Taking Care of his People
A Fictional SPH Story by belted and teased.
As I closed the door behind me, I was somewhat taken aback. The room we had our monitoring equipment set up in reeked. It reeked of sex.
I walked down the short hallway into the bathroom to see what was going on.
On the single bed, still made, sat the laptop, which Bluetooth connected to the camera we had planted in the drug dealer’s room. In “plain view” on the screen, the bad guy was busy fucking the hell out of a prostitute he had hired. The volume was turned down on the computer so the subjects would not hear themselves through the thin walls. It did not matter; the woman’s ecstatic screams could be heard clearly anyway.
Sitting in our room’s only chair, watching the show, was Detective Simpson. She was not someone I was attracted to, but that is not to say she was unattractive.
She had not noticed me enter the room. Probably because her skirt was hiked up and, as she watched the computer screen, she was masturbating. Her panties lay on the floor nearby, apparently hastily discarded so she could stroke her clit with her fingers. Her very hairy crotch was soaked, obviously the source of the room’s aroma. She whispered to herself, “Holy fucking shit, look at that fuck stick. I didn’t think they made ’em that big…ohhh… mmmm…”
That brought my attention back to the monitor. My eyes grew wide. She was right. It looked like he was hammering the hell out of the happy hooker with a baseball bat. My trousers had already tented, and now my little friend throbbed as the woman cried out through a series of orgasms. I was not even in the same league as our bad guy.
Simpson finally noticed me, but she did not stop twiddling her snatch. Either she did not care about getting “written up,” or she was just too far gone to control herself.
I don’t fully understand my own actions. Perhaps it was because I had been celibate for months. Perhaps the situation was also beyond my control. Perhaps it was simply my love for pussy. I think it was most likely just habit.
I instinctively did what I would have done for any of my ex-wives had I walked in on them masturbating.
I dropped to the floor before her, slid my legs beneath the chair, and buried my face between her thighs.
She curled her wet fingers into my hair, pressing me against her mons and moaning appreciatively as I expertly serviced her with my mouth and tongue. My exes all agreed my cock was useless, but that I was the best pussy eater they’d ever had. I loved a good hot meal.
She tasted good. She felt good. She smelled delicious. Normally I would slowly take a woman to orgasm, but she was already most of the way there. So I began bathing her clit with my softened tongue, then I pointed it and began lashing her from all directions.
She suddenly tensed up and cried out, “Aauuuggghhfuckyes!” Her orgasmic cries were added to those of the woman next door.
In the video, the man with the huge member paused and listened. Satisfied that his actions had caused the couple next door to begin fucking also, he smiled arrogantly and redoubled his efforts to drive the hooker through the mattress. She screamed happily.
Simpson enjoyed several orgasms in a row, then relaxed into the chair, spent. Now she got a surprise. Rather than get up, I tenderly kissed and suckled her thighs, caressing her legs until she recovered from her orgasms and began to become aroused again. Then I worked my way back to her center and began loving on her labia, then back to her clit.
“Oh, my.”
Soon she was crying out through several more orgasms. I repeated this process several times over the next hour, until she could take no more.
Our bad guy must have thought he had real competition, because even after growling through his own orgasm, he just kept on going. I wondered what he was on.
As I stood, Simpson sighed, “Damn. I gotta say it, you sure go all out to take care of your people.”
She saw the small tent in my trousers and tittered, “Aww, how cute. You gotta babydick. I always thought that was the case.” She gave it a quick squeeze, and returned to pulling down her skirt.
“Ungh.” That quick squeeze was all it took. It was a ruined orgasm, but I came.
Simpson looked past me, “Oh, perfect timing! I am absolutely famished now…”
I turned to look. She was talking to the rest of our team, who we had not noticed entering the room while we were preoccupied.
Anderson, a tall, muscular man who would be described in film noir parlance as “hulking,” stood holding three large pizza boxes, a shocked expression on his face.
Standing next to him was Ruiz, a petite yet voluptuous and fiery Latina. She bore a sardonic look.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the nearby dresser mirror.
My hair was matted with Simpson’s vaginal fluids, sticking up in all directions. My face looked like a glazed donut. I often wore no underwear… my shaft was not that noticeable even erect, so I rarely worried. But now the result was a wet stain rapidly spreading at the crotch and down the left leg of my khakis, making evident I had just messed myself in a big way. I turned five shades of red.
Ruiz spoke, “We can see YOU have already eaten, boss.”
She widened her stance noticeably, suggestively, and met my eyes very directly.
“Are you still hungry?”
—
Ruiz’s dark eyes traveled slowly down my body, taking in the mess coating my chin, my shirt, the obvious wet spot at my crotch. She leaned against the doorframe, pizza box in hand, one eyebrow arched.
“I asked if you were hungry,” she repeated, her voice dropping an octave. “But looks like you already had plenty to eat.”
Anderson pushed past her into the room, already focused on the monitors. “Simpson, what’s the status on—Jesus Christ.” He stopped short, taking in the scene: Simpson sprawled in the chair, thighs still splayed, her skirt bunched around her waist. The detective’s chest heaved as she caught her breath, her nipples visible through her sweat-soaked blouse.
“Don’t act as if you’ve never seen a man do his job,” Simpson said, her voice hoarse from an hour of moaning. She reached for the pizza box in Ruiz’s hands. “Gimme that. I’m starving.”
Ruiz handed it over but didn’t take her eyes off me. I still knelt on the floor, unsure whether to stand, to speak, to wipe my face. My cock throbbed against my damp boxers, still half-hard despite the embarrassment—or maybe because of it.
“You missed a spot,” Ruiz said, stepping closer. Her heeled boot nudged my knee. She crouched down in front of me, her police-issue pants stretching tight across her thighs. “Right there.” Her thumb swiped across my lower lip, collecting a glistening smear of Simpson’s cum. She brought it to her mouth and sucked it clean.
“Ruiz,” Anderson warned from behind her, not turning from the monitors.
“Relax, Anderson. Dealer’s still going at it. Think the coke’s keeping him hard.” She glanced at the screen where the drug dealer continued to pound into the prostitute, both of them lost in their own chemically-enhanced frenzy. “Besides, Simpson clearly needed the relief. You know how she gets on these stakeouts.”
Simpson laughed around a mouthful of pizza. “Months, Ruiz. Fucking months since I had a proper tongue. ” This one—” she gestured at me with a crust “—has a mouth on him.” Shame about his dick, though. Barely a mouthful.”
My face burned even as my cock twitched. Ruiz noticed. Her eyes dropped to the wet patch at my groin.
“Is that right?” She reached out, pressing her palm flat against my soaked slacks. I gasped at the contact, the pressure sending a jolt through my overstimulated nerves. “Mmm. Yeah, I can feel that. Poor thing. All that work and you’re still leaking.”
“Ruiz—” I started.
“Shh.” She squeezed, her fingers wrapping around my shaft through the wet fabric. “I said shh. You’ve done enough talking with your mouth. Let’s see what else it can do.”
She stood abruptly, unbuttoning her pants and shoving them down her hips along with her underwear. Her pussy was already glistening, dark curls trimmed short, her clit peeking out from its hood.
Anderson sighed heavily from his chair but made no move to stop us. “I’ll keep watch.”
“Good boy.” Ruiz grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my face to her crotch.
The scent of her hit me—musky, sharp, different from Simpson’s tangier taste. I dragged my tongue through her folds, and she shuddered against me.
“That’s it,” she breathed, grinding against my mouth. “Simpson wasn’t kidding. You really know how to—fuck—right there.”
Behind me, I heard Simpson moan softly, the sound of fabric rustling. I couldn’t see, but I imagined her touching herself as she watched, her fingers circling her clit while she ate pizza and observed my degradation.
“Should’ve brought him in months ago,” Simpson said, confirming my suspicion. “Think of all the stress relief we missed out on.”
Ruiz’s grip tightened in my hair. She fucked my face with increasing urgency, her thighs trembling on either side of my head. I grabbed her ass, pulling her closer, driving my tongue as deep inside her as I could reach.
“Yes, yes, fucking—don’t stop—”
Her whole body seized. She came hard against my mouth, her cum flooding my tongue, dripping down my chin to mix with Simpson’s fluids already coating my face. She rode out the orgasm with slow rolls of her hips before stepping back, panting.
“Okay,” she said, pulling up her pants. “Okay. I get it now.”
I remained on my knees, light-headed, my jaw aching, my cock straining painfully against my ruined slacks.
Simpson had finished her pizza and was watching me with heavy-lidded eyes. “Anderson. You’re up.”
“I’m monitoring—”
“The dealer’s been fucking for three hours straight. He’s not going anywhere.” Simpson’s voice brooked no argument. “You’ve been complaining about your wife not putting out for weeks. Get over here.”
Anderson turned in his chair. His gaze swept over me with clinical assessment. “He’s a mess.”
“That’s the point.” Ruiz had settled onto the bed, propped on her elbows, watching with obvious interest. “Come on, Anderson. Don’t be a pussy.”
Anderson stood, adjusting the obvious bulge in his jeans. He walked over to where I knelt, looking down at me with an expression caught between disgust and desire.
“Open,” he said.
I opened my mouth.
Anderson’s cock was out before I’d finished the word. He wasn’t gentle about it—just unzipped, hauled the thing free, and fed it between my lips like he was loading a round into a chamber.
The first thing I registered, absurdly, was size. Where I was a mouthful, Anderson was a jaw-ache. Thick, veined, half-hard and swelling fast against my tongue. My own dick gave a bitter, traitorous twitch in my ruined slacks.
“Christ, Anderson,” Simpson said from her chair, legs crossed, watching me like I was the second monitor. “You’ve been carrying that around on stakeouts for a week? No wonder you’ve been such an asshole.”
“My wife hasn’t touched me since—” He stopped talking because I sealed my lips around the head and sucked. His fingers knotted in my hair, and he pushed deeper, hitting the back of my throat. I suppressed a gag and relaxed into it. Months of celibacy had taught me one thing: when someone finally lets you touch them, you don’t waste the opportunity being precious about which parts.
“That’s it,” Ruiz murmured. She’d stretched out on the bed, chin propped on her hand, watching me with lazy, satisfied eyes. “Take it. Fuck, that’s hot. Look at him go.”
I was going. My head bobbed, mouth slick and noisy, one hand braced on Anderson’s thigh while the other worked the base of his shaft where my lips couldn’t reach. He tasted like soap and sweat and something faintly chemical—energy drinks and long nights. His breathing went ragged fast, hips stuttering, fucking my face in short, greedy strokes.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Yeah, just—like that—she never—fuck—”
Behind him, the laptop screen glowed. From my angle on the floor, I could see it over his shoulder, past the blur of his pumping hips.
The prostitute was gone. The dealer was dressed.
And there was a knock on his door.
I tried to say something. What came out was “Mmmph,” around a mouthful of married-man cock. Nobody heard me. Ruiz was too busy watching, Simpson too busy sliding her hand back under her skirt, Anderson too busy holding my head like a steering wheel while he drove himself down my throat.
Two men entered the dealer’s room on the screen. Suits. Briefcase. The dealer swept the nightstand clear and started laying out product, scale, and cash with the practiced speed of a man who’d done this a hundred times.
The deal. The actual deal. The entire reason we’d been rotting in this hotel for a week.
“Mmmph,” I said again, louder, and grabbed Anderson’s thigh hard enough to bruise.
“Not yet,” he gasped, misreading me completely, and shoved deep. His cock pulsed against my tongue, and I felt it—the point of no return, the shudder up his spine, his fingers crushing my skull against his groin.
He came with a groan like a man setting down a refrigerator. Thick, flooding, bitter. It hit the back of my throat and kept coming, and I swallowed what I could while the rest leaked from the corners of my mouth and dripped off my chin, joining the layers of Ruiz and Simpson already drying on my face. I was becoming a museum exhibit.
And on the screen behind him, the briefcase clicked open.
The radio on the nightstand crackled to life.
“All units, all units—subjects converging on room 502, we have the meet, I repeat, we have the meet. Entry team staging in sixty seconds.”
The room detonated.
“Shit—shit—” Simpson launched out of the chair, skirt twisted around her waist, one hand still wet. She crashed into the monitors. Anderson yanked his cock out of my mouth so fast it left a rope of cum across my cheek like a finishing flourish, and he was stuffing himself back into his jeans with shaking hands, hopping on one leg. Ruiz rolled off the bed and hit the floor, drawing her weapon, pants still unbuttoned.
“Status report!” Simpson barked into the radio, all business, as if her clit wasn’t still glistening under her hiked-up skirt. “This is Unit Four, we have eyes on the meet, requesting—god damn it, Anderson, where’s the camera log—”
“Sixty seconds,” I said. My voice came out wrecked, raw, three women’s worth of fluids and one man’s load coating my face. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and got to my feet on legs that no longer entirely believed in me.
“You—” Simpson pointed at me, yanking her skirt down. “You’re the only one who looks even remotely functional.”
I looked down at myself. My pants soaked through at the crotch, shirt untucked and stained, face glazed like a donut.
“Relatively functional,” she amended.
The hallway exploded. Boots, shouting, the crack of a breaching ram against the door next door—once, twice—and then splintering wood and a chorus of “POLICE, DOWN ON THE GROUND” that rattled through the thin walls like the building itself was being arrested.
Through our door, I first heard the dealer’s footsteps. Then his shoulder. He came through it like a comet—shirtless, high out of his mind, having apparently decided the window was a myth and our room was the exit. He got exactly three steps in before he saw us: two disheveled detectives, one half-dressed officer, and one man standing in the middle of the room with four people’s pleasure written all over his face.
Everyone froze. Even the entry team piling into the hallway behind him froze.
The dealer looked at me. At my face. At my crotch.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” he said.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said a new voice, and my stomach dropped through the floor because it was Lieutenant Marsh, standing in the ruined doorway with a battering-ram team behind him and an expression that suggested he was already drafting the incident report in his head. His eyes did a slow lap of the room: the monitors, the pizza box, Simpson’s inside-out skirt, Ruiz’s open fly, Anderson’s very obviously still-damp dick doing a poor job of hiding itself, and me.
Me, last. Longest.
“Simpson,” Marsh said. “Why is that man’s face shiny?”
“Sir, I can explain—”
“And why does he smell like a brothel?”
Simpson opened her mouth. Closed it. In the corner, Ruiz very quietly buttoned her pants. On the laptop screen, forgotten by everyone, the prostitute had returned to the empty drug room and was stealing the dealer’s stash from under the mattress, which honestly felt like a metaphor for my entire career.
The dealer, still standing there, started to laugh. “Y’all were right there? The whole time? And y’all were—” he looked at me again, at my face, and his laughter died into something like awe. “Goddamn. No wonder you never caught me sooner.”
“Put him in the car,” Marsh said flatly.
As they cuffed him, the dealer kept twisting around to look at me. “Hey,” he called, genuinely warm. “Hey, shiny-face. When I get out, look me up. I know bitches. I can hook you up.”
“That’s enough.”
“He’s got a mouth on him!” the dealer hollered down the hall as they dragged him off. “SIMPSON! YOU OWE THIS MAN A MEDAL—”
The door hung off one hinge. Marsh turned back to the four of us. His gaze settled on me one final time, and he sighed the sigh of a man twenty years deep in a pension he would now never enjoy peacefully.
“Congratulations,” he said. “The bust was a success. The subject is in custody. And I am going to spend the next six months explaining to Internal Affairs why the surveillance log for this operation is four hundred and twelve minutes of static.”
He paused.
“Clean yourselves up. All of you.” His eyes flicked to me. “Especially you. You look like a glazed ham.”
He left. The door, on its one surviving hinge, slowly swung shut behind him with a sad little creak.
Silence.
Simpson spoke first, straightening her blouse with as much dignity as a woman in her position could muster, which was none.
“Well,” she said. “I’d call that a successful operation.”
Ruiz snorted. Anderson zipped up his fly and cleared his throat, refusing to look at anyone.
I stood there in the wreckage, soaked, spent, humiliated, and—my cock reminded me with one last hopeful throb—still, somehow, unbearably horny.
“So,” I said, my voice a ruin. “Same time next week?”
Simpson grinned.
The End.
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