MATCHSTICK MEN: a Hunter Dane investigation

by Adira August

  Would the humiliations never stop?

  "No, Cam. But walking is a bit of an adventure."

  "Yeah, that'll fade." Cam capped the jar.

  He was back in the gym bag. He ripped the plastic off something and held it out. "Shirt," he said.

  Was that a blush? Blonds had no secrets.

  Hunt took a risk with his submission and pulled up his pants. Cam just kept holding out the shirt. A black, form-hugging knit with some kind of image on it. Hunter pulled it on.

  Eyes shining like a kid on Christmas morning, Cam got his cell and took video. He handed Hunt the phone.

  The design on the shirt wrapped from back to front. A snow leopard. With ice-blue eyes.

  "Last thing," he said. He put one of his big, warm, now familiar hands, on the side of Hunt’s face and kissed him on the mouth.

  The next time I kiss you, you'll kiss me back. The way you want. Move as you want. Do as you want. The very next time I kiss you, Hunter.

  His lips were warm and firm and somehow still soft.

  Dammit. If I would ever love a man …

  Hunt put both hands on the sides of Cam’s face and broke away. "Are you done, now?"

  Cam nodded, his expression neutral. But Hunt saw some sadness in him.

  "I’m sorry, I can never be what you’d like me to be," Hunt said.

  "Are you saying you aren’t gay? Because I didn’t think you were."

  Hunter heard a car go up the alley. Someone dropped a dumpster lid.

  I should probably get going. Go home and change into work clothes.

  But Hunter owed the young Dom. Owed him so much.

  "You know that thing people do where they instinctively reach out and maybe, brush the hair back off their lover’s forehead or touch them some way just to touch them, when it serves no other purpose?" Hunt asked.

  Cam nodded, but his knit brows said he had no idea where Hunt was going.

  "I don’t do that," Hunter stated. "It never occurs to me. Ever. In any way. With anyone."

  Cam’s brows smoothed out. Hunt was familiar with the blank look that followed.

  "Cam, before you ask, I have no idea. I’m not a sociopath, according to a shrink I got drunk with one night. I wasn’t abused, I don’t have a dark secret. I’m not into delving deeply into my psyche about this, it’s just who I am."

  "You’re saying you don’t love," he said.

  "Love is something we do, Cam. Whatever subjective feelings we have about someone that people call love are just that, subjective feelings.

  "I care for people, in that I do things for their benefit. I just don’t do all the other things. I don’t crave anyone’s company if they aren’t present. I’m not bothered by longings for human contact, other than sexual. I don’t ... connect."

  He considered me for what seemed quite a long time. Then, "Okay."

  "I’m pretty sure this is why I’m so good at my job. My concentration on the case and the evidence is total. We put assholes away with paper chains and data. No one does that better than I do."

  Cam smiled, then. "Well, whatever your operating system, you don’t lack depth or passion."

  "Here’s the thing," Hunt said, before he changed his mind. "You gave me everything I needed last night. I’m not sure anyone else could have done what you did."

  Cam looked skeptical.

  Hunt smiled. "I slept. No dreams, no drugs, no alcohol, no nightmares. I slept. Hard. For almost eight hours. And this morning, I’m good. Well, I don’t want anyone slapping me on the back, but I’m in a really good place. It’s remarkable. You gave me that. And - I want to do something for you."

  The knit brows were back. "Not necessary. This is one of the things I do very well. It’s my passion, so -"

  "Did you come last night? On the Angel?" Hunt interrupted him.

  "No,” He looked offended. “It wasn’t about sex. Coming in you would be … rape. I don’t do that."

  It was a wonder to Hunter that Cam understood so perfectly that ramming his dick painfully into Hunt’s ass was one thing, but using him for personal pleasure at that moment was so vastly something else it was unthinkable.

  "Would you like to?" Hunt asked him. "Not rape me, would you like to fuck me?"

  "What are you wanting, Hunter?" Cam’s tone shaded toward Dom.

  Hunt shook my head. "Not that. Just … like friends."

  He laughed. "With benefits?"

  "Maybe. Sometimes."

  He thought about it. "I would like that. And you’d enjoy it, though you might not believe that at the moment, but ... not today."

  Oh?

  "Give me your phone," he said. Hunt was so used to doing what Cam told him, he just handed it over. Cam was so used to being obeyed, it would have startled him if Hunt refused.

  "Here," he said, handing it back. "You’re going to spend the day swimming in shit and being objective. If you want, call me when you’re done. My place, though, not here."

  "So you can fuck me?"

  He smoothed a non-existent wrinkle out of Hunt’s shirt. "No, that will be some time when you aren’t dealing with horrifying serial killings. I think what you do, even in an office, feeds your monster." He gestured vaguely at my gut.

  How does he know?

  "You might like to deal with it before it builds up," he said.

  "Yeah. Yeah, I might … Not sure my back can take it, though." Hunter wasn’t joking.

  Cam shifted. He smiled gently, but power altered his stance, sharpened the planes of his face. His eyes colder than the ice he mastered.

  "I don’t tell you how to investigate homicides. You don’t question how I give you what you need."

  Hunt’s cock rose. He can see it.

  "Unzip."

  Hunter did. Cam stepped in.

  "Under no circumstances, today, do you remove my shirt," Cam told him. He wrapped his hand around Hunter’s erection, eliciting a groan. And he smiled.

  "Hunter, later today you will crave my company." He stopped smiling. "Do not come."

  Camden Snow dropped to his knees.

  Ah … fuck!

  Ad Symonds voice called Hunter back to the moment. "... and you've got more rules than fighter jet flight check. You never bend them. But on the nights you need to have the shit beat out of you, for whatever reason, I oblige."

  Hunter sighed and sat up, looking past Ad. The sun had disappeared behind the Front Range. Time to get on with it. Two cars turned into the lot. He finished his beer and sat up in his chair.

  "What do you need to know, Ad?"

  "You avoided Cam for years. He's everything you never wanted. Friday, you walk in, go straight to him and drop to your knees. What the fuck, Hunt? I was right there, too. We have history. What he could give you that I couldn't?"

  "History means familiarity, not relationship," Hunter said.

  Symonds went pale. Hunt saw it, and ignored it. The man had asked. "I don't explain why I do what I do, or want what I want."

  "But you explained it to a hotshot twenty-three year old kid you barely know?" Symonds asked, not bothering to mask the bitterness.

  "I didn't explain anything to Cam," Hunter said. "I didn't have to. He already understood."

  Ad Symonds couldn't seem to find a response.

  "You can answer something for me, though," Hunt said. "If I'm such a monumental pain in the ass, why do you keep accepting when I offer?"

  "You never saw one of your own book covers?"

  Hunt had been modelling nude since college. Tall, dark and nearer to handsome than not, Hunt kept his body tuned up for his job, and for Dwight's camera. His slightly wavy hair was still thick, his blue-gray eyes fringed with dark lashes. But, still ...

  "Seeing me naked is enough?" Maybe he should get Dwight to give Ad some studio shots.

  "I'm a pushing-fifty queer sadist. Hunter Dane naked is definitely enough. But hear this. " He stood up. Black leather pants. Black leather jacket. Tailored. Supple. Too expensive to creak. He leaned over the table,
weight on one closed fist. For Hunt's ears only.

  "Someday you're going to need to come as well as suffer and I intend to be there when it happens." Symonds grabbed his empty mug off the table and headed inside.

  Hunter blew out a sigh. Like a lot of Doms of high status in the outside world, Symonds had trouble with Hunt's transitions from sub to Dom. Even sharing a drink on the deck, underneath the peer banter, he saw Hunt as a submissive he had the right to claim. Hunt hoped Ad would gossip enough about his uncooperative attitude that everyone else would accept there were no answers he'd give them about Friday night and Camden Snow.

  Cam had the right to keep himself to himself in whatever ways he needed. Discretion was not only part of Hunt's job, as detective and unofficial guardian of Scene and Not Heard, it was his personal belief system. He distilled it down to leave each other alone.

  All Hunter wanted was another beer and a sub and sex. He was about to get up to fetch the first thing, when the second thing presented itself. He heard a soft cough from behind him.

  Lillibeth. Finally - an escape from expectation and angst. Hunt shifted around in his chair and gifted her with a severe look.

  She was a shy little thing, not-quite blond, plump and plain. Her mother, Governor of politically critical state back east, shipped LittleBit west to escape the notice of reporters. Hunt doubted a reporter would notice the girl if he stumbled over her. Which was easy to do, considering she knelt more than an Opus Dei monk.

  She knelt now, behind and to the left of his chair, hands flat on her skirt over her thighs, waiting for him to speak to her.

  "Look at me."

  She did, biting her lip. Hunter let her see him harden. Sharpen. Her hips shifted the slightest bit.

  Perfect. She's perfect for tonight. He wanted to grin, but he knew it would confuse and embarrass her. An uncomplicated creature, LittleBit longed to serve with whatever orifice or body part pleased a Dom, maintaining a wistful hope of orgasm. Her kink was being forced. Not violently. Her desire was to be menaced, intimidated. And her favorite place to do that was -

  "Do you need to make a call, sub?"

  -the classic red phone booth Chez had imported from England.

  She swallowed and nodded quickly.

  "Well?"

  She scrambled to her feet and scurried inside.

  He let the grin happen.

  5:30pm The Booth

  Inside the club, Hunt got another beer and wandered, returning greetings, avoiding curious expressions.

  There was a poker game in the Lounge Hunt couldn't afford the buy-in to. A group by the bar discussed the best way to sterilize porcupine quills. Hunt veered off into the hallway before one of the Doms saw him and got any ideas.

  Bill Beckford hosted the munch night matchstick game in the horseshoe banquette near the entrance. Becks laid out a puzzle on the large coffee table using the club's red swizzle sticks. Players bet on how likely it was the challenger's sub would solve it in three tries. Ad Symonds set the odds.

  When Hunt stopped to watch, Beckford warned he couldn't play or bet. "Not fair to the others. But you'll lay out for the challenge round?"

  Hunt laughed. "Find some genuine matchsticks and I will. Later." Hunter Dane was the club matchsticks champion. Usually, he'd have come with his challenge lay-out in mind. But tonight was laid-back sex night.

  He'd given LittleBit a half-hour to remove her panties, get to the booth and work herself into an intense state of anxious anticipation. It was time to menace.

  Chez had the bottom half of the booth reinforced with metal plates, protecting the square glass panes. He'd installed a sturdy lock inside the door. The wall behind the booth showed a London street scene at night. Fog drifting through widening beams of streetlights.

  The pudgy sub was clearly visible through the unobstructed upper part of the booth. She faced away from the slightly open door she'd "forgotten" to lock and looked eerily wan under the single yellow lightbulb Chez thought added atmosphere. Holding the receiver to her ear, she was the perfect victim.

  Hunter did enjoy a good scene where the sub got into the role. He ripped open the door, shoved his way inside and intimidated her like a proper villain should. Her eyes were huge and dark and needful, as she begged him to let her go. He smiled his best evil grin, and pushed her down, hands around her neck, no real pressure, telling her she had no choice but to obey him. Hunt thought he made a dandy villain.

  She got him off on her knees. He wedged himself into a corner, feet wide, making himself shorter so she could reach.

  He took his time, as planned, enjoying the little distress noises she made. The vibrations against his cockhead brought gushes of precum. So did her pointy tongue stroking the length of him like a slick fingertip when he ordered her to. She choked nicely when he came. And swallowed.

  Exactly right.

  With her back against his chest, Hunt worried one of LittleBit’s tight nipple with one hand. The other opened her legs, teasing her swollen clit. She writhed and moaned and begged him to stop. But he appreciated how perfect she'd been for him that night, so he kept on, not letting her come.

  LittleBit had always been responsive, but tonight her libido snapped the leash. Her skin suffused with pink; she shone with moisture. The juices from her puffy cunt dripped over his fingers and down the insides of her thighs.

  Hunt thought she deserved a special treat and turned her front against his left arm. He circled her right wrist and brought it behind her back to let her experience the control of her attacker.

  Sliding her up over his thigh, he braced his right foot against the wall. Her legs hung down, with barely room to move in the small space. Working her skirt up over her hips, he bared her from the waist down.

  It was her favorite position in the booth. Just being in it made her breathing harsher, her little sounds higher and louder. The fingers of his right hand disappeared between her plump thighs and found her blazing nub.

  She bucked and cried out and bit down on his biceps. The shy little sub was bordering on magnificent. He held her tighter, bending her arm up to keep her still. The biting woke his dick again. Bonus round, coming up.

  He pulled his middle finger away from her clit and curled it. The knuckle pressed into her clenching opening. Shallow. He rotated it, pushing outward against her.

  It made her wild. She keened and tried to shift, to get more depth, more pressure. He moved with her. Controlling her. Keeping her at the precipice.

  "I can't … I can't ... stand … I ca- … please … please," she breathed. "I need … Please Hunter, ple-"

  WHAP! WHAP! His hand came down hard on each bare cheek. She yelped in surprise.

  "What did you call me, sub?" he demanded, his voice so harsh he hardly recognized himself.

  "No, I - I'm sor-"

  WHAP-WHAP! Harder. Two gasping screams, but no response. WHAP-WHAP!

  "What did you call me?"

  "Hun - Hunter," she wailed.

  He clamped her wrists in one hand and spanked her steadily and deliberately. Her heels beat against the wall of the booth. When her ripe round ass was evenly deep pink, he stopped.

  Hunter let her slip to the floor in a sobbing heap. Hands over her burning buttocks, she looked up with mournful eyes. Adjusting his clothes, he left her there, shutting the door behind him.

  Hunt stalked away, disgusted with the night, with himself and with the very foolish sub.

  Like kicking a puppy. A wet, bedraggled, starving, fucking puppy.

  But there was nothing for it. A sub never called a Dom by his first name, unless ordered to. And another Dom she made this mistake with might do worse than use his hand. She needed the lesson, but why did she have to need it now?

  Goddamnit, what was wrong with everyone tonight?

  He slammed through the door of the john to wipe himself down and hold his aching hand under cold water.

  A tall red-haired sub everyone called "Rev" came in. He took a position at a urinal, keeping his crotch o
ut of Hunt's line of sight. Hunt had his hand under the stream of water.

  "Becks is looking for you," Rev said quietly, not looking at Hunter.

  Hunt's shoulders slumped. All he wanted to do was go home, watch some mindless crap on TV and end this day. But he had enough people speculating about him, now. He couldn't leave the most inoffensive sub in Scene and Not Heard sobbing on the floor of the booth and walk out. Perception mattered.

  Hunter was just a cop, not one of the rich or powerful who paid their dues. His status relative to the others was a tricky negotiation. He had to maintain his position in terms of his sexual identity, but also stay aloof from the culture of wealth and celebrity he was not truly part of.

  Doms aren’t questioned for punishing a sub. But this was the daughter of a powerful politician. And he was basically a blue-collar worker with a gun.

  Rev zipped up. He used the sink next to the one Hunt vacated while Hunt dried his hands with paper towelling.

  "She's okay," Rev said, and Hunt knew he was referring to LittleBit. "She ducked into the Ladies' as I came in," he said.

  Hunter moved toward the door.

  "One minute, if you don't mind?"

  Hunt paused. He didn't know Rev well, but he seemed a decent enough sort. Hunt doubted he would pry into last Friday night or his treatment of LittleBit. He'd be way out of bounds, if he did. Though people did seem to be racing for the fencelines, tonight.

  When he finished drying his hands, Rev reached into a side pocket of his suit coat and held out a handful of kitchen matches.

  Fine. One layout and I'm outta here.

  6:45pm The Layout

  "It's your turn," Bill Beckford told a pretty Hispanic sub in a spanking skirt. "Move two matches to get the football outside of the uprights. The figure of the uprights has to end up the same shape. … Nonono. No touching the football! You have to move the matchsticks. Two, okay?"

  "I thought it was supposed to be a fly in a wineglass," a Dom said from the sidelines. A dozen spectators had gathered to watch.

  "No, the stem's naked, it'd fall over!" someone else said.

  "And, besides, a fly's disgusting," one of the subs piped up.