Gotta Keep Trying Ch. 05

He turned toward Hardesty and came up on an elbow, with his hand cupping his chin. "You're sweet on Todd, aren't you? You're not just asking about him because you're a cop and it's your job, are you? You care for him."

"Yes," Hardesty answered with panting breath.

"I could tell by the way you asked questions about him—and by the way you reacted to those videos."

"Yes."

"That's why I told you what I did. I'm not usually a snitch, you know. But I could tell you cared about one of us."

Hardesty didn't answer that. He was processing it.

"That and because I could tell you had a monster cock and could fuck. And you do and can. And I wanted it inside me. Even if you're a cop. And a vice cop, too I think. Worst kinda cop. But what a way to go. Vice cops give the best fuck. Cuff me and haul me off. But fuck me in the back of the squad car. That's what a lot of the vice cops do. What do you say? Take me in the back of your squad car and fuck me to heaven."

Freddie laughed again and even Hardesty managed a chuckle.

"You said, during sex, that you'd tell me anything, Freddie."

"I'm not accountable for anything I say during hot sex. But OK. What do you want to ask?"

"Back there, at the precinct, when you saw Todd being doubled. You said you wished it was you."

"Yeah, I sure did. Do you know how I can get into movies too, sugar?"

"Doing that?"

"Hell yes."

"Having other men do that to you?"

"Why not? Why do you think I'm a pole dancer? Did you think it paid well? There's nothing wrong being addicted to cock, honey. That's me. And guys like Todd. And Nathan and Ping. You think they don't know what they're getting into? They're just addicted to the cock. Some of them are addicted to bad boys too. That's Todd, I think. But I think you can be a bit of a bad boy too. I'll bet you went into vice so that you could fuck honeys like me in the back of your squad car. And when they can have a monster cock like this . . ." Freddie had rolled over to Hardesty and had Hardesty's cock in his hand. The cock was noticing the attention ". . . they make the most of it while they can. People like me and Todd get old too. If we're addicted to cock, we get the most of it we can while we can. And what if men get off on thinking they are in control and getting it by force or sneak, if that's their fetish? If men will pay for that, all to the good."

"But Web sites like that. The danger. The degradation."

"Some men like the danger, even the degradation. For some, it's more arousing. Didn't you see how Todd stepped it up several notches when it was getting really tough. It's a high he was reaching for. I'll bet he gave it to you good in the back of your squad car. Tell me, did you dick him in the back of your squad car? You gonna dick me there too?"

More like in the front seat of his own car, Hardesty thought. But he didn't want to tell Freddie that it more was that Todd had an incredibly sensitive erogenous zone and someone had stenciled a gecko on top of it to point the way.

"So, you think that someone like Todd isn't going to settle down?"

"Sure he would. If he had the right cock inside him twice a day. One like this one." Freddie had worked Hardesty's cock up hard again, and Hardesty was slow panting, trying—without any success at all—not to show he cared. "And someone who eats his Wheaties like you do, lover. My, my, you've come back fast. And big. You like me; you really like me." Freddie laughed before continuing. "What is it, hon, seven and a half or eight by two? I keep statistics, you know."

"Something like that," Hardesty said through heavy breathing. "I haven't bothered to measure it."

"Liar, all men measure themselves." Freddie gave the cock a little slap, and Hardesty jerked in surprise and short-lived pain.

But he knew Freddie was right. And of course he knew how big he was—to the centimeter. And he was a little miffed that Freddie had guessed on the short side. "What if cocking doesn't seem to be enough?" he asked.

"It's enough for someone like Todd, trust me. You just have to get his full attention first. And give him the security he needs. And cocking twice a day. If you want to find him in your bed in the morning, keep your cock inside him all night. It's just the way it is with guys like Todd and me. And speaking of cocking twice a day . . ."

"I can't, Freddie. I've got to get back to the office."

"Oo, and would your office be your squad car? Take me into the backseat and—"

"I've given you what—"

"Yes, you've given me the cocking you promised. And you gave it to me good, better than you had to. But your cock doesn't agree with you. You're hard again, all eight and a quarter inches of you. Didn't think I could measure with my eyes, did you?" He laughed again and then moved on top of Hardesty, pinning him to the bed. "And now I'm going to make love to you, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Freddie was straddling Hardesty's thighs, and Hardesty had thrown an arm across his face, knowing they were going to fuck again, that once again his cock had won over his resolve. "Ahem," Freddie said, and Hardesty took his arm away from his face and looked up at Freddie, who opened his mouth in a grin. It took a few seconds for Hardesty to realize the young dancer had a condom pellet in his mouth.

"Freddie, no."

Freddie leaned down over Hardesty's pelvis. He gripped Hardesty's balls with one hand and squeezed hard enough to convince Hardesty just to lay there quietly and Freddie unrolled the condom on Hardesty's cock with his lips and teeth. Hardesty groaned his imprisoned arousal.

Still gripping Hardesty's balls, Freddie moved up, straddling Hardesty's pelvis, skewered his ass on his chosen pole, and slid down it to the root. He lowered his lips on Hardesty's nipples, and his long, blond hair, having escaped its pony tail, was brushing on Hardesty's chest and shoulders. The small man grabbed Hardesty's upper arms and pressed them out to his side. That was only symbolic. Freddie didn't have the strength to hold Hardesty's arms down if the big man didn't want him to.

But Hardesty just laid there and moaned. Freddie was doing something with the muscles of his channel that had Hardesty in thrall. His mind flipped to what Freddie said about big men and their fetishes and the fetish of being in control—and he realized that he wasn't in control now. Freddie had him imprisoned in the prison of lust, of the male need to get his rocks off.

Hardesty groaned and gave into it. He easily freed his arms, reached down and cupped and squeezed Freddie's buttocks cheeks. He pulled his feet up flat on the surface of the bed, raising his pelvis for a deeper penetration of Freddie's channel, which caused Freddie to moan. And then, using the leverage of his heels, he began to stroke hard and deep.

"Oh, Sweetfuckin'jeesusss!" Freddie cried out. "You're killing me. And don't you stop doing it! At least eight and a quarter—maybe more! Give it to me. All of it. Oh, god, closer to nine. Oh fuckin' shit, honey. Work me, baby. Shit, vice cops are the best!" Freddie dug into the mattress with his knees and started rocking back and forth on the cock, groaning and moaning and breathing too hard to comment further . . . until after he'd shot his load and was working Hardesty's nipples with his mouth and teeth again while Hardesty was still stroking. "Tell me before you come. You gotta let me know before you come."

Afterward, as Hardesty was dressing and Freddie was still lying on the bed, on his back, legs splayed, and playing with his cock with his hand, Freddie said, "Hauptman. The construction man. His name is Gunther Hauptman. Hauptman Construction Company. The guy on the tapes telling everyone what to do. The one with the wings tattooed on his back and speaking with a German accent."

Hardesty gave Freddie a hard look.

"I had to be sure. Todd is a lucky man. Go find him. And remember, just keep him well fucked. Keep it inside him all night. Nine inches of cock should do it fine. You're a vice cop; you give the best fuck. And I know you can't wait. Go ahead. I'll get back to the club on my own."

And then to Hardesty's retreating back: "If you find out how I can get into those movies, you'll let me know, right?"

And as almost a whisper when Hardesty was through the door: "And if Todd doesn't want you, come back to me. I do."

* * * *

The first bad news accosted Hardesty as he hit the stairs hard up to the third-floor vice bullpen. Phil was standing on the second floor landing, looking dejected—and very guilty of something.

"What did you find out from . . .?" But Hardesty didn't finish the sentence. From the guilty look Phil was giving him, he knew the crux of the story already.

"He's gone. His lawyer had him out of here before I could get him booked."

"Gone? Blakely's gone?"

Phil didn't answered.

"How the shit can a perp be gone even before you get them charged? We didn't give him the phone call for his lawyer in the car. We conveniently forgot to give him that."

No answer.

"Oh, fuckin' A. You got down to the tombs and put him in a cage and then you went to the motor pool, didn't you? Let that big guy in dispatching dispatch you on his desktop, didn't you? Took all the time in the world doing it too, right?"

"We know where he is. We can just go back and pick him up."

"And what the hell good would that do, Phil? He's on the loose. He knows what we were dragging him in for. First thing he did, I know, is to call Gunther Hauptman."

"Gunther who?"

"Oh, shit, Phil. You may have lost them all for us just because of your need to have a cock inside of some guy in the motor pool—and your attention deficit disorder."

Disgusted and panicked, Hardesty pushed the other detective aside and hit the stairs running. Moving fast past Charlie's position en route to his own desk, Hardesty had a sickening thought.

"Charlie, I told you the other day to latch onto the upper 16th Street corridor at the beginning of your race with the clock on tracking that Web cam location. Did you?"

"Oh, shit," I forgot. "Very next time, I promise."

As he passed a researcher's desk, he said—almost yelled—"A Gunther Hauptman of the Hauptman Construction Company. Can you get an address stat, Cleo? Should be on 16th Street."

"Will do," a young woman said, all business, as she swiveled back to her computer terminal.

The message light on Hardesty's phone was blinking.

The message was short; it couldn't have been traced even if someone had picked up on it live.

"Hardesty. It's me again. I've been thinking. Maybe you're right. Maybe you should come pick me up. I'm at . . ."

That was it. The message had been cut off.

"Oh, fuck."

This matched an "Oh, fuck" floating up from Charlie's position as well. "Captain. Guys. Hardesty, you'd better come watch this. I'll rewind."

The scene on the screen was the Hispanic, his black cloth balaclava in place, standing on the bed, feet spread. Todd was suspended from his middle, their pelvises glued together, Todd's torso swung down in front of and away from the torso of the Hispanic, the young man's wrists, in handcuffs, dragging on the bed. His legs were wrapped around the Hispanic's hips and, with his ankles cuffed together.

The coverage apparently was live. The Hispanic was gripping Todd's waist on either side, with the fingers of one hand rubbing the gecko tattoo.

Todd, sounding nearly spent, his cum already dribbling down his chest, was murmuring. "Deeper, harder, you're so big. Do it, do it. Getitgetitgetit! Oh, god, you're so good to me. FUCKFuckfuck." From there, Todd's voice was reduced to a slow-motion babble.

As they watched the screen in horror, a tall, thin figure came into the playing field from the right margin. He was clothed, and he kept his gray, buzz-haircut head turned away from the camera lens, but Hardesty didn't need any proof to know that it was Gunther Hauptman.

Hauptman barked "It's busted. We have to leave." The accent was German.

He had a white cloth in a hand and he knelt on the bed and placed the cloth over Todd's face. Todd squirmed briefly and then was just hanging there until the Hispanic pushed him down onto the bed. Hauptman backed to the camera and knocked it to the floor, where the only visual was the bed skirt. There briefly were sounds of a weight being hauled off the bed, but then the camera was switched off.

A female voice called out from across the room: "xxxx 16th Street. Home address in Bethesda, Maryland, if that helps. xxxx White Oak."

Hardesty turned and looked at the chalky-white face of Charlie. "She's right," Charlie said almost in a croak. "It ran long enough the first time to get a fix. xxxx 16th Street."

"Captain!" Hardesty called out, but Captain Crane was already there.

"I know. We gotta keep trying," he said. "16th Street it is. Mount 'em up, crew."

Phil was there now, all guilty looking and wanting to do something. "I'll go back and pick up Alfonse Barkley. He'll just have gone back to his shop."

"Suits me," Hardesty said with a hard edge to his voice. "I don't think you deserve this bust anyway."

* * * *

The address was right. Hardesty knew that as soon as they pulled up outside the building. The windows were the dead giveaway. Two thinner panes beside a central, long pane. And another one running across the top of the three. Windows like that all across the upper stories of the vintage building.

It wasn't that hard to find the suite of offices assigned to Hauptman Construction, either. The suite number was on the listing in the lobby. It was harder to find the Web site video studio, and they only did so when the hidden staircase in the closet in Hauptman's construction company office was discovered and led them up to a series of three rooms above. Only the bed frame was in the one room, and only the ceiling hooks here and the one in the room that had held the sling were still present. The third room also had the frames of single beds in it—five of them. There was a refrigerator and hot plate, and a bathroom. This was the only room that wasn't entirely cleaned out. From the pizza boxes, miscellaneous pieces of clothing, and gay male magazines strewn around, it would have taken a bulldozer to sanitize this room.

Hardesty stood there, in the middle of the room, seething and holding a baseball cap in his hand that was a yellow-gold with the word "Lions" embossed above the bill.

"Damn that cocksucking Phil," Hardesty muttered under his breath. And then he set his shoulders and called out. "Let's hit the Bethesda house. He hasn't had time to clean out here and there both."

The captain was at his side. "Bethesda's out of our jurisdiction, Hardesty. We'll have to call in the Maryland police."

"So, call Maryland, Captain," Hardesty said. "They can meet us there if you can get them off the pot. In the meantime I'm taking a ride into Maryland. Anyone going with me?"

"I know, I know. Gotta keep trying," Crane said. Then he shrugged his shoulders and joined the exodus for the door.

It was true that Gunther Hauptman didn't have time—on the schedule that Hardesty had set—to clear both locations out.

He met them at the door to his Bethesda house, only opening the door a crack, putting on a brave front.

"Is there something I can do for you today, officers? I'm afraid you can't come in. My wife has cancer and she's just managed to—"

Hardesty socked the smug man in the mouth, and trucked right on into the foyer, letting Captain Crane lunge at the man with the German accent in an attempt not to let him fall back on his head on the marble floor.

The raiding party caught a glimpse of Nathan Winstead at a secretary in the living room, feeding paper into a shredder. He spent an instant too long looking like a deer in the headlights. With a flick of his wrist Hardesty had sent two officers off to grab him.

Hardesty hit the stairs to the second floor, taking them two at a time. He accosted a naked Alfonse Barkley outside a closed bedroom door and pushed him into the arms of a couple of more cops. He momentarily enjoyed the grim satisfaction that Phil wouldn't even get this bust.

He burst into the room. Todd was on the bed, naked and on his back, and his wrists handcuffed to the headboard. His legs were spread, with his ankles cuffed with leads to the corner posts at the foot of the bed. His pelvis was elevated by pillows, and there was cum dribbling down his inner thighs from his hole. There wasn't much question what Alfonse had been doing before he came out into the upper hallway.

Todd was babbling as Hardesty managed to get him released.

"They were going to kill us. I heard them talking about it. You were right. They weren't my friends at all."

"Shush, Todd. It's over. Just be quiet and relax. I'll take you home soon."

"Home?"

"Back to our house. Don't think about it now. Don't think about anything. Just rest."

"Ping. Where's Ping? They said they were going to kill us, get rid of the evidence. Not Nathan. He's one of them. Their procurer. But Ping . . ."

They found Ping in another bedroom. They had to disarm the Hispanic who was wielding a knife first. Ping hadn't been as lucky as Todd had been, thanks to the Hispanic's knife.

It was only then, when all of the Web site gang that were here had been ferreted out and disarmed, that they heard the sirens.

"Ah, the Maryland police," Hardesty said, sardonically. "I wonder what they'd have found if these guys had had a little extra time."

"I'm sure we can smooth it over," Captain Crane said. "It won't help having you mouth off, though. And I take it you want this Todd guy kept out of it for the moment—it can't be for long, of course. Get him out of here. I don't want you here either. Out the back door. He's on the tapes and he'll be needed as a witness, but—"

"Captain."

"Yes."

"Thanks. Just thanks." Hardesty didn't even want to know how Crane knew—or why Crane was helping him and Todd this way. He figured Crane wouldn't want to talk about it, so he wouldn't. But anything Crane wanted him to do from here on out, he'd be there doing it.

He found a pair of jeans that fit Todd and had him out the back door, while Crane was still dealing with the Maryland police at the front of the house.

"I'm taking you home and you're taking a hot shower and then sleeping for two days before anything else," Hardesty said on the ride back to his place. "You'll have to give statements and be at the trials and all—there will be a lot of trials. It will take us some time to roll up all the direct participants and then the club members. But I'll do what I can to keep you out of the worst of it."

"Hardesty."

"What?"

"My name isn't Todd. It's Toby."

"Yeah, I guess I had that figured out. That's how I knew you were pretty innocent to all of this too. You were walking around with true identity cards on you."

"You looked."

"Yes. That first night."

"So, it was just a job."

"Looking was just a job. The fucking that followed—that was personal. And I don't think either of us knew it at that time, but I think, for me, at least, that was lovemaking."

"Oh." It didn't sound like he was fully convinced. What could convince him?

"My name is James," Hardesty said. "But you can call me Jim. Just you, though. Everyone else has to keep calling me Hardesty."

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"The shower sounds nice. But after that, I want you to fuck me."

"After all you've been through, you want the cock?"

"Yours, yes. I want you to make love to me with that huge cock of yours. I want to know that someone will take me who just wants me—who isn't taking advantage of me."

Hardesty's thoughts went back to what Freddie had said. Some guys just naturally live for the cock. Freddie said that Todd was one of those guys. And Freddie said that if Hardesty wanted to keep Todd, he'd have to keep him with the cock. Suddenly Hardesty understood. This, of all times, was when he needed to pin Todd to the bed with the cock—and to keep it inside him until Todd lost any instinct to run.