Two Good Men [Hell's Delight: Unbridled 3] (Siren Pubishing Everlasting Classic ManLove)

by Karen Mercury

  While normally that sort of talk had me raring to go, now I was fleeing the opposite direction. Power-walking down the hall, bumping against a flood of eager cocksuckers, I was making a beeline for where I’d parked my truck on the street. I’d call King and tell him where I was. I’d wait for him to finish whipping someone’s ass.

  But King was already waiting at the truck. He spread his arms wide.

  “What the fuck, Dodge? I looked for you at the bar and couldn’t find you.”

  “Get in.” Yes, my voice did sound panic-stricken. With the click of a button, I unlocked the truck and we both piled in, slamming the doors as though a zombie horde was coming for us.

  “What’s up?” asked King.

  I was panting heavily. “I don’t mean to ruin your time, King. If you want to go back in and do whatever, feel free. I’ll wait for you.”

  “Why’d you come tearing out of there quick as a hiccup?”

  In between pants, I managed to spit it out. “I went to the glory holes, King.”

  “Damnation, Dodge. You’re all sorts of busting out tonight.”

  “I kneeled down. I did it, King. Well, not really. Sort of halfway. Then I realized I was being an immature dickhead, and what if someone I knew saw me, and I got scared.”

  “But did you do it? Did you suck a dick?”

  “Sort of. For about a minute.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” I knew what King was driving at. “And did I like it?” I allowed a sly grin to spread over my face.

  King punched my arm. “You loved it, man! See, I knew it! Though I got to admit I’m a bit jealous. Wish you would’ve told me where you were headed. I could’ve been the God-hung Dom commanding you to pleasure me.”

  The idea seared me to the bone, but I protested. “Oh, motherfuck, King, that’s the last thing I need. I can’t indulge in this gay scene, not even in private, not even behind extremely locked doors. That’s the revelation I just had. I’m way too shy, and it’d ruin my reputation.”

  King scoffed. “In Hell’s Delight? You wanna know how many men are partnered up on Hardscrabble Ranch?”

  Actually, I didn’t know that. And I wanted to know. But I pushed King away. “It scares me, King. What kind of role model would I be for Ryan?”

  King’s eyes flashed. “A damned good one! You’re a kick-ass sheet metal worker and the only guy I’ve ever seen fabricate and fit a prosthetic leg on a fucking horse. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Hendy. No one takes away a kid anymore because a parent is gay.”

  “But I’m not gay!” I insisted on saying.

  King snorted. “You can keep saying that. I know otherwise.” A devious cast came over his face then. “You know what I love? I love it when my boys send me videos.”

  “Videos?” I said stupidly.

  “Yeah. It’s not so up-front and personal, not so in-your-face. People feel freer to be themselves on camera, alone in their room.”

  “Mm.” I became curious. “Doing what in the videos?”

  “What else? Jacking off. Eating it. Preferably in a semi-public place.”

  Holy motherfuck. I nearly stopped breathing at what King was suggesting. It took me several long seconds to gather my fucking wits. “And you like watching that? That makes you a voyeur.”

  “And from your locker room fantasy, I gather you’re something of an exhibitionist. You like it when people watch you do perverted things.”

  He was right. He had me nailed to a T. How did he do that? “It’s not my fault. It all stems from that one happening. It was…semi-public.”

  “Yeah?” King warmed to the subject. “How many boys in the locker room watching you?”

  “How many? Ah, I’d say maybe ten. Okay, fifteen.” Including the big bruiser I’d been eagerly giving a piston job to.

  “Wow. Can’t wait to hear the details.”

  “You’ll be waiting a long time, Taylor.”

  “I doubt it. Okay, accept my challenge then.”

  “Challenge?”

  “Make a video for me. Anything you want, anything you feel comfortable with.”

  I was aroused and frightened at the same time. “Are you kidding? I don’t know you from Adam. You could post it on YouTube.”

  “YouTube would take it down. I could post it on Tumblr. Listen, Dodge. This is what you were created for, and it’s what I need. I fucking want you, man. I want your cock-hungry cock virgin suckling away at my groin. I need your lily-white ass under my palm, under my crop. I need your big dick in a cock cage.”

  “A chastity belt,” I whispered, weak with lust.

  “Sounds good. You don’t know how bad I’ve wanted you since I noticed your hard-on in my front yard. And think. This gives you a chance to turn me on. Once I hold your virility in my hands, you’ll see how gorgeous it is. But you need to display yourself to me first. Stroke yourself. Display to me your cock and balls. I want to see how excited thinking of me makes you. I want to see how far you shoot.”

  That was it. I nearly fainted. I had to gulp several large, painful breaths before I could fumble the key into the ignition. “We’ll see,” I mumbled. “We’ll fucking see.”

  Chapter Six

  King

  “So I suddenly developed FOMO, which as you know is the fear of missing out.” Levi Steinbeck painted a dramatic picture with his hands shaped like claws. “I could suddenly see every step I was going to take ten steps ahead of time. I felt like Boris Spassky, if Spassky could really fuck.”

  Dodge seemed absorbed by the helium-headed medical examiner. I’d found out that Steinbeck wasn’t even really the ME. The real ME, a Dr. Hamerelli, had gone off on some religious retreat with a Hell’s Delight church. I guess Steinbeck knew his shit. But he was a whacky galoot.

  “Cyanide has a long, lovely history, growing in abundance everywhere we look.” Steinbeck was fascinated by his chemistry, and so was Dodge. “Cyanides give taste to yew tree leaves, cherry laurel flowers, the pits of peaches and apricots—the crush of bitter almonds. Millipedes ooze cyanides. They abound in floating turquoise algae on lakeshores. Cyanides thrive in plants dotting forests and fields.”

  Dodge said, “Researchers have found evidence of ‘death by peach’ in Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

  Steinbeck pointed at him, glad for an avid student. “Right. They obviously used to enact cyanide executions. More refinement came about in Germany, 1704, by an artist trying to develop better colors. He was attempting a better red. He mixed dried blood, potash, and vitriol into a soup over an open flame. He thought he’d see vivid crimson, but a new color appeared.”

  “Prussian blue,” said Dodge.

  I held my hands out, palms down. “That’s all very fine and well, a very nice chemistry lesson.”

  Steinbeck drew himself up. “Is there anything other than a ‘very nice’ chemistry lesson?”

  Dodge chuckled in camaraderie with the ginger buffoon.

  I had to take charge. “Y’all have got the science down, but how did the cyanide get in their systems? Why would Mike Seville swallow poison when he just got promoted to acting mayor?”

  Dodge added, “And he’s having a fling with this unknown but hot lady?”

  He gestured to the pull-out shelf where the poor lady lay, bruised and swollen. She was flat in some places, stitched up in others. We were in the ME’s office in the county seat of Hangtown. Our generous host Steinbeck did indeed have champagne in the cold chamber alongside some cheese and the gutted bodies of Seville and his lover.

  Levi Steinbeck wandered, hands behind his back. “Flo Jannery was also a married woman. Her husband said perhaps she keeled over of food poisoning, and the shock of seeing his beloved dead killed the mayor. I tested every bottle in that hotel room. Nothing. Acute cyanide poisoning proceeds apace. Two to five minutes after swallowing it, the person falls to the ground, most often with a piercing scream. So I asked your other laborer if he’d heard any screams. Did you men? Hear screams?”

  Dodg
e and I looked blankly at each other. I’d been too busy macking on the delicious orthotics expert to notice any damned screams. We both shrugged, much to Steinbeck’s consternation.

  He continued sternly. “The last few minutes of death by cyanide are horrifying, full of convulsions, gasping for air, and bloody frothing at the mouth.”

  I remembered trying to give Flo Jannery mouth-to-mouth. I’d hesitated because of the froth. Steinbeck had to go and make my paranoia worse by adding, “Lots of people have a genetic mutation that prevents them from noticing cyanide.”

  Damnation. Had I been basically kissing someone with poison lipstick?

  Steinbeck said cheerfully, “I’ve seen many cases of cyanide poisoning in my time. When I did my internship at UCLA I saw a man who was pissed at his wife for not getting his cigarettes for him. Understandably, he put a box of poisoned candy on the coffee table, waiting for her to eat it. She did. Another time, an LA County clerk who’d been fired kindly sent a box of homemade candy to her replacement at City Hall. She didn’t eat it. And I remember an Orange County incident. A woman who was driven mad by her neighbor’s barking dog laced a fine cut of meat with cyanide and tossed it over the fence. It’s a very popular poison.”

  Dodge said, “I presume they caught all these people? Or you wouldn’t be here telling me about it.”

  “Sadly, the one who got off was the dog poisoner. There was no way to prove it was her who tossed the meat. Here, have some more champagne.”

  I held out my glass, like it was an everyday thing for a guy to be stashing some Cook’s right next to the greenish, bloated, cut-up bodies. The freezer was the right temperature, I reckon.

  Dodge said musingly, “The door to the room was locked. That’s why the laborer needed my key to get in.”

  Steinbeck continued, “Needless to say, I ruled out food poisoning. The bodies were far too cold and stiff. I tested their brains for alcohol and found traces. I thought maybe they imbibed some of that deadly Ginger Jake that had been poisoned by the old mayor, currently in lockup for murder. But this turned out not to be the case. There was a bottle of Nyquil in the room. They must’ve had colds. Gentlemen.” Steinbeck held his plastic champagne glass on high. “I am stumped. Frankly stumped.”

  “Maybe not so stumped,” said Dodge in a faraway voice, wandering to Mike Seville’s body on the pull-out shelf. Hands jammed deep into his pockets, he examined the guy’s shiny, bloated face. “Gentlemen,” he said, using Levi Steinbeck’s phrasing, “that Sunday when I got to work, I saw a pest control van pulling away. I’ve been striving to recall the name of the company. All I could remember was their tagline. Licensed to Kill. Literally.”

  Steinbeck cried, “Well, that’s something to go on! Track down that van!”

  I asked, “Do they use cyanide in killing bugs?”

  “Hydrogen cyanide,” corrected Steinbeck formally. “Yes they do, which is why they usually cover the entire building, and people leave.”

  “But these poor saps didn’t know to leave, because they were having an assignment,” I said, bitterly.

  Steinbeck cried, “We’ll run a test! I’ll get a compound a pest control company would use, Dodge can help me figure out the venting system. We’ll put rats in room 411 and wait to see how long it takes for them to die!” This sounded exactly like the sort of test Steinbeck had been waiting his whole life for.

  “I’m in,” I found myself saying. “I want to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Great!” said Steinbeck. He tried to pour more crappy champagne, but found the bottle empty. “Dodge, King, a handshake deal should be good enough for you. We’re headed down a rocky, dangerous road, so the road must be paved with honor.”

  “I’m learning about honor,” said Dodge, mysteriously, before shaking the mutton-chopped guy’s hand.

  Googling showed the pest company was probably Cockroach Blockers Pest Control there in Hangtown.

  “I’m heading there right away,” said Dodge, gesturing with his phone. “It’s only about fifteen blocks away.”

  “Wait,” I said, grabbing his wrist. “Why don’t we get a coffee first?”

  Dodge looked skeptical. “Why? I’m raring to bust these murderers.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Dodge probably had a feeling for the topic I wanted to present. He trudged with me a couple blocks to a coffee shop, where we stood in line silently for ten minutes to get our regular orders of black coffee. We sat by the window where we could watch Hangtowners come and go. I liked this place. I never wanted to return to Goodnight, Texas.

  After a few more minutes’ silence, I said thinly, “So. Did you think about my proposal?”

  “Didn’t know it was a proposal.”

  I bristled. He was already pushing back. And I liked that. “Okay, a command then. Did you do what I told you to do? Make the video?”

  Dodge’s face did redden as he slid his phone from its holster. He placed it face down on the table and slid it to me with two fingers.

  He never took his eyes from mine. He’d made the video. I put my fingertips on his phone, barely brushing his fingers. Yes. Our touch was electric. We were meant to braid our energies together. Watching nasty videos of men I knew, videos made specifically for me, was one of my things. It meant I had achieved dominance over them, forcing them to subject themselves to the potential humiliation of having the video posted on Tumblr. It meant they were so desperate to please me, they would spread their legs, bind themselves in painful ways—one guy was so dexterous he managed to suck his own cockhead, all just for me—and even cum on the camera lens, one of my favorites.

  But Dodge was withholding. His fingers pressed the phone to the table. “I didn’t send it to you. It’s staying on this damned phone, I want you to know.”

  “Fine. Just let me look at it, and I’ll give it back to you.”

  Finally letting go of the phone, Dodge gulped the last of his coffee. I loved how robust and manly his Adam’s apple was. I was dying to paste my mouth to his throat. But I couldn’t let him know that.

  He said almost angrily, “You can do whatever while I go to Cockroach Blockers.” He looked from side to side. “Just make sure no one’s looking over your shoulder.”

  I got the impression he wanted someone to look over my shoulder.

  I could hardly wait for him to leave. I actually bit my lip in excitement. There was only one hipster guy behind me working on a laptop, so I went ahead and played the video, volume very low.

  Damnation.

  There he was, thighs spread deliciously, shirtless. Those nipples I had yearned to suck on, that mat of chest hair I longed to lick with a broad, flat tongue. His hand traveled down his flat abdomen, his long fingers Ving around the base of his jutting dick, tangling in his pubic hair.

  He looked at the camera straight on, unblinking. This magnetic guy was in complete control, as though he’d made hundreds of these videos. That notion sent a stab of jealousy through my gut. “This is for you, Kingsize Taylor,” he murmured seductively. Then he reached over and grabbed something off-camera.

  It was a fucking dildo.

  It was a fucking dildo, one of those realistic—although purple—silicone dick-shaped dildos. I had often reamed guys with similar dildos just to humiliate them, and to prep them for my real dick. Now, while gripping his hard-on, Dodge lubed up the dildo with his fucking mouth. Yes, he slobbered on the dildo’s cockhead almost lovingly. He even turned to the side so I could get his profile view.

  “Damnation,” I said under my breath.

  He plunged the thing in and out of his mouth, wetting it with his slimy, fat tongue. I had to compare my own dick size to the dildo. Aren’t all men competitive like that? I found with a shock that we were nearly the same size. Dodge had literally sized me up!

  He even moaned when he sucked the purple thing, his luscious lips wrapped around it, deep throating it. My cock was so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if the buttons in my crotch had popped, I s
wear. I’d never had a video like this made just for me. Most were far more unimaginative. In profile his Adam’s apple bobbed enticingly, and I swear I could see his long cock pulsate in his fist.

  When the dildo was wet enough, Dodge withdrew it and smiled at the camera. “Was that good? Do you wish that was your dick, King? Well, you’re going to be waiting a long time because I’m. Not. Gay.”

  And with that, he positioned the silicone rod between his thighs and shoved it home.

  His eyelids fluttered. He was maybe used to taking a smaller dildo into his ass. For a straight guy, he sure moaned and groaned around that big thing, rotating his hips to corkscrew the thing farther inside him. I could tell when he’d hit the P-spot because his beautiful lips parted, shiny with spit. And I fucking kid you not, he moaned, “King.”

  That fucking took the cake. Standing, my hard-on bulging the crotch of my jeans, I slid his phone into my back pocket. I don’t even remember striding the few steps to the front door. But I sure saw that emo guy behind me with a giant gaping mouth, his eyes watching me through the window as I followed the way Dodge had gone.

  Fifteen blocks away. I spied Dodge about ten blocks down, staring up at something, probably the store’s sign.

  He looked at me like he was mildly interested. Like he hadn’t just sent me the sexiest sex tape ever fucking invented. He was walking in tall cotton because he knew he had me by the nuts. He was beating me at my own game.

  “Dodge,” I said forcefully. I didn’t even break my stride, just took him in my arms and swept him down low like we were tangoing or something.

  He must’ve been so surprised he didn’t resist. With one splayed hand on the back of his skull, I kissed him.

  I didn’t even pretend to work up to it. I just plastered my open mouth to his and slipped my tongue in. I groaned like a fucking rutting bull, I’m not kidding. I snacked on his mouth like a castaway dying for water, sliding my mouth one way and the other, biting his lips.

  Setting him upright, I grabbed one of his butt cheeks and yanked him in close. The press of our erections was fucking electric. I mean, I was fixing to rip apart my belt buckle, shove Dodge to his knees, and skull-fuck him. My other hand still gripped his neck, but he made no move to get away, so I gobbled up his mouth some more.