Bliss

by Gordon Phillips

Witness: I made lunch for Quentin and me, like I generally do. Then I had a nap after lunch. Both of us do that, generally.

  Officer: Where did you both sleep?

  Witness: Me, in my bedroom, Quentin in his, of course. We were only friends.

  Officer: Go on.

  Witness: Well, I woke up sometime later, feeling confused. I sometimes do after a nap. I went into the living room, sat down, and then there came a knock at the door. That was when that friend of Quentin’s came in.

  Officer: Ian McQueen?

  Witness: I guess. I think he gave me his name, but I wasn’t really fully awake at the time. I take sleeping pills sometimes.

  Officer: Did you take a sleeping pill today when you had your nap?”

  Witness: (considering) Well, I’m not sure. Maybe.

  After reading it I looked up.

  “And that was it!” The detective put the paper back into the folder. “To all further questions he’s only ever said, ‘I have nothing to say to you.’”

  I nodded. “I think he has an issue with cops.” Then, unable to help myself, I added, “Or maybe it’s just your charming personalities.”

  The detective appeared to brush this aside and just looked at me. After a minute of silence, he cleared his throat and said, “Do you have any suggestions or observations?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “What makes you think I have anything to suggest or I tell you?”

  The detective looked at me unhappily, and slowly got to his feet. Walking slowly back and forth a couple of times, he finally put both hands on the table and faced me.

  “I have a hunch that he’s our man.”

  “Ah. Good for you!” I said with a sneer.

  He stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. “The thing is, Mr. McQueen, I happen to think that big oaf is as guilty as hell. And I think that we might be able to get a conviction—based on the circumstantial evidence we have.”

  “Have you ruled out suicide?”

  The man shook his head. “You’re forgetting the bruising on the face. Inconsistent with suicide.”

  I made a dismissive noise. The detective smirked. “Excellent argument, Mr. McQueen!” He emphasized the second syllable of my name.

  I knew what he meant by doing that. I knew that some cops in the city referred to me as “Queenie the Copsucker.” It didn’t really bother me. Though I never considered myself a queen—that is, an effeminate gay man—I did have a lot of experience sucking cop dick, and for that I did not apologize. With my thing for men in uniform, I had found that a certain portion of uniformed police officers were open to that sort of experience—especially with a detective, private or public. And the practice had proved helpful in ensuring good relations with those members of the police force.

  And Detective Solomon looked hot as hell in his dark blue uniform, which must have been purchased several years ago, for it now fit a little tight over the thigh, chest and shoulders, as well as—increasingly—below the belt buckle. Add to all of that what seemed to be self-conscious posing and movements, the result was a virile hottie who was sending all the signals.

  Generally, I’m good at holding a blank façade, but now I was having difficulty doing this. I didn’t look away, partly because I didn’t want to give myself away, but mostly because I just couldn’t. I shifted my gaze to different parts of the police officer, but everywhere saw the “weeds of authority”—symbols of the law and its arm, law enforcement.

  It was the enforcement part that did it—that removed some of my sovereignty, and my head swam with a sense of vulnerable subordination. Yet, even as I struggled with this, I remembered Horst sitting in jail, possibly soon to be charged with killing a man—that bothered me in rather a different way. I felt I knew the man was innocent.

  I licked my lips, which had become quite dry. I didn’t look at the detective’s face, but I had the impression he had noticed this tiny action, and he knew what it meant—namely, that he had me.

  I cleared my throat and frowned.

  “Look,” I said in a slightly hoarse voice. “I have strong doubts about Horst’s guilt in this matter. I think there’s something no one has found yet.” Then, with an effort, I looked directly into the detective’s intense, dark eyes. “And I’m betting that you’re enough of a good cop to want to know the truth, rather than simply hang the crime on the first convenient suspect.”

  I saw the detective’s face tighten at this. I suppose it was a jab, done deliberately. I was hoping that I was right about this cop, this man. And now we looked at each other in a silent stand-off for over a minute.

  He began to walk around the room, slowly, as if considering what I had said. I had my chair slightly away from the table, and the detective squeezed into this space and stopped there. The front of his right thigh was only an inch from the knuckles of my left hand, which rested on the arm of my chair. I could feel his body heat on the back of my fingers. Acutely aware of his physical presence, his uniform and virile, masterful aura, something inside me surrendered. I looked up at him, and saw him looking down at me, a slight smile of triumph on his lips, mixed with contempt.

  It wasn’t the contempt associated with actual hostility or hatred, but that of gratified male vanity and arrogance. And that, I knew from experience, was generally associated with an interest in, or actual need for, sexual release—so long as this took the form of my being thoroughly abased.

  I had no problem with this, whatsoever.

  I said, still looking up at the cop, my voice breathless, “If you release him into my custody, I will question him, and get more out of him than you ever could.” I broke off and licked my dry lips again. “I think he has authority issues.”

  The detective, after several seconds, gave a slight nod. “True. He said he hates cops.”

  “There you go,” I said, smiling. “And it would help your case, help find out the truth.”

  Now the detective crossed his arms across his chest, a pose with even more shiver-producing dominance. My head swam, and I felt slightly giddy. But I continued with my façade of rational composure.

  Solomon regarded me with lazy amusement. “Now, why,” he said, “would I want to do you a favor?”

  The air fairly crackled with tension. Looking past the cop’s shoulders, I checked that the red lights of the cameras were still off. Then I lowered my gaze, and looked straight ahead, at the place where the cop’s long legs met, where there was now the distinct outline of a really impressive hard-on straining against the fabric.

  The image was intoxicating and I simply stared. The detective pushed himself away from the table and shifted his stance so that the bulge was positioned just above the back of my hand. Slowly, it descended so that it brushed and then rested its weight on my hand. The feel of its soft heft produced something like an electric shock, which radiated throughout my body. I found it hard to breathe.

  Then, as if this contact was not stimulating enough, the bulge slowly moved forward, dragging the soft fabric over the surface of my hand. I felt dizzy and helpless.

  “Maybe,” said the detective, his voice a quiet purr, “Maybe you could do something for me. I mean—just to help—convince me.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. The bulge was raised momentarily an inch or two from my hand, which allowed me to turn my hand over, so that when it descended again, I was able to cup its contents lovingly.

  “Go ahead!” the voice said in what was almost a whisper.

  When the bulge rose again, I raised my hand with it, still cupping as, with the fingers of my other hand I began undoing the belt. My fingertips tingled at the touch of the leather and metal, and my ears relished the clink as the buckle opened. When I lowered the zipper, the swollen phallus inside leapt forth, proud and fully erect.

  I grasped the shaft and, leaning forward in the chair, took the head between my lips with a feeling of intense gratification. This produced a low moan of pleasure from the detective. And, as my mouth took firm hold of the coc
k, I ran my hands lovingly along the smooth fabric that covered the muscular thighs.

  His hand come to rest, fingers spread, against the back of my head. It pressed me forward, driving my lips along the cock, forcing inch after inch of the shaft between my lips, dragging heavily across my tongue, until at last the head was pressed against the back of my throat. At this point only about half of the shaft was in my mouth. This might have been as far as things could go, except that I had, like really dedicated cocksuckers, learned to open my throat for deeper penetration. And, as the hand pressed harder, I managed this, and felt the exquisite sensation of the fat head slipping down into my throat.

  It was the ultimate act of surrender, for with this cock in my throat I could not breathe. For the moment, that didn’t matter. The only thing that seemed important was to get more of the cop’s dick inside, my sole desire to “polish his nightstick,” as some uniformed cops put it.

  At last I felt the prickly hairs and flesh pressing against my nose and around the lips, and his balls bumping my chin. It was bliss. And the whole time, the cop’s hand continued to press against the back of my head, keeping me in place—until at last things began to swim due to lack of oxygen. My hands, half numb, dropped away from the cop’s legs. There was a roaring in my ears. The imminence of unconsciousness overwhelmed me and I began to feel that I was floating, when the hand was removed. I fell back, the cock sliding from my throat, and I began to take deep, ragged breaths, recovering, until the swollen head of the cock began to pull at my tightly pressing lips, about to pop out of my mouth.

  The next second, the cock was sliding forward again, and soon I was throat-impaled again, and held there. It was exquisite, this sensation of complete surrender and being totally dominated.

  This was repeated until I felt the cock swell inside my mouth, and begin to pulse against my lips and tongue. I felt the seed deposited deep inside my throat—a curious and delicious experience, producing such a profound sense of having been conquered that waves of arousal in me increased to the point where they overflowed. My own cock began to pulse as I too came. It was one of my favorite ways to cum, impaled on a cop’s dick.

  The orgasms completed, the detective at last shifted his position, moving back to lean against the table and do up his trousers. I noticed that he was still half hard, and when I looked up at his face, I saw there was still some fire there. I realized that one round had not fully sated him, and I was impressed. But it also occurred to me that this was a man who wasn’t getting it regularly, and one who needed to.

  I had seen a ring on his finger, so I had assumed he was getting it more or less regularly, but now I wondered. And it occurred to me that it might be the back-up of semen in his system that was at least partially to blame for his behaving like a jerk. And it was very possible that if he were drained regularly, he would become not just a better man, but also a clearer thinker.

  But right now, the detective moved around the table and, seating himself, pushed the folder across to me.

  “Okay,” he said. “Be in booking in twenty minutes. You can take this. I’ll release him into your custody.” I nodded, and the man started to leave, but, looking back, hesitated at the door.

  “Um, there’s a bit—” He made a gesture towards his chin. I affected not understanding, so he stepped forward and with a finger, wiped my chin himself. I caught his wrist before he could withdraw his hand, and forced the finger between my lips and made a bit of a show of sucking off the semen.

  He breathed in hard when I did this, and when I finally released his hand, I saw there was more fire in his eyes. As he turned away, I saw him adjust himself in his trousers, so that when he had left, I leaned back and smiled to myself.

  “Possibilities,” I murmured. “Definite possibilities.”

  Chapter 4: Hypnosis

  They brought Horst out to me. He looked somewhat dazed and sullen. It made me feel a bit wretched to see this man, whom I had first encountered as a sunny, benign person, brought to this state. But I hoisted a smile when he came up to me.

  “Hi,” I said. He didn’t reply at first, but looked me up and down with dislike.

  “They say you’re a private eye—a private investigator. Is that true?”

  With a shrug, I got out my P.I. licence and showed it to him. He nodded, but said nothing else.

  “So, I’m being released into your custody?”

  “Well, you haven’t been arrested—so no.”

  “But you’re coming back with me, is that right?”

  I sighed. “Why don’t we get out of here? Then we can talk about it.”

  He considered, then nodded.

  In the car Horst was stonily silent. I pulled into a plaza with several eateries.

  “I thought we might talk over a meal. Any preferences?”

  He didn’t say anything, so I pointed. “They have good hot turkey sandwiches there.”

  He shrugged. We went in and both ordered the turkey sandwich. The place was licenced, so I ordered a beer with my meal. Horst had a glass of milk. We ate in silence. I figured the man’s mood would improve once he had something on his stomach.

  When we had about finished, I sat back, took a sip of my beer, and looked at him.

  “Just to let you know,” I said. “I’m here because I want to find out what happened to Quentin. I guess you do too.”

  He looked at me for a few seconds.

  “What? You don’t think I did it—that I murdered my friend?”

  I looked at him and shook my head. “Actually, I don’t. But the thing is, I want to be able to prove that. And the best way to do that is to find out what did happen.”

  Horst’s air of hostility faded as he searched my face. Finally, he nodded and sighed. He dropped his head slowly forward, looking close to tears.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I know it’s brutal, going through this—on top of everything.”

  Horst raised his head and stared at me.

  “The detective said you used to be a cop. Is that true?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “I guess I couldn’t hack the politics, and the rules, and—well, I’m just not really a regimented kind of guy.”

  I watched him digest this. When he had, I tapped the table top with my forefinger. “But I still like catching bad guys.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “It’s what I do,” I continued, feeling a little defensive.

  “I thought it was mostly divorce cases, stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of those. Not particularly enjoyable to find out what the spouse is doing—cheating, or whatever.” I frowned. “You really have a problem with that?”

  This challenge appeared to take him aback. He blinked—flashing those gold eyelashes—then shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “I suppose this is going to sound pompous,” I said, “but I value truth just as much as I value decency.”

  Horst stared at me blankly.

  “I guess that just sounds sentimental.”

  He considered. “Yeah. Kinda.”

  I sighed inwardly. “Anyway,” I continued, “I’d like to stay with you in Quentin’s place, do some more searching.”

  Horst frowned. “But the cops—”

  “The cops,” I interrupted, “don’t have the time or interest that I have. Plus, I knew Quentin. And I don’t think he changed that much.”

  Horst appeared to digest this. Then he looked at me seriously.

  “You don’t think he—did it himself?”

  I shook my head. “That’s hard to do—smothering, I mean. You lose consciousness, and if you’re holding a pillow or something over your face, it falls away, enough to let some air in.”

  “So—what? What do you think happened?”

  I smiled. “That’s the thing. I have no idea. And I want to find out—for him. So, the thing is—I’m asking for your permission to do this.”

  Horst blinked. “What
? You can’t just—come in? Weren’t you—given permission from the cops?”

  I shook my head. “That’s not the way it works. You have rights.”

  That got a snort, but the big man seemed mollified. I waited, and finally he nodded.

  “Okay. But then maybe we should get some groceries.”

  At the supermarket I found the experience, pushing a cart up and down the aisles with the big man beside me, quite pleasurable. Also, the mundane business of food shopping was curiously comforting. And we shared tastes in food: nothing junky, but not too crazily healthy either.

  I insisted on paying for the stuff—”My way of thanking you for putting up with me.” We also got beer, cider for him, and a bottle of vodka too.

  By the time we got into the condo more of Horst’s wall had come down. When we were sitting in the living room with our drinks, some Bach playing on the stereo, I really began to feel the gracious elegance of Quentin’s place. It was a sunny afternoon, and with the sheer curtains closed, the room was again filled with a pleasant, gossamer light. My mind went back to the previous afternoon, but I quickly suppressed those ghoulish thoughts.

  Instead, I thought about Quentin. He had been a trust fund kid, with plenty of money. But mostly he had ignored the fact, even hid it. He only spent money on the few things that really mattered to him—and it had to not look too expensive.

  For example, after college he’d bought a car, second hand and rather beat up. But it had been a Jaguar, even though the signature hood ornament was missing. Riding in it had been my first experience with just how nice luxury cars felt.

  Then there was the stereo he’d had when in college. It produced a quality of sound that was truly breathtaking. He’d been an aficionado of vinyl, maintaining—correctly, as it turned out—that CD’s didn’t sound as good.

  I had never before now seen a place that Quentin had really made his own, and now I asked Horst whether Quentin had used an interior decorator.

  “Oh, no!” he said. “Quentin was always particular about every piece of furniture, and the color scheme. He really knew what he wanted—in decorating, anyway.”