Shockley
– 1 –
Tuesday
“So…Mrs. Shockley, does your husband, have a girlfriend or, uh, girlfriends?” the burly broad-shoulder lightly bearded towering detective asks her as he cowers over her petite form.
“NO!” she balks, “NO! Of course, not! Why would you ask me such a question as that?”
“We have, too,” the Detective explains.
The comment appalls her, which is ever apparent on her congenial face. A light dusting of make-up highlights her still somewhat youthful features.
“A boyfriend, perhaps?” the Detective poses his next question, “Does your husband, have a boyfriend?”
“WHAT? WHAT?” she says with obvious alarm, “What are you, saying, Detective?”
“Does your husband have a steady male companion?” the Detective approaches the subject in a different manner, delicately.
“Like friends?” she asks, “You mean, like childhood friends?”
“No, like companions,” he interjects, “Like a wife? Like you.”
“He plays golf with a doctor,” she answers, “A childhood friend, who is a doctor.”
“A doctor?” the Detective asks, “Who?”
“Doctor Kilgore,” she says, “Mills Kilgore. He is a childhood friend.”
“So, you do not think he has a girlfriend?” the Detective asks, again.
“NO! My husband is a good man. He would never ever do such a thing,” she says adamantly, “He does not have a boyfriend, either, or that is absolutely ludicrous.”
“We have to ask, Ma’am,” the Detective says, “Since your husband has been missing for over twenty-four hours, now, and you say, you do not know where he is.”
“Please find him. This is so unlike him,” she pleads, a sorrowful tone in her words, “Find my dear husband. Please.”
“If you have any more information that can help us,” the Detective hands her his business card, “Give me a call but you know he is of legal age and can disappear if he wants.”
“Thanks, Detective Kincaid, that may be true, but not in husband’s case,” she says as her long lithe fingers take the square embossed business card into her hand, “I will. I will.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shockley,” Detective Kincaid says, “Please, let us know if you hear from your husband.”
“I will,” she says as she closes the front door behind the Detective as he exits with his partner.
The bobby-suit dressed pair of detectives walks down the winding concrete walkway from the front door to the curb where the unmarked car, is parked.
“Do you believe her, Raymond?” his partner asks.
“I do. I do,” Detective Kincaid says as he looks back to the front of the house, seeing the wife of the missing man standing behind the sheer curtains on the front window, “I believe her.”
“Why’d you ask her if her husband had a boyfriend?”
“I suppose since many men have secret girlfriends, these days, why not ask the same about boyfriends?” Kincaid says.
“Since the gays can get married now, too, I assume,” his partner says, “Why not have boyfriends behind the wife’s back, right.”
“You got it,” Kincaid says, “You know anything is possible on this job.”
His partner nods his head as they get into their parked curbside vehicle.
-2-
“Coastal Orthopedic Associates, Dr. Mills Kilgore’s office. How may I help you, today? I am Maria.”
The young woman’s voice comes from over the other end of the phone, in a soft sweet lyrical in tone.
“Yes. I am Detective Raymond Kincaid with the Sarasota Police Department,” he says, “Can I speak with Dr. Kilgore, please, about a pressing police manner?”
“Detective. Dr. Kilgore is not here,” the receptionist says, “He is at the gym.”
“Which gym, Maria?”
“The Athletic Club,” she answers, “the gym he owns with some more doctors.”
“On US 41?”
“Yes, sir, the branch on North Tamiami Trail.”
“Thank you, Maria.”
He hangs the phone up.
-3-
“Hey, Quince, I am gonna go out for a bit. I’ve got something I gotta do.”
“Where you goin’?” his partner asks him as he looks up from his desk, directly across from Raymond’s.
“The gym.”
“Does this have anything to do about the doctor, partner?” Quince asks.
“Naw, I need to go clear my head. I need to get some endorphins pumping. A good workout helps me get the good ole brain cells charged,” He explains, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“S’kay. Have yourself some fun, partner.”
“I will,” Kincaid says as he exits the office.
-4-
His loafer-shoes echo across the ornate cobblestone walkway from the parking lot to the entranceway to the gym. This is one of the most exclusive gyms in town. The cost of membership bears out that fact. On a detective’s salary, it puts quite a strain on his finances but being a bachelor has some advantages.
At the doorway, he looks to the right and sees the placard of the establishment. It was bought a few years back by Dr. Mills Kilgore and a group of doctors.
“Ah, there it is,” Kincaid, says aloud as he openly reads what is written there, “So Robert Shockley is the Captain financial officer of The Athletic Club. Interesting. Why didn’t Mrs. Shockley mention the gym?”
He brushes his fingers over the words on the emblem with the valuable information on it. He connects with what he has never noticed on his many treks to the gym.
He grasps hold of the metal door, opens it, and is greeted by the bustling noise of an active gym. In his hand, is his membership card, he flashes it before the girl seated behind the reception desk.
“How are you, today, Mabry?”
Before him, sits an athletic woman, early twenties, attired, as someone would be in such a place.
“I am good, Detective. How are you?” she answers with a broad smile on her face. Her face speckled with an abundance of freckles.
“I am well. Is Doctor Kilgore here, today?”
“I think he just went into the changing room. He is the one in the red shorts and a red striped shirt,” she chimes in with a look of profound puzzlement on her fresh young face.
“Thanks, Mabry.”
“Sure, Detective,” she says before she moves on to the next member standing behind him in line waiting to present their card.
As he walks to the men’s changing room. He loosens his tie. Letting himself breath, more relaxed. His blue gym bag hangs over his right shoulder, filled with his workout shorts, sneakers, and toiletries.
He is greeted by the musky smells of men and the sounds of many showers in the background as he walks to his locker on the tile floor of the locker room. This is the damp hallowed hall for men and a sacred sanctuary for those who seek to increase their masculine vigor.
His head darts from left to right, looking for the man dressed as Mabry described.
He sees him.
The 40-something year old man stands before the dressing room mirror. A single digit whips through a left eyebrow, soothing out a whirly detached hair, putting it back in place. The man is vain, Kincaid ponders in his head. He wears red because he wants to be noticed.
Kincaid walks to his locker, directly across from the sinks and the room length mirror to his assigned and bought locker.
Doctor Kilgore looks around the room before he lets his right-hand wander to his groin, as he gives himself, a hearty tug, letting his hand grasp tight on his swelled package, squeezing it within his hand.
He lifts his head and stares eye-to-eye into Kincaid’s face through a mirrored reflection.
Kilgore nods his head at the Detective. The Detective returns the favor.
-5-
Kilgore walks from the mirror, opens a locker close to Kincaid, where a pair of sneakers are tossed about with a pair of half-socks. Kincaid has hung his coat on a hanger he keeps dangling in his locker. He unsnaps the sleeves of his shirt and begins to unsnap the rest. His chest comes into view as he yanks the shirt from the inside of his pants.
Kincaid glances toward the good doctor as his red striped polo shirt is pulled over his head. His chest is equally muscled as his own with a similar pattern of masculine fur. He cannot divert his eyes, away. He is amazed of the man’s strength.
The good doctor runs his hands over his chest, in front of Kincaid, he lingers a second longer than he should on the mountains of red flesh that is his nipples. This stimulation and the coolness of the locker-room stiffen the flesh into hard daggers.
Kincaid’s own nipples react to the display before him.
He kicks off his loafers as the good doctors red shorts fall on the tile floor. The doctor is ‘going commando.’ His cock reacts to the exhibition and begins to grow hard. The doctor stands and places each hand on either hip, he bends forward, then back, doing little feeble exercises.
With each twist and turn, his cock, reacts to the exercise by swelling.
Kincaid looks at the doctor while the maneuvers continue by the nude man.
Other men have walked by them, emerging from the streaming hot showers as the doctor continued with his deliberations. None said anything, but they were watching the doctor busy about his task.
“I’m Mills,” the doctor says as he extends his hand while his cock wags from his hurried movements.
Kincaid stands in his black body-hugging briefs. A bulge of male hardness is obvious to him and the doctor.
“Raymond. I am Raymond,” he introduces himself as he extends his hand to shake with the naked man.
“Nice to meet ya, Raymond,” the good doctor says to him as he turns and trudges to the shower room.
The doctor’s swaying bare ass with its prickly dark hairs covering his fleshy round buttocks, its firmness, showing years of well-regimented exercise, has worked. Kincaid wipes his tongue across his lips, an autonomic response, unconscious, in its entirety.
Raymond drops his black briefs and steps out of their reeking muskiness. The hours of sweat and masculine abundance gather in the ‘cup’ of the well-formed underwear. His hand drifts to his crotch, adjusting the length of his cock as he fishes its snaky length from his dense sweaty pubes.
He leans in and grabs his cotton shorts from his exercise bag. The cool air of the locker-room washes over his hairy body as he stands, naked, among the other men, who, are walking about in this ‘man’ sanctuary, in the same state of similar undress.
He flings his dirty briefs, socks, and loafers into the long upright locker. He places his duffle bag on the shelf above his coat and slacks.
He can hear the loud boastful voice of Doctor Kilgore as he over-talks the other men in the shower room. He is quite the loud-mouthed braggart.
Raymond squirrels up his shorts, over his legs, minus a jock or underwear, and flings a loose tee over his head. He slips on his tennis shoes, minus any socks and darts out the door of the locker-room into the weight room.
The last sound he hears as the door closes behind him is that of the doctor.
“Oh, yeah, it was great, one of the best I have ever had.” After this sentence by the doctor is a hearty laugh and fierce giggle from the man.
Raymond cups his fingers under his balls as he heads to the dumbbells against the far wall of the gym. His cock waggles loosely in his flimsy shorts, much as the good doctors did when he met him in the locker-room.
-6-
Raymond sits on the bench press, spreads his legs, placing the 15 lb. dumbbell in his hand, and does a slow and steady repetition. The weight feels good in his hand. It is not a strain or too much for him. He does a set of 10 before letting the arm, rest, before transferring the weight to his left hand. He does a set of 10 with that arm. His bicep is flexed.
He looks up to the mirror that covers the wall in front of him. He can see the front entrance to the gym. Men are milling about between the weight machines and the all-encompassing weight machines, doing their exercises. There are a few women, although the men overshadow their meager numbers.
He leans down and sets the weight on the red carpet of the floor. The carpet is threadbare, in need of replacing, to charge such high membership prices, there is neglect in the facility.
As he sits with legs parted, his cock snakes out of his cotton shorts, his cockhead peeking out from between his legs. He does not bother to push his member back in place, as there is no one near him to see.
He does more reps with both hands as he hears the booming voice of the doctor as he exits the changing room. A small duffle bag is slung over his shoulder and a flashing of white teeth greets those as he talks to them in the somewhat crowded weight room.
Raymond places the weight back into their proper place and watches the good doctor work the room.
He lets his hands drift to his groin. He fiddles with his cock, as many of the men do when they workout, a sign of masculinity and a show of dominance and one-upness. The doctor’s hand seems quite centered in the same spot as he nods and cajoles the men he meets on his exit from the gym.
Doctor Kilgore walks to the dual glass-paned door.
Stopping.
“Mabry, if there is any trouble. Call me,” he says as he opens the door and walks out into the sunlight.
“Yes, sir,” she yells across the room.
Kincaid walks to the door, looking out into the parking lot. He reaches to his right pocket. His car keys are there.
He nonchalantly feels the head of his cock rub against his fingers as he fishes the keys out of his pocket. He pushes on the door, feeling the pressure in the room, equalize, as the bright afternoon sun causes his eyes to blink.
-7-
South Tamiami Trail is not busy as he trails behind the doctor, who is in his sleekly polished black Benz, the rays of the afternoon reflecting off its surface, drawing the ire of those he negotiates with on the road. He weaves in and out of the traffic, all seven lanes of it, and three on the southbound side. He does not lose sight of it but does maintain his distance, as he does not want to be spotted by hectic driving doctor.
He feels the phone vibrate in his shorts. A shiver shoots through his groin where the phone nuzzles against his soft flesh of his leg, it was in the other pocket of his shorts when he bolted from the gym like a maniac behind Doctor Kilgore.
“Hello? Well, hi, Mr. Shockley. Yes. Yes. I am looking for your husband.”
He listens to her yammer on the phone, as a red light momentarily stops him, three cars in the lane behind the good doctor.
“Mrs. Shockley, may I call you back, later? I am not able to talk, presently.”
The woman carries on with her droning words as the light turns green and the traffic proceeds southward.
“My partner said I was at the gym. Yes. I was but I am in traffic now. Yes. Yes. I will call you back. Good day, Mrs. Shockley.”
The seven-lane road gives way to a divided four-lane with a grassy median as he passes out of the city limits of the city on US 41.
“So does the good doctor live in Venice?” the Detective says aloud as the wind whips through his convertible, fanning his hair and his cut-off shirt in the fierce breeze as it cascades through the open convertible.
The Detective’s hand finds its way to his groin. His cock hangs out the very short leg of his flimsy cotton shorts. As he drives, he fingers with a delicate touch, his crown head of cock, tiny clear drops of his juice leak like a dripping spigot from his piss-slit. He smears this juice over his cockhead as his full 10-inches poke out of his shorts.
He often drives around with his prodding finger in this same place, smearing his juice over the red swelled bulbous head of cock.
“Aw, he is turning into the road going to Casey Key.”
He is not surprised many of the wealthy in town live there. Why wouldn’t a well-established orthopedic surgeon live there, who also happens to own several well-known businesses?
He can see the black car as it crosses over the short drawbridge and turns right, north toward the tip of the island. He lingers back but drives on and makes the same turn. He creeps northward on the winding paved road. Out of the corner of his right eye, he glimpses a dark shade of black, perhaps it is the good doctor’s signature Benz. It is. It is parked behind a red Jeep.
“Damn!” he shouts, “It is.”
He pulls to the side and parks his car next to a divider and a mailbox between a neighbor’s driveway, filled with shells and white stones. He opens his driver side door and places his foot onto the asphalt of the road. He is not exactly dressed now for a stakeout, but he is curious. When he searched online for information about the doctor, before he went to the gym, the address he found had no such home on Casey Key as his residence for him.
Who lives here?
-8-
He walks up the driveway, there are red brick spacers between the concrete as it leads around the circular driveway. Like a stealth cat on the hunt for its prey, he makes his way towards the front door. He stops when he hears voices from inside the house.
“I told you I would be here,” the voice says, loudly, it is not of the doctor. It is that of a young man, “I do what I say. I just got here from Tallahassee, about an hour ago. No. No. My parents are not expecting me until tomorrow.”
He stands on the side of the house as he peers through a curtain-less window. From his vantage point, he sees a shock of bright auburn hair and the pale skin of shirtless young man. Freckles dot the young man’s exposed chest, in the center of this well-defined chest, is a patch of fur. The dusting is light about his perky nipples, on his right muscled pectoral are three letters, F-S-U, emblazed in the colors of garnet and gold of the university.
He also sees the good doctor, who is also shirtless, wait, he is stark naked. They are pressed groin against groin, grinding into one another like rabid farm animals consumed with lust.
“Oh!” the Detective says, aloud, “Ah, ain’t this interesting.”
“Can I help you, Mister?” a man’s voice from behind him with a Latin accent startles him from his voyeurism.
“Oh! What?”
“Can I help you?” the man asks.
“Oh! I was looking for the meter,” Kincaid says as he runs from the driveway in a hurried haste, “I gotta go. Bye.”
-9-
He bolts to the convertible, turns the keys still in the ignition and drives north, where he makes a hasty turnabout at the unrestricted entrance at the home of the horror writer, Stephen King’s looming white modern abode. Midnight Pass is just beyond the King house and the southernmost end of Siesta Key.
He must now pass by the home where the good doctor, Kilgore, is walking around naked, in a home that is not his own. He revs up his engine as he barrels by the home. The gardener is not waiting for him and the black Benz, belonging to the doctor, is still parked in the driveway near the front door. Now back to the gym, to finish his workout. As he rides over the drawbridge, the clunk-clunk of the rubber tires on the metal grates reminds him that he is re-entering the world and not the lushness of the pampered.
His head is filled with more questions than he has answers.
Why does the doctor stand naked with a college-aged youth?
Why didn’t Mrs. Shockley reveal that her husband was a business colleague of the Doctor Kilgore?
What place does the red-haired kid have to do with the good doctor?
He has more questions than answers. Perhaps the gym will help him sort out some of his queries. He did tell Quince that the gym does help him, think. Now, he will see.
His hand once again drifts to his cock, which has once again, poked its sly cockhead from his short workout wear. His soothes his leaking man-cream over his cockhead. The sight of the doctors naked and bare body, both at the gym, and then at the house, was quite an inviting sight in which to behold. The red-haired hunk is awkwardly handsome, in a virginal sort of a way, it was too bad he failed to see him, nude, as he did that of the doctor.
-10-
He pulls back into the parking lot. His car bumps into the concrete stationary placer in the parking stall in the open-air lot. His cock has shrunk back down to its flaccid length, no peering head from out of his short shorts. The parking lot is fuller now, so getting the weights he may want will be difficult.
“Oh well,” he sighs as he trudges across the parking lot.
It is then his phone vibrates in his pocket.
He reaches in, his shorts sliding down, revealing some of his pubes to the bright afternoon sunlight.
“Hello?”
On the other end is his partner, Quince Wilkie.
“Hey, Quince, what’s up?”
“I just got told that someone saw your car down at Casey Key, someone took down your tag,” Quince tells him.
“Oh!”
“Was this about the Shockley man?” Quince asks.
“Yeah, make up, something, for me,” Raymond asks, “Dammit it, tell’em something, I will explain it to you later.”
“Oh okay, I will,” Quince says, “Are you still out there?”
“No, I am back at the gym.”
“Okay,” Quince says, “Bust a nut for me.”
-11-
The noise of the gym fills his ears as he walks through the double glass doors. He blinks his eyes, adjusting to the diffused light inside the gym. The clanking of metal against metal as the many weight bars makes their contact against the bench is a reverberating sound through the warehouse-like room. The numerous huffs and puffs along with the bellowing groans and moans as each man strains against the heavy burden of the solid weights as they raise and lower them above their chest.
“Detective. Detective,” the sound of a female voice draws closer, as though she is hurrying to approach him.
He turns and is to be happily greeted by the gym’s receptionist.
“Mabry!”
“Detective, I was told to give you this,” she says as she hands him a folded piece of paper.
“Who is this from, Mabry?”
“Doctor Kilgore,” she answers.
“Oh, okay, thanks,” he says, frankly and surprised.
He turns the yellow piece of paper, around and around in his hand. He does not open it but walks to the dumbbells, where he was, before he took off, to tail the doctor.
His hand rests in the groove of his thigh, between his cock and his right leg.
He knows he needs to read it but is the gym, the right place to do it.
He looks up. Mabry is watching him from behind the counter at the front door.
The note that he has been flipping and rolling in his hand, he slides it into his pocket, next to his keys and cell phone. While his hand is in his pocket, a finger finds its way under his balls, fiddling with his cum vessel, his cock stiffens.
He looks up again to see Mabry looking at him.
Once she sees that he does not look at the note. Her hand goes to the phone and makes a call.
Kincaid reaches for the same weights he had before the chase.
Whom did she call?
-12-
“Damn, maybe this was not such a hot idea,” he says as the sweat streams off his naked body. He shifts in his seat on the subway tile that is under his bare ass.
After his workout, he decided to take a much-needed siesta in the steam room. He is all alone in this solitary environment. He runs his right hand across the wet hairs of his chest. His hand leaves his chest and falls to his cock and within his tight grasp. He strokes his cock, watching it grow hard with each succeeding stroke. He is flushed, from both the wet heat and his own sexual gratification.
He spreads his legs, wider, accommodating, the massive swelled cock betwixt his open outspread legs. The more he beats his meat, the more the sweat rolls off him, like a flooded river.
He wipes his right hand across his forehead. He smells his musky semen as his hand neared his nose.
In the hot mist of the steam room, the door is opened. He does not hide his erection as his solitary moment has ceased. He has company.
“Hi!”
His eyes drift to what he sees scrawled on the guy’s chest.
A tattoo. A simple tattoo.
A word.
Initials.
F-S-U.
It is the redhaired kid.
-13-
“Hey,” the kid says as he parks his ass on the tile seat of the sauna.
The kid unashamedly whisks his tongue across his rosy lips, as the heat of the room begins welling-up the sweat from his pores, as the beads of man-perspiration breaks out over his pale naked frame.
The kid’s eyes have not left the sight of his looming hard cock. It is the proverbial elephant in this very small room.
Kincaid spreads his legs, wider, and gently smoothed an abundance of his man-cream over his slippery wet cockhead with the thumb of his right hand.
Raymond brings his two hands to his chest, raking all ten of his fingers through the matted down hairs. Each swipe of his individual nails makes a red spiky trail as his skin reacts to being plowed through by his digits.
“Looking good,” the kid says as his own hand, swaggers down to his red-auburn colored bushy mop of pubes, before clutching his own swelling cock between his legs.
“Not so bad, yourself, there, kid, uhh, nice cock, you got there,” Raymond Kincaid, the Detective, comments and smiles, ear-to-ear to the alluring and actively stroking kid seated next to him as each man, matches, stroke for stroke, on their hard cocks.
-14-
“You work out here much, kid?” Raymond asks as he smears a gob of his clear leaking cum over the bloated rosy-red glan-head of his cock.
“I come here, when I am in town,” the kid says.
“When you are home?”
“Yeah, I am in college,” the pale lad says, his chest muscles flexing as his double-strokes his cock with both hands of his burly hands.
“Florida State?”
“Yeah, this is an F-S-U, I have tatted on my pec,” the kid says.
“You a ball player? I mean, football player?”
“Yeah, I am,” he says.
“You are compact and built like a brick house.”
“Thanks,” the kid says as he brings his fingers under the curvature of his ass, scooting to the edge of the tile seat as his long index finger snakes closer to the entrance of his ass.
“You shave that ass of yours, I see,” Kincaid says.
“I do,” he says, “…but I like my pubes, like a bushy mop. How ‘bout you?”
“I like them,” Kincaid says, “I am quite hairy, myself.”
The kid slides closer to edge, parting his legs like the mighty Red Sea, his shaved hole presented like a beacon of light on a foggy night. The mist of steamy sauna wafts through the room, as the soft folds of his ass, is a lighthouse in a storm.
Raymond stands, his cock, bouncing like a tensed spring from his groin as he squats before the meal between the kid’s thighs.
Raymond’s tongue laps the shaved corridor between the powerful thighs of the pale lad.
“AHHHHH!”
The moans commence with the first insertion of Raymond’s tongue into the young man’s slobbering hole. His tongue slithers between the skin-line divided seam that parts the man’s body in half. This tickling causes more moans to escape from the kid’s mouth.
Raymond travels up the seam, taking the young red-haired buck’s nuts into his mouth, rolling the fleshy globes around in his mouth, sucking on them like the Mega-Jaw Breakers that they mimic in size.
“Suck my cock, Mister,” the kid orders.
“I’m Kincaid, boy.” Raymond says as he takes the pale fleshy missile in his mouth, swallowing the dick all the way down his gullet. This rod of flesh makes the Detective gag and sputter under the length.
“Take it, man, take my cock,” the kid draped in a perpetual stream of body sweat yells.
Raymond gargles the boy’s leaking protein that is gushing out of the pee-hole of the Irish Adonis. Both boy’s hands are forcing him down more and more onto the fleshy pole from boy’s impressive loins. He gulps and gulps down the boy’s knob as more of the young man’s juice is expelled from the impressive cock of Irish young god.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The kid bucks his hips as Raymond’s tongue slides on the underside of his upright pointing cock. A cock that is so hard, so erect, it resembles a compass pointing to unseen stars above.
“James. My name is James,” the kid answers.
“Nice to meet ya, James,” with these words, Raymond swallows the pulsating cock, down to its eternal root, the pubes tickling the hairs on the inside his nose.
He blows out this unwelcome sensation as the boy dumps his load, deep down Kincaid anxious and waiting esophagus.
James applies pressure to Kincaid’s head, not allowing him to lift his head from the boy’s knob. This was not a concern, as Raymond does not let such virile man-cream escape from crossing his lips.
Raymond Kincaid, prominent Detective on the Sarasota Police Department, does not waste the valuable protein of young upstanding men. He likes such deposits from the ready and willing. This kid is more than happy to appease such a request.
-15-
As the detective lifts his head from the boy’s schlong, he has learned some valuable information and gotten a special offering.
“Thanks, Mister,” James says as he scurries out of the steam room, his cock, still leaking some of its leftover cum.
“Sure. Anytime.”
The Detective does not leave the steam room behind the young hunk of a buck named, James. He waits. Although he is drained, physically, from the heat, he does not want to scare the kid away nor alarm the wandering men, in the locker room, he knows who peeked through the glass door of the steam room and saw what was happening but did not enter. He knows the men looked, many participate in similar activities, themselves, and they do not want to divulge to the world what happens in the Men’s Locker Room at The Athletic Club.
-16-
The cool air of the locker room hits him as he emerges from the steam room. He feels the goose bumps rise over his body. His cock withdraws deep into his body, in reaction to this change in temperature.
As he turns on the showerhead, feeling the cool water wash over him, he takes in a deep breath. He shakes the sensation he feels from his mind.
The taste of the kid’s spunk still overwhelms his taste buds. The kid was quite the gusher. The amount of spunk he delivered in his mouth is reminiscent of his younger days when he shot the same sizeable loads.
He misses those days, but he is also happy to be the man, he is now.
For a forty-two-year-old man, still with all his own hair, a slight paunch around his midsection and a cock that still works which provides him with many hours of self-encouragement, he is pleased. He keeps a shadow of facial hair on his face, despite the Captain’s repeated attempts to shave more. He likes the stubble. He likes the roughness, the edge that it evokes when he questions those that are involved in not-so-legal activities.
He steps from the shower, rinsed off, and feeling refreshed and full of a young man’s essence. Today was a good day at the gym.
As he steps from the communal showers into the locker room, he catches a fleeting glimpse of a striking shock of red hair as James exits from the changing room out into the world.
The kid is gone. Perhaps, now is the time to read the note, left to him from the good doctor.
-17-
He grabs two drab olive-green towels from the bin, throwing one around his neck and the other, he roughly brushes his fingers threw his hair. The noise of the locker room is sedate. Many of the men have left. The towel goes from the crown of his head to his groin, wiping the water from his thick furry mop and stirring his cock, once again, back to life.
He may have coaxed the white seed from the kid, but he has yet to release his own, but it is early, there is still the night.
On the floor in front of his locker, there are his shorts, gathered in a heap on the tile. The note pokes out the pocket, easily seen by him.
He parks his ass on the wooden bench. His ass cheeks part as one of the three individual lats, separates them, opening his dark passageway.
He likes that feeling.
He reaches for the note and opens it.
The words are sparse, but the meaning is clear.
It reads:
Call me 555-1269 Doc K
The words on the note are unexpected, but he will not reject such a blatant come-on from a prominent doctor in Sarasota. He will take it, but the evidence had already pointed to the fact that the good doctor cheats on his wife, many men, do.
Why not a man of who has a well-known reputation and a doctor?
-18-
Wednesday
Kincaid walks into his office. Detective Wilkie is already seated behind his desk.
“About time you got here,” Quince moans, “We have to go.”
“Where?” Raymond says.
“Mrs. Shockley,” Quince says, “She called and said we need to go back to her house. Apparently, she has found something concerning her missing husband.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, is right,” Quince says, “You wanna drive?”
“NO! You drive.”
-19-
“So, she didn’t say what she had found?” Raymond asks his partner as they both stroll back up the walkway that had been on the day before.
“Nope, she just said we needed to come back,” Quince says, “You take the lead.”
“Okay.”
He does a few tapping raps on the massive front door. The sound carries through the vestibule on the other side of the door.
The door opens.
“Hello.”
As the door is opened, a familiar face greets the hulking Detective.
“Detective!” a singsong voice comes from behind the person who greeted him.
“Well, ask, the Detective in, Jaime, quite dallying, young man,” Mrs. Shockley says, “It’s too hot to be standing with the door open.”
“Come in, come in, Detectives,” the young man named Jaime, ask the pair in.
As the Detective passes by the young man, he whispers, where only the two of them can hear.
“I thought your name was James, Red.”
-20-
“Have a seat, Detectives,” the smartly dressed woman says, “Detectives. This is my son, Jaime Riley.”
“Is your name, James, Mr. Riley?” Raymond the Detective asks.
He has his own questions that need answering from this young man. He can still taste the young man’s spunk in his mouth.
“No, it is Jaime, Detective,” his mother answers for him, “He is named after his father.”
“So, Mr. Shockley is not his father?”
“Hell, no!” the young red-haired compact football answers, readily, “He is my step-dad, my second one.”
“Alright, Jaime,” Mrs. Shockley says, “Now is not the time.”
“Mrs. Shockley, you have been married three times?”
“Yes, Detective Kincaid, I was my husband’s secretary before we got married,” she freely gives, “It was one of those typical office romances you hear about.”
“Oh!” Raymond sighs.
“Yes, Mother, just like your second marriage, uhhh?” Jaime pipes in, his words, whiny and petty.
The two Detective’s look to each other, the display of a spoiled child in the body of a grown man, irritates the men.
“So, you told my partner, you had something for us?”
“Yes,” she answers while she leans over and opens a drawer on the side table of the sofa where she and her son are seated.
She places an address book.
A little black book.
A memento of the past before the advent of the many electronic devices, which can store the same numbers for safekeeping and the same purpose.
She slides the little black book across the coffee table and directly in front of him.
“Take a gander, Detective,” she says, “I was shocked.”
Kincaid picks up the book and thumbs through the many pages before he makes a comment.
“Interesting,” he says.
“What?” Quince the Detective says, “What is it?”
“There is nothing in it?” Raymond says.
“Oh?” Quince says.
“Why did you call us, Mrs. Shockley?” Raymond says, “I hope an empty address book is not all you have.”
“No, Detective,” she says, as she adds a cell phone to the coffee table between the gathering, “I have a cell phone.”
“Your husband does not have his cell phone?”
“This is not my husband’s cell phone,” she says, “At least not one that I have ever seen before, anyways.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shockley,” Quince says.
“It has been over twenty-four hours since I have seen my husband,” the woman pleads, “Have you, gentlemen, found anything?”
“We are still investigating, Mrs. Shockley,” Raymond says, “There is an active investigation.”
“We will contact you when we find something,” Quince says as he stands.
-21-
“Whatcha think, Ray?” Quince asks, “Is the husband screwing around on her?”
“I am not sure. I am not sure.”
“So how was that workout, yesterday?” his partner asks, “Why didn’t you wait on me to go with you. You know we usually do our time at the gym, together. You need a spotter.”
“I had one of my, uhh, ‘feelings’.”
“Yeah, I know about those ‘feelings’ of yours,” Quince says, “Does that have anything to do with you being on Casey Key, yesterday?”
“It does. Since you brought it up,” Ray says, “Let’s go on down to the Key and check my hunch.”
-22-
“Is this where your tag was read, yesterday?” Quince asks as the unmarked patrol car pulls into the paver driveway of the home, behind a car already parked there. This is where Ray had visited the day before.
“Yep.”
“Who lives here?” Quince asks.
“This is where the good doctor was yesterday.”
“Oh,” Quince sighs.
“…and so was Mrs. Shockley’s son.”
“OH! DAMN!” Quince says with much alarm.
“The doctor was naked, sportin’ a massive hard-on and, the kid, Jaime, was shirtless, standing in the front of him,” Ray explains.
“Whoa!” Quince gasps, “You think the two were foolin’ around?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Ray knocks on the door. He knocks and knocks before it finally opens.
In front of him, stands the Mexican gardener that had spotted him, yesterday. The man is shirtless, dressed in a pair of snug shorts. He is quite handsome.
“You?” the man says, once he realizes the familiar face.
“I am Detective Kincaid, this is my partner, Detective Wilkie,” he says, “Is Dr. Kilgore home?”
“There is no doctor, here, Mister,” the man says.
“Well, his car is here. That black car.”
“That is not the doctor’s car. It is his brothers,” the man explains, there is marked puzzlement in his tone.
“We would like to speak to him, please.”
“You see that gate over there,” the man says as he points to side of the house.
“Yes.”
“You can go through there, he is at the pool,” the man says, “Would you two gentlemen like something cool to drink?”
“No thanks.”
Both Detective’s make their way to the gate, open it, and see the pool at the back patio. Seated in a lounge chair, a man is sprawled out soaking up the rays of the Florida sun.
Raymond looks to Quince, and Quince returns to the gaze, as both men walk back to the pool where the sunlight glistens off its watery surface and the lazy man sunbaths.
-23-
The dress-suited pair of Detective’s strides up to the sunning man, Raymond in his signature dark blue suit and two-toned blue tie, while Quince, the more relaxed of the two, with his loose hanging tie and wrinkles throughout his disheveled suit.
Their footsteps echo that of a duo of men, full of confidence and assurance as they edge closer to the man.
“Uh, huh,” Raymond coughs under his breath.
“Raoul, you are blocking out my sun,” the man in the lounge chair barks out to the pair, “Where is my drink?”
“It is not Raoul, Mr. Kilgore,” Raymond responds with an equal fierceness in voice.
The Mexican, the man now identified as Raoul, takes a seat under the canopy that spans the outdoor kitchen behind the house and within earshot of the trio by the pool.
“You are Mr. Kilgore, I assume?” Raymond asks as he eyes the sprawled out naked man on the chaise lounge.
The man does not bolt up alarm about being naked in the presence of strangers. He responds, slowly, deliberately, and unashamed of his obvious nudity.
He lifts the shades from his eyes, blinks, and answers.
“I am,” he answers, “…and you are?”
“Detective’s Kincaid and Wilkie of the Sarasota PD.”
This gets the man’s attentions.
“Raoul, where’s my drink?” the relaxing man yells.
As the man sits up from his reclining position, he recognizes the Detective.
“You?” the man barks, “You were the motherfucker peeking through my window, yesterday. I saw your image on my exterior cameras?”
Kincaid does not answer. He ignores the statement.
“Mr. Kilgore, do you know a man by the name of Shockley. Robert Shockley?”
The man stands from his lounge chair. He is well tanned, muscled. He is the same man that Kincaid saw in full splendor in the gym locker room, yesterday. Kincaid was quite taken by the man’s low hanging balls and hefty cock.
“Could you cover yourself, please, Mr. Kilgore,” Quince asks.
“Detective, this is my house. I will wear what I want at my house, sir,” Mr. Kilgore responds quite adamantly.
“It is your house, Mr. Kilgore,” Raymond calms the situation, “You are, of course, free to do what you please at your house.”
Besides, the sight of this man’s endowments stirs Raymond’s loins.
“No. I do not know, Mr. Shockley, I believe he is a business partner of my brother,” Mr. Kilgore explains as he cups his hands under his ball-sacs, squeezing and massaging his low-dangling family jewels in his hands.
“Then why was his stepson at your house yesterday, Mr. Kilgore?” Raymond asks.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mr. Kilgore says, “I just got back into town this morning.”
Mr. Kilgore starts stroking his cock in front of the two detectives.
“Where’s my drink, Raoul?” the naked man shouts.
As the drink is brought to him by his gardener and placed on a small patio table next to the chaise lounge. A question pops in his head.
“Was my brother here, yesterday, Raoul?” Mr. Kilgore asks.
“Yes, Mike, he was here,” Raoul answers, “As was Jaime.”
“Were they together?” Raymond asks but he already knows the answer to his question.
Raoul looks to his employer, Mike Kilgore.
“Were they?” Mr. Kilgore asks as he takes a sip from his glass.
“Yes,” Raoul answers, flatly.
“Did they fuck?” Mike Kilgore asks, bluntly.
“I had to change the sheets on your bed,” Raoul answers.
“They fucked on my bed. Dammit!” Mike says, angrily.
Quince looks at his partner, they exchange of marked glances of shock between them, as the drama unfolds before them.
“When Jaime called me this morning, he didn’t mention that to me,” Mike Kilgore says.
“You know, Jaime Riley?” Quince asks the naked men with the full erection between his legs.
“I do,” the man says as he strokes his cock, “It seems the Detective does too.”
“What?” Quince asks as he leers as his partner.
“Yep, your partner gave the boy quite a blowjob in the steam room, yesterday, at The Athletic Club,” Mike says with a tinge of joy in his voice, “the boy bragged about it to me on the phone, this morning.”
All the men look at Raymond Kincaid. He stands tall and makes no comment.
Anger seethes on Detective Quince Wilkie face.
-24-
“What the fuck! What the fuck!” Quince steams as the pair are driving back to the Police Department in Sarasota, “You shouldn’t be fuckin’ around with any possible witnesses on a current case.”
“I didn’t know that the kid was involved in this case until he opened the door at Mrs. Shockley’s.”
“You saw him at the house of a man, you thought he was screwin’ around with, a doctor,” Quince says, “Don’t you lie to me, man.”
“Yes. Yes. I sucked on the guys cock, he caught me the steam room jacking on my cock. It just happened.”
“Have you talked to the doctor yet, the real one,” Quince asks.
“NO!” Raymond answers sharply. He can feel the slip of paper of the note that the doctor left him at the gym.
He will call him, tonight.
“You ain’t gonna tell the Captain about this are you?” Raymond pleads, “I don’t need another reprimand in my file.”
“No, I ain’t tellin’ the Captain,” Quince answers, “You know what happens between us, is settled between us. It is what partners do.”
“Thanks, man,” Raymond says, “I appreciate it.”
-25-
Just off the crowded precinct area of the main floor, tucked away in some out of the way place, is a room that the designers of this new police department envisioned, when they set about giving the officers, the detectives and the staff a place to rest, gather their thoughts, gossip. It is the break room. The usual vending machines, coffee makers and the like inhabit this cramped room. There are tables and chairs, what few the room will allow.
Here sits Raymond and Quince, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of each of them.
Raymond’s hands are wrapped, snug, around the base of the cup, seeking what available heat he can get from the rapidly cooling liquid. Another failed aspect of this closet-like room is that it is cold. It is as cold as the Arctic on the shortest day of the year, in this little corner of hell.
“So, what the hell happened with the boy, Ray?” Quince asks, flustered.
Ray feels his groin stir at the incident with the boy yesterday. His hand shifts from clutching the cup to adjusting his rapidly growing and stiffening cock. His trouser snake slithers in his pants, the adrenaline shoots through his body as he is charged up like some sexual dynamo.
“Dammit, man,” Quince asks, “Did you just get yourself a raging hard-on?”
Ray nods his head, ‘yes.’
“The kid must have been good,” Quince queries.
Ray responds with another exaggerated nod.
“Tell me,” he asks again.
“There isn’t much to tell.”
He tells him of the surprise of the red-haired freckle dotted pale lad walking into the steam room. Of him, swallowing the hefty deposit of the young man’s spunk and the many eyes of the men, who he felt, behind him at the door, he enjoys being watched.
In the hallway, both men hear footsteps, slow steady, almost timed, walking down the tight corridor to the break room. The footsteps stop, in the doorway, is the Captain, leaning on the frame.
“Quince. Raymond,” the Captain says, calmly.
“Captain,” the Detective’s both say in almost perfect unison.
“Leave us, Quince,” the Captain orders.
Quince gets up, but not before, he glances back and looks at his partner. He mouths, “oh shit” to Raymond before he exits the room.
-26-
“Captain.”
Raymond words that of respect and leeriness. What does he want?
“What this I hear ‘bout you, a playing peek-a-boo in someone’s window?” the Captain asks as he plops down in the seat directly in front of him. The seat where Quince had once been firmly rooted, minutes earlier.
The Captain shifts in the seat, the warmth still lingering from Quince’s ass.
“I was following up on a lead,” Ray says, “I am looking for a missing person.”
“Who?” the Captain asks.
“Robert Shockley.”
“The real estate guy and banker?” the Captain ponders.
“The same,” Ray answers, flatly, “He has been missing for over a day, now.”
“What does that have to do with Mike Kilgore?” the Captain asks another question.
“I thought he was the doctor,” Ray says, “…but I found out that I had followed his twin.”
“Mmm, that was a twist, uh?” the Captain says, “Betcha didn’t expect that.”
“No. Caught me by complete surprise. They must have done a switch-a-roo on me. They knew I was a cop.”
“Okay. Let me know what you find out,” the Captain says, “Just don’t go being some purvey voyeurism when you are on the clock. It doesn’t help with our image.”
“Sure thing, Cap.”
-27-
Once the Captain exits the room, Detective Kincaid stands and walks to the window. He looks down toward Ringling Avenue. He wiggles his hips, feeling his cock and balls swing-free in his trousers. Today was one of his no-underwear days. The Florida heat is merciless on the balls and cock in such a fucking high humidity.
“So, what happened?” Quince says as he walks back into the cold chamber of the break room.
“Everything is copasetic.”
“Really?” Quince says, shocked.
“Yes.”
“Mmm,” Quince’s questions mount in his head.
“I am gonna call it a day,” Ray explains, “I have something I gotta do.”
“What about this Shockley case?” Quince asks.
“Why doncha check his financials, see if he has travelled or used his credit cards.”
“Will do,” Quince says.
“You have my cell, call me if you find anything, questionable.”
“What about his cell phone?” Quince asks as he leans on the doorframe of the break room.
“I have it,” Ray says as he turns from the window, “See. Here it is.”
Ray shows his partner, the second cell phone that belonged to Mr. Robert Shockley. The phone that his wife did not even know existed. He places the phone back in his pocket. It is nuzzled tight in his heated pocket against the slip of paper with the note from the good doctor named Mills Kilgore.
-28-
The car pulls into the parking garage, in the basement of The Towers on Palm Avenue. It was only a short drive. Out of the police department, onto Ringling Avenue, go west, head towards the Sarasota Bay front, and wind around the few strategically placed circular Round-About, before finally arriving on Palm Avenue.
He parks his car. The one with the high miles and the constant threat of eventual breakdown everyday it is cranked. He hates this car.
His hand creeps into his pants pocket, grabbing the cell phone and tweaking his tender hanging ball sac that he feels sticking like glue to inside of his sweaty thigh.
He scrolls through the saved numbers in the memory of the phone. The phone in his fingertips belongs to the “missing person” Mr. Robert Shockley, it tells a man a lot about who he is by what he keeps stored away from the prying eyes of others. Shockley is a real estate tycoon and banker, one of Sarasota’s well-known and vocal personalities.
The Towers on Palm Avenue is owned by the “missing” prick.
The number is there. They knew it would be.
-29-
He walks to the stainless-steel elevator and presses the UP-arrow button. He needs a shower; the filth of the precinct feels him with disgust every time he walks through those doors.
“Finally,” he says as aloud as he steps over the threshold and into the tiny box.
He presses the button to top floor, as the door closes, he catches a glimpse of the black Benz parked in the stall closes to the door. That was a good purchase, it has served them well in their endeavors.
The ride is short for him as the door opens. From his vantage point, he can see without any obstruction, the Ringling Bridge and Lido. This condo was another acquisition, well worth the bucks that were shucked out for it. Although the cash was not his own.
He slams Shockley’s cell onto the counter that separates the kitchen from the rest of the condo. The tile floor sparkles in the curtain-less wrap around windows. He kicks off his shoes, shimmies out of his black socks. The tile feels warm on the soles of his feet.
He had taken his tie and coat off in his car on the way over from the police department. They lay now overhanging the seat in the car. He unbuttons his shirt and flings it, in utter disgust on the floor. His pants come off next. He is naked.
He walks to the balcony and breathes in the salty air of the Gulf as its fragrance wafts in and through his nostrils. His hand wanders to his now free cock.
“I need a fuck.”
He exclaims with much bravado. In the room off to the side, the bed is unmade, the sheets turned back.
-30-
“I got it. Yeah, I did.”
Raymond talks into his cell.
“She handed it to me. Yeah. Yeah. It was that easy.”
He stands on the open balcony, stroking his cock. His passions being fueled by a plan that is coming to its eventual fruition.
“Where am I? The condo. I just got here.”
His cock is hard.
Throbbing.
Pulsating.
“Yeah, I am naked. Yeah. Yeah. My cock is hard. Steel hard. Throbbing.”
No one can see him. This is one of the highest points in the city.
“Okay, babe. See you in a bit. I love ya, Doc. Be ready to fuck when you get here.”
End Part 1