Anthony sidled around the table, his massive dick bouncing seductively, until he was standing at Tom's side. He wrapped his big hand around his friend's slightly deflated dick and gently stroked it back to full erection.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Keep that up and it'll be a moot point. Let me ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth: no bullshit. Is this going to be your first time taking it up the ass?"

Hearing it in those terms made him wince, but Anthony resolutely stood his ground. He might back up but he clearly wasn't going to back down.

"I said I've done it with lots of guys. Why do you keep asking me that?"

"No," Tom interrupted. "You said you've kissed a lot of guys and we both know what a load of horse shit that was: don't we?"

"Okay. So I'm not as experienced in as many things as you are. That doesn't mean that I've never done it, You got something against inexperience?"

Tom saw it as a good sign that Anthony was grinning. It was especially encouraging given the fact that he was on the defense when he should have been on Tom's dick.

"God, I sincerely hope not. I'm just afraid that you might be getting into something more than you bargained for."

Anthony bent over, swiped his tongue across Tom's engorged cock head and helped him to a sitting position between his legs. He pulled him tightly to his chest until their crotches were pressed tightly together.

"I'm a cop, Tom," he began with the same authoritative voice he'd used on the witness stand. "I've been shot at, swung at, poked at with lethal objects and threatened by a little old lady drug pusher in a motorized wheelchair. One guy even tried to run me down with his truck. If he hadn't been so drunk that he lost control, we might not be having this conversation. By now I've got a pretty good picture of life as it really is."

Tom planted a lingering kiss on Anthony's left nipple and slid his hands downward from his lats to his hips. He wondered why he was trying to make him change his mind. Had he lost his or was he still haunted by that last first time encounter that quickly went south once things started to feel less than pleasurable"

"It'll probably hurt," he said rubbing his cheek against the broad, smooth chest.

"Don't worry about that. I'd be surprised if it didn't but I hear it's worth it."

"You bet your ass it is."

"That's right. I'm betting my ass on it."

Faced with such determination, what choice did he have but to agree? If worse came to shove, at least he was unarmed.

"Okay," Tom sighed. "Climb up here and get on your..."

"Uh-uh," Anthony replied backing away and shaking his head. "By the witness stand. See, I've got it all worked out in my head. We'll start there and then we'll do it in the jury box. After that we can try it up in the Judge's seat... though I don't think we can sit down. Then we can..."

"You must have reinforcements waiting in the next room. How long do you think I can do this?"

"I don't know," he replied. "An hour or so?"

"This really is a fantasy," Tom laughed. "I'm already close no thanks to you."

Officer Velasquez just grinned as he retrieved what Tom presumed to be precautions from his Levis. Seeing the cop's muscular naked butt in motion as he walked toward the front of the room renewed Tom's determination.

"I believe in you," Anthony called out over his shoulder.

Tom cast a wary glance at the solidly shut double doors and started across the well to where Anthony waited patiently. "Screw it," he thought. "If he isn't worried, why should you care?" It was a point worth repeating as he negotiated the cavernous room.

The old institutional linoleum tile, made brittle by the passage of time, crunched loudly beneath his feet as he closed the gap. He hesitated every couple of steps, looking as if he was afraid the noise would attract attention of the wrong people.

His concern wasn't for himself but rather for Anthony. What if the guy at the gate decided to come looking for him? What would happen if he walked in and found his friend with a dick up his ass?

On the other hand, Anthony wasn't a fool. If he was confident that, in a building designed to hold thousands, they were the only two people he wouldn't argue the point. He reached Anthony's side with a renewed confidence and a determination to bury his cock as far up the policeman's ass as human physiology would allow.

"Took ya long enough," the cop whispered. His boots clumped loudly, like two cannon shots, as he spread his legs and planted his feet solidly on the floor. He pressed the palms of his hands flat against the oiled walnut bench and took a deep breath. He was ready.

Tom's hard-on lurched at the glorious sight of Anthony's butt, glistening with sweat. It was being offered freely. It was calling to him: begging him to come out and play. He stepped forward and placed his dripping tool in the cleft between the cop's round butt cheeks, afraid that any sudden move would make him cum across Anthony's broad, muscular back.

Anthony moaned softly as he slipped a condom into his hand. "Put your cock in my ass," he urged. "Do it now! Please... do it."

Tom carefully unrolled the rubber over his hypersensitive dick and waited for the urge to shoot his load to subside. He wrapped his arms around Anthony's chest and with one hand toyed with his nipple. The other, having developed an agenda of its own, continued downward and wrapped itself around the hard, fleshy appendage jutting from between his legs.

After what felt like an eternity to both men, Tom was ready. He placed the head of his cock against the cop's sphincter. It was warm to the touch and opened so that he could have seen the pink lining if he'd looked that close.

"Okay.. here we go," Tom whispered as the walls relaxed, then swallowed the first two inches of his prick. "Damn, Velasquez," he declared. "I'm really inside of you"

Anthony exhaled loudly and pushed back. "Don't stop. Keep going. I'm fine."

Tom needed no convincing. He grasped Anthony's narrow hips and forced himself the rest of the way in.

The walls of Anthony's butt hole tightened around the invader, holding him in a strong embrace. He bore down hard until Tom's hairy nut sack rested against his. It felt so right, the moment as perfect as anything he could have hoped for or imagined.

"God! You're so hot... and tight," Tom panted.

Anthony grunted in response. He stared at the intricate designs in the wood, feeling Tom's fleshy pole slide in and out and thinking of how much life was like a slab of wood. Hadn't their lives been like a grain pattern: two ragged lines running parallel to each other until they met outside of the County Courthouse?

As a cop, he had to be so careful and watch every word: check every emotion. It had been that way on that morning when he was standing on the corner waiting for the light to change.

The sight of the tall blonde man in the dark, double breasted pin stripe suit took his breath away, yet there was no way that he could approach him. The days when a cop in uniform could stop a citizen for no reason other than to be friendly were long gone.

Tom's thick mushroom shaped cock head slid over Anthony's prostate, coaxing out a long strand of pre-cum. It whipped back and forth like a glistening rope and flew into the podium. "Hell," Anthony thought to himself. "I'm already close."

He gritted his teeth and, in a concerted effort to forestall the inevitable, forced himself to think of something other than the hard reaming being administered to his butt. He thought of the day when he entered the courtroom and saw Tom in the jury box.

He was no longer dressed like a lawyer, having abandoned the suit in favor of a blue shirt that complimented his eyes. Velasquez had been unable to resist taking a furtive glance as he crossed the well on his way to the witness stand.

As a cop, he had to be observant and notice little details, but this had nothing to do with his being an officer of the law. It was physical attraction, pure and simple.

Tom rested his head on Anthony's muscular back as he pounded away at his abused ass. He kissed him between the shoulder blades, sending a chill down the cop's spine.

"You doing okay?" he asked with genuine concern. "Want to rest for awhile?"

"No. I like feeling you inside of me."

"Just say the word," Tom replied, thrusting upward as he gripped Anthony's shoulders.

His concern validated Officer Velasquez's first impression: that Tom was unlike anyone he'd ever met. He was also a damned good sex partner.

"Tom," he said tightening his sphincter. "I've never...I mean, you're the first."

Tom stopped pumping. "Really? I thought you had so much experience."

"I lied... at least about that part. And... uh... also the kissing."

The cop sounded so contrite over having been less than truthful that Tom almost laughed. He bit his lip to keep from breaking up and spoiling the mood.

"Why the sudden need to confess? You want me to pull out?"

"God no! Hell, I don't want you to stop... ever."

"I've got a confession too," Tom replied with a soft laugh. "I ain't Superman and I can't hold back forever. In fact, from the way that big pinga of yours is leaking, I'd say that you aren't far from it either."

Anthony looked down at the hand wrapped around his rock hard penis. Tom's finger and thumb were slick with pre-cum.

"Kinda looks that way. Guess you'd better go for it."

"Anything you say, officer."

Tom remanded the big, uncut dick back into Officer Velasquez's custody and withdrew enough to adjust the condom. Then, with a grunt, he rammed his cock deep into the cop's twitching hole. Anthony's surprised yell reverberated throughout the room, through the heavy oak doors and down the hall.

"Oh fucking shit!"

"You want it hard?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me."

The cop was slow to comprehend what Tom was asking him to do. The assault on his prostate, the slap of skin on skin and the smell of raw sex that seemed all pervasive had lulled him into a state of blissful oblivion. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes glazed.

"Huh? What?"

Tom allowed his hands to roam lovingly over Anthony's body as he considered his next move. A lot was riding not only on what he said, but also on what he did and how well he did it. He sensed that while unlikely, it was not impossible that Anthony could be put off of Gay sex by virtue of what transpired that afternoon. If he learned anything from the trial, it was that people do unexpected things when events don't happen exactly as planned.

There'd always be other new things to explore in the bedroom but getting fucked for the first time was strictly a one shot deal for the handsome cop. Anthony could never again truthfully claim to have a virgin ass.

Whack.

"Tell me what you want," he growled.

The situation called for total control. He slapped the cop's perfect upturned ass just hard enough to raise an angry red handprint that faded as quickly as it appeared.

Whack.

Anthony sensed that all of the sexual fantasies he'd ever had were about to come true if he played it right. It was like getting three wishes, and the genie in the bottle was a hot, sexy man... one that he trusted... who was ready to do anything he asked. If the genie wanted him to talk dirty, that's what he'd do.

Whack.

"I want you to fuck the shit out of me," he said deliberately choosing his words. "Fill my ass with your big cock... Stretch my virgin hole. Oh yeah... that's what I want. Slap my ass. Plow my butt. Cram that fuck tool up there."

It felt good to say it and, having done so, Anthony felt as if a giant weight had been taken from his shoulders. Now that the door was open, the words that he'd always hoped to say came rushing out. Getting fucked and loving it didn't make him feel like any less of a man. He could be a real kick-ass cop and still enjoy taking it up the butt. The thought made his dick jump and his heart race.

Whack.

"Tighten it for me," Tom commanded.

Whack.

The slapping was something that Anthony didn't care for: at least in the beginning. He was about to mention it when another one connected and his anus constricted and relaxed in response to the sharp sting. Hearing Tom's moan of pleasure he decided that maybe he could get to like it.

Whack.

"Oh yeah. Slap my hot ass. Fuck it hard."

The cop's obvious enthusiasm was as reassuring as it was exciting. Tom was about to comply when Officer Velasquez gently but firmly pushed him away. Tom's greasy cock emerged and disengaged with a soft "plup".

"What's going on?" Tom asked. "Something wrong?"

Anthony turned and drew him into a long, passionate kiss. "Not a thing," he replied once they came up for air.

"Then what are you... Where are you going?"

Anthony had already circled behind the bench and was climbing the stairs. "Come on up," he said once he'd reached the top. "I've got this empty hole that needs filling."

It took only a few seconds of watching Anthony's uncut cock displacing huge volumes of air as it waved over his head to understand. Tom watched awe struck as a strand of shimmering pre-cum trailed from its tip in the still air. The slender thread lengthened and broke away, spiraling downward to the floor.

"Hold that thought," Tom whispered hoarsely.

Feeling as if every passing second was an eternity in exile from paradise, he raced to join his friend.

Anthony turned and carefully stretched out across the gavel scarred desk, his fingers fondling and caressing his hairy nut sack. He spread his legs and fingered his greasy pink void that waited to be filled.

The wait was slightly longer than he'd expected. The arresting sight of Anthony's long fingers sliding in and out of his moist hole, stretching and preparing it for the hard fucking that was to come, rendered Tom immobile. For several breathless moments, he stood beneath the ghostly outline of the scales of justice watching as the cop opened himself up.

"Come on, you big fucking stud. Put that big cock in my virgin hole."

Tom glanced down at the erection jutting out from between his legs. He noted the small amount of clear fluid that had seeped from the rubber's reservoir tip, covering the head before becoming trapped by the tight latex sleeve. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been so hard and so reluctant at the same time. He didn't want it to end.

"Please do it Tom," he moaned as he slipped another finger inside and gently stroked the inner lining.

This brought Tom to his senses. He stepped forward, hoping that enough lube remained inside Anthony's hole to make the insertion an easy one. A board creaked beneath his feet as he closed the gap and positioned his prong at the entrance. He took a breath and pushed.

Both men gasped as the walls parted and his cock disappeared, riding on a trail of heat liquefied slime and goo. "Oh fucking shit!" Anthony cried out as it collided with his prostate. "That feels so good!"

Tom wanted to respond but couldn't. Looking deeply into Anthony's lust-filled eyes had turned his thought processes to gibberish. He grunted as he gradually picked up the pace.

For Anthony, the world had become a kaleidoscope of sounds and sensations. There was the desk, hard and unyielding beneath his pounding fists. There was the sound of his own voice as he urged Tom on with words he never thought he'd say.

Outside and nine floors below, the world was going about its business. The roar of traffic from the nearby freeway gave way to his own heavy breathing. With a single turn, the wail of sirens racing down Temple Street faded away as the gentle slap of Tom's nuts against his butt took center stage. For however long it took, it was all about them.

"Lo pegaron adentro allí," he yelled. "Ram it in me. Make me your fuck pig. Harder! Harder! I'm so close, man. Let me cum with your dick inside my ass. Just this once, okay?"

Tom nodded his concurrence. He'd wanted to cum with him, but what else could he do?

Sweat poured from his body, drenching both of them. He was considering licking it off when Anthony's prick suddenly erupted in a hands-free surge that sent spunk flying everywhere. Most of it landed in places that the cleaning crew would be hard pressed to reach if the building was returned to service.

"Son of a fucking bitch! I'm not even touching it!" Anthony screamed. "Fuck the cum out of me! My ass is yours, Papi. Use it!"

Tom dutifully fucked like a man with a mission. Fortunately, his mind had cleared in time to afford him a memorable view as each powerful thrust summoned up new reserves of jizz. He'd never seen so much coming out of one man.

"Damn, Velasquez," he croaked as a ribbon of semen landed across the bridge of the cop's nose with a wet splat.

A blanket of creamy white spunk covered Anthony's chest, abdomen and crotch by the time his prick stopped erupting. He lay back, breathless and drained as Tom slowed to a stop. He looked deeply into Tom's eyes and winked.

"That was fucking awesome," he whispered. "Thanks for indulging me. I think you really are the Man of Steel."

Whether his stamina came from a lifetime of (mostly) healthy living or his sporadic study of tantric sex, Tom was still as hard as he'd been at the start. He smiled wanly as he slowly backed out, afraid that any sudden move would set off a potentially unsafe chain reaction within the sensitive walls of Anthony's ass. He was very, very close.

Anthony slid from the desk and, sensing his friend's predicament, led Tom to the wall. The paneling was scarred and dented by seventy years of bailiff's key rings and carelessly moved judge's chairs, but it was cool against his warm backside as he leaned against the dark wood.

The cop, dripping with cum and sweat drew the tall blonde man with brilliant blue eyes in his arms while turning him around. He wedged his semi erect cock between Tom's butt cheeks and pulled him tightly against his chest.

"Got any preferences?" Officer Velasquez whispered. His left hand rested briefly on Tom's long, flat stomach before moving upward.

Between the warm rush of Anthony's breath on the back of his neck and the fat, uncut cock dry humping his butt crack, any suggestions that Tom might have offered were reduced to disjointed, inarticulate mumbling.

"No... I don't... Uh... I mean I... Huh?"

"I asked how you wanted to cum."

Tom's knees threatened to go out from under his as a shiver raced up and down his spine. Unable to do anything else, he sagged into the cop's strong arms.

"Hell, I don't care. Surprise me."

Tom looked down and sighed contentedly as Anthony wrapped his big fist around his hard, greasy dick and began stroking it. It felt better than he could ever have imagined in a lifetime of dreams and fantasies.

"Gonna jack you off," Anthony whispered. "Gonna make you shoot your load all over the fucking courtroom."

"Do it," Tom replied urgently.

"You like having a cop make you cum?"

"Fuck yes!" Tom gasped.

"Gonna make you cum now," Anthony rasped as the strokes grew in urgency. "Tonight I'll make you cum with my big cock up your tight ass... Gonna fuck that hot man's butt. You want that? You want me to fuck your ass?"

Given the intensity of the moment, Tom would have agreed to just about anything the sexy cop had to offer. He'd never had anything that big up there and a long time since he'd trusted anyone enough to even get close. It might take some serious effort to accomplish, but he had only to look at that muscular tattooed arm flogging away between his spread legs to know how much he wanted it.

"Yes. I want you to fuck my ass, Velasquez. I want to feel you moving inside of me."

Anthony tightened his grip. "Tonight I'm gonna fuck my man's tight ass. Gonna do it, man. I'm gonna fuck him... make his ass mine. Usted nunca deseará cualquier persona pero me."

Tom liked the sound of that: of being "his man". He liked the thought of Velasquez taking ownership of his ass and offering his own in return. It made his nuts draw up in their sack as they prepared to unload into Anthony's hand. He was ready to cum, and the man of his dreams was going to make it transpire.

It happened suddenly, just as it had with Velasquez.

"Oh fucking hell!" Tom screamed as semen rushed from the tip of his cock. It quickly covered Anthony's hand with a milky white glove that dripped on to the scuffed wood floor.

"That's it," Anthony whispered urgently as his friend twisted and strained in the crook of his arm. "Give your man what he wants. Give me your hot load. Go with it and let me do the work"

His words were like a warm breeze in Tom's ear: a breeze that flowed down the back of his neck and over his shoulders. Tom nodded and gripped the sinewy forearm pressed tightly against his rib cage. It was nice having someone else in control. It felt good to know that the hand that was so deftly jerking him off belonged to someone like Anthony.

It was long after his breathing had returned to normal and the hand wrapped around his cock had milked out the last drops of cum, that Tom could even think of moving. He felt safe and secure. For all that he cared his butt could stay pressed against Anthony's cock for the rest of the afternoon.

Somewhere in the vast labyrinth of hallways, the metallic echo of an elevator rising on dusty cables brought the two men back to reality.

"Uh oh," Tom muttered softly. "We're not alone."

"It's probably the cleaning crew. They won't be coming up here."

Tom winced as his foot slid on a puddle of cum. "Speaking of coming, should we be cleaning up after ourselves just in case?"

Officer Velasquez glanced at the floor. "I guess so. You go and get dressed while I grab a rag and wipe this up."

Tom reluctantly broke the seal and started down the steps, carefully avoiding the tiny pools of semen that dotted the platform. He came to the third step and turned around. Velasquez was still leaning against the wall and staring at the mess they'd made.

He returned and pressed his crotch against the sexy Latino cop's slowly deflating dick.

"Thank you. That was amazing..."

"It was my pleasure."

"About me taking it up the ass..."

"Don't sweat it," Velasquez replied shaking his head. "People say a lot of things that they don't mean when they're about to cum."

"You're not trying to back out of it, are you?"

"Hell no. But I thought..."

Tom guided the cop's hands to his butt. "You thought wrong. I don't have anything against doing it in exotic places, but I'm also a realist. It ain't gonna be easy taking that big nightstick of yours up the ass. Call me crazy, but I want to have a real bed, a full bottle of poppers and a gallon of Elbow Grease at hand before I try."

"Poppers? Aren't they illegal?" Velasquez asked sternly, sounding every bit like the cop that he was.

"So's fucking in a public building."

"Only if there's someone around to see," Velasquez replied with a mischievous grin. He pulled him closer, gently squeezing Tom's firm butt and thinking of how great it was going to feel.

Later, after he was dressed and was waiting for Velasquez to finish wiping the cum from city property, Tom stood at one of the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Criminal Courts Building. Off to the right, he could see the now quiet intersection where he first spotted Officer Velasquez. Tom smiled broadly when he thought of all the additions he'd be making to Velasquez's file by the time the long Fourth of July weekend was over.

EPILOG

Things don't always go as we sometimes hope they will. The Fourth of July weekend went without a hitch, as did the three months that followed. Anthony turned out to be as sexually creative in the bedroom as he was on the ninth floor of the Hall Of Justice.

Toward the end of October, however, Tom started having second thoughts about the future of their relationship. It had come about so quickly and intensely that he hadn't the chance to question whether or not he was cut out to be the "spouse" of a Cop.

He needed what he referred to as "viewing room". If the attraction was part of the fantasy, maybe it would be better to cut their losses than to run the risk of a more painful breakup later on. Though devastated, Anthony agreed to pull back and, for seven and a half weeks, was as miserable as Tom.

They reconciled just in time for Christmas when Tom decided that life holds no promises. He could no longer imagine a life without Anthony.

As a reminder of just how tentative life can be, Anthony was shot while responding to a robbery in progress. Tom spent Christmas Eve in the hospital waiting room. While not a religious man, he did a lot of praying to Saint Michael, the patron saint of policemen, that night.

Anthony will always insist that his rapid recovery was due in no small part to Tom's unwavering love and support. Tom disagrees, preferring to give credit where credit is due: to Anthony's voracious appetite for life and his stubborn refusal to let the bad guys win.

Theirs is a love story that began with a file entry on a busy street and continues as a work in progress. It will no doubt continue to evolve and grow in spite of the setbacks.

END (ENTER)

SAVE?

YES (ENTER)

PLEASE WAIT

DONE