Carolina Connections

As he was waiting to bowl in the eighth, he saw me back at my table, and when I lifted the "plus-one" beer, he knew it was for him. His first roll in the eighth netted him the 2-8-10 split. He picked it up, which required shooting that was met with sighs and cheers all across this side of the lanes, but a spare isn't a strike. No perfect game. He rolled out with strikes, but the damage had been done.

As they were setting up for the third game, he came back to the table and slouched in a chair at the other side of the table from me. I knew he was at least slightly ticked, or he would have sat next to me and seen if he could sneak in a feel without any of the other cops the place was crawling with catching on. I would have let him feel me up--he and I had done just about everything together two guys could do--and getting away with that in a building full of cops would be more rewarding for him than finding me hard for him. He took the beer, downed a gulp, and complained. "The beer's warm."

"You should have bowled faster," I said. "If you'd gotten a strike in the eighth, the game would have been over faster."

"Fuck you," he said. "You comin' in here is what put me off. You want something, don't you?"

"I always want something from you, Ed. You know that. But in this case I have some stuff to pass on to you. On the sly, of course."

"Of course. Not here, though. You fucked up my game. You need to be punished."

"Of course I do," I said. "Isn't that what I always come to you for?" I bottomed for very few men in life. Ed Vargas was one of them.

The call came up for Vargas's turn in the first frame of the third game and he stood up from the table. "Stay right there until I've done."

"Isn't having to watch you bowl your third game punishment enough?" I said.

"Har, har. You're the one who wants to hookup bad enough to claim you have information I'll want. You can leave by the same door you came in... unless you want the punishment."

"I'll stay," I said, and I did.

He didn't roll a 300 game in his third either. I followed him to his apartment, where he lived, alone, unmarried and unattached. Eduardo was married to the job. And he fucked other men.

He fucked me at his apartment, punishing me by cuffing my wrists behind my back with departmental handcuffs, making me kneel on his bed with my ass waving in the air and my chest pressed into the mattress. He slapped me around a bit to get me into the cuffs and to get a ball gag into my mouth--all role-playing a takedown, of course, which I like and he loved--and whipped me on the ass, back, and thighs enough to warm both of us up before he came up onto the bed, mounted me, and fucked me in a doggy. He was thick and long and knew what to do with it.

The game took a turn when he "let" me escape and turn the tables on him. He was big and muscular; I was bigger, just as muscular, younger, and more agile. A fist to the solar plexus after I'd sweettalked the cuffs off took the wind out of his sails, and I used those cuffs and another pair conveniently left about to secure his wrists to the brass headboard overhead. Lucky for him, he was flexible too, because the free cuff of each pair of those I had on his wrist fit his ankles, which widened his leg stance and pulled his legs over his torso and stretched up to the headboard. That left his ass at my mercy, and once I had the ball gag in place, all he could do was writhe and groan as I ate his ass out, gave him head, thrust inside him, and fucked him hard.

Eduardo Vargas was probably my most athletic regular fuck partner. I don't know if he had others but he did tell me that a session with me--and he loved the cop and prisoner role playing and the flip-flop fuck--gave him credit for a two-hour gym workout on his official exercise chart.

When we were both spent and lying stretched out beside each other on the bed, all restraints gone, and panting, he said, "You didn't come here just for that, did you? We did it just last week. You've always let it go longer than that."

"I've always had to let it go longer than that," I said. "I'm going to walk with a hobble for a week."

"If you're begging for mercy, forget it. You cost me a perfect game. I'm not letting you out of here without doing you hard again."

I gave him a deep moan. He expected it, and he earned it.

"So, you said you had information for me."

"That doesn't come from me. It'll inconvenience a client if you follow through with it, but it's not what I'm investigating for him."

"OK, I understand the parameters."

"His name is Kevin Grimes. He's a partner in an East Asian furniture import house and store on College Street."

"Got him in our sights," Vargas said. "Suspected drug activity; we have a lead on distribution from there, but nothing on how it gets in yet--other than the obvious."

"Yes, the obvious. The furniture has hidden compartments and a means to get the stuff past sniffer dogs and X-ray. Something about strong Thai spices that are past as being contained in the wood. There are multiple partners, three men and two women. They hooked up in Thailand, where two of the men, Ty Thanawat and Patrick Thornton, were, I strongly suspect, hooked into a CIA program of pulling border tribes out of the drug production business. The project failed, but I think the two started up the furniture importing business to take what the hilltribes continued to produce and get it here to the States. Those two have disappeared, and I've been hired to find Thornton, but I've got that in hand, and I can pass the drug angle off to the police through you and stay out of that. And there's another angle you might be interested in."

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"If you go down to the store, I think you'll find the New Jersey mob is in town and staking out the store for a different reason than drugs. This is a case, I think, of Atlantic City casino gambling and following up on bad gambling debts. I think that's why Thornton has gone missing--to avoid a day of reckoning with the New Jersey mob. Interested in the New Jersey mob operating on your turf?"

"Yeah, we would be. I'll check up with those guys. Maybe we can send them home without any damage resulting down here."

"I have a license number for you. I'm sure they are still sitting across the street from the store, waiting for Thornton to come home. I also can give you an address of where I think Thornton is. I just ask that you give me a couple of days to clean up the case I'm being paid for before you walk in on him--and probably on the brains behind the drug business. That would be Ty Thanawat."

"Did you get this information from your boyfriend, DaJon?"

"I developed this on my own," I shot back. "I don't want any of this to trace to DaJon. He's got enough troubles of his own. Promise me you'll keep him out of this."

"OK, can do, if you want to stand by having gathered the information yourself."

"By the way," I said, "the women partners in the furniture store--and most likely in the drug business as well--are nymphos who would eat up a stud like you. They eat each other up too. I've heard you are bi. If you want some pussy, take rubbers when you interview those two. I'm banking that they'd lie right down for you. In fact, be aware that that group isn't what it seems. It looks like two straight couples plus an odd man out. It's more like the women and men are doing each other, and the odd man out is really the odd man in, doing all the rest."

"Good to know," Vargas said.

"I've had a couple of them myself--the client, Kevin Grimes, and Patrick Thornton's wife. She is trying to recruit me to make her a black widow. Nothing I could prove in court, though. If you look like her man, she'll give it to you too, I'll bet. Very nice tits. The other one, Megan Grimes, has very nice tits too."

"Maybe we could do them together," Eduardo said. "Each of us do one then trade and then do each other. Wouldn't that be nifty? Then we'd scoot them out and do each other."

"Sounds like a plan, but maybe a bit tiring," I said. "We'll see what can be arranged, maybe--everyone do everyone. The girls can do each other while watching you and me going at it."

"And speaking of doing, I haven't finished punishing you yet," Eduardo growled.

Then he stretched my arms above my head, cuffed my wrists to the brass headboard, opened the nightstand drawer and took a hand whip out of it, and punished me for another hour, doing a great job of it. He really knew how to drive it in deep and churn. He also knew how to flick his wrist on the down arc to spread the leather strands of the whip out to kiss the flesh over a wide area, but usually without leaving marks that lasted for more than a couple of hours. I fired off left and right. I don't think I'd ever given up that much cum in one session before. And I think he got across that he really was pissed that I interrupted his concentration at the bowling alley while he was en route to a 300 game. He laid it on a bit thick with the hand whip. I still had traces of welts the next day when I went fishing. They had their uses then, though.

Odd Man In: Gone Fishing

"How's the fishing?"

I had known he was out there, coming down to the water with his fishing gear, the water being Jocossee Lake, nudged up into the Gorges State Park south of Asheville. I did what I could to look surprised when I turned as he reached the lake bank and spoke to me. That had been a worry that no longer was a worry--how to get started if he didn't speak, or if, seeing someone else at his spot, he moved to another one. Maybe my being nearly naked wouldn't impress him.

As it turned out, I didn't have to worry about acting surprised when I turned and saw him, as he was even better looking--sexier--in the flesh than he was in the photos at the furniture shop, and he was damn gorgeous in the photos. He also was giving me "the look," like he approved of how I looked and wasn't about to wave me off.

"It's apparently very good for the fish. They haven't offered me a single bite," I answered, giving Ty Thanawat a welcoming smile. I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted him to want me. I'd dressed--in practically nothing--to achieve that effect, and from the way he looked at me and stayed here with me rather than finding another spot along the bank told me that I must have been successful. I was wearing just skimpy shorts and sandals. He was wearing just skimpy shorts and sneakers. We both had fishing poles and some fishing gear. I had to assume he knew a whole hell of a lot better how to use them than I did. We both had brought beer in small coolers.

The deed I'd found in Patrick Thornton's secret compartment in the study desk had been for lakeside land with an old house on it. Remembering that Kevin Grimes had told me that one reason the five partners and the business had landed in Asheville was that Patrick's parents had a lake house south of there caused me to put the two pieces of information together, and, surprise, I decided that it was a good bet our missing boy had just gone home. He could have been the one who came down here to fish today, but the locals I had squeezed for information said the fisherman who spent time here was black. I hoped that meant Ty Thanawat was here with Patrick. I now could say with certainty that at least Ty Thanawat was here.

My job now was to get into the Thornton family home and confirm Patrick was here. Then I could go back to Asheville and exchange an address for a check for $2,000 plus expenses. There hadn't been many expenses, and I always was scrupulously honest in accounting for those.

"My name is Ty Thanawat," he said. "Mind if I join you? This is my usual fishing spot."

"Maybe I should move to another location then," I said, posing for him without making it obvious I was--although I gave him "the eye" to start the mating dance. I held my breath. This was another one of those points where he could just wave me off and I didn't have a Plan B.

But he didn't wave me off. He was interested. Kevin told me he was super randy and fucked like a bunny. I had counted on that, and so far I was winning. "No, please stay. It's first come here and I don't mind having the company."

OK, so we'll see how long before we can get to the "come" part, I thought. "I'm Ryan Bailey, from Asheville. Just down here for the weekend," I answered. Real name and really from Asheville. I'd learned to keep it simple and to stick as close to the truth as possible. I had stuff I could own up to without revealing other stuff, and if Thanawat was into what I thought he was, he was going away for a very long time and wouldn't bother me. He probably wouldn't even connect me with getting him caught. I was just here to verify Thornton was here for a part of this mess that was separate from Thanawat's crimes. I'd let Eduardo Vargas take him for the drugs issue and take the full credit as well.

It was sort of a shame, though, because the man was sexy as hell. He wasn't a muscle man--at least he wasn't bulked up like I and some of the guys I ran with were. He was just perfect, and whatever perfection there had been in his Thai mother and black American serviceman father, he'd inherited it all. Not that he didn't have muscles. He was hard-bodied, looking like he was made out of steel, and he moved like a panther.

"Asheville, eh?" he asked--without volunteering that he lived and worked there too. "You work at a gym there or something? You got a body made in heaven." He gave me the eye back. We were into negotiations. "You want a beer? I brought plenty."

"No, thanks. I brought some too." I knew he wanted to dominate, and I decided to make him work for it.

We paused to pull our own cans out and pop the tops. We both gazed out over the lake and he dropped his line. Mine was already in for whatever good it had done me. I hoped to hell I didn't catch any fish, because I wouldn't have had a clue what to do with them. The fish I was here to get a line on was Thornton. It was looking like getting to him would be through Thanawat, and that was all right with me. I was going hard for the black beauty. I turned toward him so that he could see that I was hard inside my jock strap. I'd purposely worn shorts that wouldn't hide whatever was going on at my crotch very well.

He looked and gave a little smile. He was in a sitting crouch, knees bent low, butt almost on the ground, and balanced perfectly in the way that Asians seemed to be able to manage and bulked-up Americans like me couldn't. He dropped a hand down between his slightly spread thighs so I could see it linger at his basket. I could tell he was hung--probably one of the "best traits" he'd inherited, in this case form a black bull father.

"No, I don't work at a gym," I said. "I spend a lot of time at the YMCA on Woodfin in Asheville," though. That was a gay hookup spot. He undoubtedly would know that. "I do some construction work, but I mostly work the door at a club--O.Henry's on Haywood. You know the place?" It was a challenge, but it was time. It also had a ring of truth to it, since it was my part-time job. I fished around in my wallet and produced my employee card for the club. I wanted him to be completely comfortable with this.

He looked at the card and handed it back. He'd taken long enough to check out the name and my photo. "Yeah, I know that club. It's a gay club, isn't it? And the YMCA is where gay guys work out, I've heard."

"Yes, they are all that. I'm gay--well bi, but most happily gay. I'm sort of hoping you are too and have been responding to my signals. Because you are the most gorgeous man I've seen in days."

"You obviously haven't been looking in the mirror in days then," he said, with a laugh. "Yeah, I'm the same--bi, but happiest with a guy. A great-looking guy like you, when I've gotten lucky."

There, the dance of "would he? Could we?" was completed.

I looked out over the lake in a silence for a few minutes before saying, "Will we?"

"It's a distinct possibility," he answered, again after a slight pause as his eyes searched out what across the lake I seemed so interested in. "Did you come out here for sex?"

"That's a distinct possibility," I answered.

We'd finished our first beers by then. We paused long enough to pop the tabs on another beer and each take a big pull on ours. My fishing pole was already anchored by rocks, leaving me hands free. He secured his then and leaned in toward me.

"How much the same are we, I wonder," I said.

"I top," he said, holding there, almost breathless about what I would say. Go or no go?

"I do it all," I answered. He smiled and leaned more into me. I met him half way and we kissed. He cupped the back of my neck, holding me close, and we kissed some more. My hand went to his belt, waistband button, and zipper--and then to pulling his hardening cock out of his fly and slow stroking him as he kissed down to my nipples and sucked them.

"You're big," I murmured.

"A problem?" he asked.

"No."

His hand was tracing the almost undiscernible welts on my back and chest from the whipping Eduardo had given me.

"You've been whipped," he murmured.

"Yes," I answered.

"You got off on that?"

"I shot my load across the room."

He laughed, a low, guttural laugh. "Sweet. And you just let him?"

"I was handcuffed. I couldn't have stopped him if I wanted to. I didn't want to."

"Sweet," he said again. He was fully engorged and throbbing. And fully engorged meant he was going to be a challenge for me. I'd seen that, as dusky as his skin tone was, his cock and balls were jet black. Now, that was sweet.

"Lay back," he said, and I did. He kissed down my belly as his hands worked my belt, shorts button, and fly. He pulled my shorts and jock off my legs and took my cock in his mouth. He gave me head as his hands glided over my bulges and into my crevices. They paused to trace the lines of the lashings again. He rose without losing mouth contact on my cock and moved over my body, stretching out over me in reverse, supporting himself over me on his knees and elbows and dangling his cock over my face. I took his cock in my mouth and we sixty-nined. After a bit of that, he rolled my buttocks up and I raised my legs, hooking my ankles on his shoulders. I groaned and moaned and sucked as he ate my ass out.

He fucked me right there on the bank of the lake. I was on my back, taking my weight on my shoulder blades. My ankles were hooked on his shoulders again and he was on his knees between my spread thighs, hovering over me, fucking me deep, and leaning down and chewing on my nipples. My arms were raised over my head, my wrists were tied together with my belt.

He took some time getting his cock inside me but when he did, he set up a rhythm that had us working together like a well-oiled machine. I lowered my legs, pressing the balls of my feet into the soft earth of the lake bank, and using leverage off of them to set my pelvis in countermotion to his thrusts.

He barebacked me, and he had quite a load, delivered in four separate bursts.

We lay there stretched out against each other after we'd both ejaculated.

"That was good," he said, at length. "I have some joints. I think this calls for a celebration."

We lay there, puffing on the joints, getting more mellow by the minute. He didn't release my wrists, but I managed to get the joint to my lips--maybe unwisely. Mellow didn't last for long. I was in a bit of a fog for what happened thereafter and how quickly we transitioned into it, but suddenly he had turned me onto all fours and he was snapping me on the back, buttocks, and the backs of my thighs with his belt. It didn't last long and he didn't use the buckle end, but it came as a surprise that pulled me out of the fog.

Then he was mounting me and penetrating me, and he fucked me again. I surrendered all in both fucks, wanting him to know I was fully into them, not holding anything back, ready to do whatever he wanted. I wanted him to want it, and I wanted to know if he was here alone or if he had Patrick Thornton stashed away nearby.