Millstone, Chapter One
I wrote this story for Nifty, a nifty site if there ever was one. Nifty needs your donations to host this work, and some works, no doubt, that are far better. If you enjoy Nifty, please, consider donating at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
This work is the sole property of the author and may not be reprinted or reused without his written permission.
All Rights Reserved © 2020, Rick Haydn Horst Formerly known as Rick Heathen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Thank you for delving into this work; I hope you enjoy it.
Hanging the Chimney Hook: a Millstone & Roche Investigation, By Rick Haydn Horst
Chapter One
I like to train and keep myself fit for my job, but for those past eight weeks, my only exercise had been kicking myself. I hadn't much else to fill my time from a hospital bed, with my noggin imitating a mummy and my keister in hot water with the Russian mob. I wouldn't take a stroll in Central Park with a target on my back and a price on my head. So, the highlights for those weeks consisted of three meals a day, brought to me like clockwork, and the unnecessary sponge baths, used as a pretense to provide daily oral service from a hunky, blonde nurse named Max Roche. He had brains, a beautiful smile, and a body built like a brick shit house. Other than those often-wonderful moments, I had lots of time for self-reflection (which I used to avoid), regret (a foolish activity in which I've discovered I excel), and kicking myself.
Sexually speaking, I had never identified myself as gay, straight, or even bisexual; I was just me. I would never hang out in bars, go to a parade or anything one might perceive as stereotypical gay behavior. It never occurred to me to think of myself as anything but sexual, and I'm decidedly that.
Max proved himself a hell of a man, masculine, 6 feet tall, 240 lbs. of muscle, with a hot, sexy baritone voice that could melt butter. If he hadn't sucked my cock every day, and I met him as a stranger elsewhere, I would never have thought he was gay. I guess that just shows that gay men come in all shapes, sizes, personalities, and temperaments.
I ended up in this situation as a new private detective in town, and I had a little run-in with Lev Stepanov, the boss of the local outlet for the Russian mob. Purely by chance, I saw him shoot a man dead, and where they dumped his body. So, like a law-abiding citizen, I went to the cops. As I expected, they jumped on it, but due to the nature of the assailant, they placed me in witness protection.
After the trial, I received a government "thank you" in the form of a rearranged face and the promise of sixty grand to start over elsewhere with a new name and identity. Officially, I had ten thousand dollars of cushion money in the bank, and while I squirreled away the tax-free money that I inherited a decade ago into a Swiss bank account, sixty thousand more in immediate cash sounded pretty grand to me.
My regret started after the surgery. I wouldn't know how plastic surgery goes with all those Hollywood types, but mine hurt like hell. The gay Polish surgeon I wound up with, a Dr. Wójcik (don't worry, I couldn't pronounce it either), declared my surgery his masterpiece. Well, I had yet to see it at that point, so I couldn't say.
I had two stages of full facial reconstruction and recuperation, after which they kept the pressure on my face to reduce swelling with wrappings and only removed those to shave me or clean my wounds. That took eight weeks, nine Wednesdays to the day, which meant I finally made it to the finish line. The bandages would come off permanently, and I would find out what I looked like. Hallelujah!
Special Agent Sawyer of the U.S. Marshals oversaw my case; I liked him; he seemed like a good guy who kept me in one piece before, during, and after the trial. Unexpectedly, he arrived a couple of hours early that afternoon, satchel in hand, as Max, with his mind in the zone, stayed kneeling on the floor, blowing the hell out of me at the side of the bed. Sawyer's sudden appearance interrupted my concentration. He hadn't said anything, but he had both a smirk on his face and the effrontery to stay. He leaned against the wall six feet in front of me, dropping the satchel at his feet. Max refused to stop, and I hadn't wanted him to. As with so many people in my past, he had grown addicted to the quality and quantity of my protein shake, and at that moment, I desperately wanted that handsome, muscle-bound cocksucker to have some more. Max held my dong in one of his meaty, blonde-haired knuckled hands like an all-beef burrito, while the other wrapped around my scrotum, pulling the sack like an addict would pull a tourniquet to get his fix. He worked hard at keeping a steady rhythm, shoving my cock head deep into his gob with every descent.
Because he insisted on watching, I stared defiantly into Sawyer's eyes as Max and I continued. Sawyer smiled in surprise that his presence hadn't altered the scene in the least. He watched transfixed as my hand rode Max's bobbing head as his lips traveled up and down my knob. With all the happy, wet, contented noise that Max made, anyone beyond the door could hear him slurping and slathering my cock in spit for another ten minutes. As my orgasm came upon me for the third time that day, he drew back to just the head and expected to get less that time. When he pulled the trigger of my spunk blaster, Max's head jerked as I shot him in the kisser, but I kept his mouth firmly on the barrel as I pelted his palate as usual with a full magazine of white ammo.
I had grown quite attached to Max, as much as he had grown attached to the business end of my schlong. And while I couldn't say I loved him, I certainly liked him, and I loved his mouth as much as he loved the juice that I had to fill it.
Max cleaned me up, licking the sides of my cock of any remnants and spittle, then stood to his full six-foot height and backed away. Sawyer took a good look at me with eyes wide. "I would call you a cocky son-of-a-bitch," he said, "but that wouldn't do you justice. That's the biggest fucking dick I've ever seen."
The piece in question remained as erect as ever, and during my life, it proved both a curse and a blessing in equal measure. It got too much attention, especially when it was inconvenient, and if I neglected to have my nuts drained several times a day, I had erections that insisted on poking me between my navel and sternum beneath my shirts. However, its unique and prodigious nature provided the benefit of never having to take-care-of-business myself, as a long string of empathetic and eager volunteers had invariably come to my sexual rescue; Max was the most recent. However, unlike the others who merely wanted a taste, Max had taken the time to talk to me, demonstrating his intelligence along with a special devotion that made me see him in a different light.
Sawyer asked him, "Could you hang about in the hall while I speak to him for a moment?"
"Sure, I can do that," he said as he continued to lick his lips and winked at Sawyer as he left the room.
Sawyer pointed at the door where Max just left. "He's cocky too. Will you just sit there, airing your horse-cock?"
"Why not? Ever been to the tracks? This is what horses do. Besides, you almost interrupted one of the best blowjobs of my life, yet you had the temerity to stay and watch, so if you have reservations now, it's too little too late."
Sawyer turned up, wearing his usual gray suit for my other big reveal--meaning my face. I hadn't seen him for a few days while he took care of some business for my case, and he returned just before the hospital released me. I sat on the side of the bed, my cock standing vertical against my belly, still trying to catch my breath from Max's outstanding work. Foremost on my mind, however, I had a growing impatience to get the wrappings off. Sawyer played nonchalant, but I knew I had gotten to him.
"You know," I said, "during your absence, your temp told me they stopped performing these surgeries. So, why the special treatment?"
"I pulled some strings and got them to do it," he said.
"Why would you do that?"
He stood as erect as my cock once again, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and tried to get his growing bulge under control. "One, because you have no family.
"Two, because unlike you, most of the people who enter the system have committed crimes, and they usually ask for unreasonable things like Ferrari's and a higher grade-point average for their child. You asked for absolutely nothing. You agreed to it because you saw it as the right thing to do, and you accepted the system's requirements with no demands. In my experience, you are a rare bird.
"Three, because you work as a private detective, and, as you know, we ask people in the system to leave their former lives behind entirely, but I couldn't have that. There aren't enough rare birds like you, and I find the idea of forcing you into another trade a colossal waste of potential. So, to convince my boss that we could make this work, we had to go extreme. You get a standard, new identity, with all the i-dents you could ever want. You get a new face, a new history, and a new home in a new city. The apartment may not count for much, but your success once you settle-in is up to you."
"So, what's my new name?"
"Howard Ellis Millstone," said Sawyer.
"Millstone?" I laughed. "From whose hat did you pull that name?"
"Mine," he stated flatly, "It's my great grandmother's maiden name."
Cringing, I lowered my head. "And a fine name it is, I'll wear it with pride."
Sawyer smiled and laughed a little. "I'm sure you will."
"So, wouldn't this imply that we're related?"
"We are first cousins once removed, or at least that's the answer to anyone curious enough to ask when I come to check on you every year."
"Only once a year?"
"It's the required minimum," he said. "I could make it more often if I feel it's necessary. I usually make it a birthday visit, and now your birthday is June 26th, 1981; so, happy birthday to you."
"You made me two years younger? I'm touched. I hope I get those years right this time. If you've already found me an apartment, I take it I haven't a choice of city."
"That came as one of the conditions," he said. "To further insulate you, we had to send you somewhere the mafia wouldn't go."
He left it hanging there, with a visible reluctance that I hadn't liked. "Are you waiting for a drum roll?"
"I picked Franklin."
"Franklin! Do you mean Freaky Franklin, often referred to as The Big Joke? Some people talk about dropping a nuke on Franklin. Why would you send me there?"
"The people who talk about dropping nukes on Franklin, those are the true freaks, my friend. Franklin has nothing wrong with it; it's a beautiful college city on the west coast, and I've visited it many times. Trust me; you will learn to love it. A city that size could sustain a detective like you. Besides, my sources say they have no other private detective there. The last detective that worked Franklin crossed paths with a bookie from Boxly who, as you might put it, wouldn't take green stamps. I heard that after the double kneecapping and a couple of prosthetic implants, he moved upstate someplace."
"I'll be the only game in town?" I asked.
"Yep."
Sawyer tossed me the satchel. The bag contained a change of clothes, an envelope with a couple of vital pieces of identification--a birth certificate and a social security card. It also had a one-way plane ticket, a short essay on the history of Howard Ellis Millstone, a folded sticky note with my new address, a front door key, and 70 thousand in cash, including my 10 thousand from the local bank. "I guess I can't get photo ID until this comes off. Where is the doc? Let's get this going."
"I had the doctor wait until I gave you the news." He then insisted I put on the clothes to cover my finally shrinking appendage before pushing the nurse-call button. He brought me the clothes I told him I would need. Along with the button-down collar shirt, he brought the specially made pants I requested. They're made with a gusset to give my package the room it needed; otherwise, it's shoved down the leg, which gets uncomfortable and quite impossible to stand straight when I get one of the erections that occur throughout the day.
The doc came in with a man who carried some photography equipment, and the curious Max snuck in behind them before they closed the door, and he quietly stood in the corner behind Sawyer.
"Hello, Mr. Millstone," said the doctor. "How are you feeling today?"
"I see why you had him wait," I said to Sawyer. "I feel ready to get out of here, doc. These walls are killing me."
The doctor removed the clips that held the bandages. He began unwrapping me, and I became the center of attention. When the doctor stepped away, I saw three sets of eyebrows lift simultaneously.
"You look like a Marlboro Man," said Max.
"What?" I asked.
"Yes," said the doctor, "in Poland, the Marlboro Man is a prominent icon."
"Give me the mirror! I can't look like a Marlboro Man; I don't even smoke." I held the glass before my face, and I realized Max was right. He mostly altered my jawline and gave me a square jaw. So, shove a cowboy hat on my head, dangle a cigarette from my mouth, and I could picture myself splayed across an advertisement right next to a whiskey ad in some Eastern European magazine. "Sawyer, you gotta make them fix this!"
"Sorry." Sawyer shook his head. "Only one spin per player, and you've had yours. Look on the bright side; it's far more handsome than the ugly mug you walked in here with."
I turned to Max. "I trust your aesthetic judgment. What do you think?"
He shrugged. "You look just as I hoped you would."
His answer caught me by surprise. I thought about it for a moment, nodded a little, and smiled. "Okay, if you like it, I'll learn to live with it."
The doc gave me some advice on how to take care of the minor scars so they would fade with time. The rest dealt with business. They began my discharge from the hospital. The photographer took some professional headshots. He gave them to Sawyer, who told me I would receive my photo identification at my new address in a day or two. After a few practice signatures, I signed my discharge papers, then again for accepting the government's sixty thousand, and several extra autographs to transfer onto my photo IDs.
Before I left, I asked for a few minutes alone with Max and Sawyer.
Max and I stood staring at one another. He had a pained expression on his handsome face. "I don't want to hear you tell me goodbye," he said. Much like the rest of him, I was attracted to his rich baritone voice.
"Well, that's good, because I won't do that. Come with me to Franklin." I turned to Sawyer. "He can come, right?"
"It's cutting it close," he said, "but technically, he's not part of your previous life."
"Go with you to Franklin?"
"You told me you didn't care for New York, and you dreamed of living elsewhere. Please, come with me."
"In what capacity?" he asked.
"Let's just start where we are and see where it takes us. On the surface, I make a lot of something you seem to need, and I need a lot of what you can do. Other than that, we like each other, so we're friends, and we could be close companions at the very least. I know you're smart, so you can assist me in my investigations. It would be a great adventure for us both."
He turned to Sawyer. "What do you think?"
"I think I wouldn't turn down that kind of offer; those don't come along every day. But you have to decide now; his flight leaves tonight at 10:00 p.m."
He picked up a piece of paper that had my name on it, took a moment to consider it, and smiled. "Howard Ellis Millstone, that name suits you, actually. Yes, I'll go with you. I could get my roommate to send me my things. He'll be jealous as hell, but he'll do it if I let him keep the furniture. I will need to drop by the apartment to pack a bag."
The hospital insisted on carting me to the door in a wheelchair. After eight weeks of being cooped up in that germ factory, I stepped outside a new man. The air smelled a bit polluted and familiar. My new face met a beautiful June day in New York. I would miss that city, but it appeared that life had called for me to start again in Franklin with Max, for as much as I hadn't wanted to go there, at least I wouldn't go alone. I would have preferred for us to move to Fiji, but Sawyer was right, a detective like me would survive only so many places, and I knew nothing about bottled water production or growing sugarcane.
Sawyer drove us to Max's apartment, and on the way to JFK, Max purchased a ticket to Franklin on the same flight as me and managed to get our seats together.
At the airport, Sawyer ensured that I made it through security despite my lack of ID, and I wondered how I would manage that. It came time to say goodbye at the gate, despite that we were several hours early.
"This is where I leave you," said Sawyer.
"You're welcome to visit me more than once a year, cousin."
"I would like that." He shook my hand. "You're a good man, Howard. I hope that you find a home there with Max. I think you could if you give it a chance."
"We'll give it a shot," I said and leaned in close. "And after my stint in the military, I grew accustomed to people calling me by my last name, so I guess you can call me Millstone now."
Sawyer smiled. "Shining up to it, are you?"
"I think it'll help," I told him.
"Make sure you read that bio we gave you," he said.
"I will."
Max shook Sawyer's hand. "Thank you."
"You're an unexpected addition to the situation. I think Millstone picked well, and I don't think you'll regret it."
Once Sawyer had gone, we had a four-hour wait and little to do but talk shop about detective work. About halfway, I felt my pants getting tight in the crotch.
"You know, you look a quart low," I said, changing the subject, "and I just happen to bring some with me."
He smiled. "I might need two quarts. Want to try and top me off?"
"For you, I will carry an almost inexhaustible supply at all times, and I am willing to top you any time you're ready."
"Then let's go," he said, and we both grabbed our bags. With two guys our size and nowhere else to go, we carried them into the large handicap stall in the men's room, which conveniently included its own sink.
We set our bags in the corner, and I stood against the wall. Max opened his bag and pulled out a set of knee pads, which he slipped into the knee pockets of the biker pants he wore.
On his knees before me, he looked up at me, fishing my pole from my fly. I smiled at him, knowing that whatever the occasion, anytime I asked, he would take my bate. He worked the fat knob into his mouth and jiggled his head a little when it reached the back of his throat. He passed it through into his gullet, thoroughly latching on. He played with it in and out of his throat, making my lure all shiny with spit for fifteen minutes. The undulating motion had me in anticipation when suddenly he took the whole rod into his throat, and I almost lost it. I knew it was time to reel him in and get him truly hooked on me. My orgasm started, and he pulled lines of cum from my balls, almost tapping his lips on me at the base. Although he fought to get away, I knew he wanted it rough, so I held him there until I was done. When I brought him back up its length for some air, he gasped, coughed a bit, and laughed. I knew then he was a keeper.
Please send questions, comments, or complaints to Rick.Heathen@gmail.com. I would enjoy reading what you have to say.