Bury It, Officer Read online

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  Bury It, Officer

  by Ryan Field

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  Erotica/Gay Fiction

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  loveyoudivine

  www.loveyoudivine.com

  Copyright ©2011 by Ryan Field

  First published in 2011, 2011

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Scanning, uploading and/or distribution of this book via the Internet, print, audio recordings or any other means without the permission of the Publisher is illegal and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  Bury It, Officer

  Copyright(C)2011 Ryan Field

  His and His Kisses Edition

  Cover art and design by Dawne Dominique

  All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation

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  Published by

  loveyoudivine Alterotica 2011

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  www.loveyoudivine.com

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  BURY IT, OFFICER

  By

  RYAN FIELD

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  When not even warm milk will do the job!

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  On nights when I can't sleep, I'm not the type to read or drink warm milk. I don't drink alcohol, take pills, or count sheep, either. Sometimes music works but not always. And I've found there's always an underlying reason for why I can't sleep.

  I get this way when I'm bored with bars, websites, and typical ways to meet men. So I take a short drive to a rest stop along the interstate about ten miles outside of town. It's a public, circular area with separate sections for cars and large trucks, surrounded by trees and thick brush. It's one of those places were travelers stop and rest and one of those places where some men find satisfaction on lonely nights. No one goes there looking for love and romance. But you have to keep an open mind, because it is what it is.

  There's a dilapidated, closed-down, cinderblock bathroom in the center of the rest area, the “men” and “women” signs are now hidden by six vinyl, pee-stained porta-potties. They are set back from the interstate, dark and discreet and fairly empty between midnight and dawn. You can circle the old bathroom for hours looking for action and no one gives it a second thought. Though cruising is heavy in the warmer months with the down-low guys, almost any kind of action is for the taking all year around.

  This place is not a habit; a person could become addicted to these things, and it's important not to go too often. But every now and then, I have a simple fetish that needs to be fed. A slight kink that has to be recognized or I won't stop thinking about it. It's not common, and the only place for a five foot eleven, butch, jock-type to exhibit such a desire is a dark corner where no one is in a position to judge. Actually, and this fact makes a broad statement in itself, it's a fetish so uncommon you can't find a website that's completely devoted to it.

  Though I'm not into drag or cross-dressing, and I have no interest in panties or stockings (don't even like to watch drag shows), I happen to really get off wearing high heels during sex. There you are. A pair of heels, six inches or higher, in black leather makes my heart race faster. But they could be any color.

  My body is lean; I work out six days a week for a thirty-inch waist and a forty-three-inch chest. My legs are long, muscular, shaved, and tan thanks to endless hours of running nowhere on treadmills and the local tanning salon. I work hard at it year round. Most guys at thirty would have said give it a rest; you can't stay young forever but even still.

  One drizzly, damp night last November, I decided to drive to the rest stop to see if there was anything interesting going on. You never know unless you go there, and it's all harmless if you're not going to do anything but observe. At least this is what I told myself on the way. I hadn't been there in months; not since the sultry night in June I'd sucked off a couple of saggy-jean college guys who were too drunk even to remember, I'm sure. They were of legal age, but so young emotionally they were amazed that I'd swallowed three full loads. Their eyes bugged; they thanked me more than once and walked me back to the car. They even opened my car door and waited for me to pull away. It was the typical ritual with all its excitements, but it was also just as dangerous: to drive there wearing nothing but a belted black leather coat that stopped just below my ass and six-inch heels. I always carry a bag with a tee-shirt, jeans, and shoes for emergencies, but half the fun was driving there practically naked while wearing the heels. Sometimes, I turn on all the interior car lights, giving the old truck drivers a cheap thrill.

  By the time I pulled off the interstate and into the rest area, the rain had stopped, leaving the black road slick and shiny with a smell of wet grass in the air. It was a cool November night, sultry and mysterious, and you could still feel Halloween lingering in the breeze. My heart was already racing and my face felt warm. As I slowly circled the parking lot, carefully checking out the truck area, I realized it was also an empty night. There was only one other car: a black sedan and not a trucker in sight. It was already two in the morning, and I didn't want to cruise all night, so I parked about two spaces away from the black sedan, killed the engine in my black SUV, and turned off the headlights. I knew there was still hope; it was too soon to go home. I'd learned from experience never to assume anything when it came to cruising rest areas. Though the car windows were darkly tinted and dotted with rain and I couldn't see very well, the guy sitting in the black sedan seemed fairly young and surprisingly attractive from where I was sitting. I love my SUV, so high up, because it gives me the advantage of checking everyone around me.

  Normally, I would have waited; lowered the passenger window to see if the other guy was interested or not, made eye contact with him. But I was feeling bold that night. So I opened the door, stepped out of the car and stood for a moment, adjusting my belted coat to make sure you couldn't actually see my ass, bending over slightly, pretending to check out the windshield wipers. Then I decided to show off a little, walking away from the car toward a large metal trashcan on the sidewalk, so the other guy could see that I was practically nude. Not an effeminate walk either, just a normal guy with a good body who was completely at ease with his fetish. It was extremely important to appear masculine and confident, to walk with a heavy step, legs always spread wide. I was advertising the body of a man, not a woman. A man who just happened to be wearing high heels and a black choker.

  Within minutes, as I walked toward a rain-soaked picnic bench just beyond the trashcan, I heard a car door slam shut, and I knew the guy in the sedan liked what he'd seen. I turned and saw the guy walking toward the picnic bench, too. He was tall and dark, wearing a navy polo shirt and kaki slacks. His zipper was down and what appeared to be a nine-inch cock, fully erect, poked from the opening. They aren't all this bold, these guys on the down low. Most stand back and observe for a while, but not this one. This would do it, I thought. He wouldn't even have to drop his pants. He'd just bend me over the picnic bench, lock my hands behind my back with the wristbands I had stored in my coat pocket and fuck my brains out as fast as pos
sible so that we could both get off, and I could go home to bed. I wasn't looking for love; I was looking for action.

  As he approached, I leaned back against the picnic table, spreading my legs in an obvious way so he knew there wasn't a mistake. I let one dangle off the edge of the table so he could look up my coat and see my dick and the bottom of my ass. Then I thought for a moment; it was so quiet there and we were so isolated, we could do anything without getting caught. I quickly unfastened the belt on my coat. I opened it completely and let it slide off my shoulders and off my wrists so that I was now sitting on the wooden table wearing nothing but black high heels and the leather choker. With eager brown eyes, the guy in the kaki pants pursed his lips as though he were about to whistle and took a deep breath. He liked what he saw, I knew this from the expression on his face and the way he was gaping with his mouth half open.

  When he reached the picnic table, he licked his index fingers and then slowly circled the tips of my nipples. “Suck me off,” was all he said, as he spread his legs and leaned back as though he were going to take a piss. I could tell he was a cocky, aggressive one. He had an air of superiority...comfort...in a place that usually intimidates most people.

  I pulled the black wristbands out of my pocket and fastened them to my wrists. “Hook my hands behind my back first.” I whispered this and sent him a soft, gentle glance, with my head slightly bowed and my eyes looking up at him.

  He smiled and nodded. He took my hands, placed them behind my back, and snapped the wristbands tightly so I couldn't move my arms at all. His hot breath was against my neck; I detected the aroma of stale tobacco. His cock was now larger and stiffer and resting against my thin waist. Before he stepped back, he kissed my shoulder very gently and said, “You're adorable.”

  Without having to be told a second time, I went down on my knees against the cracked-concrete sidewalk and kissed the head of his dick. He then unfastened his belt buckle, unbuttoned his kaki slacks and yanked them down to his knees. His legs were real-man hairy; a dark fleece covering hard thigh muscles, not shaved like mine. I opened my mouth, slowly stuck out my tongue, and began to lick the tip of his dick so lightly my tongue barely touched him.

  “Ah yeah,” he said, grabbing the leather choker around my neck and pulling me toward his crotch, “Suck me off real slow, bitch...suck the head of my dick like a Popsicle. You like it, don't you, bitch.”

  I nodded yes and kissed his balls. I wanted to be his bitch; I wanted to please him while he gave me orders. The Popsicle reference was a little stupid, but I'd learned years ago to ignore trite comments like this from men in dark parking lots. I wrapped my wet lips around the head of his cock, sucking gently, tasting the salt and sweetness of his pre-come, swallowing as though it were my last meal. By that time, I doubted it would be a full-force fuck session. He only wanted me to suck him off. He wanted the job done fast. Which was fine with me...I hadn't slurped down a load in my high heels for quite some time.

  “You're a good little cocksucker,” he whispered, gently slapping the back of my head. “Such soft, smooth lips, you like being tied up and naughty. You like being a bitch, don't you?”

  I nodded yes again and then took the entire nine-inch dick down my throat as he gasped and ordered me to suck him off in a deep stage whisper.

  But then, just as I was about to begin the hard, wet sucking in order to get him off, he suddenly pulled his dick from my lips and looked to his left, toward the rest area entrance. Swiftly, he grabbed his large cock, shoved it into his pants and then turned back toward the black sedan. He didn't even give me a backward glance.

  I blinked. Not a word was spoken; he didn't care that I was bound with leather wristbands and couldn't move my arms. He walked quickly, got inside his car, started the engine, and slowly pulled away without causing any commotion at all.

  Though I was slightly offended at first (maybe he didn't like the high heels), I suddenly noticed headlights on the other side of the rest area. A police car, white with black letters and red lights, had pulled in. I knew the local police cruised the area all year long, hoping to bust men sucking dick. They lived for this. But I'd never seen one during the colder months on a rainy, desolate night. It wasn't busy enough for them to waste their time. I quickly put my coat between my teeth, knowing I wouldn't have enough time to get back to my car, and headed for one of the porta-potties where I could hang out and unfasten the wristbands or until the police car was gone. I knew the drill, and I always knew how to get out of my own wristbands just in case I had to move fast in any situation. The police car circled once, checking to see that no one was sucking dick in the wide-open grassy area where there were picnic benches and then moved on to the parking lot.

  From a small crack in the plastic door of the porta-pottie, I saw the police car pull up next to my SUV and park. He then killed the engine, turned off the headlights, and simply sat there. And for the next thirty minutes or so, that's where he remained as I watched through the crack in the plastic door. I worked carefully to try to unhook the wristbands, but I couldn't seem to break free this time. I didn't understand this. I'd never had this problem before. My arms were hurting by then; I couldn't take it much longer. And then finally the snaps popped, and I was free to move and to put on my coat.

  After sorting through my choices, realizing that I didn't want to sit in that awful-smelling porta-pottie a minute longer. I finally decided to simply walk back to the car as naturally as possible. I could have left the high heels inside, but I thought walking barefoot in November would seem even more suspicious. If he asked why I was walking around in nothing but a leather coat and high heels, I'd say I'd just come from a costume party; it was only one week after Halloween, which was plausible. I'd actually been invited to a costume party that night and had refused to go. I hadn't done anything wrong; I hadn't been caught sucking anyone's dick. There was a change of clothing in my car, too. As far as I knew, though embarrassing in the wrong context, high heels were not illegal.

  As I opened the plastic door and stepped down, I put my hands in my coat pockets. I tried to pull the coat longer, but it was futile. It barely covered my dick. All that could be seen were long, shaved, tanned legs and six-inch black high heels. I walked slowly, trying to act as if nothing were out of the ordinary. I was only several hundred feet from the car, but it was a walk of shame that felt like miles. And, oddly enough, I felt strangely excited, too.

  Though I'd expected the cop to shine his headlights as I reached my car, he instead lowered his window and said, “Is everything alright?”

  “Ah, yes, officer,” I said, keeping my voice deep and butch and rough, “I was just coming from a Halloween party. I know it looks a little strange.” I figured I'd better explain up front, before he asked any questions.

  His expression was tongue in cheek, as if he knew there wasn't a Halloween party. Actually, I thought I noticed a half smile.

  “Well, then you won't mind if I check your driver's license, bud,” He said, climbing out of the patrol car.

  “No, not at all,” I said as he approached. “It's in my wallet on the front seat,” Face to face, he was tall, about six feet three or four, with short dark blond hair and a wide neck. He had delicate facial features that reminded me of young Elvis Presley, but the body of a baseball player. It was a strong body built around massive shoulders, covered by a uniform of light blue shirt and navy wool trousers. His large feet were covered in heavy black leather cop shoes, the kind with the rounded toe. If he hadn't been a baseball player in high school, it would have been a waste.

  He opened my car door and said, “Why don't you reach in and get it.”

  I knew that if I bent over and reached for the wallet, the coat would rise and expose my ass. I hesitated. “Can I just sit down in the car and hand it to you? It's kind of embarrassing to bend over in this coat.” I smiled and shrugged. “I'm not wearing anything under it.” I was hoping honesty would help me out of this one. It was too soon to flirt.

 
“I said bend over and get it,” his voice turned rough but not mean.

  I blinked again. He had a playful look on his face. “Are you sure?”

  He reached down, grabbed my ass, and said, “I'm sure.”

  Well, he asked for it. He left me no choice. So I turned, bent over, and stretched my arms as far as they would reach, realizing that this encounter was by far the hottest I'd ever had. I knew where it was going to lead by then. I was following his direct order, doing exactly what he wanted me to do. All I wanted was to show off my ass to the sexiest fucking cop I'd ever seen up close.

  The coat, as expected, rose to my waist and my bare, tanned ass was fully exposed. I even arched my back and spread my legs a little for him. And then, as I grabbed the wallet, I felt the wool fabric of his slacks on my bare ass. His knee was rubbing and pushing me down onto the black leather seat with gentle force. I spread my legs even wider and arched my back, inviting more. He then gently lifted his leg and pressed the sole of his black shoe against my ass, tapping it a few times. I moaned and lifted my right leg, bending it at the knee so one high heel was in the air. He grabbed the heel and rubbed the flat sole it against his groin for a moment.

  “You really aren't wearing much under that coat, I see,” he said, now reaching down and running the palm of his large hand across my ass. Slowly, up and down and then back and forth, his thick middle finger circled the opening of my hole. “I thought you were joking around. But you really are fucking naked.” He slapped my ass. “Fucking hot.”

  I dropped the wallet as he reached under my waist and slowly pulled me to a standing position so that I was facing him. He pulled me closer and said, “That must have been some costume party. I'll bet you were a big hit. But you could catch cold walking around naked this way.” Then he laughed and squeezed my ass again.