Death to Blonds Ch. 01

This is an eight-chapter series that will complete posting before the end of June. The chronological fit for Death to Blonds in the previously published promiscuous bottom NYPD detective Clint Folsom mystery series is after the conclusion of Death in Eden . The chronology of the books of the Clint Folsom mystery series that are posted to Literotica (only half of the Clint Folsom series are posted to Literotica) run in the following order: Death on the Rhine, Death in Eden, Death to Blonds, Death in Key West, Death in the Rockies.

*****

It had been a rough day. A witness in a high-profile gangster's trial had gone missing the previous night, and Detective Clint Folsom, along with other guys from Homicide had been called in to help the beat cops try to find him and get him to the courthouse today. The condition they'd found him in in a New Jersey landfill meant there would be no court appearance for him today—and maybe no court case, as he had been the star witness for the prosecution. So another night wasted away, and they were more behind than they were ahead.

Clint should have gone home this evening and slept it off, as he'd been given leave to do. But Clint was keyed up and bummed out, and so he'd done what he usually did in this situation. He went cruising the gay bars of lower Manhattan to both remember and to forget. Today it was The Dugout on Christopher Street, near the docks. It just felt like a docks day to Clint. When he was in the mood for rich, older men, he went to the bars in Chelsea. When he wanted it rough from a muscle man, he went down by the docks at the tip of Manhattan. This evening he wanted to feel something. He hadn't felt much of anything the previous twenty-four hours, knowing the search would be fruitless and once more the gangsters would win. He wanted to be touched—deep. And nothing touched him anymore short of rough sex.

It was a slow night in The Dugout, an on-the-margin club, where big guys mingled with the leather and bear crowd on weekday nights after the after-work Wall Street types had cleared out after hooking up, or not—a place where you didn't normally camp out. You either hooked up fairly quickly or you looked over the crowd and decided to try it out farther up into the Village. If ships were in, there might be something from guys in want coming off the ships or beefy stevedores ready to party after a hard day on the docks, though, so if you were looking for what Clint was looking for tonight, it was worth a shot. On these nights, the men from the ships and dock nights, the testosterone could get so thick in the air that men got fucked right there in the barroom itself on the tabletops. Clint was so keyed up that this was what he had in mind.

He had done it before, and all of the men gathered around, watching, licking their lips, and pulling on their meat while he was getting on a table top, Clint knowing that each of them wanted to be doing that to him—and then some of them following the first—gave Clint an added high. This pushed all of Clint's fetish buttons.

The club was in its waning days and there was a hard core of patrons who acted like they owned the place and smoked up a storm and were forever playing heavy-metal band music on the juke box at near-deafening volume. That usually sent Clint on his way as soon as he cased the crowd and saw the docks had been quiet that day. But today, although there obviously had only been a few ships at the piers, the regular crowd was taking the night off.

So Clint was taking his time, leaning against a stool with his back against the bar, nursing a beer, and checking out the room. Several in the room were interested in him. He was far enough away from the precinct and his usual haunts for them not to mark him as a cop, and, although now slightly past thirty, he was still to be considered "a real catch." And, since he was obviously surveying the room, he was understood to be attainable—by someone.

The most likely one he could see through the smoke covering the tables in the dimly lit room was probably a stevedore, judging by the muscles bulging below his armless T-shirt and what appeared to be an oft-broken nose. He was an ugly son-of-a-bitch, but if he was hung like he was built, he was pretty much the punishment that Clint was looking for this evening. Clint was an unabashed stereotype; he liked them thick and long. Clint's thrill was in making the big ones disappear inside him and to dig deeper.

The problem with this guy was that he hadn't seen Clint yet—or, if he had, he wasn't interested. There were a couple of young, foreign guys—probably eastern Europeans off a freighter—that the stevedore was all over. There was every indication that he was propositioning them both, and there was a good possibility that he wanted to take them together. He had the look of being capable of doing so, which was why Clint was interested in him. This was a "punish me" evening for Clint. If it had been two hulking stevedores on one slim, young sailor, Clint would have been even more interested himself. He was partial to attention from more than one.

Beyond this guy, the best possibility that Clint could see was a hunky guy standing at attention by a door leading to the back of the premises. He was suited out in black and was wearing sunglasses despite how dim the lighting already was in the bar. But he wore the suit well—a bulky chest tapering down to a slim waist and what looked like beefy thighs below. Clint couldn't tell whether he was playing cigar store Indian or waiting for his turn to go to the back. The detective had been here before, so he knew there were rooms at the back. He usually preferred going off premises to play out his fantasies, though—except for keyed-up evenings like this, where he was more in the mood to do it on a tabletop with others watching.

After surveying the room again, Clint's eyes went back to the man standing at attention by the door. With the guy wearing sunglasses, Clint couldn't tell whether the guy was checking him out too—but the detective would remain open to that possibility.

He would give it several minutes to simmer—or maybe develop, with more patrons arriving. He turned to the bar and worked on getting the attention of the barkeep. There was only one guy working behind the bar, and the orders were running him ragged even though the club wasn't filled. Clint worked hard at not being irritated he had to track the guy down, but once he'd caught the guy's attention, the bartender pulled away from what he was doing and came right to Clint.

"Another one like that one?" he asked. He was giving Clint the glad eye, obviously liking what he saw. And Clint wasn't going to complain, because the bartender had obviously stopped serving a couple of other guys to get to him. He couldn't resist saying something, though.

"Yeah, please, another one. You look swamped and the rush hasn't started yet. Somebody didn't show to work the bar tonight, or is management trying to save bucks?"

"Greg's around here someplace and will be back in a few," the bartender answered. "And another guy will be in before the place fills up. And, I gotta say you're a real honey. When more help comes on, maybe, if you're interested, I could pull away and—"

"Yeah, maybe, if I'm still here," Clint answered. He knew it wouldn't happen, though. The guy was the willowy, flouncy type. He'd obviously misread Clint. He probably wanted the same thing Clint did—and wanted it from Clint. That happened to Clint a lot. He just came across as a top. But that wasn't at all what he wanted.

Clint nursed the second beer. If nothing was happening by the time he finished this, he'd try another bar. But he really didn't want to have to work hard at this. He wanted something, and he wanted it now. It had been a rough day. In fact, it had been a rough week and month—he'd been working double time ever since he'd come back to the city from the detail with his old friend and lover, Peter Blair, down in that rich county in northern Virginia. Peter had it real cushy down there. And he'd pushed Clint hard to transfer down there where he was county sheriff—and to return to Peter's bed.

Each time Clint had a day like he'd had today, he found himself reconsidering Peter's offer more and more seriously. He'd given Peter a flat no, saying the offer of the bed and servicing weren't bad—Peter could cock rough and was built big—but Peter was under the thumb of the county politicos who demanded to be more equal than anyone else, and the action in Virginia just wasn't as exciting as it was in New York City. Of course, it was the excitement of the city's crime that was giving Clint a headache now.

He sensed movement out of the side of his vision and Clint turned his head in time to see a bottle-blond guy in his late twenties, cute and twinky, closing the door to the back and walking around to the back of the bar. The statue guy standing next to the door had given him a good looking over and then had opened the door and gone into the back himself.

The blond was walking sort of bowlegged and had a glazy-eyed look about him for several minutes after getting behind the bar. He was working in slow motion to begin with, and those he was serving had to hail him more than once to get his attention. But he snapped out of it soon enough and started chatting up the guys at the bar, including Clint. And before Clint knew it, he had a third beer in front of him, so he decided to stay on until that was done.

The club was filling up now, and the prospects were increasing. Most of the men arriving were built and more of them were in leather. They all also were zeroing in on Clint after having assessed the room. By the time Clint was finishing off his third beer, a big bruiser of a Russian sailor type was at Clint's side, a hand on the small of Clint's back, and offering to stand him another beer. Another big, rough-featured but heavily muscled guy—quite apparently a friend of the Russian and maybe from one of the Baltic countries himself—was crowding Clint from the back.

Clint accepted the beer, thinking that these two might be just the ticket to scratch the itch he had. The Russian man's leather vest was open, revealing a well-muscled, hairy chest. That was OK with Clint too. The other hulk wore a tight T and faded jeans.

"You just lookin' for a drink?" the Russian asked, his voice growly and his mouth close to Clint's ear.

"I wouldn't have come in here if I wasn't looking for more," Clint answered.

The Russian took Clint's hand in his and moved it to his crotch. "This enough more for you? Or maybe I move too fast."

The man behind Clint had a hand squeezing one of Clint's butt cheeks. "Maybe we could do a two for one," he muttered. His accent was heavy, but Clint didn't have any difficulty understanding what he said.

"I wasn't planning on spending long to get what I want," Clint answered. "And I'm not disappointed in the possibilities."

"You take us both?" This from the guy behind Clint.

"I don't see why not. Here or do you have someplace you want to go?"

The Russian was about to respond to that, still holding Clint's hand to his crotch, when all three of them heard a door slam shut and turned their heads toward the back wall of the room. The man who had just walked through that door was tall and broad-shouldered. He was maybe in his late forties, but he was a massively built, body-builder-muscled man. A swarthy complexion and black curly hair—Sicilian was Clint's first thought—and he had a mean look in his face of getting what he wanted or else.

He let his eye roam around the room. Clint heard a little moan behind him, and sensed the blond bartender, Greg, shrinking away and down the length of the bar as far as he could go. Even the Russian and his friend who were putting the moves on Clint seemed to shrink away. The Russian dropped the hand holding Clint's hand to his crotch, and Clint moved his away.

The Sicilian man's eyes came to rest on Clint and his eyes slitted. A smile that didn't really seem to be a smile crossed the man's face. He was the veritable essence of power and evil.

Clint wanted him. He sensed that this man could give him what the two others together couldn't. He turned his body to face the man. The Russian, standing behind Clint now, put his hands on Clint's waist, and Clint leaned back into his body and gave the Sicilian a challenging look.

The dangerous-looking man took a couple of steps toward the bar, and Clint saw that the man who had been standing beside the door moved forward with him, a few steps behind the Sicilian. Both men looked over Clint's shoulder, and Clint could feel the hands of the Russian trembling. And then the hands were gone and the Russian too no longer was standing behind Clint. The other guy already had faded away.

The Sicilian walked up to the bar. "You look like someone. I know, you look like that big-time movie star what got killed falling off the Pacific Highway. You know, the guy in that beefy lumberjack movie." He snapped his fingers and the bodyguard behind him showed for the first time that he could speak.

"You mean Sloan? Scott Sloan?"

"Yeah, that's right. Scott Sloan," the Sicilian said, not taking his eyes off Clint. "And his last movie, High Timber. I saw the special cut of that." He almost winked at Clint at that revelation. The special cut of High Timber had been a graphic gay male version that now was a very, very expensive collector's item. "You ever hear you look like—?"

"Yeah, sometimes," Clint answered. He was rather tired of being told he looked like Scott Sloan, although it undoubtedly was a big reason men—and women—gravitated to him. There was a good reason he looked like the dead actor. Scott Sloan had been his father. Clint had come East to try to overcome that connection.

"Well, it hangs good on you. What's this piss you drinkin'? You got Black Label back there?" He raised his voice for this last statement to get the bartenders' attention. It wasn't Greg who showed up to answer that they had it, but the other bartender, who appeared immediately.

"What you do for a real man's drink?" he turned and asked Clint, his eyes piercing, his smile cruel.

"Whatever a real man wants," Clint answered.

"You take a real man's cock?"

Clint liked the directness of this man. "If it's big enough."

"You expect money?"

"Not if it's big enough."

The Sicilian smiled a toothy almost smile. "I like a piece of tail don't beat around the bush. We drink. Then you come with me." It wasn't a request.

Clint hadn't expected to be doing it in the back of a car, but it was a limousine and there was plenty of room—room enough for three when it came to the limo being parked in an underground parking lot and the bodyguard, who also was the chauffeur, being invited to join them in the back.

While the car was on the move, the Sicilian sat in the middle of the backseat and Clint rode his cock, facing him, while the Sicilian slapped him around a bit and choked him until he was turning blue. Exhausted and fighting for breath, Clint laid over on his side docilely along the backseat and hooked one heel on the top of the seat and leveraged off the ceiling of the automobile with the ball of his other foot as the Sicilian knelt between his legs and rammed his staff up into Clint's channel again and again and again. His beefy hands went back to Clint's throat. Clint was so far out of it that he wasn't sure whether he was being taken in succession or together after the chauffeur was invited into the back.

Whenever he was about to drift off into unconsciousness, a vial of poppers would be waved under his nose and his eyes would pop open, a kaleidoscope of colors would revolve in his head, and he could feel the intensity of a cock working inside him again.

Toward dawn, the limo was on the road again, and when it stopped, he was pushed out onto the ground in the middle of a cemetery, legs still splayed open as they would be for some time before he could close them, and his clothes were thrown out on top of him. He rolled over as the limo pulled away and tried to sit up, but his head was spinning, his ass was on fire, and he just laid back down with a groan.

He was completely spent and totally satiated. It was exactly the punishing fucking that he had wanted.

This was Clint Folsom. Clint was what was known as a satyriasist—the male equivalent of a nymphomaniac. He was normal in most ways. He just needed to be fucked constantly to be satisfied—and in his case he was most satisfied when the fuck was rough. And such were his looks and animal magnetism that there was no end to men willing to fulfill his need.

This was how he punished himself for what he saw as a wasted life of disappointment, guilt, and regret. And this was how he forgot the cases that threatened to get at him. He hadn't thought about that broken young man they'd found in the New Jersey landfill the entire time the Sicilian and his chauffeur had been working him over.