Fan Male Ch. 03

"What's happening?" Toby asked.

"Your john from yesterday on MacArthur Boulevard is dead. At the place you did him on MacArthur. I don't know how, but I'm on my way up there now. Whitehall is there and said I need to come." Toby almost always sent Hardesty a "just in case" address where he was being sent to a client. He'd done so in the previous day's assignation with Jason Jarvis.

"Shit."

"And our Number One suspect just tried to book you through the escort agency."

"Double shit."

"That's right, so go over to Paul's. And don't do anything with him I wouldn't do."

"You've fucked Paul," Toby said.

"So, I have. I'm not claiming you can turn down a ten-inch dick." He disconnected and Hummered his way up to the Potomac Palisades. He indulged in running the siren he attached to the roof of the truck.

Jason Jarvis was strapped to a chair in a bedroom in the MacArthur Boulevard house. He had a red velvet cord from the drapes at the window to the balcony on the second floor wrapped tightly around his throat. He was facing a computer monitor, which was on. After taking a look at the body, Hardesty's gaze went to the computer screen, drawn by the familiar background of the Web site. What was showing were paragraphs of a story with the by byline "Sandman."

He turned me on my back again, and I spread and bent my legs and lifted my pelvis to him, willingly, offering myself as a sacrifice, a sacrifice he accepted. He fisted me. Now I could take it after the reaming of his cock over the previous hour. I would give him anything, and he wanted--and took--it all. I panted and groaned as he penetrated me with a greased hand up to his wrist, taking his time.

I had been determined not to scream, but I did scream for the fist.

It was the same fisting story Hardesty had been shown earlier that afternoon at the Deloitte House male brothel in Baltimore.

Chances were very good that Ian Marcus, alias Danny Smith, had been here. But what the fuck, he wondered, does this story site and this author have to do with Toby? Why does this guy seem to be obsessed by Toby?

Glen Whitehall gave a laugh from across the room where he was standing next to the body of Jarvis.

"Hilarious, isn't it?" Hardesty called out.

"Come look at what this forensics guy found, Hardesty," his partner said, drawing Hardesty's attention over to where the homicide team was working on the scene. "I thought this stuff went out with the Hardy Boys, but I guess anything that works."

Hardesty went over to Whitehall. The forensics guy was holding up a notepad that had been on a side table next to the murder chair. He'd taken a pencil and rubbed over the top sheet and a name and address had appeared.

"It says Ted Franklin and Kit Helms and there's an address on 19th Street in the District."

"I know the Helms guy. He's a friend of Toby's." Hardesty didn't also say that he'd power fucked Kit Helms the previous day. "The other name's familiar too," Hardesty said. He consulted his copy of the list of Toby's recent johns and contacts that Larry was checking out. "Holy shit," he said. "That's the name of one of Toby's clients from yesterday. What's the address again? Call a unit to get over there as soon as possible and hold that guy down, if he's there, until we can get there."

He and Glen Whitehall hauled ass out of the house and roared off in the Hummer.

Meanwhile, down river and across town, in the apartment down the hall from Hardesty and Toby's apartment, Toby, naked, was lying on his back at the bottom edge of Paul's bed. He had his legs raised and spread. Paul, naked, was standing between Toby's thighs and feeding his thick ten inches into the small, platinum blond's ass. Toby was panting hard at the taking. Angelique was sitting off to the side, fingering herself, and watching the action.

Paul had one of the longest cocks Toby had ever taken--he thought the man was undervaluing it at ten inches--and Toby needed to practice taking the biggest ones from time to time to keep up with his training. Hardesty had said not to do anything with Paul that Hardesty wouldn't do. But Hardesty and Paul had fucked in the past, so this was just fine.

* * * *

"Look over there," Glen Whitehall said as they double parked in front of the apartment house on 19th Street. "That white truck, with the Maryland plates parked over there. Double cab. A Dodge Ram."

"Shit," Hardesty said as he grabbed a notepad and jotted down the license number. "Call in backup."

Then he was out of the Hummer, followed shortly by Whitehall after making the call, and the two of them, badges and guns drawn, entered the lobby of the apartment house. After confirming the number of Ted Franklin's apartment with the woman on duty in the lobby and telling her to make sure their backup knew where to go and then find something to do in a back office until the smoke cleared, they were taking the elevator up.

Hardesty rapped on the apartment door with the butt of his gun and called out, "Ted Franklin? Kit Helms? Either one of you in there? It's the police. Kit, it's me, Hardesty, Toby's guy. If you're in there, open up for us, please."

His callout was met with the sound of broken glass from inside the apartment. Hardesty drew back and nodded to Whitehall, who hit the door with his shoulder and drew back so that Hardesty could come in behind him and do the same. It took a couple of heaves by each of them before they were in. The living room was clear. Ted Franklin was in his bedroom, bound to a desk chair that had turned over. He had a scarf tied around his throat. Both Hardesty and Whitehall dove for him and Hardesty pulled the scarf away. Franklin gasped for air. It was more than a minute before he could get enough oxygen to croak anything, during which time the cops saw that a window had been broken and a fire escape descended from there on the outside of the building.

They heard the approach of sirens down on the street, but they knew they'd be arriving too late to catch Marcus. Hardesty and Whitehall had, however, arrived quickly enough to save Ted.

Ted was conscious and able to respond when they righted his chair up and started taking the bindings off, but he'd been beaten as well as choked and stayed with them for less than a minute before blacking out until the medics arrived and were able to revive him. Hardesty and Whitehall couldn't stay around that long, though.

"Kit. He's after Kit," Ted had croaked. "Kept asking me where Sandman was--and where he kept his computer. I pointed to Kit's room. He left me. But he came back to choke me out." At that point they lost Ted again.

Hardesty went into Kit's room, following the direction in which Ted had gestured. Kit's computer was on, with a chair facing it. There wasn't any trouble in getting it open or passworded into the Sandman account on the gay male story site because all the information Marcus needed to get there was on a paper right there next to the monitor.

The screen was open to one of Sandman's stories. "Shit," Hardesty said when he scanned what was on the screen.

He didn't make me wait. His hands went to my thighs, coaxing them apart, pressing my legs to bend, my feet to go flat on the surface of the bed, and my pelvis to roll up, as, hovering over me and holding my eyes with his, he entered me with three fingers. I ached for more. Sensing my need, he gave me more--all of the fingers, bunched together, up to the knuckles, and slowly pumped me to shuddering and begging for his cock. And then he withdrew the hand, murmuring, "Later," rolled over on top of me, entered me strongly, deeply, thickly and took me quickly and efficiently.

After we had rested, he held me close into his body, with a towel-covered bolster under the small of my back that elevated my pelvis. He whispered in my ear, "Now I fuck you with the fist," and I moaned for him. My right leg was bent and pressed into his chest. His left arm was embracing my torso; his lips possessed mine in a tongue-down-the-throat kiss. I gripped his left shoulder with my right hand and beat myself off with my left. He had four fingers and the thumb of his right hand inside me, moving them in and out, searching for, finding, and giving attention to my prostate.

He asked no question about what to do to arouse and please me. He'd obviously fisted men before.

"Please be careful," I murmured. "I want it, but I have my limits."

"Limits we must both respect and challenge," he whispered, "for therein lies the pleasure for us both." He pulled his hand back and then pressed in again. I arched my back and moaned.

I jerked my mouth away from his, arched my head back, and gave a little cry of "Shit!," then "Fuck!" and then another and another, as the knuckles of his slender hand breached my rim and his fist was inside me and bunched to stretch my passage to the limit. He expanded and contract the fist, a knuckle pressed into my prostate. Expand, contract. I dug my fingernails into his biceps. "Oh, god," I moaned, as he fucked me with his fist. "Yes! Yes, yes!" I cried out.

This fucker is really into it, Hardesty thought, then feeling guilty because he'd just been into as good as fisting in the Baltimore male brothel, also loaded up by one of Sandman's fisting stories. He turned to go back across the apartment to check on Franklin when he saw that the e-mail message button was flashing. He clicked on it.

Gotcha, Mr. Sandman. I know where you are now, blondie. I'm coming to get you and then we're going to have fun. Ready or not. Coming for you. Danny.

The medics had brought Ted around when Hardesty got back to his bedroom. The young man was rubbing his neck and had trouble speaking, but the detectives got a bit more out of him.

"He kept asking me where Sandman was--where he worked," Ted said. "I've seen him someplace else before, but I can't remember where. Funny thing, though. He kept saying Kit was blond and he got mad when I said that, no, he was redheaded. He hit me then and I thought he wouldn't stop. But then he asked where Sandman kept his computer. I told him to get him to stop hitting me. The computer was on and open to Kit's Web site, so he wouldn't have had trouble getting into it."

"Where does Kit work?" Whitehall asked.

"The National Gallery of Art. On the Mall," Ted answered.

"Should he be at work now?"

"As far as I know. He said he was giving some German artist a tour there today."

With that, Hardesty and Whitehall left the medics to work more on Ted and they departed, headed for the National Art Gallery. They weren't the least bit surprised to see that the white Dodge Ram truck was gone when they got back down to the street.

* * * *

Most of it was falling into place, Ian Marcus thought, as he drove back down 19th Street toward the Mall where the National Art Gallery was located. He'd cut his hand a bit on the window glass--he had no idea how the police had gotten so close to him--but sucking on the wound calmed him down and helped him center. He'd met this Franklin guy at Freddie's Beach Bar the other night and the guy then had said he was Sandman's roommate. Marcus had followed him here that night, so he knew where the apartment building was. So, finding the guy on MacArthur Boulevard--and what he'd had to do to him there--was almost unnecessary. Almost. That guy had provided the details of which apartment to go to.

Marcus had thought the guy he choked out had provided a direct route to the blond, who he called Todd because Todd was a male whore, he'd said, and he'd had him the day before, contracting for his services with an escort agency. This Todd was a real promiscuous piece of ass. What he needed was a real man, someone who would take the little fucker the distance--and beyond. What he needed was a fist up his ass.

Marcus had gotten the phone number of the agency, but when he'd tried to contract for the blond's services, they'd given him the runaround and eventually told him Todd wasn't available for the foreseeable future--and this only after he'd given them his alias and credit card number in that name. No big deal there. He was Ian Marcus for real. He was only Daniel Smith for expense accounting. And nobody from his past knew he was here anyway.

That only left the part where this Franklin guy kept insisting that Sandman was a redhead. He's a blond. Small, pretty, blond, Marcus thought, repeating it out loud and thumping on the dashboard. Just what Sandman writes about in so many of his stories who give themselves--totally to guys like him, Marcus, in the stories. A nasty little whore who needed a real man to do him--to make him feel it. This Todd was going to cry for Marcus. But what he actually looked like wasn't clear anymore. The main character in the stories so often was a young, small, blond cutie that Marcus thought that must be Sandman writing about himself.

But now he wondered. He'd seen who he thought was Sandman twice--in Crystal City in a red Lexus and then in Freddie's Beach Bar with this Franklin guy. But there had been a cute redhead in Crystal City too. So, he was confused who Sandman was. He wanted him to be the blond and it was the blond he wanted. But if Sandman was the redhead, he'd just have to lead Marcus to the blond.

That didn't mean that Marcus couldn't have fun with Sandman too if he turned out to be a redhead.

Kit Helms was walking down the outer walk of the Mall from the subway toward the National Gallery of Art when Marcus, cruising along in the white truck saw him. He recognized Kit immediately and became resigned to this being the Sandman. But the redhead could lead him to the blond. And the redhead was cute enough to have fun with too. It was just too bad he wasn't blond.

Marcus maneuvered the truck to be running at Kit's pace beside him. There weren't any other pedestrians nearby. He rolled the passenger window down.

"Sandman," he called out and, startled, Kit responded, turning toward the truck beside him. The passenger window was down and the guy at the wheel, a big bruiser of a thug, was pointing a gun at him.

"Get in the truck, Sandman," Marcus said. "Don't cause trouble and no one will get hurt."

No one but you, Marcus mused.