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'I've got a class in ten minutes,' Richard groaned.
'Run for it,' the American told him. 'I'll see you at the club tonight, girl.' The redhead blew us a kiss and was off, heading directly for a crowd of students. 'I hope he doesn't decide to go through them,' said Brett watching the Irishman's progress. 'Some of those guys look like jocks to me. They'll make mincemeat of him before either of us could get there to save his damned ass.' A moment later, he nodded as we watched Richard Bell veer around the edge of the crowd and avoid a collision.
'What about you, Inspector?'
I turned to face the American lad and found him smiling at me. 'What about me?' I asked.
'Come on. I know just the place I want to show you.' He started off at an angle from the direction Richard had taken.
I followed, wondering what he might show me. I was fairly certain I knew most points of interest on the campuses of the University of London; after all, it had only been seven years since I had graduated from Kings College.
I followed him into the library and down the steps to the basement, but Brett Chandler had no intention of stopping there. My curiosity grew as I stayed with him as he found another set of stair that led even deeper into the depths of the building. The light from the single bulb on the ceiling only dimly lit the staircase. Below us, the foot of the stairs was hidden in a murky half-light.
I hesitated; Brett didn't. He took the steps two at a time and was standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for me by the time I started after him.
The sub-basement was cool and dry as we entered it. Pools of light displayed a shelf here and there, but the room was barely better lit than the stairwell. 'Come on,' Brett said, taking my arm and leading me towards the centre of the floor.
'It seems deserted,' I observed.
'Yeah.' His face swam up almost to mine in the semi-darkness, a big grin covering it. 'That's what is so kewl. The graffiti on the toilet stalls even stops in 1972. It's like you've just stepped into a time warp when you come down here.'
Brett led me to the toilet and pushed the squeaky door open. 'Come on,' he told me. 'We don't have much time.'
I followed him inside and gritted my teeth as the door closed noisily behind me. 'We don't have much time for what?' I asked, looking around in the murky light.
'This.' His hand spread knowingly across my crutch.
I stared down at him in shock. 'Here?' I croaked as my face began to burn and my prick responded to the feel of his hand.
'Why not?' he asked as his fingers found the zip to my trousers. 'Like I said, nobody's written on the walls since 1972...' He chuckled. 'It's a pretty good bet that this place is deserted. And I want to feel you.'
I looked around the toilet, searching for an excuse that I could use to put him off. My cock expanded, however, as his fingers found it beneath my underpants and I sighed. 'Let's move to one of the cubicles,' I told him, surrendering to my own needs. 'No need to do this out in the open.'
He stood in front of me, facing me and taking a step back as I stepped towards him and the nearest cubicle. His fingers had nimbly opened the buttons of my shirt by the time we'd reached the cubicle door and his lips nuzzled my nearest nipple. His hands moved to my belt and unbuckled it as his mouth began to alternate between my nipples. As he licked and tongued them, his fingers had got my trousers open and pushed them to my knees.
My hands went instinctively for his buttocks as his fingers trailed up through the hairs of my thighs back to my boxer briefs.
'Not this time, baby,' he mumbled, moving his arse from my touch and pulling away from my nipples.
'Why? Don't you...?'
'I'm still pretty sore down there from the workout my butt got last night, Philip. I'm sorry. Let me just blow you this time, okay?'
His hands found the waist of my underpants and jerked them down to join my trousers, giving me no time to answer. Fingers wrapped around my manhood and explored its length and width. His lips returned to my nipples. One hand roamed my chest and belly whilst the other slowly stroked my prick.
I pulled his T-shirt from his jeans, sliding it up over his chest. His smooth skin was hot to my touch as he began to grind against me. His lips left my nipples and his hand fell from my manhood. Brett quickly pulled his vest over his head, leaving his arms in it and the soft cotton spread across his shoulders.
'Feel me all over, Philip,' he told me as he sat on the toilet before me. 'I want to feel your hands on me.' His hands went to my hips, their fingers spreading across my naked buttocks, before he leant into my crutch.
I jerked as his tongue found my belly button and began to rim it. His hands gripped my bum and held me against him. My dick nuzzled his ear as his saliva trickled from my navel to my pubes. 'Take it!' I groaned. 'Suck it, please.'
He dived for my bollocks. I gasped as he sucked one into his mouth and sat back on his haunches, pulling me with him. He nipped gently at my ball sack and I gasped again. There was no pain but the stimulation was sharp. My prick began to ooze pre-come. He repeated the process with my other testicle, and the one thought I had left was that I needed to come. I had to have an orgasm.
He let my testicle plop from his mouth, and his lips began to move slowly out along my shaft. I shuddered at the tightness of their grip as they pushed my loose skin before them, bunching it past my bell-end.
His lips finally reached the tip of my cock. They kept it there even as he moved to take the glans into his mouth. I watched in the dim light as inch after inch of my knob was worked into his throat. He buried his nose in my pubes and swallowed, his throat muscles milking my prick.
Brett pulled back off of me slowly, his lips tight around my prick and his tongue forming the chute it rode on. His lips pulled my skin over and past the tip and his teeth began to nibble carefully at the bunched prepuce he'd managed to gather. I stared at him, watching him carefully, even as my knees grew weak and I shuddered under the new sensations crashing through me.
I had never known just how sensitive my foreskin was. It had always been a part of me and, when I was erect, it pulled off the head of my prick and lay on the shaft. What Brett Chandler was doing to and with it was strange. Exotic. And definitely erotic. I was already hovering on the edge of orgasm and he hadn't even begun to suck me properly.
I grabbed both sides of his head and pulled him down on me as I shoved my knob back into his mouth. His throat opened up easily and I was sliding past his tonsils. He began to hum and the contractions of his throat muscles on the tip of my dick continued the same intensity of pleasure I'd felt when he nibbling at my skin.
I humped his face twice and felt my bollocks begin to churn. I knew I was going to come. There was no way to pull back now. It was simply too late. I had not been prepared for the experience this Yank had brought to the toilet cubicle with him. I groaned as my muscles locked and I pulled his face completely onto me, holding him impaled on me.
My first jet blasted the back of his throat and he pulled back to where he held only my glans in his mouth. His tongue bathed it, coaxing more jizz from me. I collapsed against the cubicle door, every part of me weak as I surrendered everything my bollocks could produce.
His lips again pulled skin over my knob-end. He brought a hand around my hip and gripped my shaft to hold it there. He nibbled gently at the bunched hem of my foreskin until I was throbbing again. His fist moved further out along my shaft pushing more skin over the tip of my cock.
His tongue pressed beneath the hem of skin and touched my glans. I shuddered as a rush of new sensations flooded over me. His tongue continued to move through the space between my bell-end and skin, stimulating both. I was quickly oozing pre-come again.
Brett pulled off of me and sat back on the toilet to look up at me. 'Think I should leave you like this? Something like – keep this thought until we get together again?' He squeezed the shaft of my prick.
I groaned and he grinned.
'I'm not that cruel, Philip.' He leant forward quickly and licked the tip of my prick clean of pre-come. 'Has anyone told you that you taste good?'
I shook my head slowly, unwilling to open myself to any more of his word gamesand wishing he'd come back and finish what he'd started.
'You do. But you've got to do something about this tendency to premature ejaculation of yours.'
I felt my face burn with embarrassment, then my neck. 'Yours is a new technique, one I've never had tried on me before,' I told him. 'It's very effective,' I admitted.
He grinned. 'Is that it? I was beginning to wonder if all you English boys just shot off too quick on your first one...' He stood. 'If it's just my technique, it makes me feel better about seeing you again. Now, kiss me.'
He pulled hard at my dick and I instantly pushed off the cubicle door to stand closer to him. 'See me again?' I mumbled.
'Kiss me, Philip Goodson. I've got to go to class.'
I kissed him chastely and he chuckled as he pulled his T-shirt over his head and down along his chest. 'Jack that thing off if you need to, baby. But I want to see you – when? Day after tomorrow. I'll be in marketing in the Barrow Building then at three – meet me there?' I nodded glumly and reached for my clothing bunched at my knees.
His fingertips touched my face and his hand spread across the cheek. 'Tomorrow, I've got a big test, Philip. The day after, I promise we'll really fuck. All afternoon if you've got the stamina for it. The night too – if you can keep me interested.'
He slipped past me and opened the cubicle door. He blew a kiss at me as I got my pants over my arse. 'Second floor corridor, Barrow Building at three day after tomorrow. See you,' he said and was gone.
* * *
I sat at my desk and stared blankly at the pile of work there. I had stopped in on a lad I knew in MI-6 as well as properly requested information on the Russians from the Home Office and Department of Defence. Now that I had done what I could do at the moment, I again felt tired. I yawned. It felt as if the hours of sex play with the Welsh medical student the night before and the unsatisfactory encounter with the American earlier had sapped me.
I debated with myself about the advisibility of taking off early when there was a knock at my office door. "Enter," I called, snapping out of the drowsy lethargy that possessed me.
It was Trell. 'I brought fresh coffee and some buns, Inspector,' he announced as he managed to juggle the tray and open the door. I groaned to myself. He placed the tray in the centre of my desk and asked: 'Should I pour you a cup, sir?'
Sergeant Trell did actually make a good pot of coffee, far better than most men I'd met. I decided the caffeine might wake me up. 'How did last night go?' I asked him as I leant forward and poured.
As intended, the heavy-set man accepted my invitation to report as an invitation to sit down. He was soon facing me from across the desk; I rotated the tray around so that the buns were nearest him.
I watched as he picked up one and shoved it into his mouth. Trell's mother had taught him well – he did not try to speak until he had chewed the thing at least thirty times and swallowed it. 'These lads at that new club, sir – they're a bit all right to my thinking. Really quite normal once you become used to them, you know?'
'Oh?' Trell thought leathermen were normal and students weren't? He did have my curiosity piqued.
'You think so?'
'I do, Inspector. But I do have one question – do all poofs go in for piercings? Or is it just the crazy Americans?'
'Little gold and silver things stuck in their titties, sir – and their belly buttons.'
'You saw that, did you?'
'It did take a bit of getting used to, you know. All those lads barechested except for leather waistcoats – most of them with stuff stuck in them or their ears. And tattoos too, sir. Quite strange – almost outlandish even.'
'And you thought they were all right, Trell?'
'Once I got to chatting with them, I did, Inspector. One lad especially. Middle-aged, a Yank...'
'A Yank?' I asked quickly and waited, wondering if perhaps this man had found something at least as interesting as the Russians I was now interested in.
'A writer. Wrote some sort of manual on this poof stuff he does, sir. He's over to sign some books.'
I started to relax. Trell's man didn't sound all that interesting after all. 'How long has he been over here?' I asked.
'Arrived yesterday morning from somewhere in California.'
'Did you get his name?
'Of course, sir.' Trell managed to sound indignant. 'It's Shep Simon, he told me. I've already run his name through Interpol and the FBI. He's legitimate, but it was better to be sure. I also learnt he's from San Francisco from the FBI.'
I was surprised at Sergeant Trell's initiative. He could well become a decent detective if he kept doing things like this. 'Well done,' I told him and meant it.
'This Simon lad, we spoke for quite a while, sir...'
I raised my eyebrow questioningly.
Trell looked down at his hands in his lap and didn't look back up. 'I saw nothing, Inspector – not in that club or the other two. Except these blokes dressed in all this leather walking around...' He paused and considered his statement. 'More like strutting around – like a cockarel in a barnyard, sir. After a bit, this Yank walked over and struck up a conversation; and I was happy for it, too...'
'Getting bored, were you?'
'Yes sir. I hated summers when I was a boy. I got sent out to visit my aunt in the country and there was never anything to do – just me with no mates. One summer I just watched the chickens – that's why I thought of roosters strutting around the barn yard last night.'
'So, what did you and this Simon chap talk about that you found so interesting, Trell?'
'California mostly, sir. That and how well his partners enjoy being with him. He's supposed to be some sort of sex expert.' He frowned. 'What is it that these leather blokes do behind closed doors, Inspector?'
I chuckled. 'I hear they play games, Trell.'
'More like young boys acting out a game. One is in charge. He dominates. The other one obeys him, even though the game is his idea and the rules are his.'
Trell's face was momentarily pinched as I watched him work his way through my explanation. 'I suppose,' he finally said. 'If you're going to do the nasty, it probably would be better if there were solid rules set up – it makes sense, sir.'
I wondered for the briefest moment if this man had ever had sex with anybody in his life. It was a ludicrous thought, that this overweight, middle-aged man with fourteen years service with the police could be a virgin.
'What do these blokes do when they pin someone, Inspector Goodson?' Trell asked, pulling me from my errant thoughts.
'This Simon chap said he was going to be giving a lesson in the eroticism of pinning tonight. He invited me back to watch – and to take part in it, if I wanted.' Trell scratched his head. 'The bloke even told me I might could witness an American money shot if I was quite lucky.'
I bit my tongue to keep from bursting into laughter. I knew what a money shot was, even if I didn't recognise the term "pinning". Trell would be truly shocked at watching his American ejaculate, trying for a distance. 'I suspect you should go to this thing tonight then,' I told him. 'Only, you need to keep an open mind,' I admonished him. 'You may be the lad who works himself into the leather crowd for us...'
'And the drugs, sir?'
'Those you don't need an open mind for. Anything past the usual party drugs call in back up immediately and arrest the bugger.'
The man nodded, understanding he'd been given his assignment, and stood up. He reached to filch another bun from my desk and I smiled. 'Relax, Trell,' I told him as he turned towards the door.
I forced myself to start in on the paperwork on my desk. A knock at the door a few moments later made me think that the sergeant had returned. 'Enter,' I called as I glanced around the room for what he might have forgotten.
A young trainee opened the door to see inside and waved a file at me. 'New case, Inspector,' she explained breezily. I motioned her to come inside.
'What is it this time?' I groused. 'Another nude, headless body in a rubbish bin?'
'Oh, no, sir,' she answered as she stepped quickly to my desk and dropped the packet on top of Trell's buns. 'A bit of larceny in the East End, it is. An Asian grocer had part of its food shipment lifted.' She was back in the corridor and pulling the door to behind her before I could think of a reply.
I gazed at the file lying unopened atop the iced buns for several minutes. I didn't want another case. I didn't need another one. I'd supposedly been exempted from more cases until we knew what this muck with heroin showing up in the gay community was about. At the moment, what I wanted most was to get to my flat in Parliament Hill and crawl into my bed. I was quite certain that I would sleep forever.
I could give it to Trell. It would be enough to keep him busy. But that was the same slough-off every other inspector had done with the man. Very probably I would never learn who had filched the Asian's groceries. Not unless the criminal was cooperative enough to do something similar again and let us begin to develop a sketch of his operation. I was sure, though, that Trell had no chance of learning who the perpetuator was. A bloody tax payer had the right to expect that he would have the best.
I picked up the file and shoved it into my briefcase. It was time to go home. A hot shower and a couple of shots of whisky would make everything look a lot better when I did find my bed. I would look at the case before I went rowing and make it my first stop tomorrow.
* * *
At the sideboard, I fixed myself a neat whisky and moved to look out the large window at the park below me. My eyes followed any movement before them, but nothing beyond the window registered in my mind. My thoughts would not move from what had happened that morning in the library. They centred on an androgynously beautiful lad who, for a few moments, had been Marlene Dietrich. On a glutton feasting publicly the night before that.
I was preoccupied. Bloody hell! I was bewitched, more like.
I pivoted and faced the interior of my living room. Even here, decorated as I liked it in African art – where I answered to no-one – Brett Chandler held me firmly by the bollocks. No-one had invaded my head as he had. 'He's a bloody arse!' I growled at the silent room before me. 'Leaving me like that.' I downed the whisky in my glass. 'He's nothing but a bloody little whore!'
I sat down on the sofa and pulled my briefcase to me. I knew one way to evict Brett Chandler from my thoughts where he had so inexplicably come to take up residence. I pulled out the file that I'd brought from the office. Reality check, I told myself as I opened the folder and settled against the leather back of the sofa. There were real people with real problems who needed me within the folder. I began to read the investigating officer's report.
M. K. Patel had arrived at his grocery at eight o'clock yesterday morning as he was expecting an early delivery. He entered the front door of his establishment and proceeded directly to the back loading dock. There, he found the lorry had already unloaded his order. Early delivery was common procedure for the supplier, and Mr. Patel proceeded to begin checking his invoice against the delivery.
Over the next half hour of checking in his stores, Mr. Patel learnt that he had been shorted several cases of tinned vegetables and several other items having a wholesale value of slightly more than two hundred pounds sterling. Upon calling the supplier, he found that the items had indeed been delivered. They were marked off on the driver's ticket as well as a copy of the invoice that Mr. Patel had. The gentleman had then called the policeman on patrol and reported the theft.
The file contained nothing more except for the officer's name – Jesse Patel. It was a common enough Asian surname, of course – a bit like Smith in English – but I found myself idly wondering if the policeman was related to the shopkeeper. I hoped so. It would make the investigation that much easier to conduct. I might even find a culprit out of it.
Leaning back against the sofa and closing my eyes, I tried to visualise the scene that PC Patel had described.
Instead, my mind's eye had a blond head bobbing between my legs. I was erect. Brett Chandler looked up with my dick firmly wedged in his throat and smiled. Opening my eyes, I found that my hand had slipped inside my trousers and that I was fondling myself. 'Christ!' I growled and sat up, the file tumbling from my lap to the floor. 'Damn you, Brett Chandler!' I hissed.
I stood and wondered how I was ever going to exorcise the bloody American from my thoughts even as I remembered I would soon be spending a weekend with him in the country. I grew harder, tenting my trousers and leaking pre-come into my pants.
I fixed myself another whisky at the sideboard, doubled this time. Outside the window, the sky was darkening as the sun slipped further behind the western horizon. My erection refused to go away.
'Shit!' I groaned and downed my drink. 'Well, nothing to do for it but have a shower and a serious wank,' I told myself, finding a sort of solace in the sound of my voice.
In the bedroom, I quickly stripped out of my clothes and tossed them into the hamper with practised ease. With my prick leading the way then, I stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water for a shower.
I frowned as I gazed at my hard dick. For the first time since I had learnt there were uses for a penis other than just peeing, I was disgusted with mine. I was disgusted with the betrayal of which my prick was an indication. I was disgusted at how thoroughly I had lost control of myself.
I cursed Brett Chandler for being the cause of it all. I needed only to shut my eyes and his smiling face was there before me. I needed only to touch myself and it was his hand, his teeth, or his mouth on me.
I promised myself that I would not wank under the shower. I was no bloody teenager with uncontrollable hormones gushing through him. I didn't have to toss it five and six times a day. I was a grown man, and my brain was definitely not in my knob.
The bloody thing stayed erect as I washed, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.
After the shower, I lay on my bed and finally surrendered to my still erect dick.
Starting at the root, I used two fingers to push skin up over the bell-end. Closing my eyes, I caught the hem of bunched skin just beyond the tip between my thumb and index finger and began to increase the pressure of my hold. It almost felt like teeth gripping me there. In my mind's eye I saw young Brett holding my foreskin between his bared teeth and looking up my chest to see my reaction. My other hand moved to pull on my bollocks and became his there.
The rest of my fingers joined my thumb and index finger to form a fist on my manhood and began to move down along its shaft. Slowly, as Brett's mouth had the second time that morning. Fingers of the other hand pulled hard on my bollocks to keep me from erupting. He looked up and grinned at me and I smiled back. 'Do it,' I told him, surrendering to his continuing presence in my fantasies.
I flexed my hips, pushing my cock into my fist, into his mouth. Pre-come began to ooze from my slit, lubricating me. I paused in my wank and pushed the skin back onto my bell-end until it was bunched at the very tip. My pinkie slipped through the opening and began to move around on the head of my prick, staying beneath the skin. I shuddered as the sensations that I had first encountered this morning pulsed through me again.
It was almost like having his tongue there. It was almost like having him lying beside me. I knew that was what I wanted most of all.
My hand left my ball sack and moved up to my chest, searching out nipples it could tweak. I began to hump my fist harder and faster, my bollocks already drawing tight against my shaft. 'Brett!' I breathed as I began to slip towards orgasm.
My fist pounded my cock. I humped my fist hard. I tweaked first one nipple and then the other. My bollocks rode my shaft as my cock expanded beneath my flying fingers. 'Bloody hell! Take it, Brett!' I shouted out loud as the first jet of jizz belched from my dick.