by Unknown
He provided companionship to people who’d otherwise sit at home alone. So he didn’t strap a bungee cord to his ankles and dive off a cliff—like that could benefit the planet.
He clocked out at six sharp and checked his phone. Diane asked about his plans, no doubt fishing for company tonight.
Orc’s Lair tourney. Already reserved a spot. Sorry, he texted.
Cancel them. Mix it up. Got some ideas.
He sighed. Never had he chided his friend about her interests. This past week had taken on a theme he didn’t appreciate. Rain check, he replied. Maybe a movie this weekend?
Don’t move.
“What?” He scanned his desk, taking in all the bobbleheads representing characters from his favorite shows. They nodded, as though bidding he heed Diane’s request.
“Fine,” he sighed to them, and his phone erupted with the Deep Purple tune he used for calls from unknown numbers.
“I hope you don’t mind Diane giving me your number,” Mitch said by way of greeting. “I was kind of a jackass to you at the party, and I wanted to apologize.”
The heaviness contributing to his mood lifted and he let out a surprised “Oh.” He could forgive Diane the breach of privacy this time, he decided. Mitch sounded sincere enough for him to accept the olive branch.
“I’d like to make it up to you, too. I’m working now, but maybe I’ll buy us dinner this weekend? If you like Thai I know a great place on the North End.”
Caught off guard, Wyn stuttered a bit before gaining control. “Sure. I love Thai food, sounds great. Text me tomorrow and we’ll nail down a time?”
“Looking forward to it.”
He heard the smile in Mitch’s voice, and after ringing off shook his head. Had it seemed too eager to make a date right off the bat? The guy takes two seconds to apologize for acting like a jerk, and he’s reduced to a hopeless puddle of feels.
What the hell, it’s dinner. He did love Pad Thai, too, and with Mitch treating he’d get shrimp instead of the cheaper pork.
He texted Diane. Will let you know on the movie. Looks like I have a dinner date this weekend.
Seconds later, she responded with an emoticon blowing a raspberry, then another giving the thumbs up. Wyn chuckled and powered down before driving back to his apartment to change.
* * * *
Sixteen people had signed up to play Orc’s Lair, with competitors grouped into quartets. According to tonight’s rules, everybody would play two rounds, with the top eight overall scorers advancing to a semi-final round. The final four would then battle each other for the grand prize: a store credit worth a hundred dollars.
Wyn could easily spend it, and usually doubled the amount at Christmas when treating himself. The prize mattered less to him than the thrill of victory, though. He had yet to win a card tournament at the Cave and longed for bragging rights.
Halfway through the second round of sixteen, Wyn slouched in his padded folding chair and studied his surroundings. Three similar card tables took up much of the floor in the back room reserved for gaming. Posters representing various comic and science fiction fandoms gave color to the drab gray walls, and from his vantage point he could watch the activity in the shop. People browsed the comic book bins and shelves of board games, occasionally glancing toward the tense activity in the back.
The man sitting opposite Wyn—wide-eyed with a short fade haircut, wearing a Breaking Bad t-shirt—set down a card. “Whirling Dervish,” he announced with confidence, then leaned back with arms folded. A good move, given how cautious the others played. Clearly George wanted to move things along.
“Acid Raincloud.” Wyn’s next card vaulted him into the lead, and on it went as he and George racked up the points at their table. By the end of the second round, both had secured spots in the semi-finals and congratulated each other during the ten-minute break.
Wyn grabbed a Coke can from the ice bucket by the door and eyed the remaining gamers, a nice convention of corduroy pants and messenger bags emblazoned with TARDIS patches. “How do you like your chances?” he asked George.
“I’ve already spent that gift card.” George looked as though he wanted to say more, but a noise from the sales floor distracted him. The shop was due to close in a few minutes, and Wyn assumed the owner was ushering out the last of the browsers. He leaned toward the doorway, surprised to find a policeman at the register.
He stood with his back to the gaming area, which allowed Wyn to admire the cut of the dark blues, especially the way the man’s ass filled the pants. Muscled arms relaxed at his sides, with his left hand perched on his hip as he talked with one of the Cave’s clerks.
“What’s the deal?” George murmured. “They going to shut us down because the store is closed?”
“Why would the cops do that? We’re not doing anything wr—”
The assertion died in his throat when Mitch turned around and gave Wyn a full frontal view. He pulled a long notepad from his shirt pocket and jotted down a few words as the clerk rambled with appeared increasing worry.
Mitch.
So, Diane’s neighbor was a cop? It made sense, a logical step after serving time in the Air Force. Wyn pondered the “lie” of blowing a policeman to get out of a speeding ticket and quickly the image he’d conjured last night switched and placed Mitch against a strobe-lit cruiser, with an anonymous young man on his knees, face at crotch level.
What would it feel like, to brush your cheek against a swatch of dark blue polyester while orally polishing an officer’s “night stick”?
Heh.
Wyn watched Mitch interact with the clerk. He had yet to glance toward the gaming area, so Wyn felt safe semi-hidden from view. He liked the opportunity to view his future date from afar, and get a better idea of the man in a neutral setting. Despite the uniform, Mitch didn’t appear threatening. He spoke quietly and nodded, his gaze panning the store like he’d been assigned to inspect it. Wyn wondered why his line of work hadn’t come up at the party, and he guessed maybe he and Mike didn’t work at the same precinct. Why keep it a secret, though? Of course, Wyn hadn’t spoken of his career at the party, but nearly everybody there knew how he earned his paychecks.
He remembered: he hadn’t given Mitch enough time to delve into details. Well, they would at dinner.
His new officer friend had come hatless, but he imagined Mitch’s blond hair tucked beneath a peaked cap, his handsome face contorting in ecstasy with each broad lick up and down his cock. In his mind he groveled at Officer Mitch’s feet, his mouth watering at an impressive bulge and frustrated for not hearing the rasp of a zipper.
“Wyn, you playing?”
“Yeah.” His reverie shattered by George’s call, he took his position at one of the semi-final tables while some of the ousted players gathered to watch the implied bloodbath. The sight of various fantasy caricatures—large-breasted Amazon warriors, anthropomorphic bunnies, weather-controlling robots—cooled his libido a bit and he focused on winning.
The round progressed quickly, and Wyn pinned his last two cards face down on the table as Mitch sauntered into the room, eyeing the activity with perceived amusement and confusion. Onlookers and players focused on the game, leaving Wyn the only person to notice his entrance.
“Iron Whippoorwill.” The man to his right slapped down the card and bore down on his scoring pad with an exaggerated pencil checkmark. He offered Wyn a side-eye glance that taunted, beat that.
The bird portrayed on the card, while tiny, made up for size with its fortified armor and razor-sharp talons. Either of Wyn’s remaining plays could handily defeat it, but he needed to choose carefully and anticipate futures moves. Mitch distracted him, though, with the top button of his uniform shirt undone to reveal a bit of white t-shirt and the faintest dusting of chest hair. He crab-walked through the throng of spectators as though to find the best view, and Wyn could only sit there hypnotized by the slow swaying of hips, and the bulge in those slacks…
Shit. Side-eye Man bore down
on him. Wyn tossed in the first card his thumb brushed. After a moment his brain caught up to it. “Cirrus, uh, spiderwebs.”
To his left, George tsked and turned up his trump. “Avenging Angel,” he said, and the air left Wyn’s lungs. No sense playing the final cards, as George leap-frogged far ahead—enough to win right now. He didn’t have enough points to get one of the other final seats.
“Damn it.” He pushed from the table and scraped the floor with the back metal chair legs. Losing to George, to anyone, rankled but he had nobody to blame but himself. Mitch’s presence accounted for nothing, because Wyn realized he hadn’t played conservatively as he normally did. The cop had stayed on his brain through the round despite his attempts to focus. He knew better to surrender to hormones.
Wyn licked his lips as Mitch approached. Well, no sense in letting his ramped-up lust go to waste. It wasn’t like he had to prepare for the finals.
“Guess you lost, huh? Sorry about that.” Mitch didn’t sound sympathetic, more like puzzled. “How do you even know?”
“You play long enough, you get the hang of it. What brings you to the Cave? Is this part of your beat?” He hated to have come off annoyed, but it sucked to lose. Like George, he’d also had that gift credit spent in his head.
“No, I normally patrol closer to the Oceanfront, but this is official business.” Mitch cleared his throat. “Now that you’re free, maybe you could answer a few questions…”
Wyn let the procedural patter sink in, and his stomach fluttered. Good cop on the street, better cop in bed? He couldn’t wait out the fifteen-minute drive to his apartment, assuming Mitch would follow along in his cruiser. What business did an officer of the law have in a comic book shop after hours, anyway? Was the owner cooking the books, running the place as a front for a drug operation? Doubtful, but Mitch looked serious.
“This way. It’s a bit noisy in here, and Chuck won’t mind. The bathroom is further down in here, so it’s not unusual for people to come and go.” Wyn shuffled past ousted gamers and directed Mitch into the storeroom, locking the door behind them. A single uncovered bulb illuminated the spacious closet, and a faint woodsy scent filled Wyn’s nostrils. Stacks of role-playing guides and boxed table games lined shelves to one side, and blister packages containing figurines and other accessories were piled to their left. At the far end, on the door that separated the one-stall bathroom, there hung a Green Lantern poster.
“I hadn’t expected to see you until later in the weekend. Anyway, hope you’re not claustrophobic.” He turned to Mitch and set his hand on the first fastened shirt button, twisting it between his fingers. “At the risk of sounding cliché, what seems to be the trouble, Officer?”
Mitch chuckled, but he hardly looked amused. He glanced toward the door as though contemplating an exit. “Are you sure we can talk in here? What are you doing?” He flinched when Wyn freed the button, but thankfully didn’t move to discourage it.
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose my actions seem out of character for somebody as boring as me. Hey now, you said it,” he added quickly when Mitch winced. “Maybe the next time we play ‘Two Lies and a Truth’ I want one whopper of a story people won’t believe.”
“Wyn, I told you on the phone I was clearly out of line the other night. I’m sorry. I had a few beers, and I was an ass. Whoa, buddy. Have you been drinking?” His body tensed in Wyn’s grip. The man couldn’t deny his arousal—Wyn felt it harden under the polyester, and he stroked Mitch’s crotch while loosening the belt with his free hand.
He shook his head. “Unless you count soda, and I am a bit jittery. Have you forgotten those questions you planned to ask?”
Mitch smiled. “Questions?”
Good boy. “If I undo this, will your utility belt fall to the ground? Do you call it that, like Batman?” He tugged at Mitch’s fly. “Maybe I don’t need to take it all off.”
“Diane said you were something else.”
“I’d like to know what she told you about me. She has a tendency to oversell. Did she send you here? I’m sure I’ll have to live up to whatever.”
“She likes you, says you’re a nice guy,” Mitch said. “Knew I was interested in meeting a nice guy, but this…doesn’t fit her description.”
“I am forward this evening, huh? I just lost a hundred-dollar credit to the store by being ousted from the tournament.”
“That sucks. Can you buy a lot of stuff here with that?” Mitch eyed the box of figurines as though working out the math in his head.
“Depends on what you’re into. What are you into, Officer?” Wyn laughed.
“Wyn…” It came out more as a plea, which pleased him.
“I want your cock in my mouth. You want me to suck your cock. Two truths?”
Mitch held his gaze for a second, smoldering and sexy. He nodded. “No lie.”
Sinking to his knees, he pressed his face against Mitch’s groin for a moment and inhaled a heady blend of laundry soap and sex. He lowered the zipper to reveal a flash of white, then fished out Mitch’s cock. Long, hard, beautiful. Wyn eyeballed him at about seven inches, thick and flushed dark as Mitch’s heart pumped.
“Is blowing a cop in a retail storeroom a misdemeanor?” He looked up but Mitch focused on the overhead light, letting out shallow breaths. “I’d hate having to explain this in court.”
“I’ll make a case for being a cock tease. I might not word it that way on the ticket, mind you,” Mitch warned. He pressed against the shelf and grasped the wire racks for support. It couldn’t have been a comfortable position, but Mitch looked ready to explode.
Wyn dragged his tongue up one side of Mitch’s cock, then tapped against the ridge of the mushroom head before swiping away a drop of precum. He spread the salty discharge along the roof of his mouth before taking Mitch whole, claiming him with a slow pace he hoped drove the man wild. On the first upstroke his lips pulled against the velvet skin, feeling every pulse and twitch, but when he slammed quickly down Mitch responded with more enthusiasm. He continued the rhythm while feeling for Mitch’s balls, still trapped in the tight briefs. Finally he managed to slip his fingers underneath one leg hole to better caress him.
Fingers slid over his scalp and curled into his hair. Mitch held him in place, and Wyn realized the man’s strength. He pumped faster, up and down on Mitch’s cock, taking more length with each pass. Yeah, he’d enjoy the reactions of his friends when he dared them to guess whether or not he’d actually sucked off a man of the law…if he chose to talk at all after this. He loved the taste of Mitch, his thickness. He wanted this in his ass as well. What law could he break to make that happen?
“Ah, fuck.”
Wyn lost count of how many times Mitch groaned those words. Between the “ah fucks” and “oh yeahs” his partner offered little in the way of verbal cues. His hips, on the other hand, provided plenty of guidance. Mitch shifted and thrust gently to help Wyn along, and his grip on Wyn’s head relaxed when the sucking increased. Mitch’s balls tightened; Wyn guessed he was close, and prepared to swallow.
Instead of taking in a warm gush of cum, Wyn gulped in air when Mitch roughly pushed him away. Mitch’s cock bobbed free, wet and purpled as Mitch grabbed it. He then reached behind him—cuffs, pepper spray? No, a wallet.
Specifically, a condom.
Mitch held it between two fingers. A little more to his left and he’d have looked like a blond Nick Fury. “I want to fuck you hard against that shelf. You want my cock inside you. Two truths?” An eyebrow arched.
He gasped for air and showed his teeth in a wide smile. “No lie.”
“Pants. Off.” Mitch ripped one edge of the foil packet and rolled the rubber down his prick. A sharp crook of his neck directed Wyn to follow orders and assume the position.
“Why does a policeman carry a rubber?” Wyn’s ass twitched. He made quick work pushing his pants and briefs to the floor and shuffled past Mitch to grasp the wire shelf. He pushed his bottom up and out to offer an enticing target, one Mitch pa
lmed for a few seconds before delivering a light smack.
“One should be prepared for any situation,” Mitch said. He didn’t spank Wyn again, but streaked his fingers over Wyn’s rump and up to the small of his back. His touch roamed underneath Wyn’s shirt while the other hand caressed his waist and hip.
“When we were standing on the beach path that night, I wanted to kiss you. I got nervous and acted like a smug asshat instead. Not the first time my bravado’s cost me a shot with a nice guy.” Mitch teased the cleft of his ass and Wyn let out a whimper. “That’s why I waited to call you. Had to think it through.”
“You think this long and hard on the job? A burglar could make it to Tennessee while you stand there.”
“It’s my job to interrogate, thank you,” Mitch said, and gave a gentle push against the two pale globes. “I’m done talking.” That said, he dipped down, pried Wyn’s ass apart, then licked the puckered, waiting hole. The resulting pleasure shot up Wyn’s chest and into his balls.
Oh, shit, yes! Wyn’s cock, dangling free and tapping the cold wires of the low shelf, hardened and ached. He wanted to stroke himself but feared losing balance if he relaxed his grip on the shelf poles. Glancing over his shoulder to see Mitch’s face buried in his ass—eyes closed and moving dreamily as he tongued sensitive skin, further inflamed his arousal.
Noises from the other side caught his attention. Crap! No doubt people had seen them come in here, but how long until somebody knocked or worse, tried a key? Wyn listened more carefully, relieved to hear the voices cheering on the final round competitors. They were too enrapt in the game to care that two men were fucking in here.
About to, anyway. Sooner the better.
“Mitch.”
The man said nothing. Things clipped to his belt rattled and clinked as he straightened. It looked hot—a man’s thick cock jutting out from a zipper, and Wyn couldn’t deny how it turned him on. If only they had a few strobe lights to mimic the setting of being pulled over on a deserted, moonlit road.
Mitch guided Wyn’s hips to a better angle for fucking, then pushed the slick rubber tip into the tight hole. Wyn hissed in a breath and took as much as Mitch gave, shifting his stance and relaxing to let him in all the way. This felt amazing—full and hard and burning with pleasure he hadn’t enjoyed in forever. Damn, he missed fucking, and with the first rough push that nearly sent his head through the wall, Wyn congratulated himself for stepping outside his box. Who’s boring now?
