Off-Duty

The sun was slipping behind the western horizon when two figures, one in a jeans jacket, the other in a black leather jacket in a motorcycle cut, stepped out of JR's. The bar and grill, located in the same building as a former gay nightclub, was not usually where Chris got picked up by anyone, much less a customer. He'd merely stopped in for a good meal and to check out the newest waiters. It had come as a surprise to him, then, that a handsome stranger--from some place in Yorkshire, England, Chris guessed by the accent--offered to pay for his beer. When the stranger joined him, and no names were offered, Chris understood what the situation was to be.

Chris knew he was as much fantasy to his customers—more, probably—as he was reality to them. He did everything he could to preserve that. Some wanted him because of his vague resemblance to a certain popular actor; others wanted him because he fit a particular type they had in mind. His return customers wanted him because he was very good at what he did. He was over 21 (though he looked younger, a definite plus in a tight market like Denver). He had black hair that he kept long and neat; very dark brown eyes that he'd inherited from his feisty Irish mother were framed by soot-black lashes. He could pick and choose what clients he wanted to deal with—that was the idea behind being a small business operator, wasn't it? He looked up at the current consumer thoughtfully as they stepped into the alley behind the bar and turned to face one another.

"How much?" Dark brown hair and green eyes set in a strongly English face made Chris's heart beat a bit faster, as if the accent hadn't already done it to him.

Still wary, he flashed his most disarming smile. Cops asked "how much" sometimes; he learned that the hard way a few years ago. He licked his lips.

"Let's put it this way," Chris answered and stepped in a bit closer to the slightly taller Englishman. "It depends on what you want."

The man pressed his lips into a thin line and glanced furtively around. 'Maybe not a cop,' Chris thought and checked in his pocket for a condom. 'Or maybe a really good actor.'

"I want to fuck you," The voice was a husky whisper now and, so close, Chris could feel the heat off him. "How much?"

Chris grabbed the little blue packet from his pocket and held it up. "I don't do bareback. What's it worth to you?"

Briefly, the man was taken aback. That happened sometimes. Most of these guys's fantasies didn't involve anything so mundane as using a rubber. Chris gave him a grin, aware that his gold tooth probably glinted in the light from the setting sun. Finally, the man swallowed hard and said, "Two hundred dollars. But I have a special request."

Chris's grin widened. "Now you're talking, baby. Special requests are always welcome."

The man smiled back. The shadows fell across his face in such a way that his eyes glowed, his only distinguishing feature. For a second or two, Chris felt a chill of foreboding but he ignored it. He would have been happy with $50—he wasn't about to complain about a special request if he was being properly compensated. The customer lifted his right hand into the sunlight and Chris caught the glint of metal as the handcuff closed about his left wrist. 'Don't panic,' he told himself. 'The boy obviously just fancies a bit of role-play.'

"Um, officer, what's going on?" Chris managed to come up with. "What did I do?"

"Possession of a felonious arse," The Englishman growled. He spun Chris around and grabbed his right hand, locking that wrist into the other cuff. " . . . and begging for a good, hard fucking."

Chris was slammed into the bricks he had leaned his back on moments before. His cheek scraped the rough surface hard and he drew back. "Dammit, not the face! I can't get another job tonight if my face looks like I've gone ten rounds with Holyfield. Back off!"

Without warning, he felt the Englishman pressed against him, suffocating him slightly. The man's lips were next to his ear and his hard-on ground against his buttocks. "Who says you'll be allowed another job, mate? Maybe you won't ever need another job, hmm?"

For a few seconds, Chris was so caught up in the aroma of the man—not only the leather of the jacket he wore or the smell of peppermint and vodka on his breath but the smell of his sweat, earthy and sharp, with a tiny hint of cinnamon—that he couldn't think. When his brain finally wrested a few ounces of blood from his dick, though, he realized what the man had said. He felt something coldly metallic press against his neck, just behind his ear, and he nearly collapsed.

"Look, man,--what's your name?" Chris didn't know if he was being too transparent but he didn't want to die in some filthy alley.

"Call me Nigel," The man said. "Just how talented are those hands of yours, whore? Can you put that condom on me without seeing what you're doing?"

"Of course," Chris didn't have a clue if he could do so or not. Worse, if he was going to die anyway, wouldn't he want this nut's cum inside him so he could be found? Chris felt a sob rise into his throat but he fought it down. "I'm better with my mouth, though. Just ask any of my clients."

"I don't think so," Nigel answered. Chris heard the plastic-coated paper of the condom-wrapper torn in two then the condom itself was slid into his hands. Chris closed his eyes trying to visualize how he was going to do this. His breath caught when he heard a zipper then, without any other word or sound, he felt the cock nudge into his hand. "Your hands are cold, mate. Make it fast. Oh, and don't drop the sheepskin. It's the only one you'll get, eh?"

Carefully, Chris took the head into his left hand and, using his right hand, began to roll the polyurethane sheath down across the shaft. His fingers slipped in the lubricant though and he swore under his breath as his heart pounded harder. Another slip and he thought he'd nearly dropped it. At that, the cold steel pressed more firmly against his neck and Nigel's free hand encircled his throat.

"Careful, mate," Chris became terribly aware of the strength and warmth of the long fingers across his windpipe. "Is this exciting, love? Your heart's beating like a sparrow's wings. 'Do I make you randy, baby?'"

For a moment, Chris was ticked. This maniac was threatening to kill him and he thought it was the perfect time to do his Austin Powers imitation? The condom finally reached the base of Nigel's cock and Chris pulled his hands away. He suppressed the urge to struggle and leaned his head back so that he could look into the Englishman's face. He put a slight leer on his mouth. "What do you think, officer? Why don't you frisk me and see for yourself?"

As if it hadn't occurred to him, Nigel's face went from cheerfully evil to pleasantly surprised then back to even more cheerfully evil. Chris rested his forehead against the brick wall and made an effort to relax. The cold steel feeling vanished from his neck as both of Nigel's hands began to explore his body.

Chris's cheek ached stiffly and he wondered if it was bleeding. He caught his breath as Nigel's hands slid around his hips to the front of his jeans. There was always that moment when the fear and the lust were pulling him in two directions, like an Old West gunfighter must have felt. It was too late to turn back but he didn't really want to. Time slowed to a crawl as the Brit's fingers undid the buttons on his fly. He gulped as his balls tightened. He had to fight for every breath now.

When the jeans slid down, revealing his "felonious" ass, Chris shivered. He hadn't anticipated that the temperature would start dropping so quickly once the sun went down. The long fingers began to play with his privates--stroking his cock, tickling his scrotum, kneading his cheeks as he parted them. For a moment, it felt so good Chris wondered if he should consider knocking a few bucks off the price. Then the cold steel was pressed to his neck again and he decided against it. He had been too scared before to try to figure out what he was being threatened with but now he knew he had a few minutes left for certain. Whatever else it might have been, the shape was most definitely a circle. 'A gun, then,' Chris decided. 'Can't outrun a bullet but maybe he's got bad aim.'

Nigel let go of him long enough to guide the head of his member to its destination. Chris issued a shuddering sigh and pressed back a bit. His customer didn't seem to want him to struggle so, if his life was on the line here, he probably needed to be as cooperative as possible. He gasped when the dick started to slide up inside him. It felt like ice compared to the warmth of his interior, not to mention that the only lube was that on the condom itself--which was inadequate at the best of times. His own cheeks were feeling a bit frosty by now so when Nigel's hand returned to his cock, Chris was glad to feel that the Brit's palm was almost hot on his flesh. The combination of sensations sent a bubbling thrill up into Chris's stomach, especially when Nigel's piece slid across his prostate. Chris had to admit that Nigel knew what he was doing.

"How's that feel, mate?" Nigel gave a particularly pointed thrust of his hips and, for a second, Chris couldn't answer.

"Better than . . .," Chris grunted and bit his tongue. He'd started to say "a sharp stick in the eye," then decided against antagonizing an armed nut-job. "Very nice."

"Oh, you can do better than that, I'm sure," The gun was shifted so that it wasn't pressing into his neck again. "You whores all know how to talk dirty. So, come on, give me the details."

Chris had a nearly-uncontrollable urge to put his hiking boot through his customer's knee, there was such distaste and scorn in the way Nigel had said "You whores." But the gun was still in the wrong hands and he was still pretty much at the bastard's mercy. "Better, huh? All right. Come on, Daddy, you can fuck me harder than that. Ooh, I like it when you touch my dick. Want me to suck your balls, love? I bet you taste just like a peppermint stick. I ain't seen it, baby, but I bet it's all red and stripey, hmm?"

Chris cried out as fingers dug into his balls, twisting slightly as they tightened, not enough to damage but to imply the potential. "That attempt at humor is not appreciated, mate. Tell me how it feels, eh?"

"It feels," Chris paused, still a little tender from the squeeze but realizing how lucky he was that Nigel didn't seem to want to damage him permanently--Other than killing me, of course, he reminded himself. "Okay, seriously? It feels damn good. Your dick is just the right size, you know? And every so often--oh, like just then--you hit the sweet spot. And, man, I love it when a trick holds my cock or touches me at the least. I'm human, you know? So many of these johns just want to get their rocks off and go but you--you seem like you care, at least a little. And,--oh, that's the place--that makes all the difference. I--Officer, the cuffs are a little tight. If you could just loosen them a little--."

Abruptly, he was being crushed against the bricks again though Nigel was still cupping his privates so at least they weren't being scuffed up. "Now, love, how would that look, eh? A fine, upstanding constable like me turnin' a felon like you free?" Chris wriggled a bit so that he could draw a breath and said, "Not free, officer. Just loosen them a little. I swear on my Grandma's grave I won't try to do anything."

"No," Nigel began to lick at Chris's ear. After a few seconds, he seized the tiny gold earring Chris wore in his teeth and tugged lightly. "I fancy that little bauble, mate. Looks like one I have at home."

"Please, don't," Chris pressed his lips together to keep from begging more. His throat had gone dry and he swallowed hard. "So, Officer Nigel, are you going t-to let me go when you're done?"

For a moment, Nigel didn't answer as he intensified the strokes. Chris bit his lip and angled himself so that every move within him was concentrated pleasure. He grew aware after a few seconds that Nigel's lips caressed his nape, the Englishman's breath inspiring chills. Chris realized he was about to come and whimpered, afraid of what would happen next. Nigel's hand ceased its movement at that second and his voice slithered into Chris's ear.

"Not just yet, mate. I have a bit of business to take care of first, eh?" Chris cringed as he felt Nigel put a hand in his pocket to fish for something.

He was expecting the click of a safety being taken off or the snap of a hammer being pulled back when, instead, Nigel's hand grasped his right wrist, the other hand then disappeared and he felt the handcuffs being removed. He sighed with relief as the circulation was restored to his hands. Nigel seized his wrists and placed the palms of Chris's hands deliberately on the bricks. Chris quivered as Nigel's hands inched their way down his torso and back to his privates. The blood pounded so loudly in his ears that Chris couldn't hear a thing as Nigel's hot hands returned to their positions on his cock and balls. At the same moment, Nigel resumed thrusting into him.

Seconds later, Chris dug his fingertips into the mortar and let out a soft cry, his dick firing hot spatters of cum on the wall. He heard Nigel inhale then bear down to climax furiously at the peak of his thrust. Nigel slumped into him, pressing him against the wall though his hand still protected Chris's package.

Chris came aware a few minutes later to the sensations of gentle lips on the column of his neck below his ear. He shook with cold and spent passion. Slowly, the long fingers drew his jeans up, over his hips then buttoned the fly. Nigel's arms wrapped Chris up and pulled him even closer. "How's your face, my love?"

Chris twisted around a little to eye his boyfriend. "I'll survive but you'll pay for that little slip-up, babe. We'll be playing Roman centurion during the slave revolt tomorrow."

Nigel chuckled and turned Chris to face him, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek just below the graze. "By your command."

"You damn bet," Chris answered then, with a grin, held out his hand. "Hey, where's the money?"

Nigel shook his head then freed one hand to dig into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a wad of bills and a 3/4" socket. "What did we say?"

"Two hundred," Chris answered then picked up the socket, weighing it in hand. "Nice gun!"

Nigel's eyebrows rose. "It worked, didn't it?"

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