A Satyr in Full

Part 2 is actually a prequel to part 1 and is narrated by Det. Kevin Brown, not Tim Crane.

My career in law enforcement began after a short stint in the Marine Corps as an MP and embassy guard. When I left the Corps, I advanced up the ranks of the local police force quickly, rising to vice squad detective within three years of graduation from the academy. I wasn't eager to move up, the Marines had taught me patience, but I had always maintained a greater sense of vision in chaos that lent itself to police work.

The rhythms at play in vice are those of lower human behavior. Sex and drugs tend to flow along a matrix: If you bust a crackhead you might solve a robbery; if you roll up a prostitution ring there's a good chance you'll catch the pimp engaged in a variety of pimp mischief including, but not limited to, money laundering, even murder.

Not that my job was always so serious. In fact my favorite pastime was keeping tabs on the one-man crime wave known as Tim Crane Jr. Tim was a verbose Black attorney in corporate practice at his father-in-law's law firm Gaynor, Medved, and Mitchell. He wore a Trotsky beard and silly Prada suits and had the build of a fireplug, but he had charm for miles. I first met him in my days of walking the beat around the Octagon, an eight street party district near downtown. In a one year period the squad caught Tim with no less than six different women (none of them his wife) engaged in some variety of coitus in public. In light of his goatee and sexual proclivities the guys on the squad took to calling him The Goat.

We usually let him go when we caught him, none of the girls were known prostitutes, but the last time I detained Tim I found him drunk behind the wheel of his Mercedes coupe with a naked coed in the passenger seat.

He never struck me as really Black, let alone soul brother number one, but for credibility's sake he addressed us in the appropriate street patois, "You White cops kill me. What's this? A misdemeanor?"

"If it's your first time. Is this your first time Timmy?"

"But the car wasn't even moving, man"

"Doesn't matter, they changed the law. If the keys are in the switch and you're behind the wheel that's good enough. For a lawyer you sure don't you know shit Tim." He developed a nervous sheen of sweat.

"You don't think I'll get it thrown out?"

"I'm sure your father-in-law's firm would love the attention. I'll give him a call, maybe he can post bail?" This broke his spirit. He tried a new attack.

"Now peep this… I let you in on the inner circle of something major…maybe we'll just forget about this…transgression."

I didn't really buy what he was selling but was intrigued. It turned out Tim was for real. With a lot of effort I worked up his inside information to the bust of my career and made my promotion to vice full time. His tip concerned a group of executives for a paper company hiding dozens of stinky crystal methamphetamine labs among the remote acres of their pulp forest. It was a brilliant idea that would have never been uncovered without Tim's assistance.

I couldn't think of a way to thank him though, the paper company had been a client of his firm, and any public acknowledgment would have been career poison. I thought the least I could do for him was to invite him and his wife over to the house for steak and lobster. I figured that his wife, a Pole adopted by a rich American family when she was a teen and my wife, Irena, a Russian beauty, might have something in common.

I told Tim it was supposed to be a casual affair, but he didn't get the memo. It was early autumn so I wore jeans and a black T-shirt while Irena wore a red cable knit sweater and ankle length black plaid skirt. I had to convince Irena that she looked beautiful. Her new haircut and color was supposed to make her a pixie, Jane Wiedlin as a blonde, but there really is no way to diminish the stature of a buxom six-foot, 160-pound straw headed Slav. The Cranes came dressed for a cocktail party. Tim wore a dark linen suit with a short collared electric blue silk shirt. He looked like this year's model of a South Florida Romeo, with a bull neck of course.

Tim Crane's wife, Maria, was an angel of a woman. She wore little makeup and a sheer coral silk dress the color of her skin; her hard puckered nipples proved she wore no bra. Maria was as tall as Irena, but thin and naturally flaxen blonde. In a word, refined, like she had grown up in a castle instead of the streets of Gdansk. I wondered how she had fallen for a rascal like Tim, but as the evening wore on I guessed that whatever hold he had on her was slipping.

Dinner was nice if a little drunken. Tim had brought three spectacular bottles of wine from his own cellar. Between the four of us we finished them all and moved on to champagne cocktails with dessert.

After dinner we flipped for KP and I found myself alone on the glassed-in patio with Maria while Irena and Tim put away the leftovers and washed the pots and pans.

Maria asked how I had come to make a Russian my wife.

"It's a long story," I said. This was not a secret; just something I'd rather have let go unsaid.

"Go ahead, you're among friends." She self-consciously licked her lips.

"OK, I used to be a guard at the embassy in Moscow. Irena worked as a nanny for an American diplomat. We got to know each other as she passed in and out of the gate. One day some fool decided to launch a grenade into the compound. Luckily a Xerox machine took the brunt of the shrapnel, but when they turned out the guard, I was with Irena, and well, lets just say I had to make a choice…Irena or the Corps."

"And you chose love?" she said.

"Yep, I chose the Corps." Maria brightened. "But then Irena kept calling and showing up and the Corps told me to get out. This was only a few years after the Lonetree scandal; they didn't need the exposure. I still got an honorable discharge though." She seemed touched by my fidelity.

"Kevin, how well do you know Tim?" she asked. Her life in America had not erased a very soft accent.

"Pretty well. He works in the tower near headquarters. We eat lunch sometimes," I said.

"I think he's fucking around on me." The wine had made her blunt. "I fuck him on demand. Do you know what that means? If he wants me now, he gets me now. Right here while you and your wife watch. But he doesn't care, it's not enough, he still needs other women. Is this what men do?"

I tried to be as diplomatic as possible, "Tim might have a wild eye, but look at you, you're sexy, passionate, who would need anyone else?"

She didn't seem convinced. She simply reached out and placed my hand inside her blouse over her heart. I detected the stirrings of an erection in my jeans. Trying to remain calm, I removed my hand after a cursory stroke of her small soft breast.

"Listen Maria, any differences between you and Tim won't be solved by fooling around with me." I said. "Besides, Tim might not like the idea of his friend fondling his wife."

"Do you mind if he fondles your Russian tramp?" she said.

Maria's blue eyes peered past me in the direction of the kitchen. I turned to see Tim at the rear of Irena whispering something in her tilted ear. We couldn't see the lower halves of their bodies behind the kitchen counter but she appeared taller as if on her tiptoes, the upper half of her large breasts swelling for a touch beneath her tight red sweater. Tim's hands were locked around her hips. My wife grinned absurdly like Tim was telling her a joke that required his cock inside.

After a moment they realized they were being watched, abruptly separated, and lurched quietly back towards the sofa. I turned away to see Maria's face hot with embarrassment. I looked again and noticed Tim's linen trousers bulging obscenely in front. Irena excused herself and hurried toward the bedroom.

I had mixed feelings about what to do next. I was outraged at Tim for humping my wife right under my nose, yet how could I deny that I hadn't just felt the same lust for his wife? In the bedroom Irena apologized. She said she didn't know what had come over.

"There's something about his voice, his scent, Kevin, I don't know. Maybe it was the wine. I'm sorry." She held her head in her hands. I told her what Maria had done to me. We agreed that this was not the kind of experience we should allow to complicate our lives. Tim was an informant in an investigation and this mixture of business and personal drama was foolish to say the least.

When we returned to the living room, we looked out to see Tim and Maria on the deck. Maria sat on the broad wood railing with her dress high on her waist, legs wide apart and wrapped around Tim. His trousers were loose around his ankles as he fucked with long egocentric strokes. Maria made sounds that until that moment I had never dreamt possible. They had to be waking the neighbors.

Irena held my hand and gasped as we watched. She was as excited for Maria getting dick as she's ever been about any love I'd given her. Maria's hands were on her own nipples, twisting them through the sheer silk to a monstrous size. She looked back inside at me through the glass, licked her lips then suddenly pushed Tim backwards and hopped down from the wood. Tim had his back to me but I knew when she went low on him that it was to catch his semen in her mouth. At this point Irena was rubbing her big breasts against me. I think she wanted to join in.

When they finished they came back inside looking dizzy but satisfied. Maria's long yellow mane was slightly tousled but she wore a dot of Tim's jism on her cheek. I don't think she would have minded if he'd made a mask of cum on her face, she looked so drunken and happy.

Their audacious fucking upset me, burned. Not just because it was rude but because I felt on some level that Maria wasn't in her right mind. It was like Tim had her in a spell. Plus I hadn't appreciated the theatrics on my own patio in front of my wife. They could have at least waited to go home or at least found a room with a door. Tim said it was getting late and they should probably go.

"Yeah, that would probably be for the best," I said. Tim glowered back at me. We were one word from a fight. I stood six inches taller and thirty pounds lighter. He might've looked like Mike Tyson but I could've taken him easily. Maria and Irena said their good-byes with double kisses, I think I detected Irena licking Maria's cheek. They said something unintelligible in Russian.

After the silver Mercedes coupe had pulled out of the driveway, I asked Irena what Maria had said.

"She told me to stay away from her husband or she'd kill me," she said. I told her it sounded like sound advice. She turned away to the bedroom and slammed the door. We made angry love that night. After it was over she went to the fridge and slept on the couch.

The next couple of months went by quietly without a word from Tim. Things between Irena and me however were not going well. She had become another woman since the night of the dinner party. One moment ecstatic, maudlin the next. She disappeared for three days at a time. When she came back she said she wanted a divorce. I told her that if we divorced before she received her citizenship she might be deported. Irena said she didn't care. She left, then returned the next day begging forgiveness. By the end of the year I had received promotion to detective first class and spent as much time on the job as possible.

Tim resurfaced too in a very interesting way. I was heading up a community task force conducting surveillance on adult video stores in the Octagon that sold illegal tapes (amateur extreme bondage and underage stuff) and hosted a dangerous phenomenon called gloryholing. Gloryholes were large round openings drilled in the peep show booths so men could covertly stick their dicks through to someone (male or female depending on the scene) who wanted to service them anonymously on the other side.

Our sweep of the video stores in the Octagon turned up dozens of prostitutes, perverts, housewives, transvestites, gay men, old men, businessmen, and a couple of off duty cops. It was my job to look through the tapes, catalog the participants (if they were stupid enough to show their face), and help make a convincing case for the ADA against the videostore. I watched most of the tapes on fast forward. I really didn't have the time or the stomach for what got these people off. Eventually I gave up my seat in the AV room to Patricia Ebaugh, one of my ace troopers and a good friend, and headed home.

Almost in the garage, my cell phone rang. It was Pat.

"Hey Kev, need you to doubleback ASAP. There's a tape here that you have to see. You gotta come back right now."

"Pat, you're a lesbian, you're supposed to be immune from getting turned on by those tapes."

"Kev, listen to me, it's about Irena, she's on a tape, you're not going to like it." I swerved to avoid crushing my riding lawn mower.

"Queue the motherfucker up," I said. "I'll be there in 20."

Even though it was after-hours, a crowd of vice squad pervs had gathered around the AV room monitors. I ordered everybody to get the fuck out. Pat said she was sorry but the guys had barged in. "Once they saw who it was I couldn't stop 'em Kev." She was embarrassed for me.

Irena was featured in three of at least two dozen cassettes of similar length and similar content. They all featured Tim 'The Goat' Crane fucking a bevy of beauties in a multitude of positions. I recognized some of them from arrests in the Octagon. The first tape featuring Irena was shot in my house on what I came to recognize as my couch. He was hairier than I'd imagined especially his hard muscled legs and haunches.

I'd always half–believed that the size of a man's penis had nothing to do with a man's height, but The Goat proved it. At five foot six, his bronze dick was a full eight inches and so wide as to not fit into my wife's mouth. She just adoringly sucked on the head, allowing him to fire a load of semen over her chubby white cheeks. He brutally slapped the glazed bell all over her neck and face and nose.

I felt like the ultimate fool. I had invited the devil into my home. Shamed in front of my co-workers and God, a reservoir of anger pooled in my gut.

The tape went on and on. The Goat's efforts were heroically Satanic. He eventually worked Irena up to accommodating his monster joint in her ass. This must have taken tremendous labor on both of their parts. She grunted and played with her trap to take the sting out of his hole splitting effort.

Irena met his stroke with an abandon that can only be described as animal pushing hard back into Tim with strength I never knew she possessed. He came first, leaving her rectum stretched as big as her womb, sputtering a milky trail of spunk. He wiped the excess jism off on my couch cushion. Irena scrunched up in a fetal ball on her side, hands between her legs, she appeared deeply injured.

The Goat walked towards the camera, picked it up, and proceeded to zoom in on my wife parting the lips of her pussy, stroking the blood engorged clitoris. When she came, it was in a series of guttural affirmations as if she were speaking a language long since dead. I hurt, not only had I been betrayed, but she had never approached this level of delirium in my presence, no matter how much I tried.

Near the end of the tape there was another scene. The inside of a vast, overstuffed estate with marble floors and high ceilings. The ocean could be heard through the open door of the verandah. Someone tickled a piano in the background, sounded like Joe Sample. The cameraman was drunk, unsteady, he moved through a crowd of well-dressed men and women, cocktails in hand. I thought I caught a glimpse of Maria. He climbed a long staircase upwards. A guard with an earpiece smiled and waved the cameraman through a door that led to the roof.

A stained mattress and metal folding chairs were the only furniture. Near famous men gathered around in a circle in various states of undress; one guy wearing nothing more than a cummerbund sat bare assed smoking a cigar. A silver haired gentleman in tuxedo, sans trousers, a dead-wringer for the mayor of our fair city, said "Hi" to the cameraman. The cameraman didn't reply.

At the center of the men's activity was my Irena on the mattress. She was upright on her knees furiously mouth testing dick after dick looking for one hard enough to be of use. Her big brown doe eyes were lacquered in pleasure.

Her short blonde hair gummed with semen, Irena drunkenly demanded "Get me a cock…I wanna fuck!" The men paid her scant attention. A state senator mumbled something about capital gain appreciation relief. The cameraman passed off the camera to a bystander then came into view. It was Tim Crane. He removed his spangled tuxedo except the brocaded vest and squatted to brusquely inspect my wife's quim like a third world gynecologist.

"Quick, somebody get me a towel," he said jokingly. "She's one hell of a leaky ship!"

The men laughed. Tim roughly pushed Irena onto all fours and abruptly entered her from behind. A cheer went up from the gathered crowd. I shut off the tape.

"Kevin…Detective Brown!" my boss Lt. North was at the door. "You gotta stop watching these tapes or you're going to go insane." It was after four in the morning. I'd seen all of the Irena tapes at least twice. "Go home, just get some rest. We'll talk about it tomorrow," he said. There was an expression on his face like he was staring down a ghost.

"I'm not done here chief," I said. "I think there's one in here somewhere where she blows the Yankees." My head reeled, my body ached. Horny and repulsed. Punch drunk and numb. My thoughts turned to eating my gun.

I eventually did go home, but snuck out the tapes. My emotions ceased to function. I put on my detective hat. How did these tapes reach the market? Tim was rich. He didn't need the money. Did he do it to humiliate me? No, there were more than twenty other women on the tapes besides Irena. Then it clicked. Maria might not need the money either, but maybe she'd found the tapes. This was one sure way of ruining Tim's career and making sure he didn't see a dime of her father's money when it came time for a divorce.

When I reached home I tried to wake Irena. There was the remainder of a KFC bucket on the nightstand. She looked cherub like in my old high school football jersey. When she didn't respond to a kiss, I grabbed a patch of her short blonde hair and led her to the living room. I sat her fat Russian ass on the couch. She kicked and screamed until I placed a hand over her mouth and pressed play on the remote.

On this tape the action started with The Goat behind Irena. The setting was a cheap hotel, the kind where even the Gideon Bible is on a chain. Her mouth formed a wailing O; it appeared he was violently cleaving her in two. I turned down the TV to hear Irena's explanation.

"Oh honey…I…don't know…I couldn't…he told me that…I'm sorry…he raped me…" she couldn't gain control of her English. She seemed stunned by the abuse the girl on the screen was taking from the hairy assed Black man. I helped her out by turning up the volume again where her English was excellent.

The Goat switched positions on Irena. She sat on the edge of the bed. He bent over facing the camera, his hairy buttocks against her jowls. She had both arms around his waist in a hug. The Goat ordered Irena to stick her tongue up his ass while he jerked himself off. His cock loomed in the camera's shadow like a baseball bat, he used a two-handed technique, one hand would hardly suffice. I turned up the TV so loud the neighbors could probably hear the sloppy bitch sounds she made between Tim's cheeks.

"Would you do that for me?" I asked. She was openly crying now. "Why don't we pack you a bag and send you back to your mother in Moscow."