Barber Brad

So, I sat and waited—for nearly two hours—for my mind to come completely back, for my body to stop craving the working of my cock, the miraculously close-timed ejaculations. And as I waited, I fantasized. He'd be taken in just over a week now, unless he moved on before that. I could tell him, of course. But I wouldn't do that. The sex was OK, but the drugs weren't. He needed to be stopped on that.

That raised the question of Nick Parsons. He surely knew what Brad Buxton was doing in the back of his barber shop. He must be getting a kickback that was helping him keep the shop open. But Nick was an institution in this town. And he was an old man who surely was going to retire soon. The arrangement couldn't have been going on for more than a month. No, I'd do nothing about that. If the police found the connection with what they were targeting out in the woods, so be it. But I wouldn't report anything. I'd just let nature take its course on that.

But back to Buxton. I wanted him again. Even after just having been with him, I already wanted him again. He'd be held in the county jail for a while, before being moved someplace else. I was pretty sure about that. My mind started to work on how difficult it would be for me to arrange that he be put in an isolated private cell. It might be tricky. I'd have to make sure that I maintained my distance. Couldn't have any of the guys thinking I'd had a piece of this guy myself.

I was sure, though, that there should be some sort of favoritism I could come up with while he was in our jail that he'd want to trade for . . . while he was all alone in an isolated private cell.