Date: Fri, 4 Nov 2016 06:56:56 -0400
From: bldhrymn@aol.com
Subject: Catfish looks for Loot 8

Catfish Looks for Loot 8
By Bald Hairy Man

This is a story for adult men. It depicts gay sex.  If this offends or
bothers you, DO NOT READ IT. It is a fantasy and is not a sex manual, or a
discussion of safe sex. If you have, comments send them to
bldhrymn@yahoo.com or bldhrymn@aol.com

If you enjoy these stories. Please consider giving a donation to Nifty!

While I realized that George's house was an ideal place to watch the
Gallery, I also realized that George was an ideal man with whom to watch
the gallery. Sex with George was good. George was willing and I had a
strong feeling it would get better with practice.

Luckily, I can multitask. I could sit on George's cock and do a fancy
dance, while looking out the window. Before I left I saw a second van at
the gallery's back door.  This was from King's Antique store in York. I
went back to the hotel and told Toby and Colin. Colin immediate called the
information into Scotland Yard.

Toby and I went to dinner and when we got back, Colin had information. The
gallery in Stratford and the one in York were on their list of suspect
dealers in stolen goods. It had been assumed they were fences for locally
stolen goods. If they were associated some way with other galleries, they
could transfer goods from one part of the country to another. The local
police wouldn't expect that some antiques stolen in Yorkshire would end up
in the Cotswold area.  The stolen items were typically not top quality and
thus not worth a nationwide alert.

Looted old masters from the Nazi era were unlikely to show up in these
minor galleries and they had been ignored. If someone saw a Rembrandt, they
would assume it was a copy. A rich, uninformed, American millionaire was
too good to ignore.

It was important that we stay undercover and too many people in the village
looking for paintings would have been suspicious. The local police were
notified and they assigned George to us. Colin and I took turns watching
the Gallery from George's bedroom window. While the window had a clear view
of the gallery, the street and door of the cottage was hidden.

Toby and I went to meet with John and Pippa the next day. They had come up
with a Rembrandt and a Franz Hals. They also had found a Turner and a
Picasso. These were just stolen, not looted by Nazis. Toby liked the
Rembrandt. "It's a real Rembrandt, right?" he asked.

"It belonged to a Duke," John said, "He's embarrassed that he has to sell
off part of the family collection. He would like to keep this private."

"I understand, I have no problem with that," Toby replied. "It is a real
Rembrandt. That is pretty nice for a guy who was born in Emporia! No one
would believe that. How much is it?"

"A million," Pippa replied.

"Dollars or pounds?" Toby asked.

"Pounds."

"I only have a half million dollars with me in cash," Toby said.  Toby had
told me he planned to dicker with the guy.  He figured that would add to
his credibility as an ignorant redneck who had no idea what a Rembrandt was
worth.

"Let me call the owner," John replied. He went to the backroom office to
make the call. He returned saying the owner was okay with the half million
price.

Toby said that was great. "Do you have any other paintings by big time
artists?" he asked.

"I thought you only had a half million?" Pippa whined.

"I have a half million with me, I can get more," Toby answered. "I can get
a lot more."

"I have some old clients who might be willing to part with some heirlooms
for the right price," John replied.

"We could stay a few more days if that would help you round-up some pretty
paintings," Toby offered. That was fine with John. We took the painting to
our hotel room leaving John and Pippa with a half million in cash.

This was Toby's money. He thought that a check or a bank transfer was one
thing, but actual cash had a strong allure for the petty crook. He was
right.

By the time we got back to the hotel, the suite next to us was occupied by
an elderly nobleman and his older children. They were art experts from the
National Gallery. Scotland Yard had set up a command center in a nearby
empty stately home. It was secluded and private.

I had managed to take some cell phone pictures of the other paintings in
the gallery while Toby dickered with John and Pippa. The Rembrandt was
genuine. The National Gallery man, Dudley said the Franz Hals and the
Turner were forgeries and he was unsure of the Picasso. This was a double
scam, stolen goods and forgeries.

Later that day, vans from Galleries in Bath and Glasgow made
deliveries. These were unmarked vans and we identified them by license
plates. Of course, none of the gallery names meant anything to me, but the
art theft people at the headquarters were overjoyed.  Once they knew which
galleries were involved, things fell into place for them.

That evening a van from Glasgow made a delivery.  It seemed to me that the
delivery men were beefier than the normal gallery staff members. I
mentioned this to George, and he looked. He was interested. Breaking up pub
brawls was a part of his normal duties.  He knew this type of man. We had a
telephoto camera and he took pictures and sent them to the headquarters. I
think is was one of those high-tech, CIA type cameras.

Clive took the day watch and went to pubs at night. Toby played golf and
had lunch.  He was in full redneck who hit it big time mode.  He is an
affable man, and the locals liked him, although I think they thought he was
an exotic human specimen.

I had the night watch with George. Fortunately, telling him that some
casual sexual play can make the time flyby. I explained that if we stayed
stimulated, but avoided spewing, all was well.

"That could be hard," he complained.

"If you shoot off by accident, it is time to take nap and let the me take
the watch," I said. "I like to suck until you are soft. That is neater."

George smiled. "I think I could do that. Can I leave it in your hole if I
fuck you?"

"Sure, I can squeeze my sphincter to make sure I get every drop," I told
him. "Just remember to keep your eyes on the gallery."

"Do you want to fuck me too?" he asked.

"Of course I do, but I don't know if you want it or are ready," I said.

"I think I would like to give it a try, but I'm not sure it was fit," he
said in a near whisper.

"I'm not sure my cock is an ideal one to start with," I said.

George looked at me a little sheepishly. "You wouldn't exactly be the
first," he said. "Trevor tied and it wasn't very good. Colin tried too."

"How was that?"

"I wasn't sure at first, but by the time he was in me it was good," George
answered. "He is bigger than Trevor and it felt better."

I smiled at George. "Let's just see what happens and play it by ear."

"That makes sense to me," he replied.

Later that night I discovered that Colin's sperm had lubricated George's
ass. George was tight, but when my knob rammed his prostate for the first
time, all was well. George was a muscle man. When I rubbed his prostate, he
moaned and tighten his ass, grabbing my cock. Pushing in deeper was hard,
but enjoyable.

The smallest motion of my cock sent shivers through him. I didn't force it
in. I waited for the brief moments when he relaxed. I would then push
forward an inch or so. The sperm deposited earlier made it easier,
lubricating the trip. After ten minutes, I was in. The thickest part of my
cock was rubbing his prostate and he was moaning with each movement.

"Shit, there is another van at the gallery!" I exclaimed. I pulled out and
George took more photos. It was another van from Glasgow. The men in this
van looked even more disreputable. George sent the pictures to the
headquarters.

I asked if he was okay. He nodded and added, "I'm embarrassed. It doesn't
seem right. I enjoyed it too much."

"You can't pick what floats your boat sexually. Relax and enjoy it," I
said. A little later George was rock hard and back on the bed.

"I was hoping that I could fuck the cream out of your balls hands free," I
said.  He had loosened up considerably.

"Do you think you could do that?"  he asked.

"Maybe, if I don't shoot off first," I said. "I was getting really close
the last time. Would that bother you?"

"I thought it might, but I doesn't seem to be problem now," he replied. I
didn't pound him; I didn't need to do that. He was on the edge anyway. He
had been on his stomach before. He was now on his back with his legs on my
shoulders. I soon realized that my cock head had a special relationship
with his prostate. As I focused on the special place, I could sense George
tensing up. I knew he was close.

At his first squirt, I pulled out of his ass; dropped to my knees and took
the rest of his load. After I took the last ejaculations I got up and
re-entered his ass. That caused a few more spurts. I am not an
inexperienced man sexually, but I felt close to George when I shot off in
his ass as he ejaculated. It was a rare experience that might well be the
only time it might happen.

At 2:00 AM, the van from Glasgow was loading some crates. They seemed quite
light and I wondered if they were empty. The rest of the night was quiet.

At 9:30 the next morning, all hell broke loose. Trevor went to work and
discovered John and Pippa dead and the paintings gone. Toby's half million
couldn't be found either.

We had been watching the gallery while John and Pippa had been murdered. We
had photographs of the men in the van as well as the van. That was the good
news.  The van and its contents both human and artistic had vanished. That
was the bad news.

I was possible that John and Pippa had hidden Toby's half-million, or it
might have been taken by the murderers. The cash was marked and could be
traced if it surfaced.

Scotland Yard was unhappy, but the country is covered with cameras. They
were installed as part of the anti IRA terrorist campaign years before. It
would be hard to move without running into a camera. Angus and Colin were
shocked. Murder is not usually a part of an art fencing operation. George's
had a theory based on his background in breaking up pub brawls. He knew the
way brawlers think. They aren't into art, but they know cash.

George surmised the either saw or caught wind of the half million and
decided to go rogue. They wouldn't know much about the art market, but cash
was real to them. We didn't know which paintings had been taken, but they
had not taken the fake Franz Hals and a Renoir. Angus assumed they didn't
know much about art.

Colin thought that was a possibility. He proposed a second option. He
suggested this was a chain of art fencing galleries. They could have been
independent operations that co-operated from time to time. They could have
been more closely aligned, with a profit-sharing arrangement. Had Toby's
purchase been off the books and the profits not shared? Perhaps the Glasgow
boys were enforcers who got carried away. While trying to get Pippa and
John to tell them where the cash was stashed, someone had gone too far and
killed one of them.

With Scotland Yard taking control, we were on the sidelines, Double murders
are rare in England and the case got full attention. That night they raided
all the galleries involved in the scheme. As we had guessed they had been
sending items from one part of the country to other parts. These were
typically minor works, not high profile robberies.

Several works from the Hirsh Collection were found. These seemed to have
been taken as war souvenirs and were not known to be stolen. Everyone
thought they had been destroyed. They did have what the Museum people call
"questionable provenance."

The murders struck me as a major mistake. Souvenir taking by Allied
officers was a crime, but the reasons were varied. Some took them to save
the art works. Some assumed they were abandoned and thus fair
game. Whatever they did it was well beyond the normal statues of
limitations and the men who did it were eighty or ninety-years-old men
now. Galleries who now held the art could plead ignorance; none were
associated with the original looting.

Stealing $500,000.00, killing two people and taking paintings potentially
worth millions could not have been a worse choice. Scotland Yard is
probably the best police force in the world, and Britain is an island. We
also had pictures. The men were football thugs with long records in
Glasgow. They were known.

Toby was having a good time. I had noticed that losing $500,000.00 hadn't
bothered him. He was a local celebrity when his losses became known. He
locals had some sympathy for him. I went on a tour of the suspect galleries
with Dudley, the National Gallery man. I have a good memory and I was to
look for missing paintings from the Hirsh collection. There was nothing in
the Stratford collection, but York was more rewarding. I recognized two
paintings.

Dudley was an Oxford man and standoffish. I had met men like him before. I
think he was afraid he might catch a case of Hillbilly. He warmed up
considerably when I found the paintings in York. We were sharing a bedroom
and he warmed up even more when he saw me drying off after a shower. I
assumed he was gay, but that was because Americans tend to think anyone
with an English accent is affected.

Dudley had shaved head and was pale, with watery blue eyes.  He dressed in
professorial tweeds. I noticed while his head was completely hairless, his
hands and knuckles were hairy. When he took a shower, he dried off with the
bathroom door open. He was taller and more muscular than I am. He had more
body hair than me too. That was a surprise since I come near 99th
percentile when it comes to body hair.

"You have a nice coat there.  You don't need sweaters in the winter, do
you?" I asked.

"You aren't exactly Leonardo DiCaprio, are you?" he said, looking
embarrassed.

"That was a genuine compliment, not a snide comment. People have been
joking about my hairy body since I was 15 years old," I said. "It seems
that hairy men are an acquired taste for many people. Those who like
hairballs have superb taste."

"I've always been embarrassed. Boys made fun of me at school." Dudley said.

"I was lucky. My horse cock makes up for the shaggy coat," I said. "My
uncle once said if I could walk around with my cock hanging out, I would
never lack for friends."

"I don't have that advantage," he remarked.

"It looks good to me," I replied.

"No one has mentioned that to me before," he said.

"I'm kind of into it. It is my major recreational outlet," I replied.

"I play Bridge," Dudley said.

"It ain't the same!" I said. Dudley burst into laughter. Dudley turned out
to be a nice guy. He told me he had some poor boy-to-boy sexual experiences
in his public school. I told him that they obviously weren't doing it
right.

"Do you do it right?" he asked. He had glanced at my crotch. I knew he was
curious.

"I sure as shit do. I get a lot of repeat customers," I replied. That
conversation ended up exactly where I expected it would. I sucked him. He
was drooling precum in thirty seconds. I take precum as a sign of
success. Either my sucking was remarkably good, or he was already
excited. A minute or two later he shot off. It was a massive blast followed
by decreasingly strong ejaculations. I continued to suck until he stopped
drooling.

Ten of fifteen minutes later he whispered, "Do I need to suck you?"

"That is not required. This is not a game and I don't keep score," I
replied. Of course, it is nice when your partner reciprocates, but I didn't
want to force Dudley to do anything he didn't want to do.

"You have a bloody big organ. Does it scare many men?"  he asked.

"If I was keeping score I would say it excites more men than it scares," I
said. "When I fuck a guy, it's a pretty big deal. Most return for refills."
Dudley laughed. We turned off the lights and went to bed. I tend to kick
off the covers during the night. When I woke the next morning, I thought I
was having a particularly good dream, but it was Dudley sucking my cock. I
rearranged myself so we could 69.

He was already dripping some. The first lick of his cock head turned the
drip into a flow. I don't think he was very experienced, but he must have
been a natural born cock sucker. I warned him when I was ready to shoot
off. He pulled away, but when I popped he returned to my cock, licking up
the later ejaculations.

We broke apart. Some of my sperm had dripped onto his hairy chest. I told
him he needed to shower, sperm is a bitch to get out once it has dried. We
took a shower together. He had not shot off and was still more hard than
soft. In the shower, he was hard again and rubbed his cock against my ass
crack. You don't need an instruction book to know what that means. I bent
over. He knew what that meant too.

I can never tell in advance who will be a good top and who will be just
average. Dudley had an average cock but it hit just the right spots. It was
slightly bulbous, tapering at both ends. The thickest part of the bulge
rubbed me prostate just the right way.  He was taller than me, so he had to
scoot down to get in my hole. When he stood up, he drove his cock deeper
into me. He was stronger than I thought. He put his arms around my chest
and lifted me off the floor. He then loosened his grip so that most of my
weight was supported by his cock. That was good for me, but he began
moaning. I could feel him squirting his load deep in me.

The next morning. we picked up George and returned to London to meet up
with Toby. My job as over as the Yard searched for the killers. As we drove
south, the BBC radio reported that the men were found and were under
arrest. There was no mention of the missing half million or the paintings.

We went to the yard and the atmosphere was almost festive. The killers were
in custody, the money found and the paintings retrieved. The paintings were
a combination of old masters and forgeries. The thugs didn't know which was
which. The raids on art galleries had been successful, and they had
discovered links to other fencing operations.

The gallery owner in Glasgow had been the brains of the operation, the
CEO. He got wind of the $500,000.00 payment and sent goons to get his
percentage. John and Pippa said they knew nothing about the payment, and
the goons proceeded to beat the location of the cash out of them.

The beating got out of hand and Pippa died. They then killed John to get
rid of the only witness. The Glasgow boys grabbed the money and any
paintings that they thought might be valuable and ran. They had no idea
what was genuine or forged. It was a bad day for art thieves, forgers and
fences in Britain and in Europe.

Toby, George and I stayed in Dudley's town house. It was an impressive
house on a residential square. The was the son of a millionaire's
unfortunate second marriage. Dudley told me that he had always been treated
as a reminder of a bad choice. He and his father eventually reconciled and
had a good relationship, but that did not entirely make up for a difficult
childhood. Dudley was a wealthy, unhappy man.

Dudley was still uneasy about his hairy body. George, Toby and I are hairy
and at ease with it. George thought hair made you more masculine. Somehow
after a fine dinner with a lot of expensive wine, we all ended up in the
shower of Dudley's home gym, naked and fucking.

We were a good group for Dudley. First, Toby was wealthier than he was. He
wasn't after his money. We were all pretty ordinary men. He had circulated
in the elite. That gave him a strange view of the world. He was more
comfortable in a world where everyone was the son of Duke this and that or
the third daughter of lord this and that.

Dudley had asked me if I wanted money from him. I told the most I hope for
from him was that he was an easy lay. After two hours in his gym-shower
room he was a different man.  The four of us looked like a Neanderthal
convention so he didn't feel out of place. He had sucked and fucked for
hours, both giving and taking. He seemed to both like and accommodate
Toby. Toby's thick butt plug like cock fit well in his ass.  George was
good too. He replaced Toby after Toby shot off. His cock was longer and
thinner than Toby's organ. George's tool pushed the millionaire's load
deeper into Dudley's welcoming ass.

The next day we were at Scotland Yard meeting with Yard officials and some
European police. It seemed that the Dutch authorities had a need for rich
American art collector.