Death to Blonds Ch. 02

Clint was particularly into this case, as it had been the Splash bar where he'd first hooked up with Brad.

* * * *

"Yes, the same as the others. Anal sex before he died. A bit of swelling, indicating unusual size—that's what determined it was before death. But he was quite active; there's no reason to believe that it wasn't consensual. This time was a rough-sex encounter."

The doctor had raised the sheet so that Clint and Danny could see the victim. He was, as had been reported, quite good looking. And blond. Danny had remarked how similar he looked to Clint—"but not as good looking, of course."

"So, if we get enough leads, you think I could go as bait for an operation on this?"

"Yes, I'm sure you could," Danny answered. "They were all blond lookers of about your age, so appearance might be part of the MO. But you know how I feel—"

"It's part of the job, Danny. It's a big reason they put gay guys in the squad."

Danny didn't say anything. They were both thinking of Brad Roberts. That's what he was doing when he was murdered—by sexual assault. He was being bait in an operation—an operation that didn't get help to him before he was murdered and the killer had vanished. The kicker is that he had gotten ahead of his backup—fatally ahead. And it was exactly Clint's propensity to do the same that had Danny on his tail about participating in such operations. It turned out that the killer of Brad wasn't who they fingered for the murders, but that's who Clint went after, and in running him to ground he'd also uncovered—and brought to justice—the real murderer.

"He's got bruise marks on his ankles and wrists," Clint observed as he looked down at the body of Dix Santora. "He had been bound, I take it?"

"Yes, and before he died."

"So, whatever it was, he didn't take it willingly," Danny said.

"Not necessarily," the medical examiner answered. "The bruising elsewhere, as I said, indicated rough sex. Bondage that left marks could have just been part of the package."

"There's a body on the other table. What case is that?" Clint was anxious to change the subject. This was an overworked discussion between Danny and him. Along with being highly jealous and possessive, Danny also was highly protective, and he'd berated Clint for liking rough sex himself regularly. Clint was having none of that. He'd do his job as fully as any of the other detectives—in fact, because he had failed Brad in his own view, he was willing to take more risks. This too was habitually part of their argument on this topic.

"That's Will Trent. From the mobster trial case," the doctor said. "That's the missing witness who was pulled out of the New Jersey landfill yesterday."

"Can we take a look?" Clint asked.

"If you want. I haven't started on him. I will as soon as you are finished here."

The doctor lifted the sheet. Clint audibly sucked in breath and Danny frowned.

"He's blond and good looking and looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties," Danny said. "Not beat up quite so bad, though. Could he maybe be part of our case—maybe just a coincidence he's connected to the mobster case?"

"Or maybe that our case is tied into the mobster case," Clint said under his breath—but both Danny and the doctor heard him, and it was Danny's turn to suck in air this time. "And look, he has bruise marks on his wrists and ankles too."

They stood in silence for a few minutes, processing that similarity between the circumstances of the two corpses.

"Will he be tested for anal sex, Doc?" Danny asked.

"Of course."

"Can you refer your findings to the Special Homicide Unit?"

"Certainly."

* * * *

Clint was drawn to the Splash bar in Chelsea. The reminders today were just too much. Danny had pressed him for a hookup, but Clint said there was a movie he wanted to see—and that he really wanted to be alone this evening. Danny knew that Brad was a touchy subject with Clint and that Brad still existed as a wedge in their relationship, so he didn't press. Clint had already seen the movie, so he was prepared to talk to Danny about it the next day, if Danny asked. And being possessive and a good cop, Danny undoubtedly would work it into the conversation.

Clint didn't really want to be alone. He wanted sex. But he didn't want it from Danny. Danny would be at him again about taking risks and wanting it rough. That's not what he wanted to hear tonight. That would kill the heights of arousal he reached when the sex was dangerous and rough.

No sooner had he settled at the bar of Splash than he was breathing ragged, and hardening up—because he was taking a risk.

The big bruiser was standing at the door of the bar, looking intensely around the place in a sweep that didn't miss a face. Clint had already sensed a couple of guys, either of which was acceptable, circling him, ready to press in.

But the bruiser—the driver from the previous night, the Sicilian's chauffeur and bodyguard and, apparently, gofer—saw him and cut through the crowd to reach him.

"The boss wants you again. The limo's outside."

As soon as Clint had seen the guy at the door of the bar, he realized that he wanted more of what he'd gotten the previous night—from the same guy, the guy this bruiser had called "the boss." He pushed away from the bar, gave an apologetic look in turn to each of the guys who were zeroing in on him—there would be other nights and other opportunities if their paths crossed again—and followed the driver out of the bar.

He was expecting the Sicilian to be in the backseat and that they'd fuck there again, but he wasn't there. They drove for more than an hour.

"I hope I won't just be dumped out somewhere like last—" Clint started to say, striving to strike up some sort of conversation with the silent guy who could at least give some sort of reaction. He'd been interested enough to join in fucking Clint the previous night.

"Shut the fuck up, blondie," the driver growled over his shoulder. "You wanted it rough and you got what you wanted. You're lucky the boss liked what you had to give and wants it again. Otherwise you might have stayed permanently where we dumped you—in a graveyard somewhere."

There wasn't much Clint could say to that. He was hard just at the sound of the driver's growl.

They cruised out of the city and onto Long Island, where the limo stopped in front of tall metal gates in a cushy residential area of large-acreage estates and hilly, forested land. The gates opened for them without the driver getting out of the car. Clint saw two mean-looking guards in camouflage, with machine guns at the rest, on the edge of the drive as they drove in.

The Sicilian's party room was in the basement of a large, Spanish-style house. They entered through a door into the basement in a sunken patio at the side of the house, not directly into the main house. Two more armed guards stood on the walls above the sunken patio. Clint ruminated on how big an army it would take to get at the Sicilian in this compound—and hoped that it would be as easy for him to get out as it was being for him to get in.

At first appearances the room looked like it was a gym. All sorts of fancy equipment that looked like it was for exercising. But Clint quickly could see that the equipment was for sexual pleasure, not for exercising—although some of it looked like it would give the receiver a total workout.

The Sicilian already was there when Clint and the driver arrived. So too was the blond bartender from The Dugout, Greg.

The Sicilian—naked and looking massive, hairy, and dangerous—was carrying a drooping Greg across the floor. Clint had no idea what apparatus Greg had been on, but whichever one it was, it looked like it's use had drained the fight from him. He too was naked. And in this light he looked slightly older than he had in the bar. It wasn't lost on Clint that he looked like he was in his early thirties, that he was blond, and that he was very, very good looking. Clint's detective antennae went rigid. However, so had his cock. This was exactly the sort of danger and risk he'd been looking for when he came out to the bars this evening.

He couldn't help himself. He wanted what he knew was coming.

In the brief moment Clint had stood there, taking the room and its occupants in, the driver had stripped. The Sicilian handed Greg off to the driver. Greg didn't seem to like the transfer and was wiggling around in the driver's arms. The driver manhandled him over to the side of a padded platform, lowered Greg's feet to the floor, and pulled Greg's buttocks into his crotch. Clint saw him lift Greg's body so that his hardening cock went between the blond bartender's thighs. What he saw that was surprising, though, was that the driver brought an arm around and palmed Greg's belly. The transformation was immediate and dramatic. Clint heard Greg moan and lift one arm to encircle the driver's neck. He turned and raised his face and their lips met. He also arched his back and lifted his buttocks. His free hand went to under his ball sack and he was helping the driver position his cock at his hole and pretty much climbed on and swallowed the cock in his channel.

The driver pushed the blond's torso down on the top of the padded platform and, maintaining his palming of Greg's belly, began to pump him. Greg was moaning and docilely taking the cock.

"Erogenous zone. We found the young man's erogenous zone," the Sicilian said in the way of explanation, having noticed Clint's perplexed look. "Do you have an erogenous zone too, Mr. Movie Star? If you do, we'll find it, even if you try to hide it."

"Just about anywhere you want to lay your hands," Clint answered.

The Sicilian laughed. "Have you ever been fucked in a sling?"

"Yes, of course."

Clint had, but he hadn't been fucked often with his legs and arms running up the suspension chains and cuffed tightly while his oppressor used various dildos and graduated-sized beaded and balled strings inside him before fucking him hard.

"The session must be short, I'm sorry to say," the Sicilian said after he'd ejaculated. "Our other guest has agreed to stay the night and I would like another crack at him before Jocko uses him all up. Perhaps you will come for a night soon."

"I can do that, yes," Clint said. "It would be nice I was given a ride back into the city and not just dumped out here, though."

"I have enjoyed you and my special guests get special service," the Sicilian answered. "Like this."

Clint hadn't noticed the Sicilian picking up the metal rod. But he felt it go into his ass, and when the Sicilian turned on the electricity, he screamed and his body lifted off the sling. His come shot straight up out of his erect shaft. The Sicilian laughed.

The driver dropped him off two blocks from his apartment. Clint had given him a false address—but one close enough for him to hobble home. He wanted the ride, but he didn't want the Sicilian to know precisely where he lived.

Once more he was completely satisfied sexually. The Sicilian had done things to him he'd never experienced before—and promised that there was more they could explore. His channel was still tingling from the electric prod. But his ankles and wrists were sore.

Hmm, he thought, as he pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. Bruise marks just like those that were on the bodies of the two men in the morgue.