A New York Cop Sucks Dick Ch. 02

Slurping cum, chowing down on a stiff cock, getting fucked up the ass while burying my face into another dude's pubes, these were all images in my head by the time I was an eighteen year old senior in high school. That was the year I had to totally admit to myself that, once and for all, I was into men, into tight pectoral muscles, lean, defined arms with extruding, green veins, tight, manly hands with very short fingernails, into cock, into balls, into tight military type haircuts, into flat, tight guts, into the smell of a man's balls, into muscular shoulders, into cops and their uniforms, into sweatpants, jockstraps, athletic shorts, into men's hard asses and moist mancunt.

I had some intense crushes throughout high-school on some of my favorite sports stars, particularly the studs of the 1978 NY Yankees, the World Series winners, like Ron Guidry and Bucky Dent. I was a senior, 18, on the verge of full manhood, and I'd go to sleep each night fantasizing about these pro ball studs coming to my house and having their way with me. I loved Guidry's bulge on the mound and Dent's tight bubble ass. I would fantasize that Dent would be fucking me in the ass while Guidry was holding my head down on his cock. I shot many a load into a cum rag that I kept under my bed.

My dad, brother and Uncle's friends were mostly cops who'd pile into our home on Friday nights for pizza and beer, shooting the shit. Every Superbowl Sunday or World Series, my house would be wall to wall cop. And I had some crushes on a few of these supermen of the NYPD. One dude would always wear a white t-shirt with his uniform slacks and suspenders. He'd wear a fisherman's goofy hat and smoke a big cigar. His name was "Kooky" and he told off-color jokes and I loved taking everything in about him, his chest, his ass, his one crooked incisor to an otherwise bright smile, his short built legs, his firm ass, his blue eyes. I crushed on him big time my senior year. He was very hot but so were a lot of the cops that would come over.

These dudes would call me "little man," because at 18, I was the youngest in their testosterone laden, macho cop world. They would arm wrestle me, tassle my hair, break my balls in a good-natured way. Sometimes their rough-housing—especially "Kooky's"—got me instantly hard. I would excuse myself to the bathroom and seriously beat my growing meat with intense, pubescent rage. After I would shoot, I'd go back downstairs and rejoin the guys for some pizza and an occasional beer if my dad was in a good mood.

I was always drawn to the pants on our guests, and how awesome they looked, whether it was the patrolmen in their crisp uniforms or the off duty Sergeants and Lieutenants in their corduroys, or the detectives in their Chinos or jeans with requisite bulges aside their shiny badges. I loved how their butts looked, how their belt buckles stood sentry over their meat and teased my own cock. I was growing into my sexuality at a slow pace. Then one day I had an experience in the boiler room of a nearby apartment building that excited me greatly and helped me forward into my emerging manhood.

It was a Saturday, spring afternoon and me and my favorite buddy, my handsome and athletic high school sports buddy and boon companion, Michael, were playing handball. Our perfect locale for it: against the backyard, brick façade of a garden apartment complex on a street in our neighborhood near the 106th precinct in Queens, New York. One of us would slam the old Spalding ball into the brick wall and the other would have to catch it. We drew lines on the driveway pavement and made up rules (i.e., the runner singles if the ball bounced over this line, doubles for that line, etc.) And of course, if you caught the ball at any time, it was an out.

Michael was almost exactly my age, 18. Our birthdays were two weeks a part in January and our mothers over the years would throw us one big party. He looked particularly sexy that day, decked out in the cool clothes of the era: Fry boots, jeans, dark-blue hooded sweatshirt and then a faded jean jacket over that. I wanted to lay my face in his lap, bury it in the creases of his pants, feel the life behind the blue corduroy. I wanted to press my face into his ass, too, the ass I got such a good look at each time he slammed the ball against the wall.

I loved that his prominent pole was always to the right of his fly and when he sat with his legs spread I enjoyed the lump at dead center. I'd mentally follow the path of that lump from the top right down to his backdoor. I can't possibly count the number of times I looked at that bulge. I doubt he ever caught me though. I liked when I would sit behind him in homeroom and catch a glimpse of his underwear tag and the slight hair on his lower back, leading down to that delicious looking ass. I felt so good around him. I wanted to taste his semen, to lick his ass, to fuck him, have him fuck me.

So on this one really aggressive, competitive inning, Michael, with his toned, muscular arms slammed the ball so hard while I was taking in his ass, that even my six foot, hard-bodied frame jumping like a Harlem Globetrotter couldn't reach it. It was a home run, over the fence into the adjacent yard and right through the basement window of another apartment building. The basement window had been ajar. If he had tried a million times to do it on purpose, that ball would never have gone through the way it did. So in retrospect, maybe it was fate, maybe it was the gay gods calling me.

I was thinking of his ass as I climbed the seven foot fence atop the two foot retaining wall to get to the other side. Would he be checking out my ass as I climbed? After climbing down a few feet I jumped the rest. I think I did it to impress Michael, to look cool.

"Hey, dick," I called over to him, "I'll be back in a minute." At that, I walked to the other side of the apartment building where the crumbling concrete old steps lead to the basement storage and boiler rooms to this 1920s, five flight walk-up apartment building.

I entered the storage room, about the size of two living rooms and full of little cages numbered according to the apartments in the building. Each cage was full of lamps, TV boxes and whatever couldn't fit in the tenants' apartment closets. The lighting was off except for what sunlight streamed in through the small transom like windows on the west side of the building. I walked over to where the open window had sucked in our ball. I couldn't find the ball, but I figured it couldn't have bounced too far off.

I ventured into the room farther back, the boiler room, thinking that the ball may have bounced and rolled back there. The sound of the boiler or hot water heater was a formidable rumble that grew as I approached. There was a door before me but it was slightly open. No way could the ball have gone through the crevice of the barely open door, but curiosity sent me in.

As I entered, I saw a metal flat desk, which probably was Freddy's, the superintendent's. It had an empty Dunkin Donut's Coffee cup on it, which looked new, and a ring of keys. I wondered if I would be in trouble if I got caught in here. There also were two lockers similar to high school lockers but they were transparent, with fishwire metal, allowing me to see the contents, Freddy's worker uniform shirts and pants hanging neatly.

I peered around the floor some more and saw scattered clothes. I didn't know what to make of it. There was a pair of workboots with white socks on them next to a pair of jeans sloppily thrown on the floor. Atop the pants were worn boxer shorts and a superintendent uniform shirt. Maybe Freddy changed from his uniform into his regular clothes, I thought. But why would he be so neat with his clothes so neatly hung in the lockers yet scatter other clothes here?

I saw on the back of a folding chair a pair of dark-blue dress slacks neatly draped over the back of the chair with a folded light blue shirt over them. At the same time I noticed the familiar insignia on that shirt, I saw on the floor next to it dark shiny black shoes with socks tucked neatly in them. This was a cop's uniform! A pair of tightey whitey underwear lay atop the uniform. A radio and club stood together behind the chair. About a foot from the radio there was a shelf with paint thinner and solvents and old rags. Tucked in the middle shelf I saw a holster with the cop's gun in it. I started to tremble with fear. I probably know this cop, I thought, but I was too scared to read the badge affixed to his shirt.

Why were there clothes all over this floor? Why was a cop's stuff here? I was terrified but I became a little excited too, surrounded by this manhood, this underwear, these macho work clothes. I stared at the masculine details of the clothes and realized that was where the overpowering scent of manhood was originating. That specific smell on your fingers after you've played with your balls, rubbed your hard cock, played with your ass and erupted lava. That scent was permeating the air. I continued looking for the ball but on a subconscious level I must have known the ball couldn't possibly be in this room. On a subconscious level I was searching for something else.

As the roaring boiler kept its rhythm, I grew hard, very, very hard of the overwhelming smell of testes. My eyes kept going to the clothes. I seemed much more interested in the manly clothes than anything. I walked right up to them and reached down to touch the cop's uniform pants. I know it sounds strange, but I just wanted to feel this manhood. Just to touch it. I rubbed one of the legs and then reached up and grabbed the crotch and felt a rush.

I noticed as I felt the ass of the pants that the wallet was still in it. I immediately put the pants down feeling alarmed. Where's the cop, I thought. I looked at the jeans nearby belonging to Freddy, and felt the ass of those and it too contained a wallet. Why was my heart now racing? Why was my cock harder now than it had ever been in my life?

I stared at the cop's pants and then looked back at Freddy's. He was the handsomest stud of the neighborhood and these were his. I had heard rumors that he was gay but I didn't know what to believe. He seemed way too masculine. I remained transfixed on his pants. His balls sat in these. His cock leaked pre-cum in these. He felt erections in these pants. These pants hugged his tight, beautiful ass, covered his hot, inviting bulge. He was about 5 ft. 10, 185 lbs, great athletic body, dark hair, brown eyes, nice smile. He organized a lot of the touch football games on the block. I've jerked off thinking about him in the past.

Now, to see his underwear sitting in front of me drove me crazy, produced all kinds of shocking sexual thoughts. I'm a bit ashamed to say this, but for a minute I took his boxer shorts into my hands and then put them to my face, wiped them all over my face and inhaled deeply. I felt wetness near the fly opening and just about came. I wanted to ingest them, particularly the region where his manhood sits. I put my nose into the deep crotch and took a good whiff. I liked the smell, a lot like my hands after they've explored my cock, balls and asshole while jerking off. This was the scent of a stud, a grown man. I got intensely exhilarated and after one more intoxicating whiff I put them back onto his sexy work pants.

When I bent down to put Freddy's moist underwear back exactly where I found it, I saw clearly under the boiler, a blue flame danced to the rhythmic roar of its engine. I realized that there was another small area to this room, on the other side. Could the ball have gotten way over there? No. Did I really care? It wasn't the ball; it was my maddening, enraged hard-on guiding me now. My magnetic pull to all things cop was guiding me.

I instinctively walked quietly, although over the din of the boiler the SST Supersonic Jet, The Concorde, which landed at Laguardia Airport, would not be heard. As I turned the corner, I came upon the sight my subconscious wouldn't allow me to articulate vividly earlier. The two of them were there in the flesh, literally; I quickly backtracked so they wouldn't see me. My cock was now even harder after what I saw. I crouched down as far as I could and peered gingerly around again to see further.

I was astonished at this sight. Freddy was in a high school wrestling match position, on all fours on a shaggy remnant rug with his mouth-watering ass facing me. His arms were muscular and reaching up where he was holding onto 2 bricks jutting from the wall. His back was exciting, a tight back with muscles. And he had a nice tan too. His ass excited me and at first it bothered me why I liked it so much. I was feeling guilty about sniffing his underwear and my loving his ass right now just exacerbated my guilt. But it turned me on. It turned me on bad. His ass was a true bubble butt, muscular, taut, firm, not much hair. Freddy was probably about 28 years old with a nice, tight, full and sexy beard.

I knew the back of the other dude's head like I knew my own! It was a cop friend of my dad's! It was Sgt. Bob as I called him (his last name was too long and hard to pronounce so my dad said just call him Sgt. Bob). He had been over for my dad's Superbowl parties every year I could remember. A manly, six foot four, 200 lb. solid rock stud of studs. He used to pick me up with one arm and let me hang upside down until I cried Uncle. He was married with 3 kids and about 30 years old. How could he be doing what I saw him doing? It didn't make sense.

His ass had some hair on it and his legs were a little hairy, too. Although most of his back didn't really have any hair, his lower back had a small patch of hair that excited me. He had a dragon tattoo on his upper left shoulder that I never knew about. I always liked the warrior tattoo he had on his muscular, left forearm. I was excited seeing his manhood exposed like this, his big and hairy ball sac dangling between his legs under that great ass, which was lighter than the surrounding skin. I admired his whole body, although I couldn't see his cock just yet.

My excitement over Sgt. Bob being there and naked with Freddy was supplanted with my continued confusion. He just didn't seem gay to me. And Freddy wasn't the only one on all fours. Sgt. Bob was down with his butt facing me and he had his face pushed right into Freddy's ass. He appeared to be assaulting his asshole with his mouth and face! I never heard of such a thing. Freddy moved his ass from side to side, kind of writhing there as Sgt. Bob kept his face feverishly moving from side to side and up and down, all in Freddy's ass crack.

I was revolted at first but then I realized how hard I was. My purple headed snake was ready to rip out of my jeans, ready to bust a serious nut. I needed to jerk off but I just stayed crouched there fascinated and horny. Although the boiler was distracting, I was close enough to hear them. Freddy was moaning loudly and whimpering alternately, "Oh yeah, oh fuck, oh yeah, suck that ass, suck that fucking ass, eat my mother fucking asshole."

Sgt. Bob had both of Freddy's ass cheeks clasped firmly in his manly hands and he happily obliged Freddy's command with a continual "Ummm, Ummmm, Ummmm," which seemed to be in rhythm with the flame of the boiler. I was so turned on by this sight. Sgt. Bob's strong hands were practically ripping Freddy's ass cheeks off the foundation. He grabbed them so hard and stretched them outward so much that when he took his face out of Freddy's crack for a breath, Freddy's hole looked wide. It was seriously being opened up.

I was amazed at the sight. I'd never seen a man's asshole before. It looked hot, better looking than any cunt. This was a mancunt, and it looked very inviting, so delicious. I wasn't sure if I wanted to put my cock or my tongue in it. But I just kept fixated on that hole, until Sgt. Bob's intense desires brought him back into Freddy's ass. Like some feral animal, Sgt. Bob attacked Freddy's hole with such intensity that I thought he was hurting Freddy. Tortured whimpers, spine-tingling moans and heavy breathing ensued: "AHHH, FUCK, OH GOD, AHHHHHH." Was Freddy screaming for help?

My heart started to race. Was he killing him? Freddy sounded like he was hyperventilating or crying or something. "AHHHH, fuck. OOOOOO, oooohhh, AHHH." No, Freddy was not being hurt. He followed his wails and whimpers with an assuring "Don't stop, Oh God, don't you fucking stop!"

After a few seconds more, Sgt. Bob stood up and I saw his impressive meat. Mine is about eight inches and his looked about that size. His cock might have been a bit thicker or it just looked that way because he was uncut. But he had a massive dark bush. He had a tight, body with some abdominal muscles showing, nice firm chest too. His legs were long and defined muscular, with the thighs being fairly meaty yet cut.

He really got my juices jumping when he started to slap his cock onto Freddy's ass, like he was gently whipping him. He held his tool with his right hand and then let it drop onto his ass and kind of bounced it on his lower back and his ass cheeks. Then he started to beat Freddy's ass with his meat, slapping it around, side to side fairly hard. I thought of a cop pistol-whipping somebody. I heard no objections to this, just a lot of moaning from Freddy.

Then Sgt. Bob spit onto Freddy's lower back, above his left ass cheek and rolled his cock into the spittle, like an artist dipping his brush into the paint before hitting the canvass. He placed the head of his impressive cock at Freddy's entrance and with his left hand grabbing Freddy's left shoulder he pushed in with an audible grunt from himself and a wail from Freddy. He dutifully pulled out and thrust right back in. Freddy continued to whimper like a bear in a trap. Sgt. Bob continued to thrust and pull out, I guess to prime the hole for further assault.

Freddy held firmly to the dirty white bricks as the Sgt. pounded him. I liked how Sgt. Bob's ass looked as he committed this most ignominious assault upon Freddy. It got all tight and firm as he thrust himself. Freddy liked it too, "Oh yeah, fuck the shit outta me, Bob, fuck me good!" Sgt. Bob's ass got rounder and more inviting to me as he pulled out of Freddy's ass. At one point he was thrusting out and in so hard that upon pulling out I got a glimpse of his own asshole as his cheeks naturally spread from the sodomite body position. He had a few hairs on his hole. It looked so fucking hot and dark and sinister and inviting and moist and delicious and warm. I wanted to go into that secret, private world of Sgt. Bob. As quickly as I would see his hole it would disappear as his firm beautiful ass went back to tight and squeezed formation as he continued driving his meat harder and harder, pounding his uncut cock farther and farther into the beaten, abused and conquered ass.

Was this even possible? I didn't even know a cock could go all the way into a guy's ass. He had eight inches of pole completely into Freddy! In and out, in and out, he was using him like you would use a sex toy. Then the pace picked up even more and Sgt. Bob started ferociously pumping, fucking him in and out, up and down, side to side. He was using his cock like a lever, going up and down pumping his ass like you'd pump up a carjack while changing a flat. Then he's wildly fuck side to side, as if he were trying to rip his ass wide open. While Sgt. Bob seriously pumped his ass, I got turned on by the sound of the slapping of his balls against Freddy's lower buttocks and upper thighs every time he shoved his meat in. Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. Every time he slammed into him that sweaty slap would shake my soul.

As he pumped he took his left hand and rubbed gently Freddy's left ass cheek. Like he was owning it or something. It looked hot. As he pumped into him harder, he'd slap his ass a little bit and rub it. "You're mine, man, you're mine," he intoned as Freddy lay totally, deliriously compliant. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck, me, oh fuck the shit outta me....."