Placing Out

by P. J. Brown

  I reached under and grabbed his low hanging balls, tugging them while I pumped his dick in and out. When his balls tightened I knew he was close. Too soon.

  I backed off, staring in greedy wonder at his wet prick. I wanted a lot more than to have him come in my mouth. Tilting my head back, I met his glazed eyes. Face flushed, his need was obvious. God, I wanted him inside me.

  "Please," I whispered. "Ben."

  He hauled me up. "Who the fuck are you? The devil?"

  I grabbed one of his hands and pushed it down over my crotch. His fingers closed over the swelling and I moaned. "I'm the guy who wants you to fuck him. Can't you tell?"

  He looked up long enough to find my bed and dragged me over to it. Throwing me down, he wrapped his fist around his cock and growled, "You better have something for this, or this is going to be rough."

  I pointed at the dresser beside the narrow bed. He wrenched the top drawer open and pulled out the petroleum jelly. Enthralled, I watched him slather his six inches until it was slick and glistening. Pulling my legs apart he settled between them and, without finesse, rammed up my ass. I cried out at the sharp pain and clutched his shoulders, hanging on while he rode me hard. He wasn't gentle, but I didn't want him to be.

  Waves of pleasure swept through me as he slammed into me. Each stroke was more unbearable than the last. I threw my head back and cried out. Grabbing my own dick I pumped ferociously. He bit my throat, growling, "Fuck, you're tight. Oh God... "

  He pistoned in and out of me, all control gone. His body shuddered and, with a cry, he froze, his back bowed, and he drove into me, filling me with hot cum. I followed him soon after, splattering my damp belly with streamers of jism.

  We lay there, pinned together by sweat and semen. His hot breath whispered over my sweating chest. He pulled away enough to stare down at me. "I still want to know who the hell you are."

  I rubbed his chest, a thick mat of dark hair still slick with sweat. He smelled wonderful. Just what I love in a man. I purred. "I'm the man of your dreams."

  "Nightmares, more like it," he muttered. Swinging himself into a sitting position, grimacing at the drying mess on his belly. "You got a shower in this dump?"

  "Sorry. Shared bath down the hall. But I have a bowl with water and towels."

  "Always prepared, huh?"

  I sniffed. "I never bring people home."

  "Can't say I blame you." He looked around, spotting my "closet"--a pipe I'd fixed to cross one corner. All my good suits and shirts hung there. My three pairs of patent leather shoes neatly placed below them.

  I had to admit, seeing it through his eyes, it did look shabby. Even pathetic. A loser who walked around in expensive clothes but lived like a tramp. Fooling people that he was better than he was. I bristled. I didn't need this asshole's pity or contempt. He didn't have a clue what I'd been through to get here.

  "Funny how you didn't notice it a few minutes ago." I climbed out of bed, staring down pointedly at his limp prick. Still impressively large. Another thing I like in a man. "If you're going to be insulting, leave. I don't need it."

  "What do you need? Money? You expect me to pay you now? What's the going rate for a male whore these days. I never kept up on it."

  I couldn't believe it, tears welled up in my eyes. Shit, had I really expected understanding from this copper? Just because he was like me didn't mean he'd see it that way.

  "Get out."

  "What? I hurt your feelings?" When I refused to look at him, he grabbed my chin and forced me to meet his eyes. I saw no pity there, only confusion. "I'm sorry, if I did. I didn't come here to fight with you."

  "So why did you come here? Besides to fuck me?"

  I couldn't believe it. He blushed. My God, a man who could blush. I suddenly wished I'd met Ben Carter in another life. I think I could have really fallen for a guy like this. Fuck, now who was feeling sorry for himself?

  "What did you want, officer?"

  Ben shook his head. "I don't know. I just had to see you." He clenched his hands into fists. "I didn't want to."

  "Then maybe you need to practice some self-discipline."

  I knew I was pushing the guy. Maybe even into rage. Is that what I wanted? To infuriate this already dangerous man into what? Beating me? Don't tell me that I was one of those, needing pain to get off. I glanced down at his dick and a jolt of pleasure shot through me. He was getting hard again.

  "Or maybe you don't," I whispered, licking my lips, watching his prick thicken and stand out from its nest of hair, the head still glistening with grease and cum. I hurried over to the tin basin I kept full of fresh water and a small towel, which I dampened.

  Without a word to him, I gently cleaned him off. He shivered under my touch and was now fully erect.

  "I think we both agree on one thing, Ben." I wiped myself down and threw the towel into the corner. Taking him in both hands, I crouched down and marveled at his beauty. "We both want the same thing."

  He groaned as I massaged him, tugging and pulling at his balls and sliding my fingers behind them to play with the sensitive skin back there. He reached down and pulled me up. We stood facing each other, his desire clear on his still flushed face.

  "What the hell are you doing to me?"

  "Who cares," I whispered, seconds before he jerked me against him and rammed his mouth down on mine.

  "Shut up."

  I obeyed.

  * * * *

  What the hell am I doing? Ben stared down at Dylan's face. All traces of the injuries he had suffered during the raid on Black Kat were gone. He touched the clean-shaven face. Silk smooth, a rich golden color. Delicate features, but not weak. Oh no, there was nothing weak about Dylan Daniels.

  Ben needed to leave. This couldn't be happening, he thought, even as he sank to his knees and nuzzled the stiff cock, sliding his lips around it. He was no more able to stop this than he could stop breathing. Stop living.

  He inhaled the hot odors from the light mat of blond hair and the stiff cock rising out of it. Dylan sighed and wound his fingers through Ben's dense hair. He adopted an easy rhythm, up and down, listening to Dylan's quickening breath. He sucked harder and Dylan whimpered, pushing his cock into Ben's mouth, exploding with a sharp cry.

  Instead of standing, Ben pulled the other man down to straddle him. His erection pressed between them. He reached for his cock, silently encouraging Dylan to stroke him. Feverishly, Ben held Dylan's hips and released himself to the need that ripped through him while Dylan pumped him harder and harder. He grunted and spilled into Dylan's fist.

  Ben helped him climb to his feet. Getting another damp cloth, he wiped them both down. While he did, Ben's stomach growled. He grinned self-consciously.

  Dylan smiled back. "Sorry, no food here. There is a drug store just downstairs. They make a great chicken salad."

  Ben held Dylan's head in both hands, his thumbs stroking his ears, pushing strands of blond hair out of his face. He stared into blue eyes he could get lost in. "That's good. I love chicken."

  Dressed, they trod down the backstairs together. But when Dylan opened the door leading to Main Street, Ben paused. He studied the cars moving past. What would he do if a patrol car drove by? All the cops at Central would recognize him. A lot of other people might, too, given his recent coverage in the Times. He'd had more than one person stop him on the street and comment on his good work.

  The last thing he wanted was to be seen with Dylan. Dylan was just a little too obvious in what he was. Ben kept a wary eye out when he followed the other man into Liberty Drugs.

  Besides the counterman, there were five others present. Four men and an elderly woman. Ben scanned the room without being obvious and recognized no one. He relaxed, but still insisted they sit in the back where he could see who came through the door. Dylan sat across from him. He smiled.

  "Sure you don't want to sit here? If your back's to the door no one can see you."

  "Never sit with my back to a door."

  "Never?"
/>
  "It's a copper thing."

  Dylan shrugged. He picked up the menu, putting it back without looking at it. Ben studied him closely. When the waitress came to their table, he ordered steak and eggs while she filled two cups of coffee. Dylan simply said, "The usual, Flo."

  "Sure thing, hon. So, when are you taking me to the movies like you promised."

  "How 'bout right now, darlin'?" He threw Ben an amused look. "I think I can get away if you can. If you're sure your husband won't mind. I don't need a jealous mister coming after me."

  She laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. "You're the one, ain't you, Jack?"

  "I surely am, Flo. I surely am."

  When she was gone Ben raised his eyebrows. "Jack?"

  "My nom du plume, you might say. Or maybe it's my nom du guerre."

  "Don't want anyone to know who you really are?"

  "No, officer, I don't. I prefer to keep my life private. It is no one's business but mine, after all."

  "Law doesn't agree."

  "The law is an ass, to quote Dickens."

  "Dickens?"

  "British author from the last century." Dylan must have seen something in Ben's face. "Didn't think a whore could read? You don't think we can do much, do you?"

  Ben didn't rise to the bait. He watched traffic on Main, only occasionally glancing at Dylan, without looking like he was staring. Years in L.A. had exposed him to a lot of beautiful men. But he didn't think he'd ever seen one who could outshine Dylan Daniels. To get away from his thoughts he asked, "How long you been in town?"

  "Going on three years. You?"

  "Seven."

  "Always been a copper?"

  "Pretty much." Ben stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "Where you born? Me, I'm from Iowa."

  "Five Corners, New York."

  "Don't sound like New York."

  "I said I was born there. But I grew up in Nebraska." He grimaced. "North Platte."

  "Pretty country I hear."

  "If you're a cow, maybe."

  Ben laughed. He'd had pretty much the same attitude toward Iowa. Good for some folks, not for him. "What brought your folks out there? Land?"

  "Wasn't my folks. I was placed out."

  "Placed out?" Ben shook his head. "What's that?"

  Their meals came. Ben's steak still sizzled. Dylan had two eggs sitting on top of a pile of hash browns. Under Ben's quizzical gaze he poured a mass of ketchup over everything. He shoveled in a mouthful, swallowed and answered him.

  "Kid's asylums and orphanages take kids that have no family or their family's too poor to take care of them. Ship them out west to families there. I ended up with the Chatterfields."

  "They good to you?"

  He shrugged, still eating. Ben followed suit. The steak was good. He emptied his plate around the same time Dylan did. Without asking, the same waitress brought over a slice of blueberry pie.

  Dylan picked up his fork, met Ben's gaze before he took a bite. "You should try it. Their pies are a slice of heaven. I guarantee it."

  Ben looked at the bottle of ketchup. "Tell me you don't put that on it."

  Dylan laughed. "No, I promise."

  "Then apple, please."

  Dylan was right. It was damn good. He pushed his plate away when it was empty. Reaching for his money clip, he pulled out a two.

  "I don't expect you to pay." Dylan sounded indignant. "If that's what you think."

  "What do you expect?"

  Dylan shoved his half-finished pie to the edge of the table. "You probably don't believe me, but I don't want anything."

  He was right. Ben didn't believe him. He'd met a lot of hustlers of one kind or another over his years of policing and they always wanted something. Money, power, even just the fun of playing someone. So why was he stupid enough to want to believe this one? Because the sex was unbelievable? Because there was something about him that wasn't jaded and tired, like so many others in this indifferent city of fool's gold?

  "You go to work later today?" Dylan broke through his thoughts.

  "What? No, I'm off duty the next two--" He realized what he had just said. Heat flooded his face.

  "So you're in no rush to go somewhere? Or do you have family? Other lovers?" He dropped his voice. "A boyfriend, maybe."

  "Don't say shit like that," Ben hissed.

  "You don't have one, or you don't want to admit you have one?"

  "I do not have boyfriends," Ben said through his teeth. "I'm not like that."

  Dylan surprised him by sighing. "You know that's not true." He stood. "Thank you for the meal and... your company."

  Ben watched him walk out. He never looked back. Flo came back, gave him the bill and smiled her thanks at the deuce he handed her. "Keep the change."

  He followed Dylan, but at the entrance to his hotel, he barely broke stride, his glance slicing sideways. But not looking for Dylan. Fuck, no, he wasn't looking for him. Hunching his shoulders against an imaginary chill, he headed home.

  * * * *

  Los Angeles, March 8, 1933

  Roach rounded up all of his squad, including Ben and a thug named Bulldog. They drove to the Wilmington Warehouse at the Port of Los Angeles. Another half dozen unmarked Buicks and Fords drove with them in a parade of muscle. Heavily armed muscle. Most of them carried Browning automatic rifles as well as their handguns. Since joining the Red Squad Ben had received training in a host of weapons he'd never seen before. The BAR was Roach's favorite. Ben knew why. He could clear a line of strikers with a few well-placed rounds. The rapid firing rifle did a damn good job of demoralizing the strongest, hard-line unionists.

  Ben hated the things and never wanted to use one.

  Until today. He drove, and the entire way toward San Pedro he clutched the wheel as though it was a striker's throat. They arrived right behind Roach and he was out of his Buick before any of the others. A line of defiant strikers faced them. Already fear showed on some of their work-lined, weary faces.

  Ben gloated. He dragged his nightstick out and growled. "Break it up. This is an illegal assembly."

  Behind him Roach took a second to bark the same order into a megaphone, then they all waded into the middle of the sign wielding men. Too late, Ben realized there were some women, too, and a few young, unshaved faces that could only be kids.

  Once the clubs started falling, chaos overwhelmed them. Shouts of rage followed curses and grunts as copper and striker met. Ben stumbled when a sign proclaiming "Fair Wages" thwacked him on the side of the head. With a roar he swung his BAR around, bracing it against his shoulder and screamed, "Break it up now, or I'll blow your fucking head off!"

  The crowd in front of him broke apart in a wave. New strikers moved in. A fair-haired boy bared his teeth at Ben and held his sign in two hands above his head. "We got rights, copper. Don't they teach you the Constitution where you come from? We got a lawful right to assemble."

  The kid looked like Dylan. Same defiant look under the grime he got from working fourteen hours on the docks. With grim determination the boy advanced on Ben. His grip on his sign tightened and Ben knew he was going to attack.

  "Don't do it, kid. You can't win this one."

  "Fuck you, copper--"

  From beside Ben, Roach barked, "Don't talk to me about no fucking rights, you commie pansy."

  Before Ben could react Roach fired into the crowd. The boy went down in an explosion of blood and bone as his face disintegrated. All around him people fell under the onslaught of bullets and batons. Screams of fear, rage and pain turned the dockyards into Bedlam. Or hell.

  Shaking with the rush of adrenaline, Ben waded in to the panicked mob with his baton. His arm rose and fell, landing on heads, arms, and backs. His booted feet trampled fallen strikers, kicked and shoved others out of his path. On either side Roach and Bulldog were equally vicious. More shots went off. Screams grew shriller and the strikers broke and fled as the line of death bore down on them.

  It seemed like hours, but turned out to be
only twenty minutes, when an exhausted Ben limped back to his car. Something, a knife or a stray bullet, had grazed his leg. Blood soaked his dark pants. He didn't realize he was bleeding until he climbed behind the wheel and the sticky mess got all over the seats. Roach leaned in the window.

  "You're a fucking bull out there, ain't you, Dutch? Glad you're on our side." He spotted the blood still leaking from his leg. "Better get that seen to. I don't want to lose my best man. When you've done that, go home. Rest. We got another busy night tomorrow." Clapping Ben on the shoulder, he strode back to his own Buick and soon the whole squad was racing back to Central.

  Ben stopped at the medic and had the shallow cut cleaned out and bandaged. Back at the station he signed the BAR back in and limped home. He cleaned up in the shared bath, which only reminded him of Dylan and his basin of water. Then memories of the boy who looked like Dylan, face exploding under multiple rounds of bullets returned. Against his will, images of Dylan suffering the same fate left him shaking and nauseous.

  In his room, he fell across the bed fully clothed. Sleep, when it came, was infused with dreams of fucking his golden boy, only to watch his face dissolve into the striking boy seconds before it became a bloody pulp. And all the time he was falling into sea blue eyes that consumed his soul.

  Eventually he fell into a deep sleep, beyond the reach of dreams. Or nightmares.

  The next day the lieutenant handed him a copy of the Times. The image of Roach and Ben breaking up the mob of strikers was front page, above the fold. He looked like a madman. But then he had been, hadn't he? God, he hoped Dylan didn't see it, flashed through his head before he could stop the thought.

  All day, memories of the dead boy--Ben had tried to find out his name without success--haunted him. He was on foot patrol, on day mid-watch, and the time moved sluggishly. At least there were no major incidents. Fifteen minutes before end of watch, he crossed Pershing Square to get back to Central. The crowds grew denser as they neared the Red Car stop on Hill Street.