Date: Mon, 12 Apr 2021 04:22:12 -0400
From: Rick Heathen <rick.heathen@gmail.com>
Subject: Millstone and Roche, Chapter 13

Millstone & Roche, Chapter Thirteen

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All Rights Reserved © 2020, Rick Haydn Horst Formerly known as Rick
Heathen

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Thank you for delving into this work; I hope you enjoy it.

Hanging the Chimney Hook: a Millstone & Roche Investigation, By Rick Haydn
Horst

Chapter Thirteen

It would be ironic to have Malor sitting at the precinct all cozy in a
regular bed at night, mint on his pillow, and flirting with the detective
who feeds him Delmonico steak, when all the while, he's playing us for a
bunch of hounds who couldn't detect a fart downwind.

My gut told me he was innocent, but my gut isn't evidence. As a thought
experiment, I proposed the assumption that he lied to us multiple times. We
only had his word of having no knowledge of the ring, that Tommy hadn't
spoken with him about it, that he hadn't made any finger traps since he
lived in Franklin, that he went home from Tommy's when he said he did, and
most importantly, that he hadn't murdered anyone.

But that led me back where I started. Why would he kill Tommy? Was it just
because Tommy knew of the ring? And why would he use the finger trap on him
and then leave so many of them at the scene of Chadwell's murder? If he had
left them by accident, wouldn't all of them either have his prints out of
unconcern (intending to ruin them all later) or none of them have his
prints out of excessive caution? It's more like the killer thought, "Well,
surely one of these has Malor's prints on it. I'll just give the rest to
the police and see if that works." Forensics found Malor's print on only
one trap and a fingerprint of unknown origin on one of the others. I would
have had a hard time putting a percentage of chance on it, but it seemed
more likely that someone was setting him up, and at that point, I would bet
money on the owner of that anomalous print as the culprit.

That afternoon, when Max and I arrived on the third floor of the midtown
precinct house, we found Albert at his desk working on a report still
wearing his leather shorts and harness.

"You're going in that?" I asked.

"Oh, hey! And yeah, I have nothing else here. Edge said he wouldn't care if
I went naked, so long as I wouldn't wear my uniform, and while that's
tempting, I already had this on. Have you any objections, cousin?" Al stood
for us to go, and he gestured toward the elevator.

"No, of course not. And they appear quite flattering, but I bet you hear
that all the time."

"Oh, yes." Albert gave a smug little smile at the thought. "But I
appreciate the compliment. You guys should invest in some leather. I would
love to see you in it."

Max, who had mused over the appearance of Albert's fine ass, gazed up at
me. "I would wear them all the time; you couldn't get me out of them."

"If they had a zipper back to front like his, I wouldn't need to get you
out of them. If I wore them, though, it would make it harder for me to
conceal carry."

"You don't have to carry concealed," said Albert.

"What?" My brows rose as we entered the lift.

Albert pushed the button for sub-level 2. "This isn't New York. A
conceal-carry permit is for the entire state, but this state allows local
jurisdictions to make their own laws about open carry. So, while you remain
inside Franklin County, which is the entirety of the metropolitan area of
the City of Franklin, you can open carry. Most people frown on it for the
average citizen, that's why so few people do it, but as a private
detective, no one would think twice about it."

"Admit it, Millstone," said Max, "you want to wear some leather." We exited
the elevator into the parking garage.

"Would you like it if I wore something similar?" I asked.

"If I had my way, you'd wear little else."

When we reached Albert's Camry, I opened the front passenger door and made
a gentlemanly gesture for Max to take my usual seat. "I'll wear leather on
occasion if you will," I said.

He gazed at me with a little smile, and he kissed me just before climbing
into the front. "Deal," he said.

En route, Max asked me, "Will you tell Albert, or should I?"

"You go ahead."

"Tell me what?" he asked.

"We know the guy who might want to, and I quote, `pound your bubble on the
regular.'"

"Tenten? Who is it?"

"It's James Malor. He used that exact phrase when telling us about Tommy."

"So, Malor is friends with Brice," said Albert. "Wow, that's practically a
character reference for Malor."

"Is it?" I asked. "Why?"

"The Master's real name is Brice Harper. Master Brice is his dominant
sexual persona, one he uses a lot. I know a couple of guys whose judgment I
trust, and they know him personally, and they said he's an upstanding
guy. That's why I was willing to step outside the club for sex, which I
rarely do. Brice could qualify as a club member if he wanted, but
apparently, he's not a joiner. If he considers Malor his friend, that says
good things about him."

"Fascinating," I said. "Do you know if Edgerton has any real interest in
Malor, or has he just schmoozed him to learn what he knows?"

"I don't know," said Albert, "he seemed a little odd around him today."

"Perhaps," said Max, "the detective has found himself unaccountably
attracted to him. I admit he does have a strange kind of appeal."

"You think so?" I asked.

Max turned his head toward me. "I can't explain it either."

"It's probably just the allure of his enormously fat dick," I said.

"Feeling jealous?" asked Max.

"Of a man the police could charge with rectal endangerment? No."

When we arrived at the brick building for Alliance, I brought up a concern.

"I understand why the detective sent you, Albert, but now that we're here,
I'm not sure that all of us should go in to speak to Neuhouser. It looks
too suspicious."

"You're probably right," he said. "I'll go in."

Albert moved to leave the vehicle, but Max stopped him and said, "I should
go in."

I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid forward between the front seats. "You know
what to ask him, right?"

"If Tommy spoke with him," he said, "and I know not to ask within earshot
of anyone else."

"Perfect." I turned to Albert. "Please, let Max go. He has a way with
people; he can do this."

"Alright," he said. "Be observant."

Once Max went inside, Albert relaxed in his seat and said to me, "Today's
gossip column had really pissed you off this morning, hadn't it?"

"Yeah, but I'll get over it. How well-read is the Daily Herald?"

"It's the main source of social news and gossip for the city," he said. "If
you want hard news, watch Channel 5 or go to its website--that's our local
independent channel, but for everything else, people read the Daily
Herald. The adults-only online version is actually better and has a wider
readership, but the print version is more family-friendly."

"Family-friendly...even with advertisements for the Ramrod?"

"Yes. Unlike the rest of this country, we don't shield younger people from
real life. They see leather men walking down the street here, so what's the
big deal about knowing where they like to hang out?"

"I suppose. Just how popular is the gossip column?"

"It's a fan favorite." He used the rear-view mirror to look me in the
eye. "Have you that much worry if people know you have the largest dick in
the city?"

"In the past, it concerned me for several reasons," I said, "but I worry
less now than this morning. I guess I find some concerns easier to let go
of than others. However, I only asked about the gossip column because I
think I have the makings of a plan. I need to work out a few of the
details, though. You said that the Herald is for social news and
gossip. Does it do any hard news at all?"

"Only really big news. Why?"

"The Naked Reporter came to Chadwell's home while the police were
investigating the crime scene."

"That's strange since the Naked Reporter only does social interest articles
and gossip."

"Yeah, I wouldn't think that murder would be of social interest. Perhaps
he's trying to break into something more serious."

A few minutes later, Max returned to the car.

"How did it go?" asked Albert.

"Jeez, Neuhouser really does have a severe case of Paranoid Personality
Disorder. I had to coax it out of him by appealing to his sense of
paranoia. He said that Tommy, whom he called Tommy-Boy by the way, hadn't
spoken to him directly because he was sick that Tuesday and stayed
home. But Tommy called him and left a message at 4:45 that afternoon,
informing him that he quit his position, but he hadn't gotten the message
until the next day."--Max pulled out his cell phone--"Surprisingly, he
hadn't deleted the voicemail, and he sent me a copy." He played the
recording.


["Hi Mr. Neuhouser, it's Tommy Haines. I'm sorry I missed you today. I
wanted to tell you personally that I appreciated your help in getting me
the job at Alliance. The income carried me long enough to find some work I
prefer, so I must quit my job there. Now that I have enough driving
experience, my roommate helped me get that job at the cab company. I start
driving a cab tomorrow, and I'm excited about it. I like the idea of
getting to meet new people all the time. Also, I have something important
to talk to you about, but it's too much for voicemail; I should tell you in
person. When you get this message, please call me, and we can arrange a
time that's convenient for you. I hope you feel better soon. Take care."]


The first thing that struck me about it was how terribly sad it made me
feel. I had heard his name before and spoke of him with an impersonal
detachment, but hearing his voice made him real. He had that fresh voice of
a young man in the last year of his teens. He sounded like a good kid with
so much life ahead of him, but within 12 hours of making that call, he was
dead. The three of us just sat there for several minutes in silence before
returning to the station.


"So, we have nothing," said Edgerton, sounding disgusted.

The detective, Albert, Max, and I sat around the table in the conference
room. The case had us stumped. I searched through the files to find
anything missed. Tommy's phone records indicated that he communicated with
Alliance, the Hackney Cab Company, Glenn, Chadwell--which stopped about the
time Malor said they had the falling out, Sister Foustina, the Winter
Foundation, his tutor, and Malor. Chadwell's phone records indicated that
he called Alliance, Tommy, and briefly with his mother, who lived in
Iowa. He appeared to have no other friends. Malor says he hadn't known
Chadwell as anything more than a coworker, and records indicated they never
had electronic communication with one another away from work.

Forensics could get no DNA from the unknown print, and they found only
Chadwell's prints inside the house. He had taken an extreme measure by
swallowing the ring, so if he hadn't gulped it down to keep it out of the
hands of someone else, I couldn't imagine the reason. A third party must
have existed, and I hadn't believed it was Malor. Tommy understood the
importance of the ring because he spoke to Sister Foustina about it, making
him unlikely to have told anyone else. Chadwell seemed the more likely
candidate to have said something to someone.

"Had Chadwell no one in his life he confided in," I asked myself, "like
someone he hadn't realized had a connection to the circumstances with Malor
in Seattle?"

I pulled out three bags with the finger traps. One bag contained a single
trap labeled "unknown fingerprint," another labeled "fingerprint of James
Malor," and the others in the third bag. I made a close examination of the
traps. They looked like they were made of the same heavyweight paper
parchment, but they were not all identical.

I laid them onto the middle of the conference table inside their
perspective bags. "Remember that children's song, One of These Things Are
Not Like the Others? I was always quite good at that game. The one labeled
with Malor's fingerprint is different from all the others, and apparently,
forensics missed it."

"What's the difference?" asked the detective as he picked up the bags.

"We assumed that Malor made them all, but no matter which direction you
hold it, the one with his print has the strips starting with a left curve
over the right, and all the others are the opposite."

"I noticed Malor is left-handed," said Albert. "If they're all the same but
that one, the maker was probably right-hand dominant, which means Malor
really is innocent. If he had done that to throw us off, he would make sure
we noticed."

"That's not much, Millstone," said the detective, "but it's something, and
that means we have more than Malor's word that he's innocent. Good. This
unknown stray fingerprint could help identify our killer once we have a
suspect."

"I have an idea how to get us one," I said, "but you may not like it."

"With no other options on the table," he said, "I'm listening."

I knew it was a long shot, but we had nothing else. This person appears to
hate Malor so much they were willing to kill, and they wanted the ring
badly enough for Chadwell to swallow it to keep it out of their reach. At
that moment, besides Sister Foustina and Malor, only the police knew we
found the ring, and everyone thought the police had Malor in custody. The
killer wants us to think Malor just did a poor job of setting up an
obviously fake suicide. So, they probably lowered their guard thinking
their plan to get Malor arrested had worked, but what if we changed that?

What if we let Malor go, pretending the police accepted the fake suicide as
real and believed that Chadwell had killed Tommy and then took his own
life? After all their hard work to point the finger at Malor, that should
infuriate the killer beyond measure. And what if our naked friend at the
newspaper interviewed Malor, or he had some gossip about him to place in
the paper. He could somehow let people know of Malor's intention to attend
the housewarming party with everyone else. And, on top of all that, what if
he attended the party wearing the ring on his finger?

"You want to use me as bate!" said Malor. "You realize I'm not a masochist,
right?"

When we called Malor into the conference room, the detective had asked Max
and Albert to wait outside. He wanted to make it feel more like a chat,
rather than our pressuring him to do it.

"I don't like this either, James," said the detective, "but you cannot
continue to live your life as normal with someone out to get you, and
believe me, they are."

"You called me James," he said with surprise in his voice.

"Now's not the time for that conversation," said Edgerton.

"They could give you a protective vest," I said, "they would have
plainclothes officers there and wire you with a microphone."

"Will the two of you and Max be there?" he asked us.

"Max will escort Winter and stick by her, and I could have my eye on you
from the crowd."

"And you?" he asked the detective.

"It's my case, so I'll be there," he said.

"Right...your case," he said, sounding a little disappointed, and I got the
impression that he hadn't heard the words he hoped to hear. "I got the
invitation for this thing a few weeks ago, but I hadn't counted on
going. I've nothing to wear to a party like that; everyone dresses in fancy
things, and I've never been fancy."

"If we solve that problem, will you do it?" I asked him.

What we asked of him was dangerous. The line of his mouth frowned a bit,
and having lost every ounce of his cocky attitude, he said, "Detective
Edgerton's right. I couldn't live my life with someone after me. So, I
might as well get the confrontation over with, right?"--He nodded--"Yeah,
I'll do it."

"Millstone, will you excuse us for a few minutes?" asked the detective.

"Sure," I said. "Thank you, Mr. Malor." I rose to leave, and before I could
get to the door-

"Hey, Millstone!" Malor called after me. "I would like it if you and Max
called me James."

His request had me smiling a little. If we were seeing the real James
Malor, he seemed much more likable. "Okay, James. We'll get things
started."

I could only guess what their conversation consisted of, but when I left
the conference room, I found Max and Albert at his desk, speculating on the
situation between the detective and James.

"Well?" asked Albert.

"He'll do it, but he has nothing to wear, and whatever we get him, he needs
the ability to wear a protective vest under it. And while you're at it,
could you get him something to protect his groin area?"

"Good idea," said Max. "He has a lot to cover down there, so it needs to be
something big."

"Well, it will only take three minutes to get a vest," said Albert, "but
I'm unsure about the pad. It might help if I had a visual of what we're
trying to cover. So, what are we talking about, the size of a tarp?"

"They don't call him Tenten for nothing," I said.

"Holy shit," he said, "I just got what that means."

"If his dick caused the legal troubles in Seattle," I said, "this person
might go after it, so he could never harm anyone again."

Cringing, he said, "Ouch," and left to find what we needed.

I asked Max, "Could you call Taylor the tailor? Ask him if it's possible to
make a suit in just a couple of days. It's fine if he charges extra for a
rush job."

"I'll also ask him if he's ready for our fitting," he said. "What will you
do?"

I pulled out my phone. "I will contact our friendly neighborhood naked
reporter."

I stepped away from Max as we made our perspective calls. As I expected, it
took a few transfers to reach someone who, once they discovered my name,
give me the reporter's cell number without a fuss. I texted him a message.


TEXT: [Hello, Mr. Santiago, this is Howard Millstone. If you want first
crack at a hard-news story, I have something for you.]


It took less than 60 seconds to receive a call from him. I told him the
situation, what I needed, what I hoped he could do for us, and what reward
I would give him if he helped us. He agreed to my terms. As I spoke with
him, Max mouthed that the tailor could see us at 4:30 that afternoon, and I
invited the reporter to the tailor shop at that time.

While Albert tried a few different protective vests on James, Edgerton
called me into his office. He closed the door behind us and shut the blind.

"That's a do-not-disturb signal," he said.

I glanced around his office and saw baseball memorabilia on his walls, most
notably the Franklin Coppers. Apparently, the police department had its own
baseball team. His office was cozy, and it looked like one for a busy
detective with files stacked on his desk and an empty mug that held coffee
that morning.

"Please, sit for a minute," he said, "I have something to ask you." We both
sat, and he just looked at me for a moment like he hadn't known where to
begin. I had to assume drawing me into his office had occurred as a
last-second decision.

"It's about James, isn't it?"

He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. "I'm beginning to
appreciate your ability to jump to correct conclusions," he said. Leaning
forward again, he looked me in the eye. "Am I out of my mind?"

"That depends on how far you've taken it and on how far you intend to let
it go."

"It hasn't gone far at all, but you've no idea how much it pleased me when
you noticed the discrepancy in those finger traps."

"So, your doubts had you keeping him at arm's length, but that reason no
longer exists."

He nodded.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather speak to Max? He's more the clinical
type."

"No, you may have an insight due to that one thing you both have in
common. Besides, I have two people I consider my peers, Thomas Sawyer and
you. Don't let that go to your head."

"Oh, it won't," I said. "I'm still struggling to earn a spot in your good
books, and I've yet to understand why I care about that. So, are you
seeking advice from a peer or a sounding board?"

"Either will do," he said. "James learned pretty quickly that if he ever
wanted to have sex, it would help if the guy enjoyed pain, because, until
they grew accustomed to him, it would hurt, but no one has ever gotten that
far. James liked Tommy, but they had only a collection of negative
experiences in common, and he felt no physical attraction to him. It seems
that James has a high sex drive and few opportunities to satisfy it. It
came down to a beggars-can't-be-choosers problem, and he agreed to fuck him
when Tommy asked."

"So, Max was right; he told me James wasn't a real sadist. So, what's your
problem?"

"I like him, and I want to see him."

"But you're afraid of the 10-inch, blunt-nosed, artillery shell he keeps
hidden in his pants behind those long shirts he wears."

"Aah...yeah."

"I don't know how much experience you have with dating, but if you want my
advice, refrain from that sort of sex until you know that taking the time
and effort to grow accustomed to him will be worth it. Have you seen it?"

He shook his head. "No."

"If you drive us to the tailor's, I guarantee you will have the opportunity
to, at least, see it flaccid."

Legally and technically, the police held James in custody, so releasing him
required some paperwork. Edgerton had Albert write up the report on Malor's
release while he drove James, Max, and me to the tailor's in The Village.

He owned a black Mercedes G-wagon only a few years old. I recall seeing
them on the lot at the Mercedes dealer, but, as we had a used vehicle in
mind at the time, I hadn't considered it. Neither of us had ridden in one
before; it had an impressive ride, and we both liked it. Max suggested that
we go to the dealer one day to see the newest model, and I had thought that
it would probably suit our needs better than the two-seater, which already
was proving itself inadequate.

I would occasionally see James's eyes linger on Edgerton behind the wheel,
and his interest was more than casual. If Max could grow accustomed to
someone my size, I saw no reason to think Edgerton couldn't grow accustomed
to James. I stared at the side of his head and tried to see what Max saw in
him. He needed it cut, but he had a beautiful head-full of auburn hair, and
his pale skin had few freckles. Facially speaking, I supposed he had a
devilish appeal, in a bad-boy sort of way. He certainly contrasted
Edgerton's more clean-cut and uptight appearance, which I knew belied the
far more liberal nature of his sexual interests. If he tended toward the
same direction as Albert, he could enjoy all sorts of things, so, for all I
knew, James suited him perfectly.

For myself, he had none of the appeal characterized by my beautiful Golden
Bear, and from what I knew, James was strictly a top. Which made me
question whether I would ever consider asking Max to fuck the hell out of
me, just to understand why he loved it. If I gave it a try, I would only
ever trust Max.

It's amazing the difference a few days can make. When Edgerton parked his
SUV in a nearby parking garage (on the opposite end from where Max and I
had parked), the first thing I did was take Max's hand when we exited the
vehicle. He looked at me with those adoring eyes of his, gave me a knowing
smile, and gripped my hand with both of his for a moment.

He kissed me and said, "I love you."

I cupped his cheek, feeling his soft golden blonde beard. "And I love you,
my Honey Bear."

"You two are plum cute together," said James.

"Oh, you haven't seen cute yet," said Max.

"What do you mean?" Edgerton asked as he rounded the vehicle to the
passenger side.

"Have either of you ever shopped at Wilson's Tailoring?" I asked them.

James shook his head. "It's too rich for my blood."

"I've not needed a tailor," said the detective, "I'm an easy fit."

"Oh...well, you're in for an experience."

As the holiday occurred the next day, many stores had Fourth of July sales,
which had many shoppers out, even on a Wednesday afternoon. James and
Edgerton walked ahead of us, and I held Max's hand as we strolled the
cobblestone streets of the pedestrian zone, feeling none of the fear and
uncertainty that I had before, and Max seemed relaxed.

When we reached Taylor's shop, we noticed the "closed" sign was hanging on
the door. However, the instant we came into view, the tailor unlocked and
opened the shop allowing us entry, but he relocked it behind us.

Taylor smiled. That day he wore the pants and vest of a cranberry-colored
suit with a white shirt. I noted he left the jacket behind the counter
draped on a mahogany valet stand, a nifty item he carried in the shop, and
something we had yet to obtain. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, "I am
so please you called for my assistance. This is just marvelous." He gazed
upon James and Edgerton. "Now, which of you is the gentleman in need?"

James raised a finger. "That's me."

Mr. Santiago stood naked and unnoticed in a corner, and we joined him at
the back of the store to greet him as Taylor helped James.

"Hello again," he said and shook our hands. "I appreciate this opportunity
you're giving me."

"You know what we need, right?" I asked him.

"Yep. And I want you to know that, as a community member, I would help you
catch a killer without the scoop, but I appreciate it all the same."

We heard James sounding a little upset. "You want me to remove my clothes?"

"It's part of my creative process," said Taylor.

"Oh, I don't know..."

I excused myself and moved to the lit platform on which James
stood. Edgerton stood nearby, finding the situation amusing, but said
nothing. "What's the problem?" I asked.  The reflection off James's pale
skin had further illuminated the well-lit space. He stood a stout,
sturdy-looking muscular fellow and wore a long-tailed untucked button-up
shirt, with its sleeves rolled just below the elbow, and a pair of
loose-fit jeans that hadn't fit very loosely on him. When he heard me, he
lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding beams of light until I
reached the platform's edge. Viewing him with a bit of distance, I think I
realized what gave him a difficult-to-explain attractiveness. He looked
fine from what I could see, but his appearance wasn't the thing. He exuded
a raw masculinity in his secondary and tertiary cues that, unless you're
looking for them specifically, humans usually perceive in a subtle, almost
subliminal manner, like his stance, his body language, his walk, the
movement of his torso, his limbs, his facial expressions, and much more. I
admit, I also found that attractive.

"He wants me to remove my clothes," he said.

"Is that an issue?" I asked. "You seem to have no problem the other day at
the Alliance van."

"Yeah, but I feel that I can trust you," he said, then glanced at
Taylor. "No offense."

"I took my clothes off when Taylor asked me," I said.

"Yeah, well...you've not got my problem, do ya?" he asked, apparently
unaware to whom he was talking.

I made a deep sigh and mumbled to myself, "I may as well go all the way
with this." I spoke up, "Mr. Santiago, please, come here for a moment."

He came forward and stood where he could see me as I faced James. I hadn't
realized I would take things in that direction, and I admit that it made me
a bit nervous. When I said I had no desire to live in fear, however, I
meant it, but I still felt it. And yet, I couldn't help but feel a little
excited too. The tingling sensation beneath the head of my cock started,
and it wouldn't take much.

"Clearly, James, you've not seen Mr. Santiago's gossip column," I said. "I
admit that it upset me, because like you, I wanted people to know on my
terms." I turned to the reporter. "When you write this up, do it justice
and make it a good one. Okay?"

Once I unbuckled my belt and opened my pants, I shoved them down to my
knees.

"Holy fucking shamoley," said James.

Santiago just stood speechless.

"He's magnificent, isn't he?" asked Taylor as he looked on.

"So, yeah, I do kinda have your problem." Max, who stood behind me, wrapped
his arm around my torso and grabbed my cock a few inches from the base to
jack me.

He whispered into my ear. "I'm proud of you."

In less than a minute, he had me at full erection, and James began removing
his clothing.

"Okay, I get the picture," he said.

I glanced over at Mr. Santiago, whose uncut dick jutted upward, looking
like a fat, 6-inch, Puerto Rican cigar. However, when James removed his
pants, all eyes went right to his thick meat that, even flaccid, hung from
his body like some prize-winning white wonder cucumber.

James had a great upper body, but apart from his hefty meat, the real
showcase was his well-developed lower extremities, which looked like he'd
never skipped leg-day in his life.

"I'll leave you to it then," I said, raising my pants enough to move out of
the way and let Taylor do his job. No way would my cock fit back into my
jeans without some assistance from Max.

I heard James ask Edgerton, "Have I scared you?" I never heard his reply,
but I already knew what he would say. He had an attraction strong enough to
feel the need to ask my opinion, so, in the end, I think he wouldn't have
cared if it was the size of James's thigh.

Santiago followed us and asked questions as Max went down on me. I had a
unique experience getting interviewed and blown simultaneously.

"Just how big are you?" he asked.

"That depends on who and when you ask. If you had asked me twenty years
ago, I would have said too big, but Max has helped me to understand that my
size isn't a problem."

"Has Max taken all of you?"

He began asking me seriously personal questions, but apparently, a blowjob
works like truth serum on me, and I couldn't stop myself from telling him
whatever he wanted to know. As the Q & A continued, Max began to work
harder to get me off, and just before I came, Max pulled off me but jacked
my cock. He had me right on the line, and I could do nothing but stand
there as my brain felt like scrambled eggs.

He asked Santiago if he wanted a white shower, and the instant he said yes
with great enthusiasm, Max aimed my hose, and I came, shot after shot,
covering the reporter in a thick white coating. I had left his face, his
torso, and his cock looking like a sugar-coated cinnamon bun.

"My god! When was the last time you came?"

I hadn't realized it at the time, but Max was angry. He lightly held
Santiago by the arm. "You've asked him enough questions; I want a word with
you in private." And he took him to Taylor's back room for a few minutes.

I held myself up by a table near the cashier's, and when the others, who
stayed back to give us a bit of space, wondered what had happened, they
came forward and helped me by giving me the stool from behind the counter.

"I'm not sure," I said. "Have you gotten the measurements and everything?"

"Oh, yes," said James. "ALL of them." He gave the tailor a contemptuous
glance.

"It was not out of mere curiosity, I assure you."

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