The Rounds Ch. 01

Bob Randall's car was a 1989 Oldsmobile. It was a non-descript car, grey with a red interior. If Bob had ever been in a road accident with the car, all the State Troopers would have found on the scene would have been soda cans, pieces of paper, magazines, and cigar butts strewn for a mile and a half of interstate road. Bob Randall's gray Olds was, at this moment, parked outside of the Archer Arms apartment complex in a space reserved for the elderly and handicapped. The sign was very specific about this. Bob Randall was not elderly, nor was he handicapped, but he didn't think that at three in the morning, he would be disturbed by anyone elderly or handicapped needing this spot for pressing business. Bob Randall, on the other hand, had pressing business, and needed the parking spot. Bob's business was the reason that he had several notepads, a tape recorder, lockpicks, and a cooler filled with sandwiches in the front seat of his car. Bob Randall was a private investigator.

The glint of the parking lot crime light reflected from his binoculars as he focused on the third story window above him. He chewed determinedly on piece of Carefree, wanting to smoke. Smoke obscures the view from the binocs, though, fogs the windows inside a car, and also sends up a smoke signal for anyone to see. So, gum for now. Bob put the binoculars onto the passenger seat, trading them for a pad and pen. He made a note of the time, and then got out of his car, spat his gum into the grass verge, and walked quickly around to the trunk. Pushing the key cover aside, he unlocked the trunk and got out his gear.

Bob walked through the damp grass around to the back of the building. As he glanced up at the apartment window in question, the lights went out. "Fuck," he thought, "I need to hurry." On the back of the building, about three feet off the ground, was the ground floor apartment's balcony, strewn with potted plants. He boosted himself onto the railing of this, standing. Reaching up, he climbed to the second floor balcony, and then, pulling himself up, affected his arrival onto the third. He moved slowly, but still hurriedly, and as quietly as humanly possible. After first checking the sliding glass door for a stick on the inside, he sprayed the track of the door with WD-40. He then used his MasterCard to pop the flimsy latch, and quietly let himself inside. On the thick pile carpeting in the apartment, he was soundless.

A man's apartment, but he had known that when he trailed his quarry from the restaurant. He looked around in the half-light, noting the decor. It was neat in the small living room, but the couch cushions were on the floor. A few DVDs were piled on top of the television, mostly action films, and a framed Rothko print was on the wall over a leather chair. Nice. A copy of Men's Health Magazine was on the glass-topped coffee table, and he bent down to check the address label - Mel Syrbinski. "Well, Mel, looks to me like you've been caught," he thought to himself, as he noted the name on his forearm in black felt tip, misspelling and crossing it out once. He brought out his tiny camera then, and slowly made his way to the back of the apartment.

In the hallway, light came from under two doorways, one at the back - likely the bedroom - and one ahead and to the front of him. From inside, Bob could hear the sounds of a man taking a long piss. Probably a big night of drinking before he'd picked them up at the restaurant. The toilet flushed, and then the sounds of water running and someone lightly humming could be heard. It took a bit longer than hand-washing ought to take, and just as Bob was about to resign himself to waiting through someone taking a shower, the water and light abruptly clicked off, and the door opened. A tall, completely naked man walked past Bob in the hallway, not four feet away. He was drying off his dick and balls with a large hand towel. He walked into the back bedroom, toward the sound of light snoring, leaving the door ajar. Bob, the ultimate opportunist, crept up to the crack in the door in time to see the man from the bathroom, who must have been Mel, begin talking to a sleeping figure on the bed.

"Have you drifted into dreamland, lover? I bet I know how I can bring you back..."

The figure on the bed was his quarry, the person he had tailed from a restaurant downtown, all the way to this apartment. Mel kissed the sleeping figure on the lips, and was rewarded with a low moan, and a response in the form of an embrace. Bob's camera began to snap in the semi-darkness of the hallway, capturing the actions on the bed. Mel kissed the person on the bed a few more times and then worked his way down the chest and to the pelvic area, finally wrapping his lips around the man's erect cock. Mel's head began to slowly move up and down, and his hand massaged the other man's balls and asshole, while his tongue licked the length of the shaft, and he sucked lightly. Joseph Watting, Bob's target, ran his fingers through Mel's hair and sighed deeply, flinging his head back against the pillows on the bed. Joe's moans only increased as Mel slowly inserted his finger into Joe's tight asshole, moving it back and forth, slowly opening him up as he sucked his cock. Joe moaned even louder as Mel slipped another finger into him, and then shortly began to move the two fingers a bit faster, in and out.

After a few minutes of this, combined with Mel dividing his oral attentions between Joe's cock and his ass, he was open and lubed up, ready to go. Mel reached beneath the bed and brought out a container of lubricant, coating his ample cock with it. Glistening and erect, he stroked himself, standing by the foot of the bed, while Joe inched backwards on the bed to make more room. Then crouching on the edge of the mattress, Mel slid his hands under Joe's asscheeks, and put Joe's legs up on his shoulders, as he gingerly slid his nearly-purple cock into Joe's waiting asshole. Mel began to pump his hips slowly, clenching his ass tightly with each thrust, and holding onto Joe's thighs with a grip of iron. Joe gripped the bedspread tightly, binding it into knots in his fists as he got soundly fucked in the ass. Mel began to move faster, and one of his hands traveled from Joe’s thigh to his pulsing cock. Mel began to pump Joe's hard cock, fast. His muscular ass flexing repeatedly as he pounded Joe's asshole, his hand moving faster and faster, squeezing Joe's cock, the camera now whirring in the hallway, trying to get very shot - it's a wonder that no one burst in on them in this little scene, with all the activity and noise. All at once, Joe's body seized, and he cried out into a pillow as he shot cum into Mel's face and hand, and all over his own stomach and chest. The ring of muscles at the entrance of his ass squeezed Mel's cock, and this lusty involuntary reaction caused Mel to shoot his load deep into Joe's waiting asshole. Slowly, both of them spent for the moment, they eased themselves apart and then back into an embrace, and lay on the bed, breathing slowly together.

Bob had all he needed, plus a bit of a hard-on. He wasn't gay, but that show was pretty sexy, regardless. He put his camera away, and made his way out to the front room again, quietly on the thick pile. As he was easing the sliding door open, to make his exodus the way he had come, the light in the adjoining kitchen flicked on. Nearly panicking, Bob quickly darted out onto the porch, and vaulted over the rail to the second floor. He landed with a small crash on a child’s bicycle, gashing his shin. He dove over the side to the grass beneath the first floor balcony, just as Mel Syrbinski burst naked onto his balcony. Looking this way and that, his eyes settled on the dark figure running across the lawn, and he yelled, incoherently after him.

Back in his car, Bob Randall hightailed it out of there, driving as fast as he could without getting a ticket, back to his office to develop his film. In the morning, he would have phone calls to make.