Date: Tue, 7 Jul 2020 19:52:53 +0200
From: wrestlr@iname.com
Subject: A Good Citizen

A Good Citizen
by Wrestlr

//Begin Standard Headers//
     Author: Wrestlr
     Title: A Good Citizen

     Summary: In the not-too-distant future, Joe just wants to be a good
citizen.  After he is arrested by the Civil Security police, who use a
machine to read his memories, he starts to wonder whether the machine has
made a few changes during the process.

     Keywords: MC, MM
//End Standard Headers//

Disclaimer: If you are not of legal age, or if you offended by all-male
sexual situations, please leave immediately.  From here on, no matter how
realistic it may appear, everything is fiction.

Copyright - 2020 by Wrestlr.

Comments to wrestlr@iname.com

Wrestlr's fiction is archived at the following URLs:

   o http://www.asstr.org/~wrestlr (MC and general M/M stories)
   o http://www.mcstories.com/Authors/Wrestlr.html (MC stories)

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*          *          *


A Good Citizen
by Wrestlr

1.

On the spring morning that he would be arrested, Joe woke to sunlight
creeping through the window by his bed in his government-issued apartment.
He yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes, and then lay back, pushing down the
single sheet covering him, bunching it at his thighs.  He ran his fingers
over his lightly fuzzed chest and downward.  He gripped his morning-stiff
dick, teased it proudly, before letting it slap back against his
flat-curved belly.  "Horny, buddy?" he asked it and chuckled,
finger-stroking it lazily.  "You should still be worn out after last
night!"

Joe had a sleek, strong build that other men certainly found attractive,
and he packed plenty of cock.  Last night, he had gone down to the
neighborhood bar, spotted another horny stud, traded the ritual of buying
drinks with him, then led him out into the government-mandated sex room in
the back of the bar, each of them knowing what they were going there to do.
They had stood in the shadows, touching, stroking, arousing each other,
careful not to show too much emotion or lust--*A Calm Citizen is a Happy
Citizen*--before finally opening their shirts and dropping their pants.
The stranger was a little older than Joe, shorter, and hairy-chested, and
Joe had bent down to suck his thick, stubby cock and bulging testicles.
Then the man had knelt in front of Joe, murmuring with forbidden excitement
at the swollen largeness of Joe's dick, tongue-washing it, choking when he
tried to suction it throat-deep, finally getting to his feet and turning to
offer his ass to Joe.

Now, lying naked on his bed in the warm sunlight, Joe remembered the
sex-hunger he felt last night when he shoved his lube-slick rod into the
stranger's clenching muscle-ring.  The stud had gasped and groaned, but he
took every inch of Joe's rigid cock.  "Fuck me, man!" the man had
whispered, squirming back against Joe.  "Fuck my ass with that big dick!"

Yes, right there in the darkened sex room in the back of the bar, Joe
delivered a long, slow stand-up fuck.  Other men came from the shadows to
watch, and one of them crawled underneath and swallowed the stranger's cock
while Joe continued to plow his tight butt.  Finally, Joe had wrapped his
arms about the man and clamped their bodies together, as first Joe and then
the stranger soared into the nerve-blazing ecstasy of climax.  Joe always
unloaded in powerful, distinct bursts, and he knew he was flooding the
stranger's guts with hot cum, and the stranger was popping his load into
the mouth of the cock-sucker under him.  And as their orgasms crested, they
held together, barely moving, exhausted, until they finished settling from
the thrashing summit they had reached together.

"Thanks," the stranger murmured at last.  "That was great!"

"Yeah, real great," Joe replied, his voice carefully casual.  No big deal,
right?  He had sure shown this stranger why his stud-rating was A-8--not
that the stranger had asked.  With a sigh, "Thanks," Joe released the
stranger and withdrew his softening dick from the slippery asshole, and
then he pulled up his pants, turning away.  "See you around, maybe."

"Sure, maybe."

Joe, fastening his shirt and trousers, started toward the door that led
back into the bar and the street exit beyond.  They had not exchanged
names, nor had either wanted to.  *Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em*--just like the
slogan on those Department of Civil Security posters said.

And then Joe saw the policeman standing in the shadows, tall and
rugged-looking, his tailored uniform emphasizing his wide shoulders and
slim hips, his high, polished boots glistening in the dimness.  Joe stood
and watched for a moment as the cop face-fucked the man kneeling before him
viciously; Joe quietly hummed a bar of the latest *The Police Are Your
Pals* jingle.  And he started to remember--No, he did not want to bring
back that memory!

No, that was last night, and now Joe was lying naked on his bed, the
morning sunlight lapping at his exposed flesh, his powerful cock arched
back and pulsing against his belly, and he hopped to his feet, flexed his
muscles, scratched his sex-tight balls and headed for the kitchen alcove.
"If I'd brought that stud home last night, I could be fucking him for
breakfast," he groused to himself.  Then he shuddered as he pressed the
button on the coffee-maker, because that idea of bringing a guy back here
to fuck seemed dangerously close to sex-rebel talk.  "Hell, no--I don't
want any guy moving in here, no matter how fuckable his ass is!"  *Fuck 'Em
and Forget 'Em*.  No need to risk dangerous emotional attachments.  Joe
wanted to be a good citizen.

He sauntered back to the bathroom, giving his cock time to relax enough to
make pissing possible, and he took his usual legs-spread stance in front of
the open toilet.  He fumble-aimed the dangling, heavy-crowned column toward
the bowl, and he watched the golden piss stream from it.  He looked over at
the mirror and studied his reflection.  Joe was in his early twenties, with
short, curly black hair and strong, masculine features.  His shoulders were
wide, and his suntanned torso narrowed sharply to his slim hips.  He was
hard-muscled, built sleek and trim.  He liked what he saw.  "Maybe," he
said to his reflection, "I'll skip work and spend the day down at the gym."

The law required two visits a week to a state-run gym, to ensure citizens'
good health, but Joe went the local one more frequently.  Men only,
clothing optional.  Joe enjoyed exercising naked like most of the other
guys, swimming bare-ass in the pool, getting his rocks off in the showers
or steam room.  He liked the change of pace, working on his muscles,
showing off his body and meat, sucking and getting sucked and fucking in
the impersonal darkness, resting up on one of the benches, then starting
all over again.

But the last time he had been there, a burly, horny son of a bitch had
tried to fuck his ass.  *Hell, no,* Joe told him--he had never gone for
getting a stud's cock up his butt, no matter what the stud's rating.

Joe tugged the last droplets from his dick, and the toilet auto-flushed as
he turned.  "Fuck 'em and forget 'em," he mumbled to himself.  At the
shower stall, he flicked on the controls, and the water began to spray,
automatically adjusting to Joe's preferred temperature.

The abrupt electronic voice--"Visitor; priority entry requested"--chimed
from the front door of the apartment.  "Visitor; priority entry requested."

Joe grabbed a towel, wrapped it about his waist, and hustled to answer the
summons.  Without checking the video feed--hell, the announcement had said
this was a priority request--he unlocked and opened door.  Two uniformed
Civil Security policemen in khaki uniform shirts and pants-bloused boots
faced him.  Naturally their name badges bore their first names only.
*Hello!  My Name Is Chet!*--This officer was round-faced and blond.
*Hello!  My Name Is Whit!*--The other was built rugged, black-haired, and
swarthy.  As he looked from one name badge to the other, Joe felt the
subliminals embedded in them starting to work on him, making him feel
relaxed and calm, cooperative.  Joe had never been in trouble with the law,
and he wanted to be a good citizen.

"You Joe?" growled the cop with burr-clipped black hair--*Hello!  My Name
Is Whit!*--as the two officers pushed their way into his apartment.
"You're under arrest."


2.

"What's going on?" Joe asked, still groggy from the subliminals, as the
officers pushed their way into his apartment and closed the door behind
themselves.

"We're taking you in for interrogation," Whit announced.  He was
rough-featured, his dark eyes set in narrow slits between his thick brows
and high cheek bones, his neck melting into massive shoulders and barreled
chest.  A glimpse of flat-lying hair showed at the throat of his uniform
shirt.  In spite of the situation, Joe felt a tingle of sex-heat run
through his groin.

The blond one named Chet was bronzed, brown-eyed, and easy-grinning, and
his uniform lapped at his wide shoulders and sharply tapering torso.  He
nodded toward the bedroom.  "You alone?"

Joe nodded.  "Of course."

"From the way you're dressed, I thought maybe you had company."  Chet
offered an easygoing smile that lit his tanned features, and he fingered
the tuft of sun-bleached chest hair showing at the throat of his shirt as
he studied Joe's towel-clad physique intently.  "No roommate?  No lover?"

"Hell, no."  Joe bit his lip nervously, unsure of what was happening,
suspecting a trick question.  *Lover?*--No way!  "I was just going to take
a shower."

The two officers were a few years older than Joe but about his height.
Neither one carried a weapon, but the police were almost never armed.  *The
Police Are Your Pals*, as the slogan on the Civil Security posters
declared.

Whit ordered quietly, "Better hurry up--clean up and get dressed, Joe.
We're taking you in."

"Yeah ...  Okay."

Joe went back to the bathroom, whipped off his towel, and stepped beneath
the shower spray he had started earlier.  The warm water spanked against
his nakedness, and he picked up the soap and began lathering himself
automatically.  *Shit*, he thought, *none of this makes sense!* He had not
broken any law; he always tried to be a good citizen; and he was current on
his taxes and his Adjustment Appointments.  Why were these two officers
here to arrest him?  The lingering haze from those damned subliminals still
had his mind too fuzzy to figure out the situation.  *Dammit!* Two sexy
bastards, friendly as hell in their body-tailored uniforms.  Real
prick-teasers.  *No*, Joe thought, shaking his head, *it doesn't make
sense!*

He scrubbed and rinsed, turned off the shower controls, toweled himself
hastily, then went to the sink and started to shave.  His always-ready
prick bobbed against the porcelain coolness of the basin, and he wondered
how the hell he could feel turned-on at a time like this.  He scraped the
stubble from his face and, as he finished, he saw Whit reflected behind him
in the mirror; the officer leaned in the open doorway, a steaming coffee
cup in each hand.

"I found the coffee brewing," Whit growled.  "Want a cup, Joe?"

"Thanks."  He rocked forward to splash the last of the shaving foam from
his face.  "Pour one for Chet too?"

"He's down at the car, checking in."  Whit viewed Joe's nude body openly.
"Like he said, how come a good-looking stud like you doesn't have a
roommate or a lover?"

"I don't go that route.  I'm no sex-rebel.  I've never missed my monthly
Adjustment Appointments, not once."

"Fuck 'em and forget 'em, huh?"

"Yeah." Joe straightened, dried his face and turned to display his full
nakedness to the cop for the first time, as he reached for the offered cup
of coffee.

"I'm the same way."  Whit's gaze shifted over Joe from head to toe and
back, and then he shrugged and turned, sauntering into the bedroom, calling
over his shoulder, "Been getting much action lately?"

"My share, I guess, sure."  Joe watched the back muscles ridge and shift
beneath Whit's shirt, and the abrupt, masculine rise-and-fall of his
tight-rounded ass.  Joe followed, gulping a swallow of coffee.  "How about
you?"

"I never get too much, that's for sure."

Joe could not figure out the situation.  The officers had shown up to
arrest him and now he was talking to one over coffee like they were old
friends.  "Crap!" Joe exploded at last, slumping on the edge of his bed.
"I haven't done anything to be arrested for, Whit!"

"Who knows?"  Whit shrugged, leaning back and studying Joe, and he dropped
one hand to rub the crotch of his trousers lazily.  "A sexy bastard like
you--?  Well, maybe one of your bed-buddies got pissed off and reported you
for something."

"Shit, I don't have any 'bed-buddies,' Whit.  I just suck and fuck when I'm
horny, then walk away, like the law says."  Head-down, Joe let his gaze
move to the burly policeman, and he watched the cop's stroking fingers
outline the swelling column beneath the taut cloth.  "Uhhh--maybe we can
work something out ... you know ... just you and me."

"Meaning?"

"You know," Joe repeated, his eyes fixed on Whit's cock-tented crotch, and
he felt his own dick shudder and harden in response.  "Maybe we could help
each other out ...  You're horny ...  I'm in trouble with the law ...  You
know ..."

"Think that's the way it works, huh?"

Joe watched Whit come closer, high-polished boots gleaming, khaki pants
binding to muscle-thick legs and thighs, hard prick showing clearly beneath
the tailored cloth.  The cop stopped directly in front of him, unfastened
his belt and opened his fly, and Joe shivered with nervous anticipation.

Whit wore no under-shorts, and a thin trail of black hair trickled downward
over his flat-curved belly to merge with the thicket of pubic fur at his
groin.  He briskly shoved his trousers down to his knees, and his powerful
genitals fell free.  Joe took a fast breath and stared at the man's rising
prick.  Whit's rigid meat bobbed forward, the long, thick shaft ridged with
taut veins, his heavy testicles swinging almost tauntingly below.  The
cock-head, broad and crimson, aimed at Joe's face.

Numb, Joe knelt and bent forward and ran his lips over the slick crown, and
he inhaled the male scent of the policeman's crotch.  He bent further,
touching his tongue to that dick, washing the massive cock-head.  He took
it into his mouth, slid down on his knees before the silent man, sucked,
worshipped the man's powerful rod.

For an instant, Joe remembered a few years ago, back when he was in school,
about to graduate from adolescence to adulthood and citizen status;
remembered being on his knees in front of a man of authority who had meant
something to him; remembered having the man's prick jammed down his
throat--*Make love to my meat, cock-sucker--worship it*, the man had
said--and a new madness filled him.

Ignoring the size of Whit's stiff giant, Joe pressed downward until his
lips were buried in the hair at the base.  Then he swallowed, tightening
his throat muscles on the bulging shaft, and he heard the cop's pleased
murmur.  Joe wrenched back to release Whit's spit-gleaming rod and gulp for
breath, and then he jammed his face into the burly policeman's crotch
again, licking the sensitive linings of his thighs; moving upward to the
valley between his thighs and his groin; nudging his cock aside and
tongue-lapping the virile, exposed testicles; spreading the slippery nuts
with his tongue; sucking first one and then the other; and then back to the
towering cock.

*Dammit*, Joe decided, *I'm gonna make this son of a bitch cream his nuts
off!* He used his best tricks as he mouth-worshipped Whit's rugged
masculinity, the way that other half-remembered bastard had ordered him to
back in Joe's past--but this time, Joe was doing it willingly.  He
suctioned eagerly, his own prick throbbing with heat, and he ran his palms
upward over the policeman's hips and belly, beneath the uniform shirt,
finally reaching high to finger-stroke the man's massive, fuzzy chest.
Then he felt Whit's hands on his head, holding him in place for a moment,
then moving downward to grip Joe's bare shoulders, drawing him even closer.

"Suck!" Whit hissed, pawing at Joe with mounting excitement.  "Awww--that's
it.  Take it, cock-sucker!"

For Joe, the events played out like a slow-motion movie.  His perspective
was on his knees, naked and cock-hard, the burly uniformed-and-booted cop
towering over him with his huge dick convulsing in Joe's mouth.  The cop's
tight, faraway hiss: "Yeah, Joe!"  The first burst of thick, hot cum
coating his tongue.  The lush, masculine taste as he swallowed.  The second
explosion.  The bulging cock-head and shaft thrusting base-deep in his
throat.  Swallowing.  Another blast, then another, each separate and
distinct, just like the way Joe unloaded when he was turned-on.  Another.
The final, all-out flood of sperm.  Joe's thought, *Yeah!--Made this
bastard cream like a son of a bitch!*

Joe drifted back to reality, the still-firm cock resting in his throat, and
he wondered if he had popped his own load when Whit had.  He had done that
once, shot his cum just from the excitement of sucking off a stud, a long
time ago.  He reached down between his legs, and his dick was still rigid,
the slick-wet head dribbled with pre-cum.  No, he had not creamed, but he
sure felt as though he had.

Joe sank back on his heels, gasped for breath, then looked up at Whit.  The
man loomed over him, returned his stare with cold, narrowed eyes, his
features expressionless.

"Jerk off, if you want to," Whit said at last, nodding toward Joe's soaring
hard-on.  "Then we gotta get moving."

"Still going to take me in?"

"Well, sure.  It's my job."  Whit hauled his pants up, shoved his heavy
genitals inside and fastened them.  "Put on some clothes, Joe, unless you
want to go to jail naked."  He shrugged his burly shoulders.  "Hell, it
won't make much difference."

Joe swallowed the lingering taste of Whit's cum, and he got to his feet,
feeling dazed and uncertain.  *Doesn't make any sense*, Joe thought
desperately.  Civil Security had no reason to send Whit and Chet to arrest
him, and he had gone down on Whit, and he was still under arrest.

Without thinking, he got a standard-issue gray work shirt from the closet
and pulled it on; then his pants; no underwear.  As he pulled on his shoes,
Joe thought about how Whit did not wear under-shorts.

He went to the bureau to pick up his identification card and his wallet;
they were gone.

Whit cleared his throat to catch Joe's attention.  The cop stood in the
doorway, uniformed and booted and holding a pair of handcuffs in one hand
and a cooperation collar in the other.  Joe understood and turned, offering
his hands behind his back.  Whit first slipped the collar around Joe's
neck; when it clicked shut, Joe felt the calming heaviness, so like that of
the mind-machine during his Adjustment Appointments only not as strong,
spread through him, making him feel woozy and docile, ready to follow
instructions.  *A Calm Citizen is a Happy Citizen*, he remembered from
another slogan.  The metal handcuffs snapped tight around his wrists.
*Your Safety is Everyone's Safety*.  Yeah, Joe decided, he must have
committed a crime because he was under arrest.

Whit clapped him on the shoulder as if reassuring him, and Joe liked the
feeling of their physical closeness.  Hell, he decided, Whit was just doing
his job.

Head-down, Joe obediently allowed Whit to guide him from the apartment and
into the musty hallway, and--*Shit!* he realized through the collar-induced
fog in his head--every guy in the apartment house was probably watching
them pass on their video feeds and would know the cops were hauling him in.

They went down the stairs and out the front door of the building, and the
morning sunshine was bright and clear.  A police transport car, nondescript
beige, was parked at the curb, and Chet sat in the front, blond and
flashing his friendly, easygoing smile as they approached.

Whit opened the rear door and helped Joe inside, then shut the door behind
him, and slid into the other front seat.  Joe settled, and the
auto-guidance system started the car forward.

"Want to get your rocks off, Chet?" Whit asked the blond beside him
casually as they rode.  "Joe likes to suck cock."

"Any good?"

"Damn good."

"He must be, if he took that bull-dick of yours," Chet snickered as the car
steered around a corner.  "Shit, I got a blow-job from one of his neighbors
while you were messing around."  Grinning, he caught Joe's reflection in
the rearview mirror.  "You live in a real friendly apartment house, Joe."

"I wouldn't know," Joe mumbled.  "I don't screw around close to home."

"Fuck 'em and forget 'em," Whit and Chet acknowledged in unison.

The policemen in the front seat sex-bragged and joked, and outside the
streets were coming to life with guys like Joe heading for their jobs.  But
Joe was headed for jail, accused of committing an unknown crime, and he
could not keep from remembering the sensations of sucking Whit off, the
desperation Joe had felt, the physical sensations almost as if he was
orgasming too, though he had not ejaculated.  He was surprised by the
intensity.  Hell, he often remembered the sex he had with strangers but,
thanks to the mind-machine and his Adjustment Appointments, he never
remembered any of it being that powerful after it was over.  No
matter--after his next appointment, the memory of this encounter too would
be muted, almost forgotten.

*A Calm Citizen is a Happy Citizen.*

The vehicle slowed and halted before a massive, foreboding building:
Department of Civil Security Central Headquarters.

Joe had passed the building hundreds of times without giving it a second
glance, and for the first time, in spite of the cooperation collar, he felt
a stab of fear in his stomach as he gazed out at the sprawling, windowless
structure.

Whit climbed out from the front seat, stretched and tugged at his bulging
crotch, then opened the back door.  "Let's go, Joe."

"Okay."  Joe squirmed from the car and stumbled to his feet, off-balance
with his hands cuffed behind him, and Whit caught him to keep him from
falling.  The man's grip was firm and sure, and Joe was glad Whit did not
let go quickly.  *Your Safety is Everyone's Safety*.

Then Chet joined them, and they went up the short flight of stairs, and
through the tall, open doors that welcomed them, and passed the latest
Civil Security posters declaring *The Police Are Your Pals!*

The lobby was tall and warm-lit, clean and efficient; hushed, soft music
played from hidden speakers.  Uniformed policemen moved about, briskly
guiding civilian-clad men from station to station.  Over there was a line
for traffic violators, one for curfew breakers, one for lesser
misdemeanors, and more.  Some men were coming, some going.

Chet and Whit guided Joe to a side doorway and into a tunnel-like corridor,
and he heard the slick-skidded door whoosh closed behind them.

No more music.

Shadows.

The cops' heels clicked on the coarser flooring.

Chet stepped ahead and opened a side door, and Whit's guiding hand nudged
Joe through it into large, windowless office, then fell from his shoulder.
Overhead lights glared on a wide, battered desk at one side.  A lanky
redheaded man, maybe twenty years old, wearing a worn worker's shirt and
pants, sat at one end of it, hunched over a computer display.

"Hi, Lefty," Whit said to the youth.  "Where's Parker?"

"Danged if I know," the lanky man answered with a thick country drawl.  "He
don't tell me nothin'--but he said fer you to stick around fer the
interrogation, Whit."  He turned and gave Joe a grin.  "Howdy."

"This is Joe," Whit explained.  "He's here for interrogation."

"Got a Form Thirty-Two filled out fer him?" Lefty asked quickly, then
sighed.  "He can't be interrogated without a Form Thirty-Two, and I sure
don't cotton to makin' up the facts to fill out more paperwork."

"I brought his wallet and identification card," Whit said, passing the
documents.

Joe realized that Whit must have searched his apartment while he had been
in the shower.  Hell, he decided, what difference did that make?

Lefty glanced at the papers and sighed.  "Dang it, Whit, this ain't no Form
Thirty-Two, and you dang well know it.  Okay, I'll call up the form and
fill one out fer you, but this is the absolute last time."  Then he shifted
his gaze to Chet with a broad smile.  "Been behavin' yourself, partner?"

"Hell, no."

"That's what I figured," the youth acknowledged cheerfully.  "You're on the
interrogation team too, Parker says."

"No problem."

Lefty turned to the computer keyboard abruptly and began typing, and Joe
knew his personal data was being registered--name, address, occupation,
vital statistics, stud rating.  He wondered why they weren't using a system
that auto-recalled his information him from the central identity database.
The rapid *clickity-click* of the keys echoed in the silent office.

A side door opened, and a tall, sparse man with graying hair entered,
wearing the dark uniform of a senior officer.  He had angular features, and
he viewed Joe with sharp, blue-gray eyes for a moment.  "What's his collar
set at?"

"Three," Whit answered.  "He ain't given us any problems.

The senior officer nodded, then crossed to read the form Lefty was
completing.

"Ain't right to read over a feller's shoulder, sir," Lefty grumbled.  "I
was brung up proper, and it ain't right."

"Damn farm-boy!" the officer chuckled and mussed the lanky man's hair
playfully.  His voice was deep and warm, and he turned back to face Joe.
"Hi, Joe.  I'm Parker.  You ready to confess?"

"To what, sir?"  The effect of the cooperation collar made concentrating
difficult, as though each thought had become separated from the next, but
Joe managed to hold on enough to connect two.  "I haven't done anything."

"That's what they all say.  You got a roommate?  A lover?"

"No."

"That's good; law-abiding usually is.  Though sometimes in a situation like
this it'd help if you had someone who could be a witness for where you've
been and what you've done, like where you were last night, Joe."

"Down at the local bar."

"Make out?"

"Yeah."  Joe was sure he had not broken any law while having sex with that
guy last night.  "In the sex room down at the bar."

"Know the guy's name?"

"Shit, no."  Joe's gaze drifted to Whit standing stoically with his arms
folded over his barreled chest, and Joe could not help grinning.  "Fuck 'em
and forget 'em.  Right, Whit?"

Whit met Joe's gaze evenly, but his expression did not change and he did
not answer.

Lefty continued to tap the keys, the steady *click-click-click* breaking
the silence.

"So you've got no witness to appear in your defense, Joe?" Parker asked
quietly, pointedly.

The cooperation collar made thinking so damned difficult.  "Uhhh--there
were guys around ...  You know ...  There always are ...  Watching ..."  He
tried to remember details.  "Hey, there was a cop getting a blow-job when I
finished."

"Know his name?"

"No."

"Too bad."  Parker looked at Lefty.  "Let the record show that the accused
claims an unidentified officer was in the sex room at a bar last night.
And make a note to send out an all-points to all police officers who got
blow-jobs last night; see if any can confirm being there."

"Yup," Lefty drawled, typing furiously.  "Lordy, I wish you'd confess, Joe!
I'm goin' to wear out my fingers doin' all this paperwork!"

Joe stood there, collared and handcuffed and vulnerable, and the hall door
opened again.  Two burly men, bare-chested and wearing uniform pants and
boots came in, and Joe thought he heard a pained groan from outside before
the heavy door slammed shut again.

Chet and the two new men conferred with Parker in low voices.  Then Parker
shrugged and announced, "Well, let's get started."  He waited while Lefty
called up a different screen and began tapping the keys again.  "Strip
him," Parker ordered quietly, and Lefty went on typing.

Chet peeled off his uniform shirt, his face lit by his usual, easygoing
smile.  His shoulders were wide, and his strong, tapering physique was
golden-tanned.  Blond hair dusted the hard plates of his chest, and his
large, amber nipples stood up in half-cones at each side.  He nodded to the
two newcomers, and the three men closed in on Joe.

Joe felt engulfed by the athletic policemen, their bared torsos rubbing
against him, their hands pawing at his clothing, their fingers ripping his
work shirt.  In spite of the handcuffs locking his wrists behind him, he
considered thrashing but the cooperation collar kept him too quiet,
prevented him from turning the thought into any kind of resistance as they
tore his shirt to shreds.  They stroked and examined his bared chest and
arms.  He was trapped between the groping studs, the masculine scent of
their bodies filling his nostrils and--*Dammit*, he realized, *I'm getting
a hard-on.*

Joe shut his eyes, letting himself surrender to the effect from the collar,
the mounting excitement in his crotch, as the male hands roamed over his
torso, then downward.  Hands opened his trousers, worked them down on his
legs, and he felt his swelling cock bob free.  He realized Whit and Parker
and Chet and Lefty and all the damned bastards could see him aroused and
erect--shit, Joe realized, he had shown his body and rigid dick to plenty
of horny strangers, so this situation should be no different.  But it *was*
different somehow, dammit, and that bothered Joe in spite of the collar.
Maybe, he decided, if he kept his eyes closed--what?--maybe what was
happening would not seem as real?

The gliding fingers stripped him completely, and he stood there, handcuffed
and trapped, collar-dazed, naked, his tormentors continuing to arouse him.
One of them moved behind him and palm-stroked his muscular ass cheeks and
probed between them.  Dammit, Joe hated having anyone mess around with his
butt--he always had--and he kept his eyes shut as he tried to twist his
hips and ass to escape as the fingertips scraped lightly down his crack,
too close to his puckered asshole.

"Horny, friend?" a voice whispered in his ear, and then Joe felt his hard
cock caught in a sure, masculine grip.  "Man!  Check out this stud's meat,
you guys!"

"Yeah, he's hung like--," one of the guards started.

"Like Whit!" the other interrupted.  "Almost."

"Says here his stud rating is A-8," came Lefty's voice from one side.

Joe wanted to protest that he should have been rated A-9 but the clerk
registering him had waited too long, Joe had started to lose his erection,
and the clerk had logged him as an A-8 instead.  But these men could not
care less about that, Joe realized.  He was under arrest, and his stud
rating was not the issue; no, they were going to interrogate him, even
though he still had not been told what crime he had committed.

"Knock off the bullshit!" Parker ordered.  "Whit, turn his collar to five.
Pump him off, Chet."

"You bet!"  Chet began fisting Joe's hardness slowly, chuckling.  "Stand
back, guys.  I'm going to make this stud shoot his load all the way into
next week!"

For a moment, Joe remembered another guy saying *shoot all the way into
next week*--and then the wooziness from the collar changed and Joe felt
incredibly horny, his body saturated with arousal, and the pumping pressure
on his dick increased, almost like a cock-sucker mouthing on his rod,
almost like one of those studs taking it in the ass--no, back in
school--getting jerked--almost like--

"Awh!"  Joe yelled *awh* the way he had the first time he had gotten jerked
off, as his cum churned and burst free of his balls, the first blast
jumping free of his dick, then another--"Aw, fuck!"--and the next,
cum-blast after blast, spurting, flowing, dribbling.

The men held Joe securely while Chet drained his convulsing dick, and Joe
remembered just a few years ago when he had watched a youth in school get
his first hand-job in the back of the gym shower room, the young athlete
laughing and cursing and struggling to escape Joe's horny buddies, thinking
this was some sort of teasing prank, until their buddies held him tightly,
finger-stroked him to quick hardness, and made him shoot his load, then the
high-fives all around.  Joe knew at the time he must have felt an intense
arousal--back then he had been a hormone-driven bundle of emotions--but his
first Adjustment Appointment a couple of years later when he himself
graduated into adult citizen status had muted all of that--*A Calm Citizen
is a Happy Citizen*--just like his next one would dull any memory of what
he had just experienced at the hands of these cops.

"Hot damn!" Chet snickered, wiping the last droplets from Joe's weary
prick.  "You sure pop hard, friend.  All over the fucking floor."

Joe drifted back to reality and opened his eyes, and he was standing naked
and cock-drained in the brightly lit interrogation room, surrounded by the
muscular, masculine policemen, puddles of his cum glistening on the
concrete flooring.  If anything, he felt even more will-drained and docile
than before.  He focused on Whit, still standing against the far wall with
his arms folded across his massive chest, and Joe thought he saw a hint of
an amused, pleased smile on the rugged son of a bitch's face.  Lefty
continued to peck at the keyboard steadily, ignoring what was happening.

"That'll take the edge off him," Parker grumbled.  "Get him in the chair
and let's get him hooked up to the machine."

The three shirtless officers hauled Joe, still afterglow-weak, over to the
reclining examination chair in the corner, unlocked his handcuffs, and
pushed him down into it.  With practiced, quick efficiency, they pulled his
hands to the armrests and locked the restraints around his wrists.  One
officer plugged a cable into the back of the cooperation collar, and the
helmet began to glide down over Joe's unresisting head.  The chair--the
helmet--these seemed just like the mind-machines Joe knew so well from his
monthly Adjustment Appointments.  But surely the officers had not hauled
him all the way to Central Headquarters and into this interrogation room
just to give him an Adjustment treatment?  That seemed like a lot of
effort, when Joe already reported for his appointments exactly as the law
required.

"This ain't like the machines you've used before," Parker said coolly, as
if answering Joe's unasked question.  Through the open faceplate for his
eyes, nose, and mouth, Joe could see and hear the officer easily.  "It
don't tamp down your reaction to your memories--it does the opposite and
makes you relive 'em.  All you have to do is answer some questions, and the
machine will do the rest.  Got it?"  Parker turned toward Lefty.
"Everything ready?"

"Yep," Lefty replied.  "But, dang it, without a Form Thirt--"

Parker interrupted with, "Then get started."

Joe heard the helmet around his head begin to hum quietly.  He was not
afraid.  *The Police Are Your Pals!* This was all some sort of mistake and
they would surely understand that once Joe answered their questions.

"You like getting jerked-off, Joe?" Parker asked casually, coming up close
in front of the young man.

"Uh ...  Yeah, I guess so.  Shit, who doesn't?" Joe shrugged and answered,
feeling his scalp prickle as the machine began its work, probing into his
mind.  "But I haven't settled for just getting my rocks off that way for
years."

"Who was the first guy you traded hand-jobs with?"

Why was Parker interested in hand-jobs?  Those were too superficial to
matter.  Even back in school, when he was still learning about sex,
hand-jobbing with his buddies was no big deal.  "Hell, I don't remember.
Who gives a damn about who's done what after--"

A flare of pain burst into Joe's midsection, sudden and unexpected, and his
breath whooshed from his lungs.  He tried to double forward against the
restraints and the helmet, and a second pain-zap in his head made him
straighten back, dazed, unsure what was happening.  Joe heard himself cry
out.  The mind-machines in his Adjustment Appointments had always made him
feel hazy and dreamy--they had never caused intense pain like this!

"When I ask you a question," Parker said quietly, "I want the truth, not 'I
don't remember.'  Got that?  The machine will punish you again if you don't
cooperate."

Joe tried to remember that the police were his pals.  Whit, Chet, Parker,
the other bare-chested cops leering at him, watching him gasp from the
agony.

He wondered why he had been arrested, why Chet and Whit had stormed into
his apartment that bright, sunny morning, why he had felt so damn turned-on
by sucking Whit off, why the rugged policeman had brought him here, what
law he had broken.

Joe sagged into the chair.  He felt numb and beaten.  The room was silent
except for the quiet hum from the helmet, Joe's residual gasps, the sound
of Lefty continuing to type.

"Let's try it again," Parker said at last.  "Who was the first guy you
traded hand-jobs with, Joe?"

"I don't remem--" Then, his scalp prickled, and something seemed to happen
inside his head, and images swam before his eyes, like a dream.  What had
Parker said?--That this machine would make him relive the memories?  For
the first time in years, he remembered his school friend.  "Ron," Joe said
as the images took over, like being submerged into a daydream that replaced
reality and made him experience everything all over again.  "His name was
Ron."


3.

Joe was in school, an eager, fast-maturing youth, a year and a half away
from graduation, and like all pre-citizens he was assigned to live in a
state-run crèche with twenty or so other youths until he graduated into
adult citizenship.  To delay his after-school returns to the crèche, Joe
always hit the library for a couple of hours to study.  He took his usual
table, underneath the row of Civil Security posters.  A few minutes later,
also as usual, Ron settled in the opposite chair across the long table and
slung his backpack into the adjoining seat.

They shared a physical education class, but Ron was a year older than Joe
and so would graduate a year sooner, just a few months away.  He had
reddish-blond hair and wore the standard student uniform of a crisp white
shirt and jeans.  He slumped and opened a reference textbook on his screen.
"What's going on, Joe?"

"Studying."  He could not keep from checking Ron's strong features, the
easy grin, and masculine features, the glow of the tanned physique beneath
his shirt, the outlined curves and hollows, Ron's matured sureness.  "Got
something better to do in a damned library?"

Ron snickered.  "Wiseass."

The two youths concentrated on their textbooks, and from time to time, Joe
found himself looking up to stare at Ron's solid build, the fuzzy early
chest hair at the open throat of his shirt, the hint of his masculine body
beneath his clothing.  Only a year separated them, but somehow Ron seemed
so much more mature physically, almost as if he was an adult already to
Joe.  Then Ron slumped lower in his chair and, beneath the table, Joe felt
Ron slide one heavy-soled shoe between Joe's spread thighs, firmly against
his crotch.

"Hey!" Joe quiet-yelped.  "Cut it out!"

A too-innocent grin came in response.  "Something wrong, buddy?"

"Yeah--somebody'll see."  Joe felt Ron slightly increase the pressure
against his hidden genitals, taunting him.  "Plus, I'm not wearing a
jock-strap today."

"So?"

"My cock shows when I get a hard-on.  That's why I usually wear a jock, so
it won't show if it pops up in class."  He wet his lips, head-down.  "You
know what it's like."

"Hell, when I throw a rod, I don't give a damn who sees," Ron bragged, not
only keeping his shoe firmly in place but also squirming it to the right,
then to the left.  "Getting one now?"

Each move of Ron's shoe caused a jolt of pleasure to run through Joe's
cock.  "Dammit, Ron--"

The e-librarian pinged for silence, and Joe tried to focus on the textbook
on the screen in front of him.  He felt Ron's foot pressing against his
balls and felt his cock swelling in response, and he wondered if Ron knew
what he was doing to him.  Yeah, of course he knew, Joe decided, the
bastard!  Joe's dick was getting stiff as hell, and Ron's grin said he knew
exactly what he was doing.

"Crap!" Ron muttered, grabbing for his backpack.  "I've had it for today.
Let's get out of here, okay?"

"Uh--okay.  Sure."  Joe, disappointed, felt the shoe pull away from his
crotch and watched the young stud swing to his feet, and Joe saw Ron's
erect prick cleanly outlined inside his jeans.  "Damn."  Joe stood up and
covered his stiff-bulging crotch with his own backpack, and he felt kind of
funny, tromping across the library with a damn hard-on!

"Want share a ride back to the crèche?" Ron asked as they went outside
into the long, silent corridor.  Ron's crèche was a few blocks farther,
Joe's along the way, and they often shared a transport car after school.

"Sure.  Thanks."  Joe's cock still pulsed hungrily.

Ron pawed the front of his jeans openly.  "I'm horny as hell.  I should've
whipped off a load after gym class."

"You--uh--you jerk much?"

"All the time," Ron admitted casually.  "How about you?"

Joe blushed.  "Once in a while, I guess."  Hell, he beat his meat whenever
he got the chance, but he had never talked openly about it before, even
though all the sex-ed video classes said masturbation was a perfectly
normal thing to do.  "It doesn't hurt anything, right?"

"Fuck, no!"  Ron changed direction, veering down a side hall.  "C'mon."

Ron led the way up the stairs to the top floor of the building, with Joe
hurrying to catch up as his friend stalked down the narrow, shadowed
hallway.  Suddenly Ron was pushing into him, pushing Joe up against the
wall and moving in close in front of him, groping Joe's bulging crotch.

"Shit!" Joe gulped with surprise.  "What the hell're you doing?"

"Checking your signal levels," Ron snickered, and he probed the hidden
genitals with sureness.  "Man, that's some lever you've got!"

"Dammit, Ron--"

"Shit, you're not a kid anymore, right?  Shit, feels like you're getting
the signal loud and clear."  He pinned Joe back against the wall.  "We'd
better get your rod out and give it room to grow!"

Dazed, his heart pounding with excitement, Joe felt Ron press flat against
him, holding him in place, felt the fingers opening his fly, slipping
inside, rubbing across his lower belly, sliding downward, beneath the
elastic waistband of the boxer shorts he had worn instead of a jock-strap
that day, through the tangle of pubic hair at his groin, gripping his
inflamed prick, hauling it out.  "Ron ...?"  Joe had never had another guy
touch his cock in this bare-and-hard state before.  His breath caught, and
he shivered from the sensations churning inside him.  "Aww--"

"Yeah, you're getting the signal loud and clear," Ron repeated with
sureness, and he jerked open his own metal-buttoned jeans.  "Go ahead,
buddy."

Joe looked down at the fingers locked about his throbbing dick, and then he
brought one hand up and thrust it into Ron's jeans.  He tensed as he
discovered his friend's bare flesh and the crisply trimmed pubes adjoining
his cock-base.  "You don't wear underwear, huh?"

"Told you I don't.  I don't like getting tangled up when I throw a rod,"
Ron murmured, stroking Joe's hard-on gently.  "With all the meat you've
got, you ought to skip wearing shorts under your jeans too.  No harm in
showing off what you got, right?"

"Yeah, uh, I guess so."

Joe moved his fingers downward, and for the first time in his life, he was
touching another guy's prick, swollen and sex-hot.  Slowly, he grasped the
powerful column and worked it free from the open clothing, and then he was
matching Ron's stroking motions.

Joe had jerked off often, thousands of times, but he had never done this
before with another guy.  Ron was older, almost ready to graduate into
citizenship, and he was treating Joe like an adult too, so Joe did not want
to embarrass himself by letting Ron know he had no experience.  And it felt
so damn good!  And then--"Crap!"--Joe heard noise from the stairway at the
end of the hall behind him, and he wrenched away and covered himself,
facing the wall as he jammed his dick back into his pants and fastened up.
"Someone's coming."

"No sweat," Ron laughed, peering around the corner.  "It's just the damn
sweeper."  He waited until the device glided by into one of the classrooms,
and then he turned away in the opposite direction.  "C'mon.  We can finish
off down here."

Joe sensed what Ron meant, that they were both horny and needed to get
their rocks off, and he followed the handsome young blond.

Ron sauntered to a storage room at the opposite end of the hall, a shadowed
area Joe had never noticed before, then past a partial barrier of ancient
pre-technology desks and chairs, all covered in layers of dust, and behind
the barrier was an open space large enough for a bunch of guys to mess
around in.  "Hey!" Joe exclaimed, following Ron into the shadows.  "I
didn't know there was anything back here."

"Hell, there're a zillion places around school where guys can jerk off."
He turned back to face Joe, grinning, and his heavy-headed erection still
speared outward from his open fly.  "I'll have to show you."

"Jesus!" Joe muttered, staring at Ron's exposed rod.  "What if someone'd
seen you going down the hall like that!"

"You worry too damn much," he chuckled, coming up in front of Joe.  "Shit,
if I had as much meat as you do, I'd let it hang out all the time.  And I
bet ninety percent of the guys would be lined up to latch onto it!"  He
brought both palms up to rub over Joe's wide chest, then began picking at
the buttons on his shirt.  "Let's get this off, buddy."

Joe gulped for breath as his shirt was opened and spread wide, and then
Ron's fingers were wandering over his exposed skin.  He was not sure what
to do--hell, he had never done this before--but he needed to keep Ron from
guessing that.  Tense with excitement, Joe unbuttoned Ron's shirt, matching
the older youth's movements; touching the revealed masculine chest; the
light-colored fuzz covering the solid pectoral arcs; the small, pinked
nipples; the solid torso.

Ron reopened Joe's pants, shoved them and his boxers down, let his
already-hard dick swing free.  And Joe popped the single button still
holding Ron's jeans on his hips and let them drop.  They were both
half-naked and facing each other, aroused and cock-stiff.  Joe understood
what to do now and gripped Ron's rod without thought and began pumping it
aggressively.

"Ow!  Slow down," Ron scolded.  "Don't rush, damn it!"

"Sorry," Joe whispered, breathless.

Once again, they let their hands examine the other's bared body and aroused
organs, and Joe felt enthralled by the sensations.  His palms explored the
muscled curves and hollows of Ron's masculine physique and into his crotch,
and he eagerly copied the way Ron was toying with Joe's large, tight-sacked
testicles.

"Damn, you've got big nuts!" Ron muttered.  "They must work overtime, huh?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"Mine, too.  Seems like I can't never get enough."  Still holding his balls
with one hand, Ron began stroking Joe's rigid dick with the other.  "Ready
to pop your load?"

Joe hissed a quiet, "Yeah."  He looked down at the fist tugging on his
arousal-swollen cock and at Ron's counterpart in his grasp, and he felt a
flush of youthful pride as he noted his hard-on was longer and thicker than
his buddy's.  Then Ron was moving closer, pumping steadily, and Joe matched
him, stroke-for stroke.

"I'm close--nearly there!" Ron exclaimed suddenly.  "Catch it in your
hand!"

Joe released Ron's churning testicles and cupped his palm under the slick
cock-head; and an instant later, the first spurt of juice shot from it.
Ron gave a hoarse, throat-tight groan of ecstasy.  And then his cum was
pouring out in a long, almost steady flow, into Joe's hand.

Joe had never felt another male cream before, and his own prick quivered
with surging excitement.

"Damn, that was great!" Ron murmured at last, gasping for air, and then he
was jerking Joe again eagerly.  "Your turn, buddy!"

"Yeah!"  Joe knew he was too hot to hold off, and he rocked forward to
press his face against Ron's shoulder, muffling his unstoppable gasps of
pleasure.  "Ah!  Ah!"  The first spasm of climax shook him, and then his
spunk was belching loose in massive, distinct bursts.  "*Awh!*" He felt as
though he were climaxing harder than ever before, earthshaking explosions
following in a slow, wrenching cadence as Ron's pumping fingers continued
to coax more and more sperm from his nuts.

For the first time in his life, Joe had traded hand-jobs with another stud,
and he decided it had been the greatest experience ever.  He settled lazily
from the totally masculine peak he had reached, and he found himself
slumped against Ron, each of them still holding the other's cum-sticky rod.

"Man!" Ron exclaimed at last.  "You shot harder than any guy I know!"

"You, too."  Joe had no clue how hard most guys creamed, but he refused to
admit that to Ron.  "Kinda messy, huh?"

"Caught yours in my hand, like you caught mine."  He stayed for a long
moment, then shrugged himself back.  "We'd better clean up."

Still numb from the overwhelming sensations he had just experienced, Joe
watched as Ron pulled away and reached for a stained cloth on a shelf
behind them.  Ron was wiping Joe's sperm from his fingers like it was
nothing at all, like he had maybe wiped off plenty of other guys' cum
before--other times, other jerk-offs.

"You drop a load here often, Ron?"

"Only when I'm in a hurry."  He tossed the cloth, partially stiff with
dried spunk, to Joe.  "Lots of guys use the restroom in the basement where
it's pretty dark, but the best action's down at the gym after school."  He
wet his lips, watching Joe, half-naked, towel Ron's load off his hand, then
wipe the end of his slackening prick.  "Know the old shower room next to
the swimming pool?"

"Yeah."

"Sometimes it's dead, but usually there'll be some of the guys around,
showering, wrestling around bare-ass, maybe jerking off and trading loads."
Ron reached for his jeans and hauled them up abruptly.  "Jonesy'll shit
when he sees you pop."

"Jonesy?"  Only one guy at their school was named Jonesy, and Joe pictured
the burly young football hero.  Joe tossed the towel back on the shelf and
buttoned up quickly.  "What about him?"

"He holds the record for shooting the farthest and the most."  He moved
past Joe toward the hallway.  "I bet you'll beat his record real easy."

Joe felt odd, stuffing his shirttail into his pants as he followed Ron from
the alcove.  Minutes before, they had been half-stripped and pumping each
other off, and Joe had shared his climax with another stud for the first
time--and now they were strolling down the hallway and down the stairs as
if nothing special had happened.

Hell, all they had done was jerk each other, and he sure as hell did not
want Ron to know that had been his first time!  Yeah, Ron must have jerked
with plenty of the other guys, prick-hot studs like Jonesy and more--and
maybe done more with them than just jerk off?

They reached the ground floor of the building and went outside, heading for
the parking lot, and Joe tugged at his crotch, wondering what wearing jeans
without a underwear underneath the way Ron did would feel like, throwing a
hard-on and not giving a damn who saw, no more wearing a jock-strap to keep
his dick pressed down when it suddenly swelled up.  Joe followed to a
waiting transit-car and got in, and the auto-driver steered the vehicle
from the lot and down the twilight-shadowed streets toward the crèche
zone where they both lived.

"You weren't bullshitting me, Ron?  About Jonesy and the other guys, I
mean."

"Hell, no," Ron chuckled, and he dropped one hand to cup Joe's mounded
crotch, fingers probing.  "Wait 'til I get you into a circle-jerk in the
shower room, buddy.  I'm betting on you to set a new world's record!"

"Take it easy," Joe muttered, squirming on the seat.  "You're getting me
hard again."

"Ready to pop another load?"

"I'm always ready, dammit!"

"Good!"  Ron told the car to turn down a dark side street near the
warehouse district, quiet this time of day, and Ron turned to grope Joe
with both hand, peeling his jeans open.  "Gimme your meat!  Yeah, I'm going
to make you shoot all the way into next week!"

Now, years later, his head clearing and the memory-images fading, Joe found
himself back in the interrogation room, under arrest for an unknown crime,
stripped, and strapped into a mind-probe chair, and being questioned by a
cop named Parker while Whit and the others looked on; and for the first
time in years, he remembered those first experiences with Ron.  Really
remembered them.  Remembered how intense they had been, an intensity he had
forgotten, thanks to his Attitude Adjustments.  The memory seemed almost
too overwhelming to deal with, and Joe wished he could ask for an
Adjustment to make it fade to a manageable distance again.  "Fuck 'em and
forget 'em," Joe muttered to himself.

"What happened to Ron?" Parker asked in his usual cool tone.

"I don't know.  We got together nearly every day after that ... But a
couple of weeks later, he--he just disappeared.  No one at school or at his
crèche would tell me what happened to him."

The room was silent except for the steady click of Lefty's typing.

Joe looked up and found Whit still slouched back against the far wall, arms
folded over barreled chest, impassive squinted eyes fixed on him.  He
wondered what the hell Whit was thinking.  The rugged, horse-hung son of a
bitch stared like he knew something.  *The Police Are Your Pals*?
Bullshit!

"Finished?" Parker asked the farm-boy at the keyboard.  "Got it all down,
Lefty?"

"I reckon so."  Lefty slouched back in his chair and pawed the front of his
work pants.  "Shee-yit, I can think of a heap of things I'd rather be
doin'."

"Horny bastard," Parker snickered at the youth.  "We all know there's only
one thing you'd rather be doing, and that's getting your fuckin' rocks off,
huh?"

"Yup, I reckon so."  Lefty sighed.  "I do believe listenin' to Joe's story
got me riled up more'n usual."

"How'd you like to have him suck you off?"

"That'd be mighty pleasin'!"  Lefty hopped to his feet, lean and
open-faced, a broad smile lighting his features as he strode toward Joe.
"Yup, I reckon this feller could do a fine job on my pecker."

"Give it to him, kid!"

As the helmet retracted, Joe watched the young redheaded worker hustle
toward him, watched him unbutton his shirt as he came, spreading it to
reveal his youthful physique, unfastening his fly quickly, jerking his
stiff cock free.  Lefty offered his erection to Joe eagerly, a long ivory
column topped with a glistening, arrowhead crown.  Joe grinned at Lefty's
undisguised sex-hunger--hell, he often felt the same way, and sex meant
nothing more than getting off, a way to satisfy that horny feeling, and Joe
bent over the edge of the chair to nuzzle Lefty's super-heated dick with
his lips.

Someone unlocked the restraints holding his wrists, and Joe felt as though
he had relinquished all resistance to the flood of horniness that the
machine made him feel; he sank off the chair, falling to his knees before
the youth, pulling his work pants, gripping his sinewy-muscled thighs, and
taking his sharp-tipped cock-head into his mouth.  Yeah, Joe wanted to make
this horny, drawling guy feel all of the strong sensations of getting his
rocks off!

For the second time that day, Joe was sucking a stud's prick, and he knew
Whit and the others were watching him.  He wondered what Whit was thinking,
if he remembered how easily and how willingly Joe had gone down on him.
Hell, giving a stud a blow-job did not mean anything, especially after an
Attitude Adjustment sent any emotional connections away so they could go on
being good citizens.

"Man," Lefty whispered, shivering, "That surely is mighty good suckin',
Joe!"

Joe swallowed the male rod hungrily, tip to base and back, stroked the
youth's strong legs, played with his loose-swinging balls, reached higher
to examine his taut, sleek torso.  Shit, Joe told himself, he did not give
a damn about who was watching or what they thought.

One of the men stepped up behind Lefty, embracing him tightly, like a
special bond between then.  "How's it feel, friend?"  Chet.  "Good
blow-job?"

"Dang good!  Almost as good as you and--" Lefty gulped for breath.  "Joe's
got my balls about to bust!"

"Go ahead, Lefty.  Give him your load."

"*Fuck!*"

Joe clamped himself onto Lefty's cock, pressed his face all the way to the
farm-boy's groin on the down-strokes, and now Lefty's cum poured into his
mouth and throat: thick and hot and male-tasting.  Joe drank it down, like
he had swallowed so many others', like they had swallowed his, all those
sex partners he had forgotten.  *Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em*.

The spurts of Lefty's cum ended, and Joe sank back on his heels, keeping
the cock-head in his mouth and looking up at the half-naked stud.  The
youth was slumped back against Chet's bare chest, eyes closed and
happy-smiling, satisfied; and Chet was holding him close in a special way;
and Joe was the outsider; the cock-sucker mouth who had taken the kid's
load, nothing more, damn it.

"Fuck," Lefty whispered again, appreciatively, and reached down to pat Joe
on the head, then pulled back, freeing his softening rod from the kneeling
man's mouth.  "That sure was mighty pleasin', Joe."

The youth hauled up his work pants, fastened them, and returned to his
keyboard as if nothing had happened.  *Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em*.

Joe stayed where he was, expecting Parker or one of the others to step up
and face-fuck him, but they ignored him.

"That's enough for now," Parker said at last.  "Whit, get Joe out of here."

Joe stumbled to his feet, clumsy from the mind-daze of the cooperation
collar, and Whit reattached the handcuffs on his wrists.  Then Whit's grip
on Joe's shoulder led him out of the office and into the hallway.  Joe was
still naked, but thanks to the foggy effect of the collar, hell, he found
he did not care who saw.

"Lefty sure enjoyed that blow-job," Whit said casually, sauntering beside
Joe down the dull-lit corridor.  "He's a horny young buck."

"That was kind of strange, the way Chet held on to him."

"They room together.  They're partners."

Joe blinked in surprise.  "Oh."  He had heard about that, the way some guys
roomed together and sexed together, sometimes exclusively, but Joe had
never gone that route.  The state kept a close eye on men who decided to
become roommates, lovers, partners, made sure they kept up their scheduled
Attitude Adjustments so the arrangement was more like friendly convenience,
without any dangerous superheated passion.  The state made damn sure guys
who partnered never became sex-rebels.  *A Calm Citizen is a Good Citizen*.
Attitude Adjustments kept strong emotions--and strong emotional bonds--at
bay.  Thanks to the Adjustments, crimes of passion, violence, and most
types of mental illness had become rare, almost unknown, in their
enlightened society; and Joe acknowledged that the people in charge of the
state must surely know what they were doing.  *A Calm Citizen is a Good
Citizen*, indeed.

But the way Chet had held on to Lefty seemed like more than just
friendship.  Joe frowned for a moment, then pushed the thought away.

Joe glanced at the burly officer, still fascinated by his almost brutal
masculinity.  "What about you, Whit?  You got a roommate?  Or a partner?"

"Hell, no.  Fuck 'em and forget 'em, remember?"

"Yeah."  Joe drew a fast breath.  "How come Parker wanted to know about
Ron?  I haven't thought about him in years.  Has he got something to do
with my being arrested?'

"I dunno."  Whit shrugged his massive shoulders.  "You said he disappeared,
so I checked the records.  He was arrested."

"Is that what happens to guys who're arrested?  They just disappear?"

"Yeah."  He clapped Joe on the shoulder and urged him into a side
passageway, and Joe heard distant cursing, a groan of pain, a heavy door
slamming.  "Maybe your friends and neighbors in your apartment building
will wonder what happened to you, but some other stud will move into your
place.  Maybe he's already moved in.  Anyway, they'll all forget about you,
like you forgot about Ron."

Joe felt numb, confused.  He had woken up that morning, his prick at
full-mast as usual, and then the two policemen had come to his door.  *The
Police Are Your Pals*.  And Joe gone down on Whit, trying to bargain his
way out of being arrested, and the blow-job had been damn good, sucking off
the rugged, horse-hung stud cop.  And Joe had been arrested anyway, brought
to headquarters, gotten stripped and jerked off and plugged into the
machine that drilled into his memories, been questioned about things he had
forgotten, and sucked Lefty's eager dick, and he still did not know why he
had been arrested or what crime he was charged with committing.

The hallway was lined with heavy cell doors.  One slid open as they
approached, and Whit guided Joe through it, into a narrow, windowless room,
a lightbulb glowing overhead, a single iron cot hung against one wall, a
recessed latrine at the rear.

"Make yourself at home," Whit said, unfastening the cuffs from Joe's
wrists.  "They'll pass your chow through that panel next to the door.
Lights-out in about an hour."

"Okay."  Joe gazed at the rugged officer, at the powerful physique outlined
beneath the tailored uniform, at the unmistakable cock-bulge at the crotch,
and he shivered, remembering the unexpected excitement of going down on
Whit.  "Anything I can do for you?"

"Yeah."  Whit spun toward the open doorway.  "Confess and get it over
with!"

Joe watched Whit stomp out and slam the heavy door, and he could not help
chuckling to himself.  That damn Whit had been getting a hard-on!

Joe strolled into the latrine section of the room to wash up, and his smile
faded as he saw his familiar shaving gear neatly placed on the shelf over
the sink.  He remembered what Whit had said about how a prisoner
disappeared when he was arrested.  The police must have already cleaned out
his apartment.  As far as the outside world was concerned, Joe no longer
existed.

He cleaned up, and when he returned to the main part of the cell, a tray of
food was waiting.  He ate hungrily.  He had just finished, returned the
tray to the panel, and sat down on his cot when the overhead light went
out, and the windowless cell was dark, not even a crack of light from
around the door.

Joe stretched out on the cot and closed his eyes, and he ran his palms over
his virile nakedness, once more recalling his experience with Whit that
morning.  Yeah, that had been an intense experience, kneeling in front of
the burly, horse-hung cop, sucking his huge rigid cock, drinking down his
heavy-flowing cum, and--

Joe woke with a start as the light came on again, and he needed a moment to
regain his bearings and remember that he really was in jail, that it had
not all been a bad dream.  Then he stumbled to his feet and headed for the
latrine area to shower and shave.  When he finished, his breakfast was
waiting on a tray at the door panel, and he ate automatically, sitting
naked on the cot.

The door opened, and Whit came in, crisply uniformed and expressionless.
"Back to interrogation, friend."  He cuffed Joe's wrists together again.
"Let's go."

They walked down the maze of hallways side by side, the rugged, boot-heeled
officer and his nude, athletic prisoner, and Parker was waiting in the
interrogation office with Chet and the two other bare-chested guards, Lefty
already hammering at his keyboard.

"Howdy, Joe," Lefty drawled, flashing his wide-faced grin.  "It's mighty
pleasin' to see you again."

"Thanks, I guess."

Joe was efficiently uncuffed and pushed down into the interrogation chair,
and the moment the machine helmet slid back into place over Joe's head, the
helmet hummed and made Joe's scalp tingle--a not unpleasant sensation--and
Parker began his questioning: name, age, birthdate, crèche number,
childhood memories, growing up, learning about sex, jerking-off with his
buddies in school--the same questions Joe believed he had already answered,
over and over.  Joe knew he had not committed any crime, and he tried to
answer truthfully, dragging up memories he never thought were worth
remembering.  He never wanted to remember anything more than getting his
rocks off, but Parker was making him go over these events again and again.
And Whit was standing there, watching as though he did not give a damn.

"When did you get into sucking cock?" Parker asked quietly.  "Was it with
Ron, the guy you jerked with in school?"

"No.  It was ..."  The helmet hummed as Joe thought and remembered and the
memory started to overwhelm reality again.  "Jonesy ...  Yeah, it was
Jonesy."


4.

Joe was in the school library after classes had ended for the day, and he
was angry as hell because Ron had not shown up--again.

Last Friday, they had gone down to the shower room in the back of the gym
to circle-jerk with the guys, each showing off how big his hard-on got and
how far it could shoot cum; and afterward, Joe and Ron had lagged behind
and pumped each other off, shower-wet and soapy.

And Ron had not shown up at school since then.  As far as Joe could tell,
he had just-plain disappeared.  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday--Ron had not
responded to messages.  No one at his crèche knew where he was.  He had
not shown up at the library after school, sitting opposite Joe across the
table and shoving his shoe-sole into Joe's crotch as a silent sign that he
was horny, ready to go to one of the places where they could get their
rocks off, the alcove at the end of the hall, or the dim-lit restroom in
the basement where the guys pretended not to know each other while they
beat their meat, or the old shower room at the gym where the studs were
wiser and showed off their dicks and how far they could shoot, some of them
even willing to trade hand-jobs the way Ron and Joe did.

Joe tried to concentrate on his studies, but he missed Ron; Joe was horny,
and he could not stop thinking about getting his rocks off.  "Shit!" he
muttered to himself, a little too loudly, earning a ping from the
e-librarian for silence, then quieter: "I'm going to the gym."

He swung to his feet, clapped his backpack over one shoulder, and sauntered
from the library, and his jeans scraped against his always-ready prick.  He
had stopped wearing underwear, not even a jock-strap under his jeans, just
the way Ron did, and maybe it was the pressure and rub of the coarse cloth
against his genitals that kept his balls working overtime ever since.

Joe tromped down the corridor, and a couple of younger guys came from the
stairway, eyeing his crotch openly, probably seeing the outline of his
thickened cock.  Hell, Joe decided, he did not give a damn if a guy checked
how he was hung.  Ron had taught him that.  Ron had shown him that he sure
as hell was not the only one who jerked off.  Ron had introduced him to the
meat-beating sessions with the guys--shit, everybody does it--and Ron had
been right about how Joe could shoot more cum, and farther, than any of the
others he had jerked with.

And now Ron had just plain disappeared!

Joe had messed around with Ron, both of them bare-ass and cock-hard,
squirming around together and working each other up, pumping each other
off, and Joe had always felt more satisfied when he traded cum with Ron,
more satisfied than when he circle-jerked or showed off with the other
guys.  But Ron had disappeared, and Joe already had trouble remembering the
touch of his body, the slipperiness of his balls, the hardness of his dick.

"Crap!"  He tromped down the stairs and out from the building, heading for
the gym.  "There're plenty of other guys around, if Ron doesn't show up!"

Joe had always gone down to the shower room in the back of the gym with
Ron, but this time he was going alone.  He entered the warm, silent locker
room and inhaled the humid, sweat-scented air, and his cock throbbed with
rising sex-hunger.  Ever since Ron had shown him the deserted shower room,
Joe had been turned-on by just coming into the male-and-disinfectant
smelling dressing room.  Sucking in a deep breath, he strutted down the
main aisle and through the small doorway at the rear, down a short hallway,
into the shadowed, musty area normally used by the swimming team.

Rusted lockers lined the walls, and a tiled corridor at one side led to the
showers and the pool beyond.  No one was there, but Joe tried to appear
casual as he tossed his backpack into one of the lockers and began to
undress.  The tension rose in his loins, and his genitals fell free and
heavy when he peeled off his jeans.  "Yeah, I'm ready!" he muttered,
stretching and flexing his maturing muscles.

Naked, he strode down the tiled hallway, and he grinned as he heard the
sound of running water coming from the shower room.

Just one man was in the room: Jonesy, the solidly built athlete Joe had
beaten in a jerk-off contest.

"Hey, stallion," Jonesy said, lathering his muscled shoulders and smooth,
full-arched chest lazily.  "How's it going?"

"Okay."  Joe started one of the showers and doused himself thoroughly
before reaching for the soap.  "We got the place to ourselves, huh?"

"Yeah.  I thought Tony might show up."  He faced Joe, washing his thick,
amber-crowned cock and loose-sacked testicles openly.  "You know Tony,
right?"

"Sort of.  You guys play football together, right?"

"We play a lot of things together.  Like you and Ron do, maybe."  He pumped
his swelling prick.  "Is Ron around?"

"I haven't seen him for a couple of days."  Joe toyed with his stiffening
iron, grinning.  "Ready for another shooting match, Jonesy?"

"Hell, that's for beginners," the football star scoffed as he rinsed and
turned off his shower.  "Let's hit the towel room where we won't be
disturbed."

"Uh, okay.  Sure."

Joe washed quickly, flicked off the water, and hustled after Jonesy into
the large, shadowy room.  Soiled towels were piled on the floor, and he
grabbed a clean one from the stack by the door, drying hastily.

Then the husky athlete was coming toward him, naked and cock-hard.  "I've
wanted to get you alone for a long time," Jonesy grinned, pressing flat
against the youth.  "I'm going to drain your nuts dry, stallion!"

"You're asking for it, buddy!" Joe exclaimed, dropping his towel and
embracing Jonesy hungrily.

"Damn right!"  Jonesy ground their warm, aroused bodies together for a
moment, then eased back.  "Shit, I better show you what Tony and I like to
do."

Abruptly, Jonesy dropped to his knees and gripped Joe's rigid prick, and he
rocked forward, pressing it to his lips.  Joe tensed, staring straight
ahead as he felt the taunting pressure, and then the warm moisture of
Jonesy's mouth was encircling his arousal-swollen glans and swirling about
the shaft.  Joe gritted his teeth, and his muscles quivered with tension.
Jonesy's strong hands rose between his thighs and cupped his churning
testicles, tugging them gently as the lips moved downward again, consuming
more and more of the inflamed column.  With a pleased groan, Joe grasped
the crouching man's shoulders, and then he let his gaze drop.  Jonesy's
head bobbed slowly, lips visible around the vein-etched shaft, coming
closer and closer to the thicket of black hair at the base.  Joe dug his
fingers into the muscled flesh and eased his hips forward, offering himself
completely.  He wanted to plunge his throbbing ram to the depths, but the
young athlete held it partway, tongue-turning with aching slowness.

"Jonesy--?"  Joe broke off, not sure what he was asking.

Jonesy drew back to the wide-collared flange, applied a renewed pressure as
he drove downward again, then pulled all the way up and released the
spit-glistening spike.  Joe shivered at the sudden air-coolness.

"That's one hell of a chunk of meat," the kneeling athlete muttered.  He
wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and got to his feet.  "Your
turn, stallion."

Joe recognized the challenge and hesitated.  "I--I dunno, Jonesy."

"Shit, go ahead."

Joe sank to his knees.  The muscular athlete stood before him, massive legs
spread, one hand on his hip, and the other hand wandering lazily over his
solid chest.  Joe stared at the rigid, masculine rod thrust toward him.
The smooth, rounded head gleamed with hardness, topping a sleek,
marble-like shaft that sprang from a tangle of dark wire below the pale,
flat-curved belly.  A hand slid down and half-covered the hair-matting as
the fingers supported the base of the column, aiming it toward Joe's face.

"Suck on that rod, stallion!"

The body warmth wafted against Joe's nakedness, and he could smell the
lush, fresh-washed scent of Jonesy's maleness.  Joe bent forward, letting
his lips touch the athlete's swollen knob, slightly moist and sticky.  Joe
opened his mouth wide to take the thick club, and he gagged at the
unfamiliar taste and sensation.  "Crap!" he grumbled defensively, not
wanting to admit his inexperience.  "Fuck, if you can do it, so can I!"  He
took a deep breath and tried again, imitating what Jonesy had done, slowly
drawing more and more of the rigid tool into his mouth, running his hands
up the muscle-tight linings of the thighs until his fingers found the full,
loose-swinging testicles.  Fascinated, Joe played with them as he pressured
the pulsing cock more securely, and then his lips met the thick, strong
fingers still supporting the shaft.  Jonesy pulled his hand away.  Joe
eased forward to consume the tantalizing erection completely.

"That's the way, stallion!  Yeah, man, you've got all of it!"

Spurred on by the hoarsely whispered encouragement, Joe applied increasing
suction and felt the muscles quiver in response, and he hardly noticed that
his hands were being carried up over Jonesy's belly and outward.  Then the
brawny athlete was holding Joe's head in place and hip-pumping
aggressively.  Choking at the sudden onslaught, Joe tried to free himself,
and the powerful thighs locked about him, forcing him to accept the lunging
cock again and again.  The iron-hardness jammed into his throat, and the
clearly marked tube along its underside pressed down on his tongue.

"Now, damn it!" Jonesy groaned.  "Yeah!"  An instant later, the rod
convulsed and the first explosion of Jonesy's thick male liquid came
spurting from it.  "Aw, yeah!"

Joe swallowed automatically.  His body shook with the thunder of his
heartbeat, and he could hear Jonesy's sharp, animal cries of relief.

"*Aaah!  Aaah!*"

Clinging to the man's hips for support, Joe plunged forward, drinking the
hard-flowing stream thirstily.

"Aw, fuck, *yeah!*"

When the surge was over, Joe pulled away and sprawled back on a pile of
towels, covering his eyes with one arm.  His body trembled with
nerve-aching tension, and his throat rasped with gasps for air.

After several moments, Jonesy hunkered down to rub one palm over Joe's
heaving chest.  "You liked that, huh, stallion?"

"Crap!  It was--" Joe shivered, then covered the young athlete's hand with
his own and pushed it downward toward his still-erect prick.  "It got me so
fucking hot!"

"You're telling me!  Shit, your pecker's dripping the way Tony's does when
he's all worked up."

"Get me off, like I did for you.  I need to pop my load."

"Any time, buddy."

Jonesy dropped to his knees between Joe's limp-spread legs, and his lips
clamped surely about the bulging, slick-rounded head of the youth's stiff
cock.  "Yeah, Jonesy!"  Joe watched the man press downward until the
dark-haired head was buried in his crotch, felt the powerful arms wrap
about him, the hands rubbing the backs of his thighs and rising to cup the
muscled cheeks of his ass, groaned from the maddening excitement churning
through him, shuddered at the sensuous suction on his rigid prick, writhed
helplessly as the pent-up fury overwhelmed him--

"Jonesy!" he whimper-warned, and then it was too late.  "Agh!"  The
climatic pleasure ripped through him, his balls pumping, semen overflowing,
the searing ecstasy racing the length of every nerve in his tortured
cock-head and shaft, the churning cum exploding in sharp, wrenching bursts.
"Ah!"  The hands beneath his butt jerked him upward, and the warm, hungry
lips suctioned steadily.  Joe arched his body, straining to drive himself
even deeper into the shattering pleasure, which crested, held, and then
began to fade.  He collapsed, spent and exhausted.

Jonesy lowered the youth on his back, released him, and stretched out next
to him.  "That was fucking hot, stallion."  He put one hand on Joe's chest,
smoothing the sparse hairs to the heaving curves.  "You damn-near drowned
me.  You sure shoot a lot!"

"So do you."

"Worn out?"

"Hell, no."  Joe opened his eyes and grinned at Jonesy.  "Ever see me quit
after just one hand-job?"

"Damn," Jonesy snickered, watching his fingertips stroke over Joe's wide,
dark nipples.  "If Ron doesn't show up again, Tony and I'll make sure you
get plenty of action."

"You guys mess around a lot, huh?"

"Shit, that's the only good thing about school.  Nobody gives a shit about
what we do as long as it's not illegal, no one gets hurt, and we're in by
curfew.  No one cares if we buddy up and mess around with each other every
chance we get.  Hell, we've got all these hormones and we're horny as shit
all the time and always looking for action.  This is when we're supposed
get it all out of our system before we graduate into citizenship and have
to calm down for the rest of our lives.  So we might as well have plenty of
action together, right?"  Jonesy chuckled.  "You ought to see the football
team after a good game."

"Yeah?"  Joe wondered if Jonesy was right about school--no one had ever
described the way guys seemed to buddy up and mess around quite that way to
him before.  He squirmed on his back.  Hell, maybe Jonesy was right?  All
the Civil Security posters and everyone who had graduated extoled the
virtues of calmness as the key to being a law-abiding citizen, but being
horny all the time made Joe feel antsy, the opposite of calm.  Adults still
fucked around, but sex seemed more like stress relief for them, not a
driving need the way it felt for Joe.  What if Jonesy was right, and
buddying up and messing around was what they were supposed to do?--Burn the
sex-need out of their systems before they graduated and became full
citizens?  Maybe that was supposed to keep them from becoming sex-rebels.
Yeah, Joe decided, that made a lot of sense, and he breathed a soft sigh of
relief.

Now Joe could relax and enjoy the quiet time he knew would soon lead to
more balls-hot sex.  Hell, he thought, grinning, maybe an experienced stud
like Jonesy could even teach him a few new tricks?  No harm in asking.
"Ron said that most of the guys around here go for--" He broke off, hearing
a shower start in the other room.  "We've got company."

"No sweat."  Jonesy rolled to his feet, his prick dangling free and loose.
"If it's one of the hand-job beginners, I'll get rid of him."

Joe watched the burly football player saunter from the room, and he smiled
to himself, remembering the all-out excitement of his body locking up
against Jonesy's mouth, of getting his cock sucked, of sucking a guy's dick
for the first time, of drinking male cum, of blasting his own load down
Jonesy's throat--and he heard muttered voices from the shower room.  He
suspected who Jonesy was talking to, and his prick stiffened and slapped
back against his belly with renewed strength.

A male body appeared in the doorway, black-haired and swarthy, built like a
tank, and pawing his crotch: Tony!

Tony had rough-cut features, and his thick, short neck melted into
muscle-bulging shoulders.  His broad, barreled chest was already plastered
with dark man-hair, wide nipples, and his solid torso trimmed neatly to the
strip of swarthy, untanned flesh at his hips.  His massive thighs were
sleekly muscled, and his heavy-shafted cock curled outward and down,
partially hiding his large, free-swinging balls.

For a long moment, eyes narrowed to slits, Tony stared at Joe, and then he
gripped his thick prick, stroking it slowly as he advanced toward the youth
sprawled back on the piled towels.

Joe felt mesmerized as he gazed at the huge, naked man looming over him,
and he rose on his knees, his eyes fixed on Tony's swelling iron.

Without a word, Tony stepped forward, pressing his genitals against Joe's
face, and the kneeling youth trembled through a surge of excitement.
Tony's beefy hand cupped the back of his head, caressing, drawing him
deeper into the heated crotch, and Joe felt surrounded and dominated by
Tony's total, confident maleness.  Obediently, Joe ran his lips over the
crinkle-sacked testicles, nuzzled them, lapped them with his tongue,
suctioned gently, first one and then the other, licked hungrily upward to
the massive, swollen cock.

With a grunt, Tony pulled back and thrust the tip of his dick against Joe's
lips, and the youth took the slick-coated glans into his mouth.  He
swallowed the lusty, masculine taste, and Tony's hand on the back of his
head urged him forward.  Joe gulped down on the powerful cock, finally
taking it all the way into his throat, his lips against the coarse hair at
the base.

"Suck!" Tony ordered sharply.  "Suck!"

Now, years later, the images faded as the probing machine helmet receded,
and Joe blinked, finding himself back in the present.  He was a prisoner,
naked and stiff-dicked from reliving his sex-memories, and he was being
questioned by a policeman named Parker while the others looked on and Lefty
typed steadily.  Joe focused on Whit, and he remembered the virile
excitement of going down on the burly cop, like those times back in school,
and just thinking about those days had the images trying to come back, and
he almost lost himself again in the memory of that day when he had knelt
obediently in front of Tony and sucked him off--

"So--"

Parker's voice snapped Joe back to the present.

"You liked trading blow-jobs with Tony and Jonesy?" Parker asked calmly.

"I traded with Jonesy," Joe replied, and he realized he was definitely in
the present, lying there naked in that damn interrogation chair with a damn
hard-on.  Hell, these guys had seen him throw a rod before.  "Tony never
sucked."

"He fucked you?"

"No."  Joe did not want to talk about getting his butt screwed.  "What's
the crime I'm supposed to have committed, damn it!"

"Joe needs some exercise and a change of scenery," Parker said to the other
men.  "Take over."

The men moved in, unhooked Joe from the chair, and hauled him to his feet,
shoving him through a doorway Joe had never noticed before at the rear of
the office.

The heavy door clanged shut behind him, and the black walls of the room
were solid and windowless, pulley-hung ropes dangling from the ceiling,
torture equipment laid out and waiting.

A fist smashed into Joe's midsection, and a new nightmare began.  The
athletic, bare-chested men surrounded him and punched at his nakedness with
their fists indiscriminately.  Fingers locked about his balls, and he
fought against the crippling pain stabbing upward from his groin.  The
cooperation collar and the lingering effects of the chair had him too woozy
to defend himself.  The chained cuffs on his wrists bit into his skin, and
maybe he screamed.

The beating continued, slowly, methodically.  Whit drifted up in front of
him, and Joe viewed the cold, rugged policeman with dazed curiosity.  Whit
was stripped to the waist, and his broad, full-curved chest was washed with
silky, flat-lying black hair.  Powerful muscles were etched across his
dark-tanned shoulders, and his physique narrowed sharply to his slim hips
and low-dipped trousers.  Joe remembered kneeling in front of the brawny
cop and sucking his huge, aroused cock, and he wondered if he was smiling.

Whit drew the long, wide belt from the loops of his uniform pants, wrapped
the buckle end in his strong paw, moved out of sight behind Joe.  Joe
braced himself, sensing what was to come: the whistle as the belt cut
through the air, the brutal snap of leather against his bare skin, the
searing pain slashing across his shoulders, the long pause while the agony
turned to numbness.

Then another stroke.  And another.  The flogging continued at a steady,
calculated pace.

The belt ate its way down Joe's quivering back and across his
tight-clenched ass, and then it returned to his shoulders and began
crisscrossing the earlier crimsoned streaks.  Joe thrashed helplessly,
gasped, cried out, groaned, edged toward unconsciousness.  "Whit," he
hissed at last.  "Please, Whit!"

The whipping ended abruptly, and Joe sagged on the bindings holding him
upright.  He blinked, and he was still in the original interrogation room,
still helmeted by the machine that ate into his memories.  The beating had
not actually occurred--Joe had dreamed it--and the thought occurred to him
that a machine which could make him relive his own memories as if they were
happening then and there, all over again, could certainly make him live
through some new scenario as if it were real too.

"Yeah, he sure didn't like that punishment scene," someone said from far
away, a smirking tone.

Joe blinked again, still panting, slowly focusing: the windowless
interrogation room, the half-naked guards, blond and tanned and grinning
Chet, redheaded Lefty--and Parker's face bent down over him.  "Ready to
confess?" Parker asked with his usual coolness.

"I--I can't," Joe mumbled, as the guards unhooked him from the chair and
pulled him to his feet.  "I ... don't know what to confess to."

"*The Police are Your Pals*," the interrogator quoted automatically and
turned to Lefty.  "Want to take this stud off the way he took your load
yesterday, farm-boy?"

Lefty nodded and grinned.  "I surely do!"

Joe saw the grinning youth come forward eagerly, shirtless, wide shoulders,
lean physique, running his fingers over Joe's sweat-glistening chest,
dropping to his knees in front of Joe.

Joe looked down and saw that he had a hard-on, and he could not make sense
of why he had thrown a rod during that flogging scene they had put in his
head.  And then Lefty was licking and sucking his stiff dick, gulping,
swallowing, wanting his cum.

Joe remembered when he had gone down on Lefty and the way Chet had come up
behind the aroused farm-boy to embrace him as he orgasmed, and Joe felt a
man lock up against his back the same way, holding him tightly in a special
way, like Chet had held Lefty.

Whit?

Suddenly Joe was spurting his cum-load like a damn kid--like he had shot
off in school when those forgotten studs had taken him off--like when it
had been more than just getting his rocks off--

Whit!

Everything ended in fire and skyrockets--and darkness--and Joe must have
passed out because the next thing he knew, he was coming back to life back
in his small, dimly lit cell.

Joe lay face-down on the narrow cot, and a shaft of light speared from the
doorway as someone entered.

"Joe?"  Lefty's gentle drawl.  "Whit gave me some stuff to put on your
wrists."  Pause.  "If it's okay for me to spread it on you, it'll help you
to heal faster."

"Go ahead."  Joe rolled onto his back and lay flat on the bare mattress,
arms and legs spread, eyes closed, and he felt the youth sit beside him,
then the ointment-cool fingers sliding over his forearm.  Joe examined his
wrist as Lefty smoothed salve over it.  He must have struggled against the
restraints during the punishment dream and torn up the skin on his wrists.
And now Lefty was applying dollops of cool ointment to the angry whelps.
"You always take care of the guys Parker and them interrogate?"

"Nope, you're the first.  Whit said to."

"How come?"

"Danged if I know.  He has a style all his own."  Lefty worked the medicine
into Joe's raw skin gently, and he gave an easy laugh.  "It was mighty
pleasin', first havin' you suck me off so fine, an' then suckin' you in
return today."

"I blasted my load like crazy," Joe admitted softly.  "It was kinda
special."

"That 'cause Whit was holdin' on to you from the rear?"

"Shit!" Joe exclaimed, then relaxed again.  "What's Whit's story, Lefty?"

"I ain't never figured him out," the drawling youth answered thoughtfully.
"I do believe he's got his rocks off with almost every feller he's wished,
me included, but he don't go back for seconds, know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Joe murmured.  "Fuck 'em and forget 'em, right?"

"Somethin' like that."  Lefty spread the soothing ointment over Joe's other
wrist.  "Only for Whit it ain't because of an Adjustment Appointment.  The
police are exempt from that, and Whit don't wish to go.  Fer him, it's a
personal thing."  Joe paused, then snickered.  "I've got a feelin' Whit
wishes to fuck your little tail."

"No way!  I don't go that route."

"Dang!" Lefty gasped in surprise.  "You ain't no way still a virgin back
there, are ya?"

"Hell, no!  It's just that ...  Well, I don't like it, and I don't go that
route."

"That first one to fuck you--was it that feller at your school?  The one
you told us about?  Tony?  Or, maybe Jonesy?  Or--"

"No," Joe whispered, remembering.  "Don't tell Parker, okay?  I don't want
that damned machine digging though those memories."  He took a deep breath.
"It was ... just before my graduation to citizenship ...  Steve and me in
the gym ...  And the coach ..."


5.

In the late afternoon, Joe strolled across the campus toward the gym.  He
was set to graduate in just a couple of months, and he already had received
notice of the appointment date for his Civil Security registration, where
he would be evaluated for his stud-rating, issued his adult identification
card, assigned his own apartment and job, and given his very first Attitude
Adjustment treatment.  Yeah, he thought with a grin, no more school and no
more living in the damned crèche.  Yeah, he was practically out of there
already; soon he would be adjusted and all adult-aloof, no longer at the
mercy of these hormone-driven emotions he felt so intensely--too intensely,
maybe.

He wondered how many times he had headed for the gym after school lately.
Yeah, he had gotten his rocks off with plenty of guys in plenty of places,
but he liked the old shower room best--horny young studs hopping around all
soaped up, getting turned-on and showing off their rigid dicks, maybe
wrestling together to see who was stronger, jerking each other off,
sucking.  Shit, Joe had had his share of blow-jobs, and he himself did not
mind going down on a rugged, demanding athlete now and then either.

Maybe Vince would be there today.

Vince was a real rough-and-tough son of a bitch, and he had surprised the
hell out of Joe by wanting to sixty-nine.  That had been a really wild
experience, Joe remembered, getting Vince's load and shooting his own down
Vince's throat seconds later.

Joe entered the gym and went directly to the team locker room, and his
prick tingled with excitement as he stripped.  Yeah, all he had to do was
think about sex and his dick began to get ready.

Naked, he strode down the tiled corridor to the showers.  The room was
empty.  "Dammit!"  Hell, maybe some of the guys would show up soon.

Joe flicked on a shower tap, adjusted the temperature, and stepped beneath
it, wetting down completely, and then he began lathering himself with soap.
His palms rubbed over his wide, strong shoulders; muscular arms; the
increasing hair around his cock and on his broad, firm-arched chest;
hard-tipped nipples; washboard-firm stomach; heavy-shafted, dangling cock;
heated balls.  Joe started to reach down and--

"Hi, Joe."  A blond, swimmer-built youth was entering the room, Joe's age,
bronzed and prick-swinging naked.  "What's new?"

"Nothing.  How about you, Steve?"

"Coach is pissed at me.  He keeps giving me extra laps in the pool."

"Tough shit, pal."

Steve was the star of the swimming team, and Joe could not help grinning as
he remembered that time the kid had hustled into the showers after school,
wide-eyed and virgin-innocent when he realized he was interrupting a
circle-jerk.  And the guys had jumped Steve and held him.  Steve had gasped
and cursed and laughed, thinking this was a game; and it was in a way, just
not the type Steve had thought; and he got really quiet really quick when
his cock start to harden and he realized what was happening.  He protested
a little, just at first, but they had held him, jerked him off, and made
him shoot his load, making him moan and cry out in pleasure as they
initiated Steve's virgin cock into their all-male world of sex-games.  And
Steve had sure come back for more after that.

"What's so funny, Joe?"

"I was just thinking about the first time you found us guys messing around
in here," Joe chuckled.  "You acted pissed-off as hell, but you sure shot a
big load!"

"That was a long time ago," Steve muttered, though in fact that first time
had been just a few months before, and Joe decided not to correct him.
Steve looked down as he started to wash himself.  "It was--you know ...  No
one talks about that kind of thing at my crèche.  Back then, I'd never
thought about jerking another guy, much less doing other stuff ..."

"Yeah."  For an instant, he remembered his own first introduction--trading
hand-jobs with Ron, the surprise that someone else did it, pumping the cum
from his nuts--and Ron had disappeared a long time ago, nearly a year.
"You haven't been down here with us guys recently."

"Coach has been keeping me busy.  He's been a real bastard lately."  Steve
stayed hunched over, soaping his thighs and sun-bronzed legs.  "And
there're other things a guy can do besides jerk."

"Yeah?" Joe asked with a snicker, playing innocent as he fumbled his heavy
prick openly.  "What kind of things?"

"Things," Steve repeated nervously, and he was obviously watching Joe's
swelling cock.  "You know."

"Maybe.  You got something in mind?"

Joe could see the youth's thick, pink-tipped dick quiver and start to rise,
and Joe was nearly ready to grab the sexy swimmer and strong-arm hustle him
into the towel room when he saw a burly figure appear in the
doorway--*crap!*--the coach!

"What the hell're you punks doing?" the man growled.

"Nothing."  Joe had spun automatically to face his shower spray and cover
his surging hard-on.  "Nothing, Coach."

"Steve," the coach ordered, "I didn't say you could go.  Get your damn ass
back into that swimming pool.  I want twenty-five more laps, and I want
them now!"

"Uh ...  Yes, sir," Steve muttered and headed for the pool.

"Joe, you dry off and get to my office pronto."  Coach turned away.  "I
want to talk to you.  On the double, you hear me?"

Joe obeyed automatically.  He rinsed off, went into the towel room, willed
his urgent cock to go soft as he dried quickly, wrapped the damp terrycloth
about his hips, and hurried to the office.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?"

"That's what I told you, punk."  He came out of the shadows.  The coach was
in his early thirties, with buzz-cut hair and craggy features, and he wore
loose gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that outlined his mature, muscular
physique.  His office was plain: a desk at one side, venetian blinds closed
across the window behind it, shadowed photos of school teams going back
years on the walls.  He moved behind Joe and snapped the door lock sharply.
"You and Steve were messing around in the showers, right?"

"No," Joe replied, thinking, *Not yet anyway*.  "Hell, we weren't doing
anything."

"Bullshit!"  Coach peeled off his shirt, and his shoulders were broad and
solid, his full-curved chest glazed with slick, black hair.  "You figure on
graduating in a few months, right?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You won't make it if you flunk Physical Ed.  I haven't sent up your grades
yet."  The coach viewed the towel-clad teenager coldly.  "Understand me?"

"I--I've done okay ...  Uh, haven't I?"

"That's up to me."  The coach brought one hand up to his crotch, groping
meaningfully.  "I'm no punk fooling around in the gym showers."

Fascinated, Joe watched the man's fingers rise to the drawstring at his
hips and tug the knot undone, and the coach's loose sweatpants slipped down
his muscled legs.  He was naked underneath, and his heavy cock swung from a
broad nest of pubic hair at his crotch, the wide crown rimmed by a thick
fold of foreskin.

Wait, Joe blinked, were full citizens supposed to act this intensely
horny-hot, like some sex radical?  "Uh, Coach--"

"You want to graduate, don't you?" the older man interrupted pointedly.
"Take off that damn towel."

"Yes, sir."  Joe pulled the towel from about his waist and let it dangle
from his grip, and his prick bobbed forward, hardening and rising in spite
of himself.  "I--I can't help it ...  It's got a mind of its own sometimes
...  You remember what it was like before you--?"

"Horny, huh, punk?"  He studied the youth's nakedness intently.  "You've
got plenty of meat and a damn good build.  The other punks in the shower
room must like that, huh?"

"We just horse around," Joe mumbled, staring down at his rising iron.
"Jerk off, stuff like that."

"Bullshit!" the man declared.  "You're too grown up to settle for kid
stuff, right?"  He braced his hands on his hips.  "Give me the truth!"

"Yes, sir!"  Joe confessed, and the words started pouring out without
strain, under orders from the demanding coach facing him.  "I used to beat
my meat a lot all by myself, and then I got to doing it with other guys.
Then somebody told me about the shower room.  I like it like that, getting
stripped down all the way and messing around with a bunch of hard-up guys
and--"

"Sucking cock?" the coach barked, pointing his now-rigid prick toward the
Joe.  "On your knees, punk!  You're gonna make love to my meat,
cock-sucker!  Worship it!"

Joe obeyed.  He sank down and stared at the aroused cock held toward him.
He gripped it and brought it to his lips.  He took the tip into his mouth
and tasted the heated maleness, and then he suctioned collar-deep on the
powerful shaft.  He looked up at the rugged, muscle-tensed coach who was
stud-dominating him, and he saw the look of triumph on the man's face.
Strangely aroused, Joe ran his palms upward over the brawny, masculine
naked body, and then the coach grabbed Joe's head with both hands and
jammed him all the way down on the rigid column.  Joe choked, not at the
size of the man's dick but at the unexpected fury, as it drove into his
throat again and again.

"Punk!  Just a horny punk!"  The coach pulled free suddenly and slapped his
spit-glistening meat sharply across Joe's upturned cheek.  "You love
sucking a real man-sized rod, right?"

"Y-yes, sir," Joe half-whispered automatically.

"Say it!  Say you love my big, hard dick!"

"I, uh, love it, sir!"

"That's more like it," he gloated, stepping back.  "Stand up and bend over,
cock-sucker.  I want to screw your ass!"

"No way!  Please, Coach ...  I--I've never been fucked."

"You're going to do whatever I say if you want to graduate," he reminded
Joe, and he grabbed the youth's towel and spread it over the top of the
desk at the side of the room.  "You can lean on this.  I don't want
pecker-tracks all over my damn desk if you squirt your load."

Joe looked at the naked, cock-hot man, then down at his own inflamed prick.
He was about to graduate, and the state had already scheduled the
appointment that would mark his official transition into citizenship, but
that would all get delayed, maybe for months, even a year, if the coach
flunked him in Phys-Ed.  But what choice did he have?  Joe felt numb as he
moved to the desk.

The coach went to a cabinet, brought out a well-used tube of lubricant, and
smeared his shaft with the ooze.  Joe took a deep breath and bent forward,
bracing his outstretched arms on the towel-covered desk.

"Stretch out.  Lay flat," the man ordered, "and spread your legs."

"Yes, sir." Joe planted his feet farther apart and sprawled forward on the
desk, and he knew his virgin butt was fully exposed.  "Honest, Coach, I've
never--"

"Then it's high time your little ass got reamed out, ain't it."  Coach
stepped up behind Joe and gripped his slim, pale ass cheeks, digging into
the muscled flesh and pushing them apart.  "Yeah, you're gonna be a
full-fledged citizen soon.  It's time you got a man-sized dick fucked into
you!"

"Please, Coach--" Joe broke off as the blunt-crowned ram thrust against his
sensitive muscle-ring, and he clenched his eyes shut at the first stab of
pain.  "No!  Don't!  Please--it's too big!"

"Bullshit!  You're gonna be a citizen soon.  You can take it."

"Ow!"

Coach speared the ruthless invader into Joe brutally.

"Fuck, Coach!  Lemme go!"

"Take it, punk!"

"Aaagh!" Joe cried out as the man's hard-on drove into him, and he clawed
at the edge of the desk, pinned down, teeth clenched.  "You son of a
bitch!"

"You love my cock, remember?" the coach taunted, forcing his dick deeper
into the thrashing youth relentlessly.  "You loved it down your throat, and
you're gonna love it up your ass!  There!  You've got it all, punk."  He
ground his crotch against Joe's quivering butt.

Through the wall of pain, Joe heard himself make an incoherent sound.

"Get used to it!"  Coach slammed down, plastering himself against Joe's
back, and his voice sounded hoarse and excited in the youth's ear.  "Now,
you horny punk, I'm going to show you how a real man fucks."  He began
hip-pumping ruthlessly.  "Yeah, I'm going to teach you."

Joe groaned with each penetration and he tried not to think about what was
happening to him.  He tried to make his body relax--he'd heard somewhere
getting ass-fucked hurt worse if things tensed up back there.  He was
stretched out naked on the coach's towel-draped desk, and the brawny man's
rod was hammering into his guts.  Rough fingers pawed at his bared flesh,
and the sex-heat lingered in his loins, but his always-ready prick had
retreated into softness, dangling heavily between his spread thighs.  He
wondered how he could cream and leave pecker tracks without getting a
hard-on.  "Dammit, Coach!" he hissed, almost whimpered.  "Agh!  Finish it!
Get it over with!"

"You want my cum up your butt?" the man growled triumphantly.  "Beg me for
it, punk!"

"Please ... sir," Joe panted through the pain.  "Please let me have your
cum ..."

"Yeah!  Damn right!"

Numb, dazed, Joe felt the coach's arms embrace him, with the convulsing
column still jammed into his tail.  He was getting accustomed to the pain,
and coach's cock inside him was starting to set off a new feeling, a
fullness with little sharp jolts of pleasure.  But before he could decide
whether he liked this new sensation, Joe felt the body-quivers of a male in
climax against his back, heard the stifled howls of ecstasy, knew the man's
sperm was spurting into him, felt the man's lips and tongue caressing his
shoulders.

Joe understood the sensations his fucker was enjoying, the balls-hot
explosions, the skyrocketing and the ultimate exhaustion--and Joe felt a
weird pride because he, his body, had taken the coach through all that
special ecstasy--and now the once-demanding man was licking and nuzzling
his victim's sweat-dripping skin--and Joe had not popped his load.

"Yeah, punk!  That's the way," the coach muttered at last, his cock
softening quickly, and he pulled back, letting it slither free of Joe's
ass.  "Damn good fuck, huh?"

"Yeah," Joe murmured drily.  "Great."

"I figured it was time you got your cherry popped."  He sauntered to the
wash basin in the corner of the office and began washing, his back to the
youth.  "You'll know what to expect next time."

"Huh?"  Joe straightened and grabbed the towel from the desk, wiping the
grease-slick cleft in his ass, then wrapping the cloth about his waist.
"What do you mean, 'next time'?"

"Until you graduate, you're going to bend over any time I want to plug your
tail.  Otherwise, you don't graduate, right?"  The coach turned, drying his
shriveled prick and grinning.  "You're one hell of a stud, but from here
on, you're going to spread your buns for a man, not those other punks in
the shower room.  You're going to suck, get fucked, anything I say, any
time I say."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Clear out of here, punk.  Go take a shower and get back to your
crèche."

Joe left the coach's office in a daze.  The first penetration of his virgin
asshole had been painful and brutal, but before that, he had knelt and
licked and sucked the man's aroused genitals willingly.  He recalled the
way his coach had growled, *Make love to my meat, cock-sucker!  Worship
it!* Yeah, Joe had obeyed the rugged, mature stud--and he decided being
bent over the desk and fucked was kind of wild, even if it had hurt like
hell, especially at first.

He peeled off his towel, tromped into the shower room, and doused and
lathered his nakedness.  His asshole was tender and sensitive to his touch,
and his balls were still working overtime, his cock plumping a bit as he
remembered and threatening to go full-hard.  "Shit!" he declared, wishing
he had gotten his rocks off when the coach had.

"Hey, Joe!"  Steve, the swimmer-built blond came hustling in from the pool,
nude and dripping wet.  "I thought you'd be gone by now."  He hopped under
the spray, bronzed and prick-swinging.  "What'd Coach want?"

"Nothing."

"How about picking up where we left off?" Steve asked, toying with his dick
meaningfully.

"I dunno.  It's getting late.  I should be heading back to my crèche."
He stared at the swimmer's cock.  "You should too."

"It's not that late."  Steve eyed Joe quizzically for a moment, then
snickered.  "Hey!  I bet the coach fucked you!"

"Shut up."

"Joe got his ass screwed!" Steve chanted mockingly.  "Joe got his ass
screwed!"

"Shut up, dammit!"  Joe glared at the young blond, then blinked as a sudden
thought struck him.  "How do you know about the coach?"

"Shit, he's plugged most of the guys around here."

"Including you?"  Joe felt his cock begin to stiffen in earnest, and he
reached down to finger it, grinning.  "You like getting fucked, huh?"

"I--" Steve hesitated, his gaze locked on Joe's expanding prick.  "Holy
shit!  You've got more meat than Coach does.  He's always bragging about
being 'man-sized,' but his hard-on isn't near as big as yours."

"I didn't notice."  He flipped his now-rigid meat at the staring blond.
"Want to spread your buns, Steve?"

"Maybe ... if you slick it up real good with plenty of lube first."

"Sure, buddy."  He nodded over one shoulder.  "Back there, in the towel
room."

Steve headed for the other room, and Joe felt a hungry eagerness grip his
guts.  Yeah, he was going to fuck ass for the first time!

Joe hurried after Steve.  Remembering how the coach had greased himself,
Joe grabbed the nearly empty bottle of lubricant someone had stashed behind
a stack of clean towels for guys who liked to make their hand-jobs slick,
and he applied a generous layer to his solid hard-on.

The trim young swimmer was on his hands and knees on the towel-strewn
floor, blond and naked and willing, wanting it doggy-style, and Joe knelt
behind him, hoping to hell that Steve would not recognize his inexperience.

"Lemme line it up for you," Steve murmured, reaching back to grasp Joe's
slippery shaft and guide it into the narrow, shadowed cleft.  "Okay, go
ahead!"

"Yeah!"  Joe shivered at the sensation of pressing his heated cock-head
against the puckered opening, and then he thrust with sureness.  His rod
slithered head-deep into the clenching flesh-ring, and he gasped, fighting
to control his flaring sex-pleasure.  "Fuck!"

"C'mon, man," Steve hissed impatiently.  "Fuck me hard."

Joe remembered his own pain-filled cry when the coach's thick meat had
rammed into him, and then Joe was easing forward, sliding his cock deeper
and deeper, inch-by-inch, enjoying the spine-tingling experience without
rushing it, deeper, all the way to the pubes around his cock-base!  He
looked down at the blond hunched before him and the slim, pale ass cheeks
pressing against his crotch, and he reached down to run his palms over the
swimmer's shower-damp back.  "Okay, Steve?"

"You bet.  Screw me hard, buddy."

"Okay.  Yeah."

Holding Steve in place, Joe hip-pumped slowly, drawing his prick back to
the flange and then plunging in again, and he heard the swimmer's pleased
gasp as the potent cock filled him.  Once more, Joe remembered the coach's
brutal, thrashing attack, and he wondered why the hell the man had wanted
to rush anything that felt so damned good!

"More, Joe.  C'mon--stop teasing and really fuck me!"

"Okay," Joe said.  He realized Steve was enjoying this as much as he was,
and he rocked forward, blanketing the youth with his sweating nakedness as
he continued his steady thrusts, trying to hold to a steady rhythm but
finding his hips kept speeding up, as if his body craved more speed, more
depth, more sensation.

"Man," Steve sighed, shoving his butt back to meet each penetration.
"Fuck!  Fuck!  *Fuck!*"

Joe locked his arms about the excited blond, and he gave in to his body's
demands for more because those were his demands too, and Joe gave up caring
about Steve's pleasure.  Joe thrust into that ass, deep-dicking it as
quickly as he could.  He did not want to rush the fuck-- but, dammit, he
needed to get his rocks off, as soon as possible!

Without breaking his clumsy rhythm, Joe figured out how to kneel between
Steve's spread legs.  Then he managed to settle on his haunches and dragged
the younger stud back to sit on his full-stiff cock.  Steve's body took
over most of the motion, making his ass bob up and down on Joe's erection,
making that dick hard-ram into him.  Joe ran his hands over the swimmer's
slick, broad-plated chest and tight, small nipples, then downward over his
muscle-marked stomach and into his crotch.  Steve's prick was fully hard,
lean and straining, and his balls were pulled up cum-tight.  Joe remembered
how his own cock had gone soft when Coach plowed into his virgin asshole
earlier, but Steve sure did not react that way.  Joe wrapped his hand
around Steve's dick and just held on, letting the jerks and thrusts of
Steve's body move his cock inside Joe's fist.

"Fuck me!" Steve choked, thrashing in his embrace.  "Yeah, man!  Fuck!"

Steve's hand wrapped around Joe's, both of them stroking Steve's dick.  Joe
felt Steve's rod quiver in his grip, and then Steve's cum was pouring from
it, spurting and dribbling down over Joe's fingers.  The need to pop his
own load overwhelmed him, and Joe hammered his prick into the young blond's
pulsing asshole.  "Ah!"  Then his climax was starting.  The first long,
intense blast of sperm!  "Aw!"  The second
explosion--another--another--again and again and again.  "Ah!"  Joe slammed
Steve face-down on the piled towels, and he hurtled into the total fury of
his orgasm, the all-male summit, the ecstasy, then the slow and exhausted
retreat, the emptiness.

Joe lay plastered against the trim swimmer's back, holding Steve's
cum-soaked cock, his own still-firm dick locked in the youth's tail.  Joe
had fucked a stud for the first time, and it had been--

"Great," Steve murmured.  "That was real great!"

"Yeah."  Joe drew a deep breath, descending to reality.  "You got your
rocks off, huh?  So'd I."

Steve's head hung limp as a ragdoll's.  "I've never done that before,
popped my load just from getting fucked.  Want to do it again?"

"Right now?" Joe asked, amused.

"Anytime, Joe.  Anytime."

Now, years later, Joe's head began to clear for a moment, and he was still
under arrest, still in the interrogation room, still strapped in that damn
chair, and he realized everything he had just seen and experienced was just
a dredged-up memory that damned machine made him relive.  Joe blinked and
saw Parker's face looking at him. He heard one of the shirtless guards say,
"Yeah, it's really got its hooks in his head now," and Parker asked him if
he was ready to confess, and Lefty said--

Joe was in his cell, lying naked on his cot while the farmer-faced youth
rubbed salve on his raw wrists.  "Man," Lefty sighed.  "I surely wish I'd
been the one to plug your ass fer the first time.  You've got a mighty
pleasin' little butt."

"I don't like getting fucked.  I don't go that route."

"Maybe you just ain't been fucked proper-like," Lefty suggested eagerly.
"That's somewhat the way I felt before I met up with Chet."

"Chet fucks you, Lefty?"

"We take turns," he admitted cheerfully.  "It don't seem proper not to
share each other."  He hesitated and wet his lips, suddenly thoughtful.  "I
reckon Chet'd be pleased to plow your ass, too.  I'd best ask Whit if we
can both hump you."

"Forget it," Joe muttered automatically, and then he turned his head to
look up at the drawling youth.  "Wait, what's Whit got to do with it?"

"Parker says Whit's in charge of you."  Lefty hopped to his feet abruptly.
"I'd best get back to Chet.  I ain't sure whose turn it is tonight, but I
do believe it'll be mighty pleasin', either way!"

"Lefty--"

"I reckon Whit'll want to plug your ass before Chet and me get a chance,"
he drawled, tromping toward the door.  "It's a good thing you've been
plowed before, 'cause Whit's somewhat large, as you know from havin' sucked
him."  He stopped in the doorway and sucked in an audible breath, then
spoke softly.  "Whit'll know.  He'll know you've been fucked ... and I do
believe he'll know that the first time with your coach wasn't the only
time!"

Lefty left, the heavy door slide-slamming shut behind him, and Joe was in
the semidarkness, rolling over on his stomach, cock-hard, remembering
Whit's sex-hot prick in his mouth, and the other times the coach in school
had ordered him into the office to worship the coach's dick and get fucked,
and the times Joe had screwed Steve.  Sure, Joe had told himself every time
that he would never again bend over for that damn coach again, but the next
time the man demanded it--well, Joe wanted to graduate, so he did it.
Hell, Joe admitted, he found what the coach made him do kind of exciting,
being forced to kneel in front of the burly man, licking the sweat off his
balls and sucking his prick, sprawling across the desk to get his ass
plowed ruthlessly, like the coach was a damned sex-rebel or something.  But
Joe never creamed from getting plugged, not the way Steve did.

Then one night just before graduation, the coach threw a beer-bust in the
gym for the guys, and before long they were stripping down and horsing
around.  *Damn right*, Joe remembered, *every stud there knew how to
party!*

The entire gym building was in semi-darkness except for the lights spilling
in from the hallways and the nightglow from the skylights overhead, and Joe
felt a weird excitement from everything: the beer, knowing he was breaking
curfew by not being back at his crèche on time, the naked youths, and
the freedom of knowing they would never all get together again--one last
party to blow off steam together before graduation, Adjustments, jobs, the
obligations of citizenship.  He drifted into the shower room with some of
his friends and, in spite of the dimness, he could see a couple of guys he
had never seen nude and cock-hard before.

"Hey, Joe!"

A hand groped his genitals, and he grinned as he recognized the president
of the student body, handsome and athletic--and not hung worth a damn.  Joe
groped in return and wandered away, and a couple of the guys were trading
hand-jobs in the corner, snickering and showing off, just warming each
other up.  Joe lathered himself, and he was surrounded by horny young
males, most on the cusp of citizenship like him but the coach had invited
several of the younger members of the athletics teams too.  Someone went
down on him, and Joe shot his first load of the night, too damn fast.

Someone else palm-stroked Joe's ass and fingered into the cleft between his
buns, and Joe pulled away fast.  "Knock it off!" he growled and headed for
the towel room.  "Fuck!"

The coach had fucked him--and when Joe reached the towel room, the beer keg
was flowing, and the coach was standing there, screwing Steve, out where
anyone could see.  Joe dried off and had some more beer, and Vince was
coming toward him from the shadows, rugged-built and looking so damn horny.
Hell, they had traded blow-jobs before.

Joe sank to his knees and sucked Vince's steel-hard prick, locked between
his tree-trunk thighs, cum belching down his throat--

"Joe ...  Shit, I want to fuck you!--Wanna make love to you--and--"

Joe wondered what it would be like, having Vince's massive cock shoved up
into his guts.  *Make love to you*.  And then another stud was taking
Vince's place, and Joe sucked him off.

Hell, tonight nobody gave a damn about who was doing what!

Joe grabbed more beer and wandered through the darkened gym, and naked guys
were all over the place, getting their rocks off any way they wanted to.
One of the younger athletes grabbed Joe's dick in the locker room and
pumped it eagerly.  "Suck!" Joe ordered.  "Get down there and--"

"Shit, man!  I don't do that sort of stuff!"

"You will," Joe said wisely, grinning at the startled youth.  "Before you
graduate, you'll let go and do everything."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because last year when I was your age, I was as dumb as you are.  I wised
up fast, and you will too,"

A couple of studs were trading blow-jobs in the shadows, maturing bodies
clamped together, and Joe headed for the urinals to take a leak.  Too much
beer, dammit!  In the tiled latrine area, a bunch of the guys were messing
around in the corner.  Joe ignored them and sidled up to the nearest
urinal, and he had already started to pee when he saw the burly male body
stretched out next to the urinal, motioning for Joe to aim his cock that
way: Louie, the star of the hockey team.  And Joe shrugged and figured what
the hell, so he turned and pissed all over him, and Louie pulled up to lick
the last droplets from Joe's cock-head as he finished pissing.

What the hell, right?

Joe started back for where the action was, and the coach was there blocking
the doorway.

"Get your butt into my office, Joe."

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch!"  He knew he was set to graduate.  "No
more of that shit, Coach!"

"I just want to talk," the man murmured, slightly drunk, his gaze fixed on
the naked youth.

"What about?"

"You and me.  Now that you're graduating--becoming a citizen--" He spun
away.  "C'mon."

With a shrug, Joe followed, and as they went through the dim-lit locker
room, he saw Vince screwing the handsome student body president in the ass.
Joe wondered what being in the student body president's place would be
like, having Vince's massive rod pushing into his hole--and, maybe, fucking
Vince afterward--

Joe went into the coach's office and heard the door close behind him, the
lock snapping sharply, and then he was facing the dark, burly man.

"Okay, Coach, what's up?"

"I want us to be real buddies," the coach mumbled, head down.  "You know
...  Partners ...  Sex-buddies."

"Bullshit.  That's sex-rebel talk, Coach.  You're drunk."

"I mean it."  Without raising his head, he put both hands on the broad arcs
of Joe's chest and stroked them slowly.  "It would be damn good, you and me
together."

Joe watched the man's fingers trickle downward over his nakedness, finally
reaching his crotch and caressing Joe's genitals for the first time, and
his cock stiffened automatically.  Silent, the coach dropped to his knees
and ran his lips over Joe's all-powerful cock.

Joe stared down at the mature, rugged stud, the son of a bitch who had made
him suck cock, the burly bastard who had forced him to bend over across the
desk repeatedly and get fucked.  Now he was sucking Joe's cock and talking
about them being together--like lovers--or sex-rebels.  *Coach must be
crazy--or too damn drunk*, Joe thought, but he liked the idea of Coach
being on his knees.  "Make love to my meat, you cock-sucker!"  Joe's voice
rasped as he repeated the words the coach had used that first time.
"Worship it!"

"Yes, sir!"

The man kissed the tip of Joe's fully hard prick, took it into his mouth,
sucked, all the way to the hilt.  He pulled back and tongue-lapped Joe's
tightening balls, ducked down and licked back along the flesh-ridge leading
to the teenager's butt.  Joe turned around, presented his butt to Coach.
Coach spread Joe's ass cheeks and buried his face mouth-first in the
youth's tail.  "Aw, man!"  Joe felt ten feet tall, bulletproof,
invulnerable, standing over the bastard stud who had used him for months,
the man now reaming his asshole with a hot, worshipping tongue!  Joe loved
the feeling of superiority over the fucker who had busted his virgin ass!
Joe was bossing the coach around, and he was going to work the coach over
and make him beg.  "On your feet, shit-face!" Joe ordered.  "It's your turn
to bend over your damn desk!"

Ignoring the man, Joe went to the cabinet and got the lubricant, and when
he turned back, Coach was already sprawled forward on the desk, the pale
curves of his butt practically luminous in the semi-shadows.  Without
emotion, the youth smeared ointment on his throbbing dick and moved into
position, and he did not bother to warn the muscle-tensed stud before
pile-driving his cock into Coach's exposed asshole.

The man gave a choked cry at the fierce, brutal penetration, and Joe did
not give a damn.  He screwed all the way into the straining flesh-ring.  He
copied everything Coach had done to him, and Joe cursed him and made him
beg.  Yeah, he was pissed off at the son of a bitch, and now he was venting
that anger on his submitting coach.  "Damn ass-wipe!  Ass-licking coach!"

"Yeah, Joe!  Anything you say!"

"Damn right!"

Joe plowed his rigid dick into his victim's guts again and again steadily,
fiercely, angrily.  He corkscrewed his hips, spreading Coach's ass-lips to
their limit.  He fucked as hard as he could, ignoring the man's agonized
groans.  Joe was the king of Coach's ass, and he did not give a damn, and
he was getting his revenge and getting his rocks off at the same time.

After a long time and an awful lot of work, Joe finally shot his load into
the stud who had been his coach and master.  Big deal.  All over.

Nothing.

He lay flat against the man's back, sweating and cock-softening, and he
sure as hell did not feel anything like he had when he had screwed Steve!

"Anything you say," the coach whispered again.

"Huh?"

"Whip my ass, fuck my butt ...  Anything you want, Joe."  Coach took an
audible breath.  "I love you, stud!"

"Bullshit!"  Maybe Joe was not a full-fledged citizen yet, but he sure knew
enough to understand that what Coach was saying was dangerous, illegal
stuff.  Joe wanted to be a good citizen, not a sex-rebel.  Getting off was
one thing--allowed, commendable even--and youths who had not reached the
age of citizenship yet were allowed to feel strong emotions--hell,
adolescence had generally been nothing but strong hormone-driven emotions
and horniness for Joe--but staying partnered together as adults, citizens
shacking up, forming dangerous emotional bonds--that was a different
situation entirely.  No, Joe wanted to be a good citizen, wanted to have
the emotional distance that was the hallmark of a good citizen.  *Fuck 'Em
and Forget 'Em*, as the slogan declared.

Joe jerked his prick free and stepped back from the coach, as though
fearing maybe the man's sex-rebel ideas were contagious.  But Joe could not
keep from grinning as he saw the coach's cum dribbling down the side of the
desk.  Yeah, the rugged bastard had gotten his rocks off right along with
Joe, just from getting fucked!

Joe shrugged and sauntered from the office, heading back for the showers.

A couple of the guys were lathering each other under one of the sprays, and
Joe washed up separately.  His cock dangled heavily between his thighs,
spent; and for once, he did not feel like messing around.  He dried off and
strolled to his locker, where he found Vince sitting on the bench in front
of it, naked and stretching his shoulder.

"You screw the coach, Joe?"

"Yeah.  How'd you know?"

"He digs getting a big cock up his butt, and you've got a big one."  He
stretched again.  "I been plugging him a lot the last couple of
months. Fucked him earlier tonight too."

Joe staring at the muscular youth.  Vince was built like a son of a bitch,
tough as hell, and well-hung.

"Did the coach say he loved you, Vince?"

Vince shrugged.  "Sure.  So what?  I think he's just drunk."

"After I went down on you earlier tonight, you said you loved me."

"Crap!"  Vince chuckled, and he reached up to grasp Joe's loose-falling
cock and balls.  "I'm no sex-rebel.  What I said was I wanted to make love
to your dick ... and fuck your ass.  That's different."  He tightened his
grip.  "Ever sleep with a guy, Joe?"

"Hell, no!"  He tried to pull away as the fingers clenched painfully.
"Lemme go!"

"Graduation night, we're going to sleep together, Joe ...  And my cock's
going to make love to your ass, all night long.  Right?"

"Y-yes, sir!"  Joe understood Vince was repeating Coach's spiel, but he
found himself willing to go along with what the other athlete was offering.
After all, Joe's registration day and his first Adjustment Appointment had
already been scheduled in a few weeks.  Once he was registered and
adjusted, nothing he had done before would matter.  So he might as well try
what Vince was offering.  In a few weeks, none of it would matter any
longer.  Who gave a damn what a couple of horny pre-citizens did, right?

"Graduation night," Vince repeated.  He let go of Joe's genitals and moved
off into the darkness.

Joe dressed, wondering if he were making the right decision, and he went
home to his crèche, sneaking in, and no one gave him any shit for
missing curfew because they knew he was about to graduate; and Joe jerked
off in the blackness of the crèche dorm, thinking about what spending a
whole night with Vince would be like--or with Coach ... or both.  Which
would he choose?

But neither one of them showed up for the graduation ceremony.  No Coach.
No Vince.

And somehow that pissed Joe off, so intensely that the anger and horniness
spooked him.  He was ashamed and angry that Coach and Vince had so easily
tempted him with something forbidden--furious with them, furious with
himself--and now this no-show betrayal from both of them?  Well, he would
show those fucking assholes, right?  Like the slogan said: *Fuck 'Em and
Forget 'Em!*

The next morning, he had called the Civil Security office and begged until
his registration appointment was moved up.  Two days later, still disgusted
by how easily he had been duped into wanting something lasting with Coach
or Vince--*Like some damn sex-rebel*, he swore at himself--Joe tromped into
the headquarters and got himself registered and stripped and stud-rated;
and that damn clerk waited too long and Joe started losing his hard-on, so
his stud-rating came out only an A-8 instead of the A-9 like it should have
been; and then naked Joe had been led into another area and told to sit
down in one of the mind-machine chairs, and the helmet moved into place,
and he had his first Adjustment.

And later, after being issued his first citizen work clothes, when he went
back to the crèche for the last time to pick up his few belongings as he
moved into his state-assigned apartment, the other, younger guys had teased
him about his adult-calm expression and *ooo*'ed and *aah*'ed their
admiration of his new identification card with the A-8 stud-rating, which
was still damned impressive even if it was not the A-9 he deserved--and Joe
had not felt a damn thing, not about his crèche-mates, not about Coach
or Vince or any of the others.

*Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em!*

And Joe began his adult life as a good citizen, starting his state-assigned
job the next day, and fucking studs when he was horny, no strings, no
commitments, and forgetting them afterward.  Then a few years later he had
been arrested and taken to this damn interrogation room where he was waking
up again, realizing he had been lost in remembering yet another memory,
with Parker and the rest leering at him, and that damn Whit leaning against
the wall and staring so inscrutably at him.


6.

Joe had lost track of time.  He had not seen daylight since he had entered
the building, and he had no idea of how long he had been a prisoner.

When the light went on in his small cell, he rose to shower and shave, the
grogginess of being half-asleep never fully going away because of that
cooperation collar that remained locked around his neck.  When he returned,
his breakfast was waiting on a tray inside the door panel, and he ate
alone.  Then Whit arrived, black-haired and swarthy and rugged as hell in
his crisp, tailored uniform, and he snapped the handcuffs to Joe's wrists.
Then Whit marched Joe, naked and not giving a damn who saw, down the long
corridors to the interrogation room, Whit's heels clicking on the flooring,
his strong hand resting on Joe's bare shoulder.

Parker was waiting to question Joe while Lefty pounded away at his
keyboard, and Whit stood by, watching and listening intently.

Sometimes Joe was sure the burly cop had a hard-on going inside his pants,
but Whit never offered it.  When Lefty or Chet or any of the others were
horny, Joe was forced to go down on them, but not Whit.

That damn machine sent Joe through another scene, always as though the
events were happening to him again for the first time.  Sometimes he
dreamed memories from his past; other times he dreamed of tortures,
nightmare punishments to make him confess, where Parker told the men to
take Joe into the other room, the room that did not exist when he was
awake, and they tortured and beat him.  Whit laid his belt across Joe's
back and ass methodically.  When Joe was returned to his cell, Lefty came
in to smear his battered skin with soothing ointment and drawl about
*wishin' to fuck that fine-lookin' tail*, though Joe wondered if he dreamed
those times with Lefty too.

Joe ate alone.  When the light went out, he slept.  When the light came on,
the routine began again.

"Remember Mike?" Parker asked abruptly during a questioning session.

"Yes."  Joe had worked like hell to forget about that damn Mike.  But
yesterday--if it had really been yesterday--a memory-scene had brushed up
against Mike, and Joe had known Parker would be sure to follow up, and now
he was.

"Tell me about him, Joe."

Joe had been twenty-one. a full citizen for a couple of years, working his
assigned job, getting his rocks off with guys, exercising at the local
state-run gym three or four nights a week.  And then he met Mike.

Mike was about Joe's age but shorter, black-haired, an almost boyish face,
a chunky muscle-solid build; and the first time Mike came tromping into the
gym, Joe felt the always-ready heat in his loins but did nothing about it.

Hell, Joe could find a stud any time he wanted some action--but Mike was
kind of special.  Yeah, right from their first meeting, Mike was damn
special.  Stripped down in the showers, his youthful features were
countered by the athletic maturity of his stocky physique, the glaze of
dark silk across his muscle-arched chest, the size of his heavy
genitals--and he had the damnedest hero-worshipping eyes when he met Joe's
gaze.

Night after night, they worked out together at the gym, and joked around
afterward, and had drinks at the local bar where one or both of them could
always get a blow-job from some anonymous guy in the sex room in the back,
but somehow they never got a blow-job from each other.  Doing sexual stuff
with someone he knew seemed too risky.  But, finally, Joe suggested that
they have a drink at his apartment, just the two of them, something he had
never done before.  He had always kept his home strictly for himself.

Mike seemed to fit in, hunkering around the place, growling and griping and
kidding Joe while they had a couple of drinks.

"Got a bed?" the chunky stud asked suddenly.

"Sure," Joe chuckled.  "Why?"

"I figure it's time we hit the sack together."  Mike faced him with a grin.
"I'm real good when it comes to sex, and little guys like me got a lot of
pep in the sack."

Joe found himself hugging Mike, or maybe Mike had locked up to him first,
and then they were hanging onto each other, kissing, moving into the
darkened bedroom, falling onto the bed together.  Hell, Joe had gotten his
rocks off with a hell of a lot of studs, but suddenly he was as excited as
a kid at his first jerk-off session!

And for once, he did not want to hurry.  Yes, his heart was a pounding
kettle drum and his prick was iron-hard, but he wanted to make this
experience with Mike last, not like the slam-bang, suck-or-fuck action he
had always wanted before.

With dreamlike slowness, Joe ran his palms over Mike's chunky physique, and
then he began unbuttoning the stocky young man's shirt.  Shit, Joe had seen
Mike stripped and cock-swinging in the gym locker room and showers plenty
of times, but for the first time he was touching the full chest, the
silky-sleek hairs, the dark nipples, the muscle-solid maleness--and Mike
was opening Joe's shirt and finger-stroking his bared flesh--and they both
peeled off their shirts and pulled up on their knees and grabbed onto each
other, face-to-face, and clamped together again, half-stripped.  Horny.
Willing.  Something more.

Joe's fingers found the front of Mike's work pants and opened them, and he
felt his own pants being unzipped and pushed down his thighs.  His rigid
cock snapped forward and met Mike's, and they continued to hold each other.
Joe wanted to say something, to tell Mike how special-great he felt--like
never before, dammit!--but the words refused to come.

They eased back down on the bed, squirmed out of their pants, lying
clenched together, stripped and prick-hard, horny as hell but not rushing
it.  Joe rose on one elbow and gazed down at Mike, the boyish face, the
short and stocky physique, the muscled shoulders and arms, the barreled,
hair-washed chest, the taut, breath-quivering abdomen, the full-swollen
cock arched back against the pale, flattened belly.

"You're hung damn big, Mike."

"So're you."

Joe bent down and ran his lips over Mike's chest, lapped at the hair and
hard-tipped nipples, worked lower and lower--until, yeah, he was sucking
Mike's nuts, his cock; and the hunky stud was twisting to suck him at the
same time.  Thrashing together, orgasm hit quickly, and they soared into
the full fury of their shared too-soon climaxes, and Joe drank down Mike's
exploding cum as he poured his own load into the hungry stud's throat.

Slowly, lazily, Joe descended from the summit, and he wondered if he had
ever felt this damn satisfied before.  He licked Mike's massive,
still-rigid prick clean and reluctantly released it, and he felt Mike roll
free from his own cock.

"Say something, Joe."

"I ... don't know what to say."

"Me, either."  Mike twisted back to nuzzle Joe's genitals, then laughed
happily.  "I never creamed that hard before."

"You shot like a damn geyser."

"So'd you.  We kinda match up, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess we do."

Joe lay back, unsure, half-afraid of these dangerous feelings, and then
Mike was turning and scrambling up to sprawl on top of him, naked and
chunky and holding on tight, nakedness to nakedness, prick against prick,
no bullshit, just lying there, the short, hunky stud pressed up to him,
drifting off to sleep.

Joe was no amateur at having sex with men, but he had never shacked up with
any of them, and now Mike had given him no choice.  Yeah, the chunky little
guy had sacked-out easy as hell.  Joe grinned, and held onto Mike, and
dozed off himself.

And drifted awake to enjoy the relaxed maleness, to toy with Mike until he
woke up with a raging hard-on.  To trade blow-jobs again.  And slept again.
And woke with the warm sunlight pouring through the open curtains and the
warm stud grinning at him.

"You sleep good, Joe."

"Huh?"

"You don't roll around and squash a little guy like me; you come on strong
in the middle of the night; and you wake up with a rod going!"

"Crap!"  Joe pulled up on his elbows and stared down at his hard cock,
firmly held in Mike's strong fingers, and then he frowned.  "I've never
spent a whole night with a guy before."

"You sorry?" Mike asked, suddenly serious.

"Hell, no!"  He grabbed the burly young man.  "I'm damn glad that the first
time was you, asshole!"

He felt Mike's muscular, masculine body and powerful, aroused prick against
his own, and once more he could not think of anything to say.

"This is the part I hate," Mike grumbled at last, twisting away.  "Having
to get up and go to work."

"It's Friday," Joe observed, watching the naked stud swing from the bed and
head for the bathroom.  "If you don't have to work tomorrow ... uh, you
know ... we could get together again tonight and take it easy tomorrow.  If
you want to?"

"Okay."

Mike continued into the john, and Joe lay back, stroking his bared body and
rigid dick.  For the first time, he had spent a full night with a stud, and
he had invited Mike to come back--and Mike had said *okay*, easily, like it
was the simplest question ever.

Joe hopped out of bed and went into the bathroom, and Mike was already in
the shower.  Joe forced his cock to soften and took a piss, and then he
climbed into the shower.  Mike was faced toward the spanking spray, short
and husky and bubble-butted, and Joe stepped up behind him, embraced him,
held him, and felt so damn good!

"Mike--?"

"We've got to get to work, dammit!"

They laughed and washed up together, and Joe remembered the what-the-hell
days in the school showers.

They got out and dried off and play-fought over who would use Joe's razor
to shave first, and Joe won the fight so he had to make the coffee while
Mike shaved.  And Mike had come into the kitchen alcove, still male-naked
like Joe, and they had started the day that way, bare-assed and
cock-swinging.

And that night, Mike showed up with his own shaving kit.  They ended up the
day the way they had started, bare-assed and cock-swinging, and locked up
together in bed.

And the next morning, Joe felt so damn good about waking up with the chunky
stud next to him, grinning, joking around, getting their rocks off, just
being together all day long, all night long, all weekend long.

They said *so long* on Monday morning and met again after work at the gym,
working out together and showering with the guys and going back to Joe's
apartment, and sucking each other off, and waking up together.

And Tuesday night, a night Joe usually went down to the local bar and got
his rocks off with some unknown, nameless stud--

And every night that week--

Joe had always played the field before, but suddenly he was completely
satisfied with Mike.  He enjoyed watching the short, husky stud tromp
around the apartment naked, hearing him gripe about this or that, joking
and laughing with him, sharing their all-out sex, sleeping pressed
together--everything!

"We fit damn good," Mike murmured one night, lying half on top of Joe,
their throbbing cocks side-by-side.

"Yeah."  Joe had his arms about Mike, and he rubbed his palms downward over
the solid, muscle-marked back.  "I'm getting used to shacking up with you,
friend."

"Ever had a partner?"

"Hell, no."  Partnerships were risky but mostly legal--lots of guys got
into them--and the state made damn sure they kept to their Adjustment
Appointment schedules to keep the passion and dangerous emotions tamped
down to something like a strong friendship.  Joe let his hands cup the
firm, rounded cheeks of Mike's ass.  "Have you?"

"No."  He squirmed against Joe.  "Maybe we should think about it?  You and
me?"

"Maybe."

Joe took a deep breath, and his fingers stroked Mike's upturned tail
hungrily.  Damn, he wanted to fuck the man so damn badly!

"Better get some lube," Mike said quietly, anticipating Joe's unasked
question.  "I'm a little guy, and you're damn big, remember?"

His heart thumping with excitement, Joe rolled Mike over onto the bed,
stared down at his boyish face and stocky physique, then swung his torso to
reach the nightstand for the lubricant.  When he turned, he saw Mike lying
on his back, knees raised and vulnerable, and Joe hesitated.  "Look,
friend--"

"Lots of guys have screwed me before," Mike interrupted with sureness, "but
I've never wanted it like--you know--not like I want you to screw me right
now."

Shivering at Mike's admission, Joe greased his inflamed prick thoroughly.
Lifted the man's legs and hooked them over his own shoulders, arching him
back and exposing his deep-cleft butt.  Added more lubricant to his
fingertips and eased them into the shadowed valley.  Found the puckered
opening and massaged it gently.  Felt the pulsing lips spread.

"Mike--"

"Don't say anything, Joe.  Not now."

Joe gripped his steel-hard cock and brought the tip up to the flesh-ring,
pressured, not brutally as he usually had, eased inward, saw Mike grimace
and strain then relax, felt the ass-lips stretch and clamp about the collar
of his invading tool, and he remembered the first time he had fucked a
stud's butt and had been so sex-hot that he feared he would pop in seconds.

He looked down and saw Mike grinning up at him, as if the hunky male knew
Joe was on the verge of creaming like a damn beginner.  "You damn son of a
bitch!"

"Something wrong?" Mike asked with mock innocence.

"Shit!"  Joe gulped a fast breath and controlled himself.  "Ever have a guy
shoot his load just from getting his dick up your butt?"

"Not recently."  That damned cocky half-smile.

"Well, you almost found out what it's like!"  Joe could not keep from
smiling at the joking stud--and at himself!  Then he pressed deeper into
the warm, clenching nest, slowly, an inch at a time, deeper, deeper.
Doubled back, Mike squirmed on his shoulders, adjusting to the powerful
invader, and his own rigid prick slapped against his taut belly.  Joe gave
a final thrust and buried his rod in Mike's ass to the root.

"Joe," Mike whispered.  "Aw, yeah, Joe!"

Joe gulped for breath, and then he began cock-pumping with gentle slowness.
His eyes glazed as he watched the man thrash beneath him as if trying to
increase their union, the speed, the depth, and Joe reached forward to run
his hands over Mike's muscled nakedness.  He wanted to tell the chunky stud
how great it was--but, shit, *Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em!*

Mike jerked his legs from over Joe's shoulders and locked them about Joe's
hips, heels digging into Joe's back, drawing him even closer, and Joe gave
in to a pleasure he had never known before.

Dammit!--Hunky, rugged partner!

Joe withdrew his ram to the crown.  Hunched forward, face-to-crotch.
Licked the bubbling stickiness from Mike's swollen cock.  Lapped upward.
Tasted his sweat-hot flesh.  Fucked his ass.  Embraced him and
tongue-washed his belly and chest.  Plunged into him ravenously.  Wanted
him totally.  Heard his mumbled, meaningless words.  Tried to answer.
Buried his face in Mike's shoulder and humped uncontrollably.

"Joe--I'm gonna--" Mike's thick dick convulsed against Joe's tight-clamped
stomach, cum-spurting.  "Fuck!  Yeah!"

And Joe wanted to get his rocks off, deep, rammed, wanted to share Mike's
ecstasy, clutched him--"Aw!"  Sperm bursting loose, shooting from his
ass-pressed nuts and down his channeled cock and into Mike's guts.  Blast
after blast after blast.  "Ah!"  Like never before!  More than just getting
his rocks off.  Soaring up to the skies.  Hanging in the special world.
Drifting back down.  Yeah, holding onto Mike and drifting back down.

Joe held Mike as tightly as he could, but he could not keep from drifting
back down, prick in ass, cum-stuck together, sweaty and male and exhausted
like never before, feeling--dammit, Joe was not entirely sure what he was
feeling, but it seemed so intense.

"Okay?" he asked at last.  "Am I squashing you, little guy?"

"I don't mind."  Mike ran his hands slowly over Joe's back.  "It's kinda
good, feeling your dick go soft inside me."

"Yeah."  Joe inhaled a long, deep breath, trying for a safe distance.
"We'd better clean up and get some sleep."

"I guess so."

Reluctantly, Joe pulled up on all-fours, eased his weary penis free from
the warm, slippery flesh-ring, then swung to his feet and strode into the
bathroom.  Without turning on the light, he started the shower and stepped
beneath the tepid spray; and a moment later, Mike joined him.

Joe was used to showering with Mike.  Hell, he was getting accustomed to
doing just about everything with the rugged little stud.

They lathered each other in silence, rinsed, dried off and returned to the
bedroom, and Joe sprawled on his back on the bed.

"Drink, Joe?"

"Thanks."

Mike strutted into next room and returned with two glasses of something.
Joe looked over Mike's naked maleness as he accepted one of the glasses.
Their gazes met, and they both grinned.  Joe took a deep swallow, not
caring what he was drinking, and then he felt Mike settle back next to him,
using his shoulder for a pillow.

"Worn out, Joe?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too."  Mike drained his glass.  "It was damn good, friend."

"Yeah."

Joe wished he could think of something to say besides *yeah*, and he
wondered what being Mike's partner would be like, waking up together every
morning, lying together like this every night, committing himself--shit,
*Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em!*

They lay in silence, and then Mike slid over to lie flat on top of Joe, the
side of his face pressed to the man's shoulder.  "Ever been fucked, Joe?"

"A couple of times."  He wrapped his arms about Mike automatically, rubbing
his back and ass.  "I don't go that route."

"I want to fuck you."

"Bullshit," Joe chuckled, working his relaxed genitals against Mike's.
"You're as worn-out as I am, friend."

"Tomorrow night," Mike said quietly.  "I want to make you feel as good as I
did when I had your prick screwed up my butt."

Joe knew that Mike wanted more than just another fuck-and-forget session,
and he wondered what the experience would be like, to lie back and spread
his buns for the muscular man's powerful, rigid cock, to feel it pump into
him, to look up and see Mike's excitement and pleasure, to know he causing
Mike's excitement, to share Mike's pleasure as Mike had shared his, to take
the risk, to make the commitment Mike wanted him to make.

"Okay," Joe whispered.  "Tomorrow night ... partner."

But Mike did not show up the following night, and his gear had disappeared
from Joe's apartment.  Joe's messages went unanswered.  Joe never saw the
husky, youth-faced stud again, and he forced himself to forget all about
Mike, and he was grateful when his next Adjustment Appointment made the
emotional intensity Joe had felt seem like part of the distant past,
half-remembered, as if it had happened to someone else.

Yeah, *Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em*--dammit!

But Joe moved from that memory into another dreamlike experience where
Parker interrogated him with Lefty pounding at his keyboard steadily and
Whit looked on, expressionless.

"Take Joe in the other room," Parker instructed the guards.  "He needs more
exercise."

They hauled him toward the open doorway, and he closed his eyes, resigned.
He was used to the machine by now, was learning to tell memories from the
dreams it induced; he knew this was not truly happening, no matter how real
it seemed, but he could not break out of the images the machine forced into
his head and made him experience.

The cops hung him up, arms and legs spread, his nakedness helplessly
exposed.  As before, they worked him over slowly, methodically, brutally.
Unseen hands roamed over his bared flesh, exploring, teasing, pinching,
tormenting.  Clamps got attached to his nipples, and he writhed at the
gnawing pain.  A viselike device was hooked to his balls, and he howled in
agony as it was tightened.  They took him to the limits of his endurance,
and then he heard the belt whistle through the air and felt it sear across
his back.

Whit!  Yeah, Whit was the only one who had ever whipped him!

Joe pictured the burly, black-haired policeman stripped to the waist behind
him, his rugged features expressionless, his barreled chest slicked with
dark fur, his muscles ridging beneath his swarthy skin as he raised the
belt for a second stroke.  Joe wondered if Whit were smiling as the lash
ripped into him again.

"Confess, Joe!"  Parker's voice, from somewhere, or Whit's.  "Confess,
dammit!"

Joe floundered in an ocean of pain, and a wave of blackness overwhelmed
him.

When he regained consciousness, he was back in his cell.  Was this really
happening?--Or was it another dream caused by that damned machine in the
interrogation room?  Joe could not decide.  All he knew was that he was
face-down on the cot, feeling gentle fingers smear salve over the torn skin
of his aching wrists.

"Hi, Lefty."

"Howdy, Joe."  The drawling youth sighed.  "Dang it, I've been wearin'
myself out, rubbin' this stuff on your hands and waitin' fer you to wake
up."

"How come?"

"I wish to talk to you.  It seems like you talk more straight-out after
you've been whomped by that machine."  Lefty laughed at himself,
self-conscious but as always honest.  "I reckon I would also enjoy playin'
with that fine, little ass of yours, Joe.  Awww--dang it!--I forgot to ask
Whit if it'd be allowed fer me to fuck you proper!"

"What the hell's Whit got to do with who I fuck with?"

"Well, he's told me about how you went down on him real easy when he came
to arrest you and--Well, I ain't an officer like Whit is."

"What's that got to do with--"

"I reckon you're one of the fellers who wishes to give himself to a stud in
uniform," Lefty said gently.  "Don't you worry about it 'cause suckin' off
Whit ain't the reason you was arrested.  Gulpin' on a feller's prick ain't
no crime, right?"

"Right, but I've never gone for uniforms.  I've never--"

"How about Bill?  Remember him?"

"Bill?" Joe mumbled, suddenly feeling that dazed sensation again as the
machine took him into another memory.  "Yeah, I remember that son of a
bitch!"


7.

The day was Joe's twentieth birthday, and he had been a full citizen for a
few years by then.  He had been out celebrating and drinking beer with the
guys.  As he sauntered down the night-dark streets toward home, he fingered
the full-mounded crotch of his work pants, and he almost wished he had
stuck around to mess with the gang in the back room of the bar.  Hell, he
had already gotten his rocks off with most of those studs.  Maybe he should
find a new bar with new faces, new bodies, new pricks and asses.

He turned a corner and almost ran into a tall hulk of a man in the
blackness--a Civil Security cop!

"Crap!" Joe gulped.  "You scared the shit out of me!"

"Identity, please."

"Sure."  Joe dug his identification card from his hip pocket, offered it so
that the policeman could scan the microchip planted there.

The man took the card, flicked his scanner over it, and compared Joe's face
against both the official photograph that came up on the scanner and the
one on his identification card.  In the reflected glow, Joe could see the
man's dark, short-clipped hair, his angular features, the crisp uniform
framed to powerful shoulders and bulging chest, the name-tag--*Hello!  My
name is Bill!*--and the embedded subliminals that made Joe feel a little
disoriented and passive.

"What're you doing out so close to curfew, Joe?" the officer asked, turning
off the scanner and returning the card.

"Been at a bar drinking with the-guys, celebrating my birthday.  I'm headed
home."

"Good enough."  Bill wet his lips, gazing at Joe in the dimness.  "Well,
happy birthday.  Sorry I scared you, pal."

"Hell, the police are our pals, right?"

"Damn right."  Bill chuckled easily.  "I'd be hitting one of the bars
myself if I hadn't been given duty tonight.  Get a little action?'

"No."  Joe had never had much to do with the police, and he shifted his
weight from one foot to the other, wary.  "Things were kinda quiet."

"They must've been, if a good-looking stud like you didn't make out."  Bill
clapped Joe on the shoulder.  "C'mon.  I'll walk a ways with you."

"Okay."

They started down the dark, deserted street, and Joe felt a nervous tension
in his guts.  Bill looked plenty rugged, built like a tank, friendly--too
damned friendly, maybe.

"We've been having some trouble down here by the park," Bill said casually,
his hand still on Joe's shoulder.  "A gang of pre-citizen punks, running
loose, breaking curfew, breaking a few laws too."

"Yeah?  I didn't hear anything about it."

"They jumped a guy last week.  Took him in the bushes and beat him up,
really worked him over."

"Oh."  Dangerous emotions, dangerous intensity, sometimes violence.  Joe
remembered when he had been a pre-Adjustment punk at the mercy of every
hormone and emotion that surged bigger-than-life through him, though Joe
found of course that he no longer recalled how intense those feelings had
been.  He felt the policeman's fingers stroke across his back, outlining
the shifting muscles beneath his shirt.  "Uhhh--what happened to the guy?"

"They stripped him, used their belts on him, got him by the balls,
humiliated him, made him suck cock, fucked his ass."  Bill's voice was
thick in his throat, and he took an audible breath, then shrugged.  "The
guy will be okay; no serious injuries and an Attitude Adjustment will help
him deal with the stress.  Those punks--I guess they dig rough-sex."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Hell, this isn't like the old days.  There's nothing illegal about studs
getting their kicks together, right?  But they're taking it too far.  When
we catch them, they'll be hauled in and given an Attitude Adjustment too.
That'll fix them right up.  Sure, they're a little young for it, but it's
for their own good.  We gotta stop them from growing up to be sex-rebels,
right?"

"Sure."

"I figure you know how to defend yourself."  Bill let his hand slip down
Joe's back and patted him on the butt, buddy-like.  "I bet you could take
care of yourself if those punks jumped you."

"Yeah, I guess."  Joe wondered what the hell Bill was hinting at.  Nothing,
maybe.  Or maybe the rugged cop expected Joe to suck him off, and he felt
strangely excited by the thought of letting the subliminals do their work
on him, being forced to kneel in front of the uniformed stud, licking the
sweat off his nuts, sucking his cock, doing whatever he ordered, maybe even
getting fucked.  But that last part--Joe shook his head slightly at the
thought: *Hell, no!*

They reached the blackness of the park, and Bill gripped Joe's upper arm.
"I usually stop here to take a leak," the officer muttered.  "If you've
been drinking, you must need to take one, too."

"Yeah."

Numb, more aroused than scared, Joe obeyed the cop, going with him into the
overgrowth bordering the park, a dimly lit clearing, hidden from the
street, both of them opening their pants and pulling out their dicks,
standing side by side and pissing, golden sprays arching into the darkness.
From the corner of his eye, Joe could see the uniformed male beside him,
the shadowed features, the burly physique, the large, thick-hanging cock
jutting from the open fly.

"You've got plenty of meat there," Bill murmured, admitting he had been
checking out Joe's rod.

"You do too."

Joe felt as if he were having a wet dream, both of them milking the last
droplets from their dicks, Bill's hand coming across to grasp his cock, and
Joe reaching over to grip the cop's massive prick, both of them just
standing there and pumping each other's rod, the youth-citizen and the cop.

And then Bill was moving around in front of him, his fingers groping into
the youth's spread fly.  "You don't wear shorts under your work pants,"
Bill muttered.  "I like that--cock and balls hanging loose."

"You, too." Joe's hands moved into the man's crotch, and he felt rigid dick
and sex-tight testicles and male-nakedness under the cop's uniform
trousers.  "Damn good."

They faced each other in the darkness, each fingering the other's blazing
hard-on, and Joe shivered with mounting tension.  He had heard about guys
who were forced to suck a cop off, maybe to get out of an arrest or because
the cop just felt like giving a citizen some grief, and he knew he would do
whatever the huge, shadowed man demanded--and do so willingly.

"You like this, huh?" Bill whispered, popping open the single button still
holding Joe's work pants about his waist and shoving them down.  "Yeah, you
like getting your rocks off with a real stud."

"Yeah."  Joe unfastened the policeman's belt and let the cop's trousers
drop on his massive thighs.  "Dammit, Bill--"

"Maybe you're one of the punks who worked that guy over here in the park,"
Bill mumbled as if talking to himself.  "That's the kind of action you
really go for, huh?  Making a stud grovel, kicking him, whipping him,
making him suck your horny cock, fucking his damn ass."  He took a deep
breath.  "Play with my nuts, dammit!  Squeeze 'em a little."

"Okay."  Joe grasped the man's large testicles and fumbled them in his
palm, then pressured warily.

"Harder!" Bill hissed, covering Joe's hand with his own and pressing the
fingers tighter.  "I can take it, dammit!"

"Yeah?" Joe muttered, clamping down on the sensitive organs.  Maybe this
was Bill's scene: to have a guy pound on his balls and then take his
revenge.  Yeah, the horse-hung cop could probably beat the hell out of Joe
in a fight, until Joe groveled for mercy.

Bill dropped his hands to his sides and gritted his teeth, and Joe realized
that the man wanted the pain.  Shit, the rugged policeman wanted to be the
one doing the groveling!  Angrily, Joe used both hands, dragging the
slippery nuts apart, twisting them in opposite directions, increasing the
agonizing pressure, and Bill's cock quivered iron-hard.  Yeah, Joe realized
with a grin, the rugged stud was really turned-on!  Joe squeezed even
harder.

"I give up!" Bill hissed, head down.  "Anything you say, sir!"

"Damn right!"  Joe snapped the man's testicles between his fingers,
ignoring Bill's whimper of pain.  "Get to work on my cock.  Suck my dick,
dammit!"

"Yes, sir!"

Bill sagged to his knees and buried his face in Joe's crotch, caressing and
licking and sucking willingly, and the youth held the cop's head in place,
pumping his cock into the choking mouth brutally.  Shit, Joe told himself,
he did not give a damn.  Yeah, he had expected to be forced to service the
rough-and-tough policeman, but Bill was going down on him instead.  Maybe
all cops were phonies like Bill.

Joe felt the man's hands rise beneath his shirt, stroking his muscled torso
hungrily, and when he looked down, he caught a glimpse of the cock-sucker's
massive prick bobbing and glistening with heat.  Deliberately, Joe brought
one foot forward and dug the toe of his shoe into Bill's exposed balls
and--

Dammit, the bastard was shooting his load!

Joe watched the uniformed stud quiver in ecstasy and saw the pearly cum
spurt and splash on his shoe, and he face-fucked with even greater fury.
Finally, Joe creamed, pouring a torrent of sperm down Bill's throat, but
for once, Joe clamped his jaw shut and did not bellow with pleasure.  Hell,
he was just getting his rocks off, like a thousand times before.

And then the sex was over.  Bill swallowed the last of Joe's male-juice and
slowly sank back on his haunches, gulping for breath, and then he bent down
to lick his own cum from Joe's shoe.  "Thank you, sir."

"Sure," Joe said neutrally as he reached down for his pants and hoisted
them on his hips.  "Any time."

"Friday night," Bill said eagerly, and he looked up, his eyes glowing.
"I'm off-duty, and we can get together--strip down--whip my butt--fuck
me--anything you say!"

"Yeah, okay.  Friday night," Joe replied casually, already understanding he
had no intention of keeping that appointment, and he turned toward the
bushes, buttoning his pants.  "See you, Bill."

"Yes, sir!"

Joe strode back to the street and headed for home.  And with each step, he
felt more angry at Bill.  Shit, he had always thought cops were
rough-and-tough bastards strutting around in body-tight uniforms and making
everyone obey them--and Joe had been willing to do anything Bill
ordered--but Bill had wanted his nuts worked on until he broke, had sunk to
his knees, lapped at Joe's balls, worshipped his erection, shot his own
load all over Joe's shoe before Joe got his rocks off, licked up his
spilled cum afterward.  And Bill wanted more, to get stripped and whipped
and fucked--

"Hell, no!"

Joe had been twenty, but he swore he would never mess with one of those
phony studs again--and he sure as hell had not gone back to the park on
Friday night to meet Bill.

And he had steered clear of those *The Police Are Your Pals* phonies, until
that warm spring morning when the police had come to arrest him, and Joe
had gone down on the burly, horse-hung cop named Whit, sucking him off,
and--and--

"Whit!"

Joe woke up in the empty, darkened cell.  How had he gotten here?  He did
not remember leaving the interrogation room.  The machine must have really
fucked with his mind this time, Joe decided, making him relive memories
even when he was not hooked to it.

The overhead light was out and did not come on while Joe laid in the
darkness, and eventually he was able to fall asleep again.

He awoke again when the light came on.  The tray of food was left inside
the door panel, but Whit did not come to cuff Joe's wrists and march him
naked down the hall for more questioning, more of that damned machine; and
Joe did not know what time it was, what day, how long he had been in
jail--or even why he was there.  Instead he laid in bed and tried to sleep.

And the nightmare became complete.

Joe was black-haired and well-built and good-looking, and when he strolled
into library after classes, all the guys grinned at him because they were
his buddies.  He went to the study table in the corner, and Ron was there,
reddish-blond and older and wiser than Joe remembered.  And as soon as Joe
sat down, Ron slouched and stretched one leg to shoe-probe Joe's crotch.

"Cut it out, Ron.  You're giving me a hard-on."

"Everything gives you a hard-on, buddy.  That's what you get for wearing
jeans and no underwear."

"Maybe."  Joe looked down at himself, the unbuttoned shirt falling away
from his matured torso, the swelling prick outlined beneath the taunt worn
school jeans--no, his work pants--he was a full-fledged citizen, and he
wore work pants now.  "I guess you're right."

"You know it!"  Ron pulled back and got to his feet, openly displaying the
hardened column bulging inside his pants.  "Let's strip down and get our
rocks off, right here, right now."

"What?  Someone'll see--"

"Hell, nobody gives a shit."

Joe looked around the library, and all the young men were naked and messing
around together.  He stood up, and Ron was in front of him, already
bare-chested, his jeans shoved down on his thighs.  He ran his hands over
Joe's muscled physique as his clothing was peeled away, and then they were
jerking each other eagerly.

Joe looked down at the fingers curled about his rigid dick, then at the
pulsing erection in his own fist.  The column stretched and expanded until
the massive, glistening crown met his, and when he looked up again, Ron had
disappeared and Whit was in his place, rugged and uniformed.  "You're under
arrest, Joe."

"What for?"

"Who cares.  I don't give a damn."

Joe dropped to his knees and nuzzled the policeman's huge, exposed
genitals, and he felt a strong hand on the back of his head, urging him
forward.  He inhaled the heated scent of maleness and took the powerful
erection into his mouth and throat hungrily, and he slid his fingers
beneath Whit's uniform to explore the curves and hollows of his muscle-taut
body.

"Make love to my meat, you cock-sucker punk!" a deep voice growled.
"Worship it!"

Joe wrenched back on his haunches, and he was in the school shower room
with the brawny, hairy-chested coach standing over him.

"Coach?"

"Shower up and haul your butt into my office, Joe--pronto!"

"Yes, sir."

Joe got to his feet and climbed beneath one of the shower sprays, and he
was so damn horny that his balls ached.  He lathered and toyed with his
rigid prick, and when he turned, Jonesy was soaping himself on the other
side of the room, football-player-built and throwing a hard-on.

"Ready to trade blow-jobs again, Joe?"

"I forgot ...  You were the first stud I ever went down on."

"Honest?" Jonesy chuckled.  "You sure sucked like an expert.  Tony says the
same thing."

"Tony?"  Joe grinned self-consciously.  "I forgot about him, too.  And
Steve and Vince and Louie and--"

"Fuck 'em and forget 'em, huh?"

"Something like that."  Joe wet his lips, confused.  "You still see Tony?"

"Hell, we're buddies ...  Partners ...  Know what I mean?"

"No!"  Joe did not want to hear such sex-rebel talk.  He rinsed off the
soap foam hurriedly, and then he was in the towel room, drying off--and
Whit was standing there, watching him coldly.

"Confess, Joe."

"To what?" he answered in frustration.  "I still don't know why you
arrested me!"

"Bullshit, Joe!"

Joe remembered that the coach had ordered him to get his ass into the
office, and he hurried to obey that order, hustling from the towel area and
through the locker room.  Steve and Louie and Vince and all the others were
there, cock-swinging naked and ready-to-go as always, as he passed.

And Joe went on to the coach's office.  The blinds were closed over the
windows, and Lefty sat at the desk, pounding diligently on his keyboard.
The youth was naked, lean and trimly muscled, and he looked up with a wide
smile spread across his face.  "Howdy, Joe."

"Hi, Lefty.  What're you doing here?"

"Workin' up your confession," Lefty drawled, slouching back and tugging his
arrow-tipped dick.  "Did Whit fuck your tight little ass in the locker
room?"

"Uh, no."

"Ain't that somethin'!  Could be he's lost interest?"

The door opened, and the coach stumbled into the room, naked and handcuffed
and cooperation-collared, followed by Parker and Chet.

"Horny, farm-boy?" Parker asked Lefty with a smile.

"I reckon so."  The youth stood up and stretched, and his rigid cock jabbed
lance-like from his crotch.  "Writin' up Joe's confession somewhat stirred
me up."

"Everything stirs you up, partner," Chet snickered.

Without a word, the coach bent forward across the desk, his tight-rounded
tail offered, and Chet stepped up in front of the coach and thrust his
broad-crowned prick against the man's lips.  The coach nuzzled the thick
cock willingly while Lefty moved in behind him to pierce the coach
balls-deep with a single, wrenching thrust--and when the coach opened his
mouth to scream, Chet plugged it with his hard dick.

"Mighty pleasin'!" Lefty exclaimed, rocking forward to embrace Chet.
"Only, I surely do wish we was sharin' Joe this way, partner!"

Joe drifted from the office, and the locker room was filled with his school
friends, stripped and brawling and sexing their rocks off in a dozen
different ways.  Joe watched Tony fuck Steve, and he remembered sucking the
rugged, swarthy football player's massive prick, and Joe remembered
screwing the blond swimmer's slick, warm ass.  Ron and the student body
president were trading hand-jobs.  The others thrashed together, laughing
and groaning and seeing who could shoot the most cum and the farthest.
Joe's cock throbbed with heat, but he felt like an outsider.  He sauntered
to his locker, only to blink with surprise when he saw the short young man
standing there.

"Mike!"

"Hey, buddy."  Grinning and naked, Mike stepped forward and locked up to
Joe in a tight hug.  "Horny?"

"You son of a bitch," Joe sighed as he wrapped his arms about Mike and held
him just as tightly, prick-to-prick.  "I missed you.  No shit!"

"We fit damn good."

"Yeah."

"I want to fuck you."

"You said that before," Joe murmured, stroking the chunky stud's powerful
back and bubbled butt.  "You wanted us to stick together, but you
disappeared.

"No, Joe.  When I came back to the apartment, *you* were the one who was
gone, along with all of your gear."

"Whit came and arrested me."  Then Joe frowned, puzzled.  "No, wait--you
disappeared at least a year ago, and Whit didn't arrest me until--"

"I want to fuck you, partner," Mike repeated, finger-marking the cleft in
Joe's ass meaningfully.  "Let's go back to your apartment so I can get my
dick up your ass."

"Okay ... partner."

Naked and cock-stiff, they walked through the deserted locker room, and Joe
wondered where all his school buddies had gone.

Outside the gym, the street was night-dark and empty, and Mike had an arm
around Joe's waist, and Joe rested one arm across Mike's shoulders,
matching him step-for-step and not giving a damn that they were both
bare-ass naked and showing hard-ons.  Hell, no, if Mike did not care, then
why should Joe?

They reached the park, and Mike led the way into the bushes.  In a dim-lit
clearing, a gang of punks had a policeman pinned down and were stripping
him, and Joe recognized all of them: the cop named Bill, and Louie, and
Vince, and Jonesy, and Tony, and all the guys from school!  Joe watched the
youths rip off the rugged stud-cop's uniform and maul his naked body,
twisting his testicles and pinching his taut nipples until he whimpered in
pain, and Bill's rigid cock quivered excitedly as he rolled over on his
hands and knees.

Mike tromped forward, picked up Bill's belt, and brought it down across the
crouching man's back with a vicious snap.

"Yeah, partner!" Bill hissed, smiling.  "Harder!  I can take it!"

Mike flogged him slowly, mercilessly, and Joe saw the livid welts rise over
the groveling cop's back and butt.  Bill crawled forward and licked Vince's
swollen dick, sucked Tony's bulging nuts, buried his face in the spread
valley between Jonesy's ass cheeks.

Mike strutted back to Joe, bright-eyed and grinning.  "Let's get back to
your apartment, buddy!"

They left the park, Bill's hoarse groans echoing behind them.

"Mike," Joe murmured, unsure, "Bill called you 'partner.'"

"I know what turns him on.  We started shacking up together after you
disappeared."

Joe was entering the state-assigned apartment he had never shared with
anyone, and Mike hustled into the bedroom and sprawled back on the bed,
adult-muscled and boy-faced and cock-hard.  And Joe fell on him, pawing at
his male nakedness, licking, sucking, wanting to get Mike so damn hot,
wanting to please him, to satisfy him, to get fucked.  "Anything, partner!"

"Yeah, buddy?"

Joe saw the excited gleam in Mike's eyes, and Joe held him down,
tongue-smoothing the silky hair on Mike's heaving chest.  Joe watched his
fingers outline the wide, taut nipples and creep lower over Mike's stocky
torso, and he smiled as he saw Mike's huge cock had slapped up hard against
his flat belly.

"You sure are hung, little guy."

"That's what Whit says."

"Whit?"  Joe let his hand cup the young man's pulsing genitals.  "You know
Whit?"

"Sure.  We're buddies."

"I thought you and Bill were--"

"Whit's rooming here with me."  He looked across the room, grinning.  "Hi,
buddy."

Joe followed Mike's gaze and saw Whit standing in the doorway, burly and
uniformed, a heavy pair of handcuffs and a cooperation collar dangling from
one hand.

"You're under arrest, Joe."

"Yes, sir."

Joe went to the man and offered his neck and wrists, and Mike started
laughing as the collar and the cuffs were clamped in place.

With Mike's laughter echoing in his ears, Joe followed Whit from the
apartment and down the concrete-floored corridor to the interrogation room.

Lefty sat at the desk, stripped and youth-built and prick-hard as he
pounded on his keyboard.  "Howdy, Joe."

"What're you typing, Lefty?"

"Your confession."

Parker came from the shadows and viewed Joe's blazing hard-on with a
fatherly smile.  "Joe needs some exercise.  Take him into the other room."

Joe was shoved through the door to the torture chamber, and he found
himself in the sex room of the neighborhood bar, dim-lit and swarming with
naked men eager to get their rocks off.

"Horny, Joe?"  Ron stood in front of him, hunky and grasping Joe's rigid
cock.  "I've never known a stud who could shoot a load of cum as hard as
you do."

"I'm always ready!" Joe answered, gripping Ron's erection eagerly.  "Let's
go, buddy!"

"That's for beginners," Jonesy snickered, taking Ron's place.  "I'm gonna
suck your meat, buddy!"

Joe watched the rugged football player drop to his knees to suck cock, and
Jonesy's mouth felt so damn good--but Joe could not cream!  Yeah, he was
balls-aching hot, but his juice just would not shoot!

"I know what you need," Coach growled, moving in behind Joe.  "Bend over!"
Joe rocked forward, supporting himself on Jonesy's muscled shoulders with
his handcuffed hands, and he felt the coach's strong fingers spread his ass
cheeks.  He braced himself for the brutal penetration, and then the man was
licking his sensitive, exposed opening, then trying to tongue-fuck it.
*Shit!* Joe thought.  *Coach never did that before!*

Whit had arrested him, and here Joe was, handcuffed and collared and
stripped in the local bar with Jonesy sucking his cock while Coach rimmed
his ass!  Joe felt the hot, prick-tipped tongue drive into him, reaching
impossibly far into his guts, and he raised his head to find Tony looming
in front of him, rugged and swarthy and horny.  Joe opened his mouth and
went down on the silent athlete, and Joe sensed he was surrounded by
sex-hungry maleness--and his always-ready dick still would not pop its
load--and he heard Mike's laughter.

A troop of policemen marched in singing the latest *The Police Are Your
Pals* jingle, and they hauled Joe to the back of the sex room.  They hung
him up with his arms stretched over his head, and he could see the other
studs getting their rocks off in the shadows.  Then Whit was coming toward
him, bare-chested and solidly muscled.  Without a word, the burly cop drew
his belt from his uniform trousers, took careful aim and swung it
mercilessly at Joe's exposed butt.

Joe screamed, and his cum gushed and flowed down the walls as he passed
out.


8.

Joe awoke on his cot in the dim cell, and he lay back, running his palms
over his trim nakedness, feeling lonely as hell.  Was this real?  Was
anything real?  He remembered that once he had thought he could tell the
difference between a memory and a dream the mind-machine made him
experience, but now he seemed to be moving from reality to memory to dream
with no way of knowing.  Why was the machine messing with his memories like
this, and what else was it changing?  He had no way of knowing.

Joe had a hard-on, and he remembered that warm spring morning when he had
awakened with his dick full-hard, the morning when Whit and Chet had come
to arrest him.

Joe waited for Whit to come and take him for another interrogation session,
and when the rugged cop did not show up, Joe got to his feet and stumbled
into the alcoved latrine to piss and wash up.

He started the shower spray and stepped under it, and he winced as the
water stung against his whip-lashed back, and he was in the gym shower room
with Mike, both of them lathering off the sweat after a good work-out.  Joe
looked at Mike and said, "I'm getting used to showering with you, little
guy."

"And I'm getting used to seeing you with a hard-on," Mike answered,
grinning and hero-worshipping Joe's aroused nakedness with his large brown
eyes.  "It was damn good, fucking your butt last night."

"But ... you didn't fuck me, Mike."

"Well, I sure as hell screwed somebody." Mike shrugged.  "Fuck 'em and
forget 'em--that's what Whit says."  Soaping his large, stiffening cock, he
looked across Joe's shoulder.  "Who's the new stud?"

Joe followed Mike's gaze to the tanned blond, swimmer-built and
surfer-haired, opposite them.  "That's Steve.  We went to school together."

"He's got a neat-looking butt."

Joe watched Mike saunter over to Steve and say something to him.  The blond
checked the size of Mike's erection, then nodded and got down on all-fours
on the floor.  Mike knelt behind him and hip-pumped his iron hilt-deep into
the offered asshole.

"Fuck me, man!" Steve urged.  "Fuck me!"

Joe remembered when the blond swimmer had bellowed the same thing to him,
and he finished his shower and headed for the towel room.  He knew the guys
would be waiting, stripped and ready for action, but when he stepped
through the doorway, he was back in his darkened cell.

He dried off and sat prick-hard on the side of his bunk, and he felt so
damn unsure whether anything he saw was real or a dream created by that
mind-fucking machine.

The overhead light snapped on, and Whit came in, holding a pair of
handcuffs for Joe's wrists.

"Let's go, friend."

"Okay, Whit."

They went out into the corridor, and two burly guards had a naked youth
held against the wall while they fist-pounded him methodically.

"Ready to confess, Joe?" Whit asked, clapping him on the shoulder as they
started down the hall side by side.

"Want me to?"

"I don't give a damn."

Joe smiled, enjoying the physical closeness to the rough-and-tough cop, the
beefy paw on his shoulder, the brush of his bare thigh against the man's
trousers-clad leg.

They passed the open door to a locker room where the policemen were horsing
around and changing uniforms, and two burly studs stood naked together,
cock-to-cock and palm-stroking each other while the others ignored them.

"Those cock-suckers're lovers," Whit explained as they continued on down
the corridor.

Joe blinked at Whit's easy acknowledgement of something that seemed like
illegal sex-rebel stuff, but then he knew that the police were exempt for a
lot of rules that applied to citizens--maybe even that rule too.  *Lovers?*
The idea still seemed strange to Joe.  "Like you and Mike?"

"Mike?"  Whit's forehead furrowed in a frown.  "Which Mike?  Shit, I bet
I've shacked up with a hundred studs named Mike."  He shrugged.  "Fuck 'em
and forget 'em, right?"

Joe heard the whistle of a belt cutting through the air, the snap of
leather against bare flesh, the agonized cry of a man being flogged.

He followed Whit into the office where Parker had questioned him endlessly,
and Lefty was grinning at him, naked, and he drawled, "Howdy, Joe."

"How's it going, Lefty!'

"Me and Chet've been workin' on your confession," Lefty answered
cheerfully, nodding to the blond cop beside him.  "Only, we need to update
your statisticals fer the confession form."

"Huh?"

"Crap!" Chet exploded, laughing and coming forward with a tape measure.
"What that sucker-fucker partner of mine is trying to tell you is that
we've got to fill in the blanks he's forgotten."

Joe felt foolish, standing there while Chet measured him and read off his
dimensions to Lefty: his neck, shoulders, biceps, chest, waist, hips,
thighs, calves ...

Whit watched, his arms folded over his barreled chest, his harsh-cut
features expressionless.

"Lordy!" Lefty sighed.  "We should've measured Joe's pecker before it got
itself so stiff!"

"Hell, he's always got a hard-on!"

Joe looked down and saw the fingers measuring his genitals clinically, and
he remembered the clerk who had measured him and given him a stud-rating of
A-8 instead of A-9, remembered the countless studs who had checked the size
and shape of his dick, who caressed his balls, who made love to his meat,
who worshipped his--

Chet and Lefty moved behind him and measured his back and ass, and Joe
stood motionless, letting them check off his dimensions like they were
assessing a slave for the auction block, and Joe wondered whether this were
really happening or just another dream.

Joe saw the flicker of a grin twitch at the corners of Whit's mouth.

"I reckon he's ready," Lefty drawled, stroking his handcuffed victim's butt
gently.  "Whatta you think, Whit?"

"Take him in the other room," Whit murmured.  "You know what to do with
him, farm-boy."

"Yep!"

The other room?--The one that did not really exist?--This must be another
machine-induced dream, Joe decided, but it seemed too real.

Chuckling, Lefty led Joe into the adjoining room, Chet following, and they
placed him on his back on a low, slab-like table.  They stretched his arms
wide from his shoulders and clamped them in place, and then they attached
pulley-hung ropes to his ankles.  Working together easily, they hoisted his
legs until he was resting back on his shoulders, bound and helpless.

Joe stared up at his stretched body and spread legs, and he realized he
must have been imprisoned for a long time because his deep tan had faded to
paleness.

"That's some hard-on," Chet observed, viewing Joe's naked body, the
heavy-headed prick dangling down toward Joe's face.  Chet imitated Lefty's
drawl: "I do reckon he's just about as horny as you are, farm-boy."

"He's a mighty pleasin' stud," the youth grinned.  "When I sucked him off,
he shot the way Whit does.  Real slow and hard."

"You like that, huh?"

"Lordy, I don't know which I like most, suckin' or gettin' sucked."  He
came from the shadows, lean and grinning and prick-stiff, and he carried a
nozzled hose in one hand.  "I reckon we'd best get to work, partner, and
get this over with."

Numb, Joe watched Lefty move in beside him, and then he felt the narrow
hose-tip against his exposed asshole.  The pressure of his upturned body on
his lungs made breathing difficult and screaming impossible.  Lefty nudged,
and the nozzle slithered inward between Joe's sensitive ass-lips
painlessly.  "Fucking hell!" Joe muttered.

Chet moved away, and a pump whirred softly.  Joe swallowed fast, and then
he felt a warm liquid flowing slowly into his guts.

"Hey!"  Chet chortled from away in the shadows.  "What the hell're you
doing, buddy?"

"Playin' with your fine balls."

"You're giving me a hard-on, dammit."

"That's what I aim to do, on account of we got some time to kill," Lefty
drawled happily.  "Y' know, I do believe that's why Joe's sex-buddy back in
school foot-rubbed his nuts in the library."

"Yeah?"

"I figure Ron wanted to get Joe horny enough to share himself, man-to-man."

Joe heard the two men talking about him, and he watched his belly swell
obscenely as the fluid flowed into him.  The sensation was strangely
sensuous, and he watching his aroused dick throb as he remembered Ron, his
burly school buddy--the fingers probing at the front of his jeans and
opening his fly, the excitement of feeling Ron play with his sex-hot
genitals, their male-to-male closeness as they jerked each other off.

"Remember the first guy you jerked with, Lefty?" Chet asked quietly.

"Yup.  I believe t'ain't proper for a feller to forget the lads he's shared
himself with."

Joe winced as his stomach, now nearly pregnancy-sized, filled and cramped.
He felt as though his guts were going to split open.

"Dammit!" Chet chuckled.  "You're a wonder, Lefty!"

"Lordy, I've been tellin' you that ever since we first matched peckers!"
Lefty snickered, then gulped audibly.  "Dang it, we forgot about Joe!"

The pump clicked silent, and Joe felt his muscles knot painfully.

The machine started again, and the fluid began to drain from Joe's guts.
He heard the two men chatting casually, and he relaxed slowly as the
bloating and pain ebbed.

"There's a party in the locker room tonight," Chet said.  "Want to go,
buddy?"

"I dunno.  Maybe Parker'll want us to start workin' on the new feller Whit
brung in."

"Got his confession written yet?"

"I'm goin' to copy the one I wrote up for Joe," Lefty drawled.  "I'm
gettin' somewhat tired of makin' up new ones all the dang time."

Joe felt the last of the liquid taken from inside him, and he closed his
eyes, weak and exhausted.  Hands roamed over his nakedness and examined his
stiff prick, and he remembered that pre-graduation party in the school
gym--and the coach who had wanted to get fucked.

Shit, he needed to get his balls unloaded!

The pump started, and he groaned as his guts began to fill again.

Chet and Lefty repeated the torment, and Joe felt Ron playing with his
balls to arouse him, Jonesy sucking his horny cock, the coach prick-ramming
his virgin butt, and the hundreds of other studs he had had sex with.

"Mike wants to shack up with us again," Chet murmured, turning off the
pump.  "Okay, Lefty?"

"Lordy, I surely do enjoy the way that little feller squirms up to us in
his sleep.  Whit's mighty lucky, havin' him for a buddy."

"Shit, Whit doesn't give a damn who he fucks."

"Neither does Mike."

They let Joe rest again, and then the hose was pressed deeper into him and
the liquid flow started once more.  He hung there, a slab of helpless male
meat, too numb and weak to struggle.

Then it was over.

Joe opened his eyes, and the pump was silent, the hose gone from his tail.
Chet and Lefty had disappeared, and Joe stared up at his pale, emptied body
and still-hard dick.  He heard movement across the room, and he turned his
head to see Whit in the shadows, stripped to the waist, the black hair
glistening on his barreled chest.  Joe grinned, admiring the man's powerful
physique, and then he saw Whit apply a thick coating of lubricant to one
hand and forearm.  In sudden fear, he realized what the burly cop was going
to do, and he knew he was helpless to complain or escape.

Whit climbed onto the table, facing Joe's upward-stretched legs, and his
rugged features were expressionless as he spread the young man's ass
cheeks.  Joe gulped for breath, and he whimpered as he felt the lubricated
fingertips graze over his twitching asshole.  Shit, he had never enjoyed
getting a prick up his butt, and now Whit was going to fist-fuck him!

Whit pressured gently, spreading the sensitive opening, and then one finger
eased inward.  Joe's breath rasped in his throat, and his eyes were riveted
on the brawny male hunched in the *V* between his tied legs.  Whit met
Joe's gaze evenly, kneading the clenching flesh-ring with sureness, then
inserting another finger, and another.

Joe felt each added penetration, and he wondered whether his expression
showed fear or a smile as he stared up at Whit's intense features, his
massive physique, the slow, demanding thrusts, the fingers and thumb
clamped together and forcing inward.  The knuckles.  The slow width of the
hand.  Whit's face and body were slicked with sweat, and Joe clenched his
teeth, straining.

The hand turned slightly, then pressured with determination, and Joe threw
his head back, shrieking silently.  A blaze of colors flared in front of
his eyes, and as they cooled and died, he knew Whit was wrist-deep in his
asshole.  Joe focused on the muscle-tense man again--the harsh features,
the narrowed, gleaming eyes, the hint of a smile bending the lips--and he
saw the droplet of clear liquid dangling from the tip of his throbbing
hard-on.

He felt Whit's fingers probe deeper, exploring and stroking sensuously,
curling into a fist around his cock, pumping with sureness, and then the
man's free palm was roaming over Joe's inverted chest and belly.  He seemed
to be surrounded and filled with Whit's maleness, and he watched the burly
cop cup his sex-hot testicles, then grip his rigid prick.  Joe felt like he
was losing the separation between himself and Whit, losing the place where
he ended and Whit began.  He looked down and saw Whit's thighs pressed to
his--no, not *to* his, *into* his thighs!  The flesh seemed to be merging,
each of Whit's thigh's to Joe's, and Whit's cock up inside him seemed to be
sticking to, maybe melting into, Joe's ass and guts.  Whit bent closer and
his hand sank into Joe's chest.  Joe tried to scream but could not get
enough air into his lungs.  His smooth cock-head and an inch of his hard
dick bulged above Whit's clenching fist, the skin of both cock and fist
were already binding together, becoming one.  Joe screamed then, as loudly
as he could.  As Whit pressed downward toward the base, Joe's long-withheld
climax soared within him and burst free.

"Dammit, Whit!" he croaked as the first massive explosion of thick cum
sprayed down on his face and torso.  "I confess, Whit!  I confess!"  Fiery
pleasure consumed him, and he plunged into warm blackness, his sperm
pouring over him in torrents.

Joe awoke, lying on a wide cot in a new cell, a sunlit one, and he felt
numb and strangely content.  He vaguely remembered Parker and one of the
shirtless guards lifting him out of the interrogation chair, making him
sign each page of the neatly printed confession he had not bothered to
read.  *Shit*, Joe decided, *who cares?*

He stared at the bright sunlight streaming through the large window, the
first he had seen since being arrested, and he ran his palms over his bared
torso and into his crotch.  His cock hung thick and limp, and he wondered
how much time had passed since he had managed to wear his cock out enough
to wake up without a hard-on.

He saw the door open, and Lefty came in, stripped to a pair of low-slung
shorts, a tray of food in one hand.  "Howdy, Joe," he drawled with his
usual farm-boy grin.  "I brung you somethin' to eat."

"Where's Whit?"

"Workin', I reckon.  I also brung you a pair of trunks like mine, so as
soon as you've fed yourself, we can go out swimmin' with the other
detainees."

Joe felt as though he were sleep-walking, and he followed Lefty's
directions automatically.

Wearing swim trunks after so long being naked felt odd to Joe.  They swam
in the huge outdoor pool, inside a high and formidable-looking wall, and a
gang of young men horsed around with them, laughing and joking.  Joe paid
no attention, floating in his private, sun-warm world.

Then he lay in bed in the darkness of his new cell, and Lefty stretched out
against him, naked and cock-hard.

"Want me to take you off, Lefty?"

"Nope.  I'm savin' my juices for Chet."  He chuckled, reaching over to
fumble Joe's relaxed genitals.  "I do believe it's my turn to fuck him, and
I do wish to ride my partner proper-like." ·

"You and Chet--" Joe held the warm, drawling youth, remembering.  "You guys
used that pump on me ...  Filled me full and drained me ..."

"Huh?  No, Joe, we ain't never used no kind of pump!"

"And then Whit fist-fucked me."

"That never ...  Dang it, if Whit wished to plug that fine little ass of
yours, he'd be likely to use his mighty pleasin' pecker.  But he knows you
ain't much fer gettin' your butt rode.  You told us that often enough when
we was interrogatin' you."  Lefty sighed, and his voice softened with
honesty.  "Joe ...  That machine makes a feller see all kinds of shit.
Sometimes, right before a feller confesses--well, it seems like maybe the
machine makes him dream all kinds of strange things.  Things he wishes
... or fears."

"Whit and me?" Joe murmured.  "Being partners, like you and Chet?"

Lefty did not answer, and Joe drifted off to sleep--no nightmares, no
dreams, nothing.

Days began with sunshine spilling into the cell, then contented hours at
the swimming pool, then the nights with the cock-hard studs shacking up
with him: sometimes Lefty, sometimes Lefty and Chet together, sometimes one
of the guards or a fellow detainee or a stranger who pawed Joe's heavy
genitals to arouse him, without success.  They brought his food.  They
talked.  They clipped his hair when it grew shaggy.  They took him swimming
and exercising.  They slept with him.  And Joe felt nothing.

When he woke, sunlight was creeping through the window beside his bed, and
he yawned and stretched and rubbed his eyes.  Today was warm morning, and
the burly, uniformed policeman was seated on the edge of his bunk, one hand
on Joe's bared chest.

"Whit!"

"Hi, pal.  How's it going?"

"I've missed you, you son of a--" Joe exhaled, grinned and covered Whit's
hand with his own.  "You son of a bitch!"

"What do you mean, you 'missed' me?"

"I--I dunno.  Nothing."

"That's what I figured," Whit muttered gruffly, and he shifted his gaze to
Joe's crotch and limp-hanging dick.  "No hard-on?"

"I haven't thrown one since you--"

"Better clean up and get dressed, Joe."

"Okay.  Yeah."

Joe swung from the bed and went into the bathroom at the back of the cell,
stepped into the shower stall and started the warm spray, and he picked up
the soap to lather himself mechanically.  Crap, nothing made sense--just
like the first day when Whit came to arrest him!  Joe scrubbed and rinsed,
turned off the taps and toweled himself hastily, then went to the wash
basin and started to shave.  He caught his reflection in the
mirror--short-clipped hair, good-looking masculine features, strong
physique, sun-bronzed body--and he saw Whit come into the doorway behind
him, burly and crisp-uniformed.

"This is kinda like the morning you arrested me, Whit."

"Kinda."  He turned toward the other room.  "Fuck 'em and forget 'em, huh,
pal?"

"How long ago was that, Whit?" Johnny asked, remembering the endless
interrogation sessions, the night-after-night of the light going out and
sleeping in total darkness, losing all track of time in the endless routine
and the windowless rooms, the way his tan had faded before Lefty took him
swimming with the others.  "How long have I been under arrest?"

Whit replied, "About a week.  Why?"

Joe blinked.  Only a week?  "I dunno," he said softly.  "I guess it just
seemed a lot longer.  That mind-machine must have really messed with my
head."

Whit gave a slight shrug.  "Well, better get a move on, friend."

Joe shaved, and when he walked into the main room, Whit was viewing him
intently, one hand stroking the columned hardness beneath his uniform
trousers.

"Horny, Whit?"

"I'm always horny."

"Want me to suck you off?"

"Want to?"

"Yeah," Joe admitted, his gaze fixed hungrily on the man's slow-moving
fingers.  "I remember that other time.  It was damn good."

"But we haven't got time," Whit grumbled and nodded to the folded clothing
on the bed.  "Get dressed."

"What for?"

"We're due in court.  Today's the day you go on trial."


9.

Joe walked down the long, deserted hallway beside Whit, and the man's hand
on his shoulder felt strong and reassuring.  The cooperation collar was
locked around Joe's neck, and his wrists were heavily cuffed, and his work
shirt and pants felt binding against his skin.

"It feels strange to be wearing clothes," he muttered.  "I guess I've
gotten used to going bare-ass around here."

"Getting a hard-on?"

"No.  I haven't thrown one since you made me confess."

"Shit, I didn't make you do anything."

"Yeah, that's what Lefty said--he said I sorta dreamed it." Joe drew in a
deep breath.  "What did I confess to, Whit?"

"I dunno.  I wasn't paying attention."  Whit stepped ahead, pressed an
identification card against a reader, which beeped, and then Whit opened a
massive door.  "Here you go, friend."

Joe entered a huge, brightly lit room.  The walls were painted stark white,
and at the far end stood a large, dark-wood desk.  Behind the desk blazed a
poster declaring: *The Police Are Your Pals!*

A tall, gray-haired man wearing judicial robes pounded the desktop with a
gavel that reminded Joe of a dildo.  "You Joe?" the judge growled.  "Step
forward."

"Yes, sir."  Joe trudged the length of the room, numb and alone.  "I--"

"Is this your confession?" the man asked, holding up a sheaf of printed
pages.

"Uh, I guess so, sir."

"Is it true?"

"I don't know.  I don't know what it says.  I didn't read it, sir."

"I see."  The judge scanned the papers, frowning, and then he tapped the
gavel again.  "I find you guilty as charged."  He nodded to Whit.
"Officer, the prisoner is remanded to your custody pending sentence."

Joe felt numb.  He had been arrested, questioned, tortured, made to
confess, and found guilty, all without knowing what crime he was supposed
to have committed.

Whit led him from the courtroom.

"Now what, Whit?"

"You heard the judge.  You're in my custody until he sentences you."

Joe relaxed as he felt Whit's hand on his shoulder, and they walked down a
maze of sunlit corridors.

A uniformed guard came toward them, leading a naked, cock-swinging
prisoner, collared and cuffed, blond and dazed-looking and surfer-shaggy.
Joe eyed the short, muscular policeman thoughtfully as they passed.

"That was Mike, wasn't it, Whit?"

"Yeah.  He became a Civil Security cop after he was found not guilty."

"Is that what's going to happen to me?"

"Hell, no.  You confessed.  The judge found you guilty."

"Oh, right."  Joe frowned.  "You knew all about me, even before Parker
questioned me and that machine dug into my memories.  Right?"

"Right," Whit acknowledged.  "Every time a guy goes for an Attitude
Adjustment, the mind-machine scans his memories and logs a bunch of
information about his experiences into a data banks.  We knew what we'd
find in your head before we even started.  Ron, your coach, Mike--all of
them."

Joe could think of no reply, so he said nothing.  They continued walking
down the endless hallway of numbered doors, and Joe knew somehow what was
going to happen.

Whit stepped ahead and opened a side door, and they went into a large,
masculinely furnished apartment.  "This is my place," the burly cop
growled, tromping toward the open door to the bedroom.  "Make yourself at
home."

Joe looked about the familiar surroundings, the cluttered living room and
the kitchen alcove, just like the state-assigned unit he had lived in
before, only a little larger and with more sunlight and a better view.  He
lost track of where Whit had gone, so Joe walked into the bedroom.  The
wide bed.  Whit's clothes carelessly scattered.  The sound of a man taking
a piss in the bathroom beyond.  Still handcuffed and collared, Joe picked
up the body-warm uniform and hung it in the closet, next to the work shirts
and pants he had last seen in his own closet.

He turned, and Whit was standing there, naked, eyeing him with approval.
"I'm kinda messy," the burly cop muttered, coming forward.  "You can keep
things squared away around here."

"Okay."  Joe took a deep breath.  "I've never seen you stripped all the way
before."

"Get used to it."  He unfastened the heavy handcuffs from Joe's wrists and
the cooperation collar from his neck.  "I like going bare-butt."

"Me, too," Joe agreed, a little disoriented as his mind began to clear from
the collar's effect.

Joe returned to the closet to peel off his clothes and hang them up, and
when he dropped his work pants, his prick bobbed forward, stiff and
sex-hot.

"You finally got a hard-on," Whit observed, settling on the side of the
bed.  "C'mere."

Naked, Joe crossed to the seated man, and he watched Whit grip his aroused
rod, then bend forward and suck the glistening cock-head into his mouth.
"Dammit, Whit!"  Joe watched the rugged policeman mouth-slide all the way
down on his erection, and he remembered how a cop named Bill had wanted to
be his slave.  Then he felt Whit's fingers lock about his balls securely,
and he knew damn well that Whit was not like Bill--hell, no!  "Dammit,
partner!"

"We aren't partners," Whit growled, pulling back.  "We're stuck with each
other until the judge sentences you, and if I feel like sucking your damn
dick--shit, fuck 'em and forget 'em.  Right?"

"Yeah ...  Okay.  Sure."

"Go get us a couple of beers, buddy."

Joe went to the refrigerator, pulled out two cans of beer, then returned to
the bedroom, wondering if Whit had really meant to call him *buddy* instead
of *pal* like he and the other cops usually did.  *Partner* as he knew now
was what sex-rebels called their illegal lovers, a dangerous word that
hinted of forbidden monogamy and intense emotional bonds.  *Buddy* was
dangerous too, though Joe guessed the word could just mean plain old
*friend*, like when he and Ron had called each other *buddy* back in
school.  Hell, nobody much cared if pre-citizens buddied-up into couples of
varying levels of exclusivity, and Ron called him *buddy* all the
time--unless Ron had really meant--*No*, Joe thought, *he couldn't have
meant it that way, could he?* It was just a word, and they were just kids,
not even full citizens yet, and Joe had sure not known any better.  But
Whit had said Ron had been arrested, and--

Joe sure knew better now.

Whit was stretched out on the bed, stripped and rugged-built and
hard-cocked.  *Crap*, Joe thought, *that bastard is so damn sexy--and hung
like a horse!* Joe passed one of the beers to Whit and sat down on the edge
of the bed, facing him, and he felt numb and confused--and so fucking
horny!

"How long until the judge sentences me, Whit?"

"Dunno.  Days.  Weeks.  Years, maybe."  Whit swallowed a mouthful of beer.
"In a hurry?"

"No, I guess not."  Joe put his free hand on Whit's chest and watched his
fingers smooth the sleek black hair against to the broad, full
muscle-plates.  "What do I do in the meantime?"

"You clean up around this place for one, and maybe we'll get you assigned
to something in the Civil Service officer.  If you're any good at it, you
can help Lefty make up confessions--shit like that."

"Okay."  He let his palm roam downward over the man's hard-muscled torso.
"You're a rough bastard, buddy."

"Screw up and I'll kick the shit out of you."

"Yeah."  Joe remembered the beatings that damned machine had made him dream
Whit was giving him, and he eased his hand into the man's crotch.  Whit's
large, loose-sacked balls slipped into his grasp, and Joe recalled the
wrenching agony, whether real or imagined, of having his own nuts clamped
and tortured.  Whit did not shy away, and Joe fingered the orbs gently,
then shifted to the massive flesh-column above.  The shaft was swollen to
pipe-like hardness, and Joe traced out to the slick head.  He remembered
taking it in his mouth, coaxing it to climax, drinking down its powerful
eruption, and he wanted to make this rugged son of a bitch cum so damn
badly!  "Horny, Whit?"

"I'm always horny, Joe.  That's another thing you'll have to get used to."

Whit finished his beer.  Then Joe was spilling flat on top of Whit,
pressing his face to the burly chest, nuzzling the hair-sprayed muscles,
finding each dark nipple and tongue-lapping it, squirming lower, lower, to
the male-scented crotch, the tightening testicles, the soaring prick, and
Joe felt like never before, locked between Whit's powerful legs and
worshipping his aroused masculinity.

And then Whit was jerking him up.  "Roll over, Joe.  I want to fuck you."

"Dammit, Whit--"

"Shut up and roll over."

Joe was turned on his belly, and he felt helpless to stop what was
happening.  With a whimper of surrender, he lay face-down and clenched the
pillow beneath his head with both arms.  He felt Whit's work-rough paws on
his shoulder blades, rubbing slowly, almost caressingly, working downward.
Joe remembered Ron, back in school, messing around and getting him
turned-on and trading hand-jobs; and Jonesy, giving him his first blow-job
and getting one in return; and Tony and all the others; and the rugged,
mature coach screwing his virgin tail brutally.

Whit's palms cupped over the muscle-tight smoothness of Joe's upturned
butt, and the fingers drew along the crack between his cheeks, then pulled
away.  Joe felt Whit's movement on the bed, and then the hands were back,
fingers spreading his buns as the coldness of a lubricant tube tipped his
exposed passage.  Joe remembered that dream the machine caused him to have,
of being filled with Whit's fist, then his cock, of merging and becoming
physically one with the man.  "Whit?  I--"

"Shut up, cock-sucker," the burly cop interrupted, and Joe shivered as the
slick lubricant met his sensitive orifice.  "I've held off long enough.
I'm going to fuck the hell out of your damn ass!"

Whit's finger entered the crevice, spreading the lube and probing for the
hidden opening, and Joe felt that finger outline its target repeatedly and
finally tap the center.  He tensed at the first, almost gentle pressure,
and then Whit's other hand was on his shoulder, reassuring and holding him
in place as the slow, taunting massage continued.  Joe gripped the pillow
tighter, squirming at the sensation, and each movement was magnified a
thousand times by the sensitivity of the puckered flesh.  At last, Joe felt
his tightness relaxed, felt Whit press more firmly.  Joe gritted his teeth
at the first intrusion, and then he felt Whit's hand stroking the sweep of
his spine as his body accepted the gently probing finger.  The finger
turned and kneaded almost caressingly, and Joe relaxed into the numb
lassitude of submission.

"Roll over on your back," Whit ordered quietly, determinedly.  "I want to
plow you face-to-face."

Joe found himself being twisted over, and then he was lying back, knees
cocked, Whit positioning himself between them.  Dazed, Joe saw his own cock
thrust upward like a stone column gleaming with heat, and then he shifted
his gaze upward to the horny man.  Whit was resting back on his haunches,
massively built and staring down at Joe's exposed crotch, and the barreled
arcs of the cop's chest rose and fell with his deep, almost deliberate
breathing.  Slowly, Whit rocked forward on his knees, and Joe saw his
tremendous cock glistening under a sheath of lubricant, swollen to iron
hardness.

"Dammit, Whit!"

"Shut up," Whit grumbled, and he thrust his hands beneath Joe, gripping the
cheeks of his ass and raising him.  "I told you I'm going to fuck you."

Joe was rolled back, and he hooked his legs over Whit's powerful shoulders
and threw his arms wide, clutching the bed for stability.  Then he felt his
ass being spread and Whit's huge, hard cock-knob slipped into the crevice.
Joe closed his eyes and locked his jaw.  The cock-head fit against the
center of the opening and Joe felt it press inward, and he choked a cry.
"Whit ...  Aw ..."  *Dammit*, Joe thought, *I'm moaning like a damn
virgin!*

Joe felt the unyielding cock-head push into, then through, his hole, a jab
of pain, felt the head stop for a moment, then press deeper inside.  Joe
struggled, tried to relax, and Whit stayed still as if sensing the young
man's tortured effort.  "Take it, Joe," Whit quietly coaxed.  "Take it!"

Joe's eyes sought out Whit's face--and then--and then--Joe felt something
happen in his head.  Suddenly his body went limp.  He could not keep his
grip on the mattress and felt the sheets slip through his fingers.  His
body sagged down.  His hole relaxed completely, and most of Whit's hard
meat slid inside.  Joe thought, *That damn machine must've done this to
me*, but he could not resist the quiet looseness that left every muscle
slack.

Joe felt Whit's shaft ease its way into his limp body, inch by inch, until
its thickness seemed to fill his guts.  Joe wanted to twist and thrash and
dislodge it, but he could not move.  He simply had to adjust himself to it.
His gasps for air sounded hollow in his ears.

Then Whit was gripping his hips, holding Joe pinned in place, as Joe felt
Whit's groin and hips press against the backs of his thighs, fully inside
him now.

*Fuck!*

Joe felt his limp legs slip from Whit's shoulders, and his own weight
impaled him on the rigid column completely.

*Yeah!*

Joe kept his eyes locked on Whit, who crouched between Joe's thighs,
holding his hips down and staring at his fully accessible genitals.  Joe
watched the ass-busting cop bring one hand across and grip his prisoner's
rigid cock, and Joe felt himself swirling into a new, dreamlike, satisfied
world.

"Fuck me, Whit!  Fuck me!"

Now that he accepted the invader in his ass, Joe started to figure out how
to move his arms and legs again.  He locked his legs around Whit's hips.
They clutched at each other hungrily for a long moment, and then Whit's
hips drew back and drove his powerful rod inward again.  Again.  Again.
Again and again--piston-like thrusts picking up speed and depth, and Joe
felt as through Whit's dick was trying to penetrate the very core of his
being.  "Partner," Joe hissed, raising himself to meet the solid, demanding
penetrations.  "Yeah, fuck me!"

"Shut up, dammit!" Whit barked.  "We're not partners.  I'm no sex-rebel.
Fuck 'em and forget 'em--got it?"

Whit's steadily-mounting thrusts made Joe gasp, and then he was clinging to
Whit, arms and legs locked tight about the cop's surging body, twisting,
writhing to meet each new thrust.  The sexual pressure rose hot and urgent
inside him, and his fingers dug into Whit's muscle-etched flesh.

"I'm gonna cream, Whit!  I can't stop it!"

"Go ahead, cock-sucker!"

"I'm--!"  The uncontrollable power wrenched upward through Joe, almost
there, and he ground himself against the thrashing man and his deep-seated
cock.  "Awh!"

"That's it, Joe.  Shoot it!"

"Ah!"

Joe arched back on his shoulders.  His quivering cock slammed against his
belly--that was enough--and the ultimate moment of climax engulfed him.
Whit grimaced, starting his own orgasm only moments after Joe's.  As Whit's
huge dick pounded into Joe and both of them shook with fierce convulsions,
they clung together, both of them cumming and shooting their spunk, Joe
across his chest and Whit in Joe's ass, as they shared the ecstatic
experience.

Joe drifted down slowly from the climactic summit, numb and spent, forced
back to reality in spite of himself.  He floated in the afterglow.  Whit's
naked weight pressed down on him, the powerful, muscle-hard flesh glazed
with a light sweat, Joe's cum gluing them together.  The youth ran his
fingers over the man's shoulders and back, still wanting him, and when he
heard Whit suck in a deep breath, he knew Whit had also returned.

"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"That was ..."  Another deep breath.  "You're a good piece of ass."

"Thanks."  Joe hesitated, then said, "I think that damn machine changed
something in me, Whit.  I've never wanted to get fucked, but I sure wanted
you to screw me."

"Yeah, sometimes the machine makes a few changes.  That a problem, Joe?"

"No ...  No, I guess not.  I've never gotten my rocks off before just from
having a stud plug me."

"Yeah, I know:"

"Shit!  I forgot that you know everything about me."

"I didn't know my dick would feel so at home in your butt, dammit!"  Whit
relaxed, showing no sign of pulling his still-firm cock free.  "Hell, I've
always been a *Fuck 'Em and Forget 'Em* guy, right?"

"Uh, sure."  Joe wet his lips, stroking the burly son-of-a-bitch cop's back
lazily.  "Going to forget this fuck, Whit?"

"I don't go in for Attitude Adjustments.  I just move on the next guy--no
strings.  But ... probably not."

"Me, neither."

They fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts, and suddenly Whit pulled
up, breaking the cum-glue bond between them and sinking back on his
haunches.  Eyes closed, Joe felt Whit shift slightly, and the
flesh-heaviness remained locked in his ass.  A towel dropped to his chest,
and he felt Whit move it across his bare skin and downward, sopping up the
wet mixture of cum and sweat.  Joe lay still, and the cop's hand slipped
from the towel as he gripped Joe's relaxing cock and wiped it gently, and
then his balls.

"Hold still," Whit growled, and he stuffed the towel beneath the motionless
young man.

Joe stiffened as he felt Whit's massive prick ease from him, and then he
fell back, limp, choking a quiet sound of regret.

Whit got up from the bed and sauntered into the bathroom.

Joe lay still and heard the rush of water in the shower, and then he turned
his head and opened his eyes, focusing on the twilight glow through the
window.  "Fucking bastard!" he muttered.  "Horny ass-fucking stud.
Cock-sucker.  Partner."

He hopped to his feet and tromped into the bathroom, and he could not help
grinning when he saw his shaving gear laid out next to Whit's, like it
belonged there.

He climbed into the shower stall, and Whit stepped back from under the
spray, lathering his barreled chest and heavy-hanging genitals.  Joe doused
himself thoroughly, grabbed the soap, and started to wash up.

"Your asshole hurt?" Whit asked.

"Not like it did when you fist-fucked me."

"Huh?  I never did that.  You dreamed it."

"Yeah?--I guess I did."

Joe showered and got out of the way as Whit moved in to rinse off.  He
watched the rugged, cock-swinging man for a moment, then began to soap
Whit's broad, muscle-ridged shoulders and back.

"You like showering with a guy, Joe?"

"I like showering with you, that's for sure.  I dunno.  Maybe the machine
...  Dammit, I feel like I belong here with you."  He watched his palms
move downward.  "You've got a nice round ass, Whit, nice and muscular.
Most big guys like you have lard-butts."

"If you're thinking about plugging me, forget it."

"Dammit, Whit--"

"You can plow Mike.  He's hot to get your cock up his tail again."

"Mike?  What makes you say that?" Joe asked, dropping to his knees to
lather the man's powerful legs.

"I asked him," Whit answered casually.  "We'll be shacking up with most of
the other guys now and then."

"'We'?"

"Shit, yeah--you and me.  We're going to be roommates, so we might as well
share sex-mates."

"Want me to share my ass, Whit?"

"Hell, no."  Whit turned to face kneeling Joe.  "But that's your decision.
You can fuck who you want, or get fucked if you want, just as long as you
remember your butt ultimately belongs only to me, buddy."

Joe looked up at the rugged, naked cop, and he realized that the damn judge
had already sentenced him to serve the burly son of a bitch with the
rough-cut features, slitted eyes, the hint of a grin, muscle-etched
physique, horse-hung cock, and loose-swinging balls ...

"Bastard!" Joe mumbled and rocked forward to press his face into Whit's
crotch, clinging to him.  "Yes, sir--I'll remember that."

"Damn right you will."


10.

Joe tromped into the apartment, already unbuttoning his work shirt, and he
grinned as he heard the shower running.  He strolled into the bedroom, and
the pieces of Whit's uniform were scattered about carelessly.

"Messy bastard," Joe grumbled, picking up the clothing and hanging it in
the closet, and when he started to peel off his own shirt, the spray
stopped in the bathroom.  "Whit," Joe called.  "What the hell would you do
if you didn't have me to clean up after you?"

"Get another roommate, probably.  Maybe one that don't hog the covers at
night."

Joe laughed as he stripped, and he sprawled back on the bed, his arms
folded behind his head, and he thought back to that warm spring morning
when the police came to arrest him--when Whit had come to arrest him.

"Hey, buddy."  Whit came into the room, toweling his fresh-scrubbed
nakedness, and stood next to the bed.  "Where've you been?"

"Helping Lefty write Jonesy's confession."  He frowned, gazing up at the
burly cop.  "It's kinda crazy, Whit.  Jonesy doesn't remember that he gave
me my first blow-job."

"Hell, you didn't remember him either, until the machine reminded you."
Whit tossed the towel aside and spilled onto the bed next to Joe.  "Horny?"

"No," Joe lied.  "Lefty and I went down to the gym, and I fucked him a
couple of times in the showers."

"Bullshit," Whit snickered, working his stiffening prick and watching Joe's
swelling counterpart.  "You're as hard-up as I am."

"I woke up hard-up this morning," Joe confessed.  "You would've known if
you been here."

"I left you with Mike."

"It's not the same as waking up with you."  Joe brought his hands from
behind his head and palm-stroked Whit's arm and shoulder.  "You were out
making an arrest, huh?"

"Yeah.  A good-looking stud.  Looked kind of like you."

"He went down on you?  Like I did?"

"No."  Whit eased closer to Joe and watched his fingers trace over the
young man's hair-sprayed chest.  "He tried to, but I said no.  I guess I've
gotten used to getting my rocks off with you around."

"Like last night?" Joe chuckled.  "That was wild, buddy.  Fucking Mike
while you were plugging my butt."  And he saw Whit's serious expression.
"Hey--"

"Shut up, Joe."

Joe's cock quivered, full and hard, the solid shaft vein-etched with heat,
the rounded amber head glistening, and he felt Whit's hands on his thighs,
moving upward to his crotch, fingers cupping under his heavy-falling balls
and lifting them, lips and tongue caressing first one nut and then the
other.  "Whit," Joe murmured with throat-tight arousal.

Whit's lips pressed at the base of his erection and moved upward slowly
along the shaft, finally reaching the swollen, sensitive crown and opening
to accept it.  With a whimper of pleasure, Joe reached down and gripped the
rugged cop's muscle-humped shoulders, and then the moist warmth was
enveloping the full length of his cock, holding firm at the hilt.  Joe sat
up slowly, staring down at the dark-haired head buried in his crotch; the
powerful arms wrapped about his hips; the wide, muscle-corded back sweeping
to the hard-rounded curves of the untanned ass, the shadowed cleft between
the butt cheeks; the sleek-haired legs, slightly spread.
"Whit--partner--lemme--"

Whit shook his head without releasing Joe's hard-on from the lip-lock.

Joe hesitated, then sank back, his eyes tight-shut, his features taut.
"Aw!  Damn!"  Joe's breath caught in his throat as the demanding pressures
surged upward through him.  Whit's arms tightened about him, raising his
hips to draw the convulsing fullness of his cock to the ultimate throat
depth.  Joe felt super-heated, overstimulated like some horny teenager,
about to cum far too quickly.  With a hoarse cry, Joe writhed back as his
climax tore through him, hot and overwhelming, and spurt after spurt of
male liquid exploded from his dick with volcanic fury.

As the fountain-flow ended, Whit rolled slowly, carrying Joe with him as he
rotated onto his back, pulling Joe over him, the young man's slow-subsiding
prick still held deep in Whit's throat.  For a long moment, Joe lay still,
gulping for air, and then he pulled up on his knees to stare down at Whit.
The man's face was pressed to his groin, and Joe reached down to stroke his
hair slowly.

"You son of a bitch ...  Always so damn good--you and me, buddy!"  Joe sank
back, watching his glistening dick slip free of Whit's lips, and then he
frowned, straddling the burly cop's chest.  "Okay, what brought that on?"

"I felt like sucking cock."

"Bullshit."

"You're right."  Whit reached up to run his fingers over Joe's taut belly,
avoiding his gaze.  "That damn judge passed sentence on you today."

"Oh."  Joe took a fast breath, coldness gripping his guts.  "So, what now?"

"You've got to stay in custody.  Says you're a sex-rebel risk.  Gave you an
indefinite sentence."

"Here?  With you?"

"The judge says it doesn't make any difference where you stay."  Whit's
voice was quiet, muffled.  "You can move in with Mike; he's always hot to
have you fuck him and maybe fuck you too.  Or Lefty and Chet; they're
willing to switch-hit with you.  Or your school buddy Ron; or your coach;
or any of the others ...  Or even Jonesy, or Vince, or any of the studs
you've shared cum with since then ...  Any of them."

Joe closed his eyes and remembered, back in school when Ron had gotten him
turned on in the library and shared hand-jobs.  And Jonesy had taught him
about cock-sucking.  And Coach had caught him with Steve in the showers and
made him suck, then get fucked in the ass, and Coach had fucked Steve
afterward.  And so many others, like Mike.  Yeah, a long time ago, Joe had
hit the sack with Mike, and they had kind of fit, but Mike disappeared.
And most of those studs were here in jail, like Joe, arrested by cops like
Whit.

Whit!

Dammit, Whit had made Joe suck him off, and arrested him, and brought him
here where that machine tortured him; and Whit had screwed him, and--

"You damn son of a bitch, cock-sucking ass-fucker ...  Whit, I ...  Aw,
shit!"

"It's up to you, buddy."

"Yeah, I guess so."  Joe paused, then tried not to grin as he baited the
rugged cop knowingly.  "I've kinda outgrown school-days sex, but it might
be fun to move in with Coach--or maybe that cop Bill.  I could work them
over any time I felt like it--get my cock sucked--fuck their asses."

"Sure."

"On the other hand, Chet and Lefty are a lot of fun, but they're partners."
He stared off into space, pretending thoughtfulness.  "You're right about
Mike.  He's a real bear in the sack, and we've always fit together damn
well."

"He's hot to screw your butt."

"Shit, after the workouts you've given my tail, I shouldn't have any
trouble riding his meat.  And I'll be getting his ass in return--and he
doesn't leave his clothes scattered all over the place the way you do.  We
always used to fit together good."

"Hell," Whit grumbled, "you and I fit together pretty good too."

"Maybe," Joe suggested warily.  "But if we go partners together, you'll
have to spread your buns for my--"

"Nobody said anything about being partners!" Whit objected.  "I don't go
that route, and you know it!  I'm not a sex-rebel like you.  Fuck 'em and
forget 'em!"  He took a fast breath.  "Stick around here, and nothing'll
change!"

"You're a real son of a bitch sometimes, Whit."  Joe twisted around to
sprawl on Whit, face-to crotch, and he pressed his lips to the man's large,
crinkle-sacked balls.  "A real fucking son of a bitch."

"Nothing'll change," Whit repeated huskily, his palms rising to stroke
Joe's upturned ass.  "I'll suck you off or fuck you whenever I feel like
it; and you can screw any stud you want, except me, and get screwed too by
them if that's what you want.  And--dammit, Joe--you gotta remember your
tail belongs to me, buddy."

"Yeah, I guess it does."