You, l’il’un, you can sleep it off in the empty cell. No drunken moseys on my streets.
Officer Peanut glowered at Buck, and he said, “I ain’t havin’ you walkin’ round my town wit’ chubbies, Haystack. You gonna scare our white ladies. Stick him, this is Hassle, he a bucket trustee. You know what that is?” He ain’t wait for an answer from Buck. He glanced down at Cody. “You, l’il’un, you can sleep it off in the empty cell. No drunken moseys on my streets.” He walked away and kept talking. “Nuh-uh, whiteboys, y’all keep it indoors in Goober’s town. Sh’riff Terwiliger don’t like men walkin’ wit’ a stiffness — we got nice wimmin in this town fo’ real, shit…” He prolly tongued on but ain’t nobody could hear him cuz he done gone out the jailhouse into the police station proper. The jailhouse was silentious, ‘cept for the drunken bodies snoring away they bubbles in the front cells.
Some of ’em right here cloistered in this church be glaring like Gallant at Malcolm’s proud posture.
He wore his city police uniform. He knew lotta brothahs ain’t like it when a colored man becomes a cop — some of ’em right here cloistered in this church be glaring like Gallant at Malcolm’s proud posture — but he ain’t the type to get shook up so easy. The movement needs a voice on the inside, Malcolm thought, and he do what he could to ensure the equitabilized enforcement of the law.
You ain’t in some flooze trap in a port town no more, son. You in civilized society now. Best act propuh.
“Then take her home. You got a right to despoil a female in yo’ own home, so long as you don’t drag her in there,” Officer Goober said. He wagged his finger at Buck. “This ain’t a red-light district. You on the mary-jane, son?” “No! I ain’t a hippie,” Buck said. “You ain’t under arrest, but I’m taking you to the jailhouse,” Officer Goober said. “You can sleep it off there. No charges filed. I understand you strugglin’ to recommendate to the civilian life. You gotsta get a handle on yo’self. You ain’t in some flooze trap in a port town no more, son. You in civilized society now. Best act propuh.” Then he added with a derisive sneer, “No coppin’ no feels on Goober’s watch, nossuh.”
Malcolm Chesway is a church deacon and a retired cop.
Descriptions
Malcolm Chesway was a deacon, and you could tell at a glance that he was a retired cop. He be strutting wide and gaiting long, like he was used to wearing a heavy belt, and he sport a thick copstache, a Southern-drawling tone too deep for his dome and a no-bluff aura like he got a love for bossing niggas about.
Malcolm got a powerhouse frame, and they was intimated about him sitting naked among ’em. He been lifting weights for longer than these pups been barking, and he got work and weathered skin with sags, wrinkles, cuts, scars and cellulite. But beneath that he got flesh a-brim to bursting, and he flexed as he sternly shushed and set them steady watching the sermon.
Wayne is a retired cop and divorced father of two.
Wayne the Ex-Cop: Wayne’s a retired cop with demons in his past — as well as a crappy job, two daughters who don’t like him, a disagreeable ex-wife and a stiffy that just won’t go down! Luckily, he wasn’t known as Officer Booty for nothing. Wayne always gets off when he needs it, and he frequently does!
“If you puke in my car, I will beat’cha ass, and I don’t care who yo’ daddy is, whiteboy. Don’t nobody come puking on Goober! Nossuh! And you gonna be cleanin’ it, son, not me! Nuh-uh. Goober don’t clean up no whiteboy puke. No, he do not!” The cop car drove slowly through Ann Arbor. Goober paused his rant only when he saw a paira college-age girls stumbling drunk as turtles into they house. “Hmmm-hmm…” Goober made a noise like he disapproved of them but also enjoyed looking at ’em. The girls was giggling all over each other. They mighta been at the party Jimmy was just at, the one at the team house. Jimmy couldn’t tell cuz he didn’t really remember faces that well, plus it was dark and the world was blurry. Blurry and wobbly. That’s what’s wrong with the world today. It’s both blurry and wobbly. President Clinton oughta fix that. “Offisshuh, I got… don’t… mah team,” Jimmy said. “The foooootball.” He was having trouble putting those words together into a sentence. But he felt sure the gist was coming across. “You on the football team? Oh… Jimmy Spokes, yeah.” Officer Goober said. He didn’t follow the local team as closely as some, but he’d heard that name. He connected it now to the name James Spokes on the ID. “You is Jimmy Spokes. Coach Marshall gonna pop a gasket if I tell him you was drunken-scootin’ around town in the middle of the night, son. Prolly lookin’ for females to grope. Nossuh! Nuh-uh!” “I waaaant… a cake,” Jimmy said emphatically. “A shocolate… gannnnash and, uh… German-“ “A cake? Boy, you crazy!” Officer Goober said as he pulled into the parking lot of the police precinct. “Crazy-ass whiteboy, ain’t no cake! No cake here!” He chuckled. The click-blink-click-blink of the turn signal seemed impossibly loud to Jimmy. It sounded like a rave. When he parked and opened up the rear door of the cop car, Officer Goober wrinkled his nose yet again — he did that a lot, it seemed — and he grunted. “Don’ arreshhh me.” “You not under arrest, son. Don’t fight me and you won’t be in no trouble. You can sleep it off in the drunk tank,” Goober said. “I won’t tell yo’ coach if you just go sleep it off. And don’t puke on me. I will not hesitate to beat a whiteboy ass if he puke on me, nosirr-” He kept going, possibly having forgotten he already went off on this topic, as Jimmy hefted himself outta the cop car and lurched after him towards the precinct. “Goober do not play that way, nuh-uh. Beat’cha ass any day of the week and twice on Sundays, ya hear?! You a big’un too, son, you can take a beating. Swear to God, I will put that to the test, and yo’ mama cam come watch if she wanna. I’ll take her out fo’ tea and crumpets and a nigga dick after, sure will-“ The precinct was a maze of little rooms and doors that needed to be unlocked, fluorescent lights glaring and turning Jimmy’s joyous drunkenness into a splitting headache. Jimmy turned ruddy and pale. He was suddenly very worried he’d puke on Goober, not cuz he felt like it but cuz Goober was still going on about the terrible things he’d do to any whiteboy who puked on him. “-and I don’t care if the city gin up a lynch mob, swear to God! No football team got nothing — I arrested a Kuwaiti nigga, billionaire sunna bitch, he ain’t shook me! Nossuh, son! No prince gonna grab a waitress in Goober’s town, nuh-uh! Bet’cha mama’s left titty on that!”
“I really don’t think I can pick him out of a lineup, Officer Jackson,” Rob said. He got in the passenger side of the patrol car. “Well, we need you to try. We think we got the guy, but we need an ID on him,” Officer Jackson said. He pulled into traffic with a quickness. Unfortunately, traffic didn’t comply with his need for speed, and he was stuck almost immediately — not even turning on the siren would help. The street was jammed bumper-to-bumper with cars. “Well… shit,” Rob said, sighing at the sight of the traffic jam. “Yeah, goddamn I hate this city. Traffic sucks,” Jackson said. He let out a long, low sigh. “So what does a dude like you do for fun in this city? Sorry, was that weird to ask? I’m just making conversation.” “No, that’s a fine question, officer. I am a bit of a music collector, namely funk. I love funk,” Rob said. “Oh, you know, I date a little, fool around… y’know… I love me a bit of rough trade.” “Rough trade? What’s that?” He sighed and pounded on the steering wheel. He scowled at the car in front of him. The radio flickered into life, but it wasn’t a call aimed at Officer Jackson. “It’s when a masculine guy lets a weaker guy taste his dick for money or a place to sleep or whatever.” “So, wait, guys let you jack them off?” “Oh, yeah, all the time.” “I know Mexicans do that. My last partner explained about the activos and pasivos. I thought it was weird, but he said there’s a dude he messes with sometimes. His wife makes him get off so she doesn’t have to do it. He said all Mexicans do that, I said that seems like a sweeping generalization and-“ “Oh, that’s darling,” Rob said. “But it’s not just Mexicans, sweetie.” He squeezed Officer Jackson’s bicep beneath his uniform shirt. It was firm and meaty, and it made him giggle because it made Jackson’s chest muscles ripple. “Lots of guys do that, for money… or just… for fun. When there’s no girls around. Like right now.” “You comin’ on to me?” “I bet I can get you off and swallow all your cum down before we get off this highway,” Rob said. He moistly sucked on his finger, deep-throating it until he got Officer Jackson’s attention. Rob smiled. “I’m very good.” “As good as a girl?” Rob scoffed. “Sweetie, I’m better than any girl. I can throat any cock, and I love to swallow cum. What girl can make that boast?” He reached over and teased the side of Officer Jackson’s thigh. “Shit… You want me to be ya rough trade?” “Well, I’d have to offer you something of value, but that would be illegal,” Rob said. “So why don’t we just do something more fun? It’s not illegal to gamble on dick, is it?” He stroked Officer Jackson’s cock through his uniform slacks. “If I can make you blow a nut before we get off the highway, then I get to spend one night worshiping your cock and your ass and every part of your body.” Rob unzipped Jackson’s uniform slacks and pulled his already erect cock out. Officer Jackson shifted his weight and scooted back to give Rob more room to touch his dick through his slacks. “Look… I dunno ’bout that…” He blushed. “You can stroke it a bit, that’s… y’know…” “Hmmm… you sure I can’t take it out? Let it see the light of day?” Officer Jackson made a bunch of grunting noises, some of which sounded like “yes” and others like “no”. But Rob just kept rubbing it through his clothes, until it was as hard as iron and the precum leaking out made a little wet spot on the fabric. “Oh, god, man… Do you really throat dick that good?” “Even better.” Rob aimed his voice directly into Officer Jackson’s ear, and he kept his tone low and sultry. Jackson moaned and shuddered. “Goddamn, boy, look, you can suck on it a bit, okay, just get it wet? Just, uh… Oh god…” It took all his concentration to keep driving. “You won’t tell anyone, right?” “I promise, it’ll be our little lavender secret,” Rob said. He unzipped Officer Jackson’s slacks and took his dick out. It was big and thick and, Rob was glad to see, uncut. It was meaty and firm. It tasted salty from the moment Rob popped it into his mouth, precum already flowing down his shaft. “Hmmm… Goddamn…” “Isn’t this nice? I haven’t even started on it yet,” Rob said with a giggle. He still just played with the tip, letting his spit drip all over it and into the humid forest of Officer Jackson’s crotch within his slacks. “I’m just teasing still.” Officer Jackson grunted. A surge of terror hit him as he realized he wasn’t paying too much attention to the road, but the traffic was still almost entirely stopped. He crept forward a few feet a minute. Dispatch to Car 25. Jackson, hey?
Officer Jackson swore. He grabbed for the radio with one hand, while his other guided Rob onto his dick. Rob wanted to make him moan into the radio — he thought that would be funny — so he deep-throated Officer Jackson’s dick the moment he pushed the transmit button on the radio.
“Car 25 he — heeere…” His voice did break as he spoke, but he just pushed Rob’s head deeper on his dick. He squirmed in his seat and closed his eyes. Hey, Jackson, you still picking that witness up? Don’t worry about it. We caught him trying to pawn the cash register. “Thank god,” Officer Jackson said. Then he spoke into the radio, “Okay. Cool. I already picked him up, but I’ll just take him back home.” Rob lifted his head up, wiping precum off his chin, and giggled. “So the guy robbed a gas station then tried to pawn the cash register that day? Do pawn shops even take cash registers?” “He was probably a meth-head,” Officer Jackson said. “That’s a total meth move.” “Hey, so how do you want me to swallow your cum?” Since most women didn’t like sucking dick or swallowing cum, or talking about either, Rob liked to tease straight men by bringing it up. He chased Jackson’s dick with his mouth as he talked. “Cuz I like to have you ejaculate on my tongue, that way I can taste every drop-“ “Yeah, do that.” He gently pushed Rob’s head back to his dick, but Rob just kept stroking. Rob teased the tip of his dick with his tongue. Jackson was right on the edge of orgasm, and Rob kept him there. “So another option is for me to throat you, so you shoot all your load in my throat, like real deep in my throat. The downside there is that I don’t get to taste as much of it. But if you like being deep-throated, that’s probably the way to go.” “Yeah. Do that.” The traffic was beginning to clear out. Rob had totally forgotten they were originally betting over how quickly Officer Jackson might cum. “Let’s see, there’s also the porno option. That’s where you jack yourself off and cum on my face. I’ll have to clean myself up and swallow it all. That makes for a good visual for the camera, but I think it’s the least sexy,” Rob said. He paused for a moment to lick Jackson’s shaft from root to tip, making him shudder and moan again. “Come on, just swallow it, just swallow it, okay?” He was desperately plaintive now. “Hmmm… Okay, it’s up to me?” “Yeah! Just swallow it, man! Come on!” He pounded on the steering wheel. His dick throbbed mightily, like it might cum no matter what. Rob had always known how he was going to do it — he was going to deep-throat. While he did enjoy having a man cum in his mouth, he knew this would feel better for Jackson, which meant Rob might get to make this a regular occurrence. Besides that, the steering wheel was in the way, which might have made the other methods more difficult. So he rammed his head all the way down. As his orgasm hit him, just as he pulled the car onto an off-ramp, Officer Jackson parked on the side of the road. He couldn’t control his body anymore. Cars whizzed past as he leaned back and finally blew the biggest load of his lifetime. Nobody had ever swallowed his cum as deeply as this. Officer Jackson let out a loud howl, his mind whirring as he wondered what he’d say if some other cop saw him parked here. He held Rob’s head all the way down on his cock, until he had shot every drop down Rob’s tight, warm throat. “Shit! Hell yeah, boy! Goddamn!” Officer Jackson screamed. His cum was thick and salty, with a certain musty quality that Rob adored. His load sat heavily in Rob’s belly, his heat seeping into Rob’s flesh. Rob kept sucking even as his lungs cried out for oxygen. “Shit…” Officer Jackson said, his voice now quiet and wavery, exhausted, his forehead dappled with sweat. “Shit, man.” Rob pulled off. He loudly gulped down the mouth full of cum he still had. It sat hotly in his belly. “So you see, that’s what I do for fun in this city.” “Uh-huh. Shit, man…” Officer Jackson gulped as he put his moist cock away. “Shit… That was better than any girl. Don’t quote me on that.” Rob giggled. “You don’t need to worry about that.” His hands pawed at Officer Jackson’s chest. “I practice the utmost discretion.” He paused. “You owe me a night in a motel. I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetie. You ever had a tossed salad? I’ll make you cum till your balls fall off.” Officer Jackson cleared his throat and rearranged himself in his slacks. “Man… Shut up, okay? You’re gonna make me horny again. I’ll take you home now.” He paused. “Yeah, I’ll get a motel room. I’ll have to call you and let you know when I can get away from my wife.” “I can’t wait.”
At first, Teddy thought the flat voice on the phone was a recording. It didn’t quite sound like a real person. He gradually realized it could only be Knuckle. “Teddy. Come get me. I need a ride,” said Knuckle. Teddy crossed his arms over his chest and wondered who was on the phone. Then the distinctive voice of Knuckle flooded his memory. He stammered over a hello, flustered, unsure what Knuckle was asking or if he should agree. “Hello, hey, hi, Knuckle, I, uh… Hey.” “936 Motter Street.” A man’s heavy panting, like he was hurt, could be heard near the phone. Then Knuckle hung up. The whole conversation took maybe three seconds. Teddy stood there, needing to think — about how Knuckle got his phone number, who was that panting in pain, was Motter Street in Martinsburg, what was what number? 936? Teddy hadn’t been expecting a message, so he wasn’t sure he remembered. It turned out that the reason Knuckle didn’t give him an explanation or wait for a yes was that he was on a mission for Mr. Gregarian. Mr. Gregarian had told him to call Teddy for a ride and to tell him he could get paid for his time as though at work. Knuckle hadn’t need a ride to his location because he could walk, but he was now blood-splattered and would attract attention if he walked home. So he needed a ride.
Knuckle didn’t tell Teddy any of that, Teddy figured it out later when Mr. Gregarian gave him the money.
He found 936 Motter Street near the city college campus. This was a party-zone most of the year, choked with fraternities, sororities, teams of young men marching through with jockstraps on their faces (Teddy had seen that once). 936 was a frat house. But it wasn’t the frat that owed money, or even any of the fraternity brothers. Greg Hardinger’s father owed money, but he had been playing hard-to-find with Mr. Gregarian, who cottoned to that like a cat on fire. He didn’t mess around — if Mr. Hardinger was gonna hide from his debt, Mr. Gregarian would either get the money or send a message or both through the young Greg Hardinger. It was a hockey frat — not by rule, but most of the hockey players on campus were in Kappa Gamma Phi, and the frat brothers who lived in the house were all on the team. And they were tied up in the kitchen. Teddy knocked on the door, having no idea of any of this — Knuckle hadn’t told him a thing — and his eyes opened wide at the sight of Greg Hardinger’s handsome face a bloody mess. He was crawling around on the frat house floor. Knuckle came out with blood splattered on his scarred cheeks. He held a small wad of cash — Greg’s emergency stash. It was only a small payment towards the debt, but it would satisfy Mr. Gregarian for now. And Greg had promised to deliver the message to his father: debt must be repaid. Greg wasn’t that badly hurt. Knuckle went easy on him. That feller ain’t gone easy on you… The words now hung in Knuckle’s mind like a trapeze artist. He ain’t thought about those times — the carnival days, with Emma and them — in a long time. But Teddy been steady asking about it. Nobody ever asked Knuckle nothing about his past usually. They assumed he was sensitive about it. Which was true. When Knuckle saw Emma for that first time, he ain’t get a chance to talk to her. The next morning though, he saw her on the street. She was like a golden angel, and Knuckle said hello to her, and she said hello back like she ain’t know who he was, and then she recognized him from the carnival last night, so she must have looked at him at some point, even though Knuckle ain’t seen her do it, and that thought made Knuckle’s heart race. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Then her dickhead boyfriend Tom yelled for her to come to him, as he was coming out of a store, struggling with a buncha bags, and Emma looked away from Knuckle to Tom, but she winced like she ain’t wanna do it even as she padded softly over there. Tom shot Knuckle a mean look. Knuckle ain’t give that mean look much regard. Tom was a middle-class mudclot, and Knuckle ain’t got a lick of worry for him. But Knuckle done misjudge Tom. He musta learned from Emma that Knuckle was a carnie, because later that evening, when Knuckle left the carnival grounds to find a hardware store, he was beset upon by Tom and a gaggle of his coiffed polo-prep prickless pals, who broed around him like agreeable jackdaws. “That’s for talking to Emma!” Tom said when he kicked the bloody and broken Knuckle in the side. “She’s got better things waiting for her in this life than some carnie!” He kicked him again. He and his buddies chortled off into the night. “C’mon, guys, let’s get back to my place.” He musta told Emma what he did, because she came and found Knuckle a few minutes later. He done prop himself up and leaned against the brick wall of a brush factory, hidden from the street by a dumpster that smelled of rotten Chinese food and insulated him from the rumbling engines of the cars putt-putting along on the other side. He cradled his badly bruised ribs. He ain’t think none of his ribs was broken, but it hurt to breathe, and pain bloomed all over like endless marigolds. “Oh, you got hurt! That’s so awful, oh no…” Emma said when she came upon him. She clucked her tongue like a nurse. “Oh, you poor dear… C’mon, can you stand?” “I’m okay, miss,” Knuckle said, blushing, eyes opening wide when she looked at him so nicely. When she got down beside him, he kissed her, and though he tasted only blood and sweat, his heart swelled with rising roses, while his heart rapidly raced and shudders wracked his frame. His meaty hands swept over her shoulders. She pulled away with a pause, lips trembling and hovering above his own. “C’mon, you have to go to the hospital.” He shook his head, which flung a few drops of blood onto the ground beside the dumpster. “The carnies will take care of me. I’m fine.” He struggled to his feet. His legs wobbled. “You’re not fine!” she said. But she didn’t insist on it. She wrapped one arm around his waist, as though she could provide any support to his towering frame. He didn’t need it though. He could still walk, despite his bloody and broken face. He lumbered like a lovelorn frankenstein. They made it onto the street and headed north, towards the carnie encampment. Knuckle limped, but his gait straightened and smoothed once he walked a block or two, and Emma talked but Knuckle’s mind whirred too fast to hear a word she said, so he listened only to her mellifluous tinkling tones, which hung in his head like a heavenly harp. A siren whooped, and a cop car pulled up behind them. Emma stopped. Knuckle kept going at first, but he stopped when Emma ain’t continue alongside. He turned around. “You okay, missus?” asked the cop, a stout middle-aged black man with a shaved head and a dense mustache like a push broom, which wriggled when he wrinkled his nose at the sight of Knuckle’s beat-up, swollen and bloody body. But he went right to Emma, who got a little of Knuckle’s blood on her face and flecking her sundress. “He hittin’ on you? You one of dem carnies, fellah?” “I’m fine,” Emma said. “I wasn’t hurt. He was. He’s hurt.” “I do’n need-uh go to the hospu’al,” Knuckle said. His broken nose made it hard to talk. The cop, whose badge ided him as Officer Castle, sighed. “You drunk?” Knuckle shook his head. Officer Castle pointed to the chain-link fence beside the road, sectioning off the university parking lot from the road. “Hands on that fence, carnie.” Knuckle did as he was told, while Officer Castle listened to what Emma told him. She patiently explained that her boyfriend had beaten Knuckle up for no good reason. She spoke in a dulcet timbre that calmed Knuckle’s agonized nerves. Castle was sympathetic throughout, then put her in the front seat of the squad car, while Knuckle got in the back. “I’ll drop you off at home, missus,” Officer Castle said. He started the squad car and headed off. “Then you’ll take him to the hospital?” Emma asked. “I don’ need-uh go!” Knuckle said from the backseat. Officer Castle winked at her. “I’ll make sure he gets took care of, missus,” he said. “Where do you live, miss?” She gave him directions, but her voice was clipped and her lips were tense, like she was holding back a pout. She kept shooting Knuckle apologetic glances. Knuckle ain’t know how to react, so he just sat there and tried to look like he weren’t in pain, for both her benefit and so Officer Castle ain’t think Knuckle really needed a hospital. Finally, the squad car pulled into a streetside spot next to Emma’s building. “You never told me your name,” Emma said after Officer Castle got out. She didn’t move to open her door, so Castle came around to that side to open it. She and Knuckle had a few seconds of perfect silence. “Knuckle,” he said, his voice a bloody flat croak that ruined the silence. “I”m Emma,” she said. She smiled so softly she looked like a pillow. Knuckle’s eyes opened wide. His cheeks burned a bright pink. Then splendid silence ended. Officer Castle opened up Emma’s door, and she got out. He walked her to her front door. Before she went inside, there was an awkward moment as Officer Castle leaned in to kiss her, but she deftly maneuvered away. He did get his hands on her waist though, and he gently cupped one buttcheek before she scuppered into her house. Officer Castle arranged his now-erect cock in his uniform slacks before he walked stiffly back to the squad car. He got behind the wheel. He whistled. “Reckon I ain’t surprised you got tempted by that sweet young thang. She is a fine woman.” Knuckle nodded. “Hmmmmmm…” Castle sighed. “Look, buddy, she a nice girl. She got a nice man for a boyfriend. He gonna set her up wit’ a nice life. Don’chu you ruin that for her wit’cha low-trash self, you feel me? You shouldn’t be messin’ wit’ no local girls anyway. I know Sheriff Torkelson wouldn’t like that at all. He don’t like carnies. So I can’t arrest this Tom fellah for assaulting you. Don’t look like he did much damage anyhow.” After a long quiet pause, Knuckle said, “Are you taking me to the hospital?” “No,” Officer Castle said. “I told that nice lady I’d get you took care of.” He pulled into the parking lot of precinct 17. “Don’t’chu worry, you ain’t under arrest neither. Just come in.” He led Knuckle into the police station, whose lights was mostly off. A few emergency lights remained, along with a room in the back. They navigated among the desks into that backroom, which was the local jail. A couple jail cells lined each side. One of them was the drunk tank, and it stank of piss and vomit and was choked with passed-out coal miners — there was a brawl in a miner’s bar this afternoon. The rear cell on the left was the one with the light on, and in there was a tall hairy man in his boxers, watching TV. He was almost as tall as Knuckle, and he was powerfully built too. He ain’t have a barrel-shaped chest like Knuckle though, he was more of a naturally lanky man who grew muscular because there was nothing else to do but work out in prison. His name was Baker, and he was a trustee. That was why he was allowed a TV in his cell, which was furnished comfortably. He scowled though at the sight of Officer Castle and then Knuckle’s beat-up and bloody body. He turned down the volume on the talk show on the TV. “Whatchoo want, Castle? I finished cleanin’ the ter’lets,” Baker said. “Get this fellah bandaged up,” Officer Castle said. “He don’t wanna go to the hospital, and he a carnie, so the hospital prolly wouldn’t want him neither. I’ll get doc’s kit.” He went back out into the main room of the police station and rummaged through drawers. “Sit.” Baker pointed to the chair in the center of the cell. Knuckle sat down, while Baker used a towel to dab off the dirt and blood on his face. “What happened to you?” “A fight.” Knuckle ain’t wanna say that he had gotten ganged up on, and he ain’t wanna talk about Emma lest Officer Castle launch into another tirade about nice girls and carnies. So he couldn’t think of any details to add. Baker let out a hoarse chuckle. “Okay, yeah. Makes sense, buddy.” By the time Baker got off enough blood to see the wounds, Officer Castle done come back with the doctor’s kit. Baker was experienced with it — he’d worked in the infirmary back in the prison — so he got to work bandaging up Knuckle’s wounds. He put a butterfly bandage on the deepest one first. That made Knuckle wince, as he had to force the torn flesh together. Officer Castle told Baker a little more about what happened, focusing mainly on how pretty Emma was. Soon Castle was looking dreamy-eyed. “She got legs like you wouldn’t believe, Baker, I ain’t seen ’em till she get in the light of her front porch.” His hands were on Baker’s smooth bare back now, massaging his tattooed muscles. “Goddamn, I love a girl wit’ legs,” Baker said. He was distracted by applying another butterfly bandage, this time to Knuckle’s side. “You want some ice, fellah? I’ll get’cha an ice-pack.” Baker tried to get up, but Officer Castle clucked his tongue and massaged Baker’s back more firmly. “Nah, Baker. I put a ice-pack in the bag,” Castle said softly. Baker grabbed the ice-pack from the doctor’s kit, grumbling. He put it on Knuckle’s sore belly, and Knuckle sighed with relief. Baker gave his ribs a couple pokes to see if they were broken, but Knuckle ain’t seem fazed. Then Castle took his dick out through the fly of his uniform slacks. It jabbed, already hard, into Baker’s side. Baker grunted and swatted it away. “C’mon, Castle, I is fixin’ him up-“ “Don’t lemme stop you,” Castle said. “Hmmm-hmm, you got nice smooth skin, Baker. No hair neither. Like that. I like that,” he said emphatically. He winked at Knuckle. His dick rubbed Baker’s spine. Then his hands pulled down Knuckle’s boxers. “Here. Ibuprofren,” Baker said. He handed over some pills he found in the doctor’s kit. He poked around in there as though looking for more bandages, but he was actually hoping to find more pills. He ignored Castle’s fat fingers groping him like a girl. Before he could put gauze on the asphalt-scraped shoulder, Baker grunted and gritted his teeth. Castle’s cock slid into his ass. “Carnies do ramrodding, right, fellah?” Castle said, his voice a low simmer. His hands reached around Baker’s body to his chest. One hand squeezed his pec, the other groped the flesh and nipple — you could almost sort of pretend it was a tit. “Yes, suh,” Knuckle said. “Well, if you wanna do it next, you can,” Castle said. His whole body tensed as he flexed his hips. Baker grunted and closed his eyes. “Ow, shit, Castle!” He spread his asscheeks with both hands, which always seemed like it should reduce the pain but never did. “Hmm-hmm, c’mon, Baker… Moan for me, get me goin’-“ “You goin’, shit, ow, ow, ow, Castle, c’mon! You already goin’ good and hard!” Baker’s knees went weak, and he winced. He took Knuckle’s dick in hand as though to put it in his mouth, but he didn’t, as Officer Castle behind him spurted jizz into his booty. “Hmmm-hmm…” Officer Castle murmured. A huge wad of cum bloomed within Baker, whose cheeks went red. He did manage to get Knuckle’s limp dick in his mouth for a second, but then he lifted his head to grab some toilet paper. He sopped up all the cum leaking from his butthole when Officer Castle pulled out. He screwed up his nose at the messy wad of toilet paper in his hand, then threw it away into the little trash bin in his cell. “Ya turn, big boy,” Baker muttered. He stroked Knuckle’s dick with one hand, which he lotioned up with some vaseline. Knuckle leaned back on the chair. “Shit, you jack off e’ry dude that come in here?” Knuckle asked. Baker scoffed. “No. Just the cops and, y’know… visitors,” he said. He shrugged. “It’s better than prison.” He kept stroking Knuckle’s dick with one hand, his butt hovering above it. It stiffened up in his grasp. “I got a pretty loose butthole.” He grimaced as he lowered his ass onto Knuckle’s dick. It entered the hole. When Knuckle’s hands touched his waist to pull him down, Baker clucked his tongue and stopped him. “Nah, son, wait. You got big meat, I’m goin’ slow,” Baker said. His eyes flicked back to the TV, which had finished the commercials and was back on the talk show. “And keep it down. I’s still watchin’ my show.” Knuckle’s hands hovered above Baker’s asscheeks. He didn’t touch it, though the sensations arising from his ass were intense. He threw his head back and moaned. Cum spurted into Baker’s butthole. A long flow of it filled him up, and Knuckle sucked in his breath. His massive dong flopped out. Baker winced again, ready with a wad of toilet paper to wipe up the cum that plopped out. Baker kept his eyes trained on the TV the whole time. Finally, Baker’s butt was clean, and Knuckle leaned back in the chair, relaxing. Knuckle’s dick was still covered in juices. He took a deep breath, only for images of Emma to return to his mind. Baker tossed him the roll of toilet paper. “Clean ya dick up, son. Then get outta my cell.”
Some cops are nice, some cops are cruel, and some cops are downright AWFUL! One of them is Officer Hoffernan, who knows how to teach a man a lesson about the law he’ll never forget! In this story, Hoffernan arrests a speeder, an activist and a gangster, and he gives each one the rough ride of a lifetime!
Can he bury his rod deep enough to satisfy his urges?
Malcolm’s a church-goin’ black DILF, and he’s gonna do whatever it takes to blow a load without sullying his soul. That means getting down and dirty on the DL with ebony mandingos, white hobos and alpha males of all kinds! They don’t have to like it, they just have to submit to his authority.
