The stolen kiss

By BRK  Patreon Contact Page Twitter
2 parts
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• Latest update: 7 December. Next update: 21 December. (Submissions welcome.)

• Latest from BRK: “Flashmob”, Parts 9‑10.

Part 1

Lorenzo Booker glowered at the door to his new office in disgust.

This ain’t right, he thought. You start out with your new P.I. license, you’re supposed to have that stupid little moment where you’re standing in front of your office door and the wizened little man in coveralls has just finished painting your full name in nice, elegant lettering on the frosted glass with the smaller legend “Private Investigator” underneath, and you just stare at it and go, “Wow, I’m really here. I’m really doing this.” It’s when reality of everything that’s brought you to this moment and everything that lays ahead is supposed to hit you and you know all your sacrifices and hard work were worth it. A moment of validation, crystallized in painted letters on glass.

Lorenzo was not having that moment.

For one thing, there was no little guy in coveralls, and those finely painted letters on frosted glass were also conspicuously lacking. Instead, it looked very much as though Debbrah, the matronly, pencil-thin, bilabial-consonant-loving building manager’s secretary one flight up up on the ninth floor, had slapped the word BOOKER onto a blank page in Word, printed it out on a toner-exhausted printer probably left over from the days of floppy disks, and come down and slapped it up on the solid, decidedly frosted-windowless door to his hastily rented professional digs.

BOOKER. That was it. Everything about it—the name in streaky all-caps Calibri, the plain white printer paper, the stray piece of yellowy cellophane tape holding it up at a reckless, cavalier angle—was pretty much the opposite of inspiring. His first post-license job after three years as an apprentice, and he was alone in a city he didn’t know, farmed out by his old boss to a client he’d never met, over a job that, apart from somehow involving a kiss, he still didn’t know a damn thing about. This sign seemed to be here for the sole purpose of exemplifying everything that was wrong in his life at this moment.

Lorenzo heard his gnarled old college soccer coach chastising him in his head. Deeds, not words! the old man had admonished them over and over again. Deeds—that’s what shows ‘em!, he’d say, and Lorenzo had believed him. Every time he’d run out onto the pitch, strong legs pumping and broad shoulders squared with purpose, he’d felt that exhortation to go out and do deeds; and the fun of putting it that way in his head was usually enough to settle his stress and let him focus on what he had to do. Even after a twisted knee ended soccer for him, he hadn’t forgotten.

The advice had stuck with him off the field as well, whether it was the p.t. to rehabilitate his knee, or his training to become a bodyguard/P.I., or Friday nights clubbing with the occasional quiet sexytimes after at his place or theirs. More than a few times he’d ended up half-grinning around some hung stranger’s thick, throbbing cock as he’d suddenly remembered his old coach’s words, and all he could do was think, You bet, coach! as he redoubled his efforts to bring serious pleasure to his newest acquaintance.

Pulling in a long, fortifying breath, Lorenzo consciously recentered himself. Time to do deeds, he told himself, and he felt his lips twist in an almost unwilling smile.

Transferring his canvas attache/computer case to his left hand, Lorenzo fished out the keys that had been left for him downstairs at the security desk against his late arrival. As he gripped the metal key between his fingers, he felt a familiar tingle in the back of his head, as if the key had given him a static shock that registered not in his hand but somewhere deep in his occipital lobe. Lorenzo squeezed his eyes closed, allowing his brain to focus on the object vibe with a small sigh. He slapped almost instantly, like a bead on an abacus, from the present back along the object’s past to its last touch of human emotion.

He saw the thick brass key being handed in by a sad, older man in a worn suit and tie—Lorenzo guessed he was the previous occupant of this little office. He followed it as the silver-haired Debbrah took from him with an empty smile; then, as the old man wandered off with slumped shoulders, he saw Debbrah grasp the key between the forefingers and thumbs of both hands and glower at it. “Be a hot chick next time!” she scolded it in a whisper, before slipping the key in a similarly-sized manila envelope already marked with the office number, 864. With one last sharp, admonitory look she dropped the key in her top drawer, and the vision faded and fell away.

Lorenzo snorted as he opened his eyes and focused on the silent hallway again. He could imagine her disappointment when the contracts had come in a few weeks later for the new occupant, one Lorenzo Booker, licensed private investigator. Hey, if any Sam Spade-style femme fatales come my way I’ll be sure to introduce you, Lorenzo thought wryly.

Glad the vibe was over, and yet strangely relieved his secret gift hadn’t deserted him in his new life, he slid the key in the lock and twisted the lock. The tumblers turned with a satisfying thunk—that, at least, seemed appropriately inaugural. He pushed the door open and stood in the entranceway for a moment, taking in the space. It was narrow but not too cramped, empty except for a pale, modular L-shaped desk unit, a basic office chair, and a tall, corner-dwelling potted plant. The room’s most remarkable feature by a considerable margin was the all-glass far wall, allowing the demure downtown Tampa nightscape to paint his new space in stark blacks, charcoals, and silvers.

He nodded. Here was his moment after all. Time to do deeds.


The following morning was bright and clear. It was cool enough for late spring for Lorenzo to don a thin navy blazer over his physique-hugging cornflower shirt and khaki chinos. It never hurt to show security clients what they were getting, his old boss had always said, though almost anything he wore tended to emphasize his firm chest and powerful thighs. The blazer also had the benefit of minimizing the visibility of his shoulder-holstered personal Glock.

He piloted the second-hand but newish blue Honda he’d driven up from Miami to a neighborhood near the university campus, winding through confusing side streets for a while before finding his destination, a narrow, well-maintained rust-red house very similar to dozens of others on the block.

Parking the car in a fortuitous spot he trotted up the steps and rang the second bell, which was marked Silva/Stephenson. A moment later her heard a tumble of feet on the stairs, and then the door opened to reveal a pale, hairy, and very fit man wearing loose gray sweats and nothing else. And it was clear even with the screen door between them that that “nothing else” very obviously included no underwear of any kind.

Lorenzo had always had to make do with what he thought of as his libido’s quick trigger, which left him heated and itchy with need anytime he was in the company of a reasonably good-looking guy. He knew he was no slouch himself. His dark chestnut hair was thick and wavy, his hazel eyes were warm and engaging, and he had the high cheekbones, rough stubble, and smooth olive skin of his mother’s mixed Mediterranean heritage—Lorenzo having been, coincidentally, the name of his Spanish grandfather on that side and an Italian great-grandfather, and so all but ordained for him from the moment his mother had first thought of having babies, which the family joked had been back while she was still in her own crib. He was reasonably tall and leanly but not inconsiderably muscled. He was more or less the perfect build for the European-style tailored shirts and snug slacks he habitually wore, usually complemented by narrow black soft-leather boots like the ones he was currently wearing.

He caught the gazes of both women and men the way statues caught pigeon poop, as his mother had said more than once (embarrassing him every time), but his own eyes were busy snagging on every good-looking man he saw. All types of guys appealed to him—long and limber like himself, firm and defined like this guy, broad and muscled, slim and winsome, they all turned him on in a basic way. He didn’t have a type, mostly because his type existed only in his own fantasies. Every other sexy man who made eyes at him fell short in the same way, and got lumped in the same also-ran category. Mundane-hot, Lorenzo called it half-consciously.

The guy who’d answered the door was a classic example. He was boyishly cute with an easy smile and kissable lips ringed with a dark, appealing morning stubble. Though of average height his trim waist still conveyed the impression of a long torso and equally long legs, the latter firm enough from the way those sweats hung on them for Lorenzo to guess he probably ran regularly, if not religiously. His muscles were defined and thick in a way that seemed more natural than gym-obsessive; his pecs were dappled with the same dirty blond hair that dusted his jaw and stood out in a messy bed-head above, and that same dark gold hair trailed down between his gently divided abs before diving past the bunched elastic and disappearing into those low-slung sweats. The trail led Lorenzo inevitably to the thick, heavy, and apparently uncut dick and loose-hanging balls that were all but unconcealed by the soft cotton fabric covering them, and Lorenzo’s mouth watered. His own hefty tool reacted almost automatically, twitching and stretching in his snug boxer-briefs. The predictable low-grade rush of standard arousal as he took in this man…

This man, who was very likely his client. Not a dance-floor hook-up, not an anonymous big cock to suck, but his first and only client in a city where he didn’t know anyone.

Reminding himself sternly that staring at his client’s lithe, defined body and clearly demarcated junk might just probably come across as slightly unprofessional, Lorenzo snapped his eyes back up to the other man’s face—only to find that the pale blond’s gaze was still busy raking Lorenzo over. Lorenzo cleared his throat awkwardly, and the other man’s rich brown eyes finally met his. “Hey, dude, I’m Sean. C’mon up!” the man said, nodding behind him and starting to turn. Then he checked himself and added belatedly, “You’re Booker, right? You, uh, work with Mike Fisher?”

Lorenzo nodded, earning him a bright smile from the shirtless man. His host turned and headed back up the stairs, and Lorenzo followed. He was marveling at the man’s casual demeanor. Lorenzo had originally suggested meeting at his new office before agreeing in an exchange of emails to work into Sean’s schedule at his home office instead, and as he mounted the steps Lorenzo amused himself picturing the man showing up downtown attired exactly as he was now, lolling into Lorenzo’s office with the same cheery “Hey, dude!”

Chill or not, Lorenzo hoped this guy was finally about to give him the briefing he needed. For a P.I., Mike Fisher, his old boss, wasn’t always particularly detail-oriented; but he’d been especially vague about this assignment. From what Lorenzo had pieced together, the client, Sean Stephenson—this was presumably the lanky and relaxed young man with the firm, round ass at which Lorenzo was trying very hard not to stare as they mounted the steep stairwell—was a highly-paid young software engineer from an impressively moneyed family who’d been referred to Mike by someone in the family who’d previously used Fisher Security a few times with great success. Sean, however, was based in Tampa, not Miami, and Mike wasn’t doing a 280-mile long-distance relationship with a lucrative new client. So, Lorenzo being a newly minted private dick, Mike had offered him the opportunity to set out his shingle in a whole new city with a built-in gig, plus travel and first month’s rent fronted by Mike as farewell and congratulations. Mike was happy; the client was happy; Lorenzo was… pensive. The gig itself apparently involved a bit of protection and a bit of investigation, which was right up Lorenzo’s alley; but the details had for some reason been left to the first face-to-face.

They reached the second-floor apartment, the door to which had been left open, and as Lorenzo entered he realized it was impressively spacious even for the two people indicated by the bell downstairs: a long, wide living room full of comfortable old furniture opened up to his right, taking up the whole front of the house as it basked in the morning light, and to his left was an open kitchen and dining area. He was perplexed about sleeping arrangements until he realized the stairs to the third floor were inside the apartment space. Lorenzo nodded to himself. Two floors in a good neighborhood in Tampa were pricy enough that Sean probably had discretionary funds for other things as well—like hiring Lorenzo.

A pert-looking chocolate lab ambled out of the kitchen and grinned at them, stopping in the open doorway. Lorenzo wondered if it was too polite to approach strangers. Sean bent down and gave it a vigorous rub on the head before heading past it into the kitchen. “Coffee? Beer?” Sean asked over his bare shoulder as he disappeared around a corner.

Lorenzo drifted into the living room, returning the dog’s curious gaze. “I’m good,” he called back. Sean soon reappeared with a bottle of Beck’s. He perched on the arm of a sturdy-looking love seat that sat against one wall while Lorenzo settled into the leather couch facing it. The dog parked itself in the kitchen doorway, laying down and settling its head onto its forelegs as it observed the humans with interest.

Sean took a negligent swig from his bottle. He definitely looked as if he could drink all the beer he wanted and still sport the long, perfectly flat, treasure-trailed stomach he currently possessed, and Lorenzo shook his head inwardly. “So,” he suggested, “why don’t we take a moment and go over the job?”

“Oh, you’ll meet him,” Sean said easily. “We’ll head over to the courts in a minute.”

Lorenzo frowned. The job was a “him”, evidently. That meant whatever protection was involved in this gig pertained to someone other than Sean. Possibly the investigation, too. Before he could respond with questions, though, Sean continued, “I just wanted to get you alone first, ‘cause Aaron doesn’t know the other reason I hired you.”

This comment, of course, only sparked more questions, but just then Sean’s brows knitted slightly and he asked, “Wait—you know he’s a trip, right?”

Lorenzo froze. Or, it would be more accurate to say that every part of him froze except for his cock, which inflated almost instantly in his (fortunately loose enough chinos) from the quarter-chub he’d gotten perving on his lanky, barely dressed client to rigid, rock-hard erection. Had Mike set this up? Did he know?

Fevered thoughts assaulted him, one on top of another. No—no one knew. No one could possibly be aware of his trip fetish. That was a matter for him, his dick, and his left hand, and had been from the moment the trips had first started appearing in public.

It had been at least ten years since the first YouTube video had revealed the existence of the trips—people (mostly men, it seemed) who’d been born with a newly surfaced genetic anomaly that gave them strong, well-proportioned bodies, very handsome faces, and three long, powerful legs. As kids the sparse first generation been kept mostly out of sight, but as they flowered into manhood they couldn’t remain hidden. First one video, then scores, then hundreds documented the existence of dozens of comely three-legged men, quickly dubbed “trips” as popular fascination spiked. Books were rushed out. Websites devoted to them were flooded with traffic. Celebrity trips arose, and soon there were trip movie stars, medical studies and services for trips, trip attorneys and politicians, trip Olympians and trip pro athletes, plus trip “experts”, advocates, and demonizers. Within five years the phenomenon was inescapable, and within another five the second generation was already swelling into the full glare of public awareness and acceptance.

The fact that a brand-new population of, at last count, just over fourteen hundred trips scattered over the globe had surfaced essentially all at once was, of course, immediately fodder for every kind of conspiracy theorist, and in fact it was generally agreed that the sudden emergence of athletic, virile three-leggedness in roughly 0.00002% of the world population, all over the course of a couple of decades, had been brought about artificially; though as to the how, why, and whom, there a thousand times as many theories as there were trips, endlessly discussed and fought about in every forum from countless subreddits and dedicated forums to talk shows to hair salons to streets, schoolrooms, and prison yards.

Everyone had an opinion. To some the trips were proof of evolution, to others it was proof against it. Religious zealots deemed their advanced forms, agile and nearly tireless, works of god or called them the temporal manifestations of a hundred different kinds of heavenly creatures from nephalim to saints reborn; others, equally religiously motivated, frothed over the unusually high presence of homosexuality documented among the trips and the sinful temptation of their beauty, screaming to all who would listen that the trips were tools of the devil. Lorenzo had heard it all. Answers were few and the speculation seemed limitless. They were aliens; they were the children of aliens; they were normals transformed by alien probes. They were always here; they were the product of a recently mutated virus; they didn’t exist and it was all a dark conspiracy, or a meme idiots took seriously.

None of that mattered to Lorenzo, because Lorenzo had been obsessed with the instant and visceral impact of trips on his own mind and body from the moment he’d laid eyes on the very first video images of a strong-limbed, dark-skinned fisherman from São Paolo, a smiling 19-year-old named João de Oliveira with a promising bulge swelling both crotches of his hand-stitched crimson-dyed denim shorts as he held up his 20-pound catch for the cheering crowd. The idea of man like him turned Lorenzo on at some kind of root level, beyond his ordinary reaction to ordinarily attractive men. Just thinking about sucking off first one hard cock, then the other, then returning hungrily to the first, usually got him rock-hard and ready even if he’d just spit his seed all over his stomach and chest.

And now… now Lorenzo was about to meet one. No, worse, he was going to be working with one, possibly on an extended basis—fuck, shit, if he didn’t get a handle on his rampaging libido he was going to be close to cumming right there in front of his fucking client!

He closed his eyes briefly, appealing to his memories for unsexy images. He thought of his old soccer coach… his old soccer coach’s ugly wife… his old soccer coach kissing his ugly wife… there, that did it. He let out a breath. He was still incredibly, painfully hard, but he wasn’t about to embarrass himself. Not right this second, anyway.

He opened his eyes and met Sean’s knowing gaze. He flushed slightly, hoping his olive skin would hide most of his embarrassment. Sean, however, seemed sympathetic. “It’s cool, dude,” his client said genially. “Even I bone up around Aaron sometimes, and I’m straight—pretty much. It’s kind of wild sharing digs with him, but I’ve known him since college so I’m kinda used to it. Though sometimes he’ll surprise me, and—shwing!” He grinned, clearly unashamed by this admission. “Mostly I’m envious, if you want to know the truth,” he went on with a shrug. “I wouldn’t mind being a trip like A. Apart from the attention being so hot gets you, I guess.” His smile faded. “Actually, that’s kind of the problem.”

Lorenzo was having trouble listening. How could you get used to it? All the images of trips he had ever seen were revolving rapidly in his head, and his arousal was rapidly ramp up again. What would this Aaron trip look like? He didn’t remember a trip named Aaron with a channel on social media or featured on the fan sites that crowded his guiltier newsfeeds. Was this guy someone he’d already seen pictures of, or was it someone new? Both prospects were equally exciting—and terrifying, because there was a very real risk Lorenzo wouldn’t be able to function properly and do his job in close proximity to an actual, real-life trip.

He was fucked if he he didn’t get it together, and not in a good way. Desperately he grasped at Sean’s last comment. “What do you mean, that’s kind of the problem?” he asked. What had Sean been talking about? He foundered back through what Sean had been saying. Something about how attractive his trip housemate was even to an ostensibly straight chill-dude like Sean. That was the problem? Maybe it was for Lorenzo, but he needed to know how Aaron’s attractiveness related to Lorenzo’s brief—half of which, he reminded himself, was evidently being kept from Aaron himself.

Sean’s expression was sober enough to calm Lorenzo’s heated blood. “Someone kissed Aaron,” Sean said seriously. “And I need you to find out who.”

Part 2

Sean explained, more or less, as they walked over to the campus sports center.

In deference to the cool morning he shrugged on a shirt, a loose but very thin long-sleeved heather tee that left as little doubt where his nipples were as his sweat bottoms were disclosive of his lower endowments, and stepped into a pair of new-looking sneakers. He’d then bid Lorenzo to follow him as he tumbled noisily down the stairs and out into the radiant sunshine. As they made their way toward the school, Sean hit the high points.

It all went down two weeks ago. His housemate, Aaron Silva, a linguistics grad student at the university, had been out walking his dog in the quiet, dark neighborhood. (It turned out that the canine he’d met was Aaron’s dog, not theirs or Sean’s. His, for reasons relating to a story Sean promised to tell him someday, name was Chocky.) Dusk was settling in and it getting hard to see. Suddenly someone in dark clothes turned a corner from one of the dead-end side streets. Before Aaron knew it, Aaron was spun around with his own leash wrapped around Aaron’s legs. The two men were close all at once, like a dance, and Aaron had time to register mirrored sunglasses and a thick brown beard before the stranger’s mouth was slamming hard against his. At first Aaron was kind of stunned by the firm kiss, but the shock of the stranger’s tongue in his mouth stirred Aaron to action. He shoved the man away, hard—but the stranger was ready for him. He bent himself backward, letting Aaron unbalance himself with his own forward momentum while the stranger ducked aside. Aaron stumbled forward, and by the time he gained his footing the stranger was gone, and his leash falling away from his legs as Chocky danced around him. Aaron tried to figure out where he’d gone, but the shadows were so dark on these unlit side streets he could have been under a bush five feet away and Aaron wouldn’t have seen him.

Lorenzo thought there was zero chance this was anything but a carefully planned attack and said so. Sean agreed reluctantly, especially as Aaron had conveyed a sense that the beard might have been fake. But Sean was also sure that Aaron hadn’t had any trouble with stalkers or aggressive fans before now.

Lorenzo understood this. Something about the energy trips put out kept people generally respectful of them even when stirred to intense arousal, to the point that trip movie stars (say) had to worry about stalkers, or even intrusive paparazzi, far less than their two-legged colleagues. The trips’ semi-pacifying effect on most norms was one of the least well understood aspects of the trip phenomenon and tended to spark debates just as passionate as those about the trips’ origins and place in the universe, whether human, celestial, or metaphysical.

Aaron knew this too, and Sean’s insistence that he take steps to prevent such vulnerability was a hard sell, even if they were only temporary. For now, Sean told him, his safest option was not going out alone, and hiring someone to watch his back when he needed to be out in public, and in the end Aaron agreed, though Sean suspected it was mostly for his peace of mind, not Aaron’s.

As far as Aaron was concerned, Sean explained, Lorenzo was there for protection. But Sean wanted more—he wanted Lorenzo to get to the bottom of this, if it was possible to do so. And Lorenzo knew why. Someone with the balls to kiss a trip in public would probably try again… or, more likely, would try something even ballsier.

The thought of balls caused Lorenzo’s treacherous brain to slip sideways to the gonads sloshing around in Sean’s loose sweats as they headed into the sports pavilion before racing ahead to the double, trip-sized packages awaiting him somewhere in the complex before him. What was Aaron going to be wearing? How much would Lorenzo get to see, and how much would be left to his imagination? His own long, thick cock was achingly hard again, straining against his slacks under the lower reaches of his blazer, and he could feel his blood and his very skin gettin hot at the very idea he was about to meet his trip face to face. How beautiful would he be? Would he be so much the embodiment of Lorenzo’s deepest fantasies as to be exultant—or intolerable? Lorenzo wasn’t sure he wanted to find out, but there was no way he wasn’t going to.


Lorenzo thought they might be heading for the weight rooms, and he could feel his anticipation (and his mostly hidden dick) ramping up higher. Would they see Aaron working out? Would they go over the finer points of his case while the unknown trip was sweating with exertion doing butterflies, or bench presses, or (sharp intake of breath) squats? Perhaps they’d follow Aaron into the showers, or—no, the sauna first, then… Get a grip! Lorenzo told himself fiercely, though even this remonstrance made his hefty cock flex with excitement. Not that kind of grip, he thought, gritting his teeth. Saints and garters, how was he going to survive this gig?

They didn’t go onto the facility proper, though where presumably all kinds of sporty pastimes were protected under curving, white arch of one of those crenellated domes that always reminded Lorenzo of bouncy castles. Instead Sean lead them around it to the far side where behind tall chain-link fences an expanse of green and white tennis courts spread into the distance. It was still early enough that relatively few of them were in use; but Lorenzo’s gaze immediately riveted on the centermost court. The little crowd of rapt spectators told him their destination without having to ask.

Sean headed for the court in question and sidled through the little crowd. Heart pounding, Lorenzo followed him—and then, all at once, he got his first, overwhelming look at a man in sleeveless, three-legged tennis whites facing off against a automatic serving machine as if he were casually warming up to play tennis full-on for a month. It was him: Aaron Silva, trip, grad student, subject of his latest case and object of his every desire. Lorenzo stilled at the edge of the spectators, gripped in a panic born of far more appreciation of the man before him even than he’d feared from the moment he’d first heard Aaron was a trip. The calming sthoop… whap of serve and return the only counter to the too-muchness of the moment.

It wasn’t just that Aaron appeared almost flawlessly beautiful. His handsome features were deeply pleasing; his golden skin, only a shade lighter than Lorenzo’s, seemed so saturated with life as to be not far short of luminous; his long, lightly wavy, strawberry-sunlight hair bounced easily as he moved; and his obvious contentment warmed Lorenzo inside, cradling his soul even at a distance.

Nor was it simply that his body was magnificent, agile, and captivatingly muscled. Aaron’s powerful, bared arms and tapered torso radiated elegant, if boundless, strength; but of course it was Aaron’s legs that drew his stare, and his eyes slunk down along three lightly hairy, sun-dark, exquisitely sculpted thighs, knees, calves, and (Lorenzo licked his lips) three Nike-shod feet.

Aaron moved easily as the serving machine pivoted, Lorenzo saw, stepping or running or lunging to meet the balls being spat at him with a fluid grace that Lorenzo had until now seen only in HD video in the privacy of his bedroom. Sthoop… whap. Sthoop… whap. He used all three of his legs instinctively in the way that made the most sense: moving to the left, he stepped first with the left foot, then gained ground with the middle foot before stabilizing his new position and balance with the right, while a full on run across the court meant all three legs pumping in turn, left, middle, right, middle, left, almost too swiftly to see. And as Lorenzo traced back up those legs he had to clamp his lips closed to prevent actual drool as he took in the way those tight, white three-legged tennis shorts stretched across two separate baskets clearly struggling to hold back such prodigious dicks and round, heavy balls that Lorenzo thought he would have given his own left nut to suck on them forever.

None of that was what stopped him from following Sean out onto the court, intending (Lorenzo guessed) to turn off the serving machine so they could talk. No, what froze Lorenzo where he stood, just outside the court, gaping at the man he’d come to see was a completely unexpected recognition. Aaron wasn’t the name of a trip he recognized from his sites and newsfeeds, and there was a reason for that. Just then, as the noise of the machine’s engine fell away and the serves stopped coming, Aaron straightened from his ready stance and looked up, catching Lorenzo’s gaze all at once and piercing him with brilliant cerulean eyes that he knew better than any other man’s. Aaron Silva, it turned out, was the real name of the social media king he and millions of followers knew as Blue. Blue, the trip Lorenzo coveted most out of all the others.

Lorenzo had beat off to hundreds of trips, both the real images posted by the men themselves and the fictional versions imagined by talented artists, whether out of simple appreciation or carnal interest. But Blue was the one he dreamed about. Blue was the trip Lorenzo had sucked off and fucked and rimmed and caressed and held and kissed senseless over and over again, in nightly dreams and countless erotic afternoon reveries. He’d pictured making out with him in the shower, holding him tight against him under the pelting cascade as they kissed, rutting his belly as he rutted back to either side. He’d all but tasted the huge, salty cocks he and countless others had had no trouble extrapolating from Blue’s straining crotches in shorts and swimwear, getting off on teasing them to near eruption, edging one mercilessly before suddenly switching to the other, until they both came spectacularly in a long torrent of arcing, spattering jizz. He’d imagined… fuck, he’d imagined everything with Blue. Everything but this moment: Blue’s eyes locked with his, the other man drinking Lorenzo in with playful appreciation while Lorenzo had to keep reminding himself not to cum, all while a dozen or more half-remembered athletes and random students watched with fascinated interest.

“Is this him?” Blue—Aaron—said. The question was directed at Sean, but Aaron didn’t look away from Lorenzo, and Lorenzo was, in that moment, completely incapable of looking away from Aaron.

“Yah,” Sean’s voice said from somewhere to his left. He sounded amused. He should be furious on his friend’s behalf, Lorenzo thought somewhere in the part of his brain not blinded by Aaron’s amazingly, deeply blue eyes: after all, Lorenzo was being a total dick, standing here staring and behaving totally without courtesy, much less professionalism. He wasn’t sure how to break free of what was happening to him—he only knew that catastrophic embarrassment was imminent, assuming it wasn’t already sloshing all over him like an oil spill and he just hadn’t noticed yet.

Aaron addressed him, and the world tunneled to just them. “You look like you play,” Aaron said appraisingly, nodding down at Lorenzo’s obviously athletic physique.

“I’ve swatted a few balls,” Lorenzo said, and immediately felt his cheeks burn. Was that the cheesiest thing he’d ever said? It had to be. Stack up all the cheesy come-ons he’d ever uttered—no, ever heard—and lay them end to end, and that line would be a leviathan by comparison.

But Aaron smiled winningly. “Come play with me, then,” he said, and he managed to say it with only hint of sexual innuendo. “You can use the spare racquet in my bag.” He nodded toward a red satchel parked mid-court to one side of the net.

Lorenzo made to agree, then realized it was impossible. “I’m not dressed—” he started to say.

“We can swap bottoms,” Sean broke in helpfully.

There were some murmurs at this from the spectators around him, who seemed intrigued or titillated by the prospect of the two-legs exchanging pants so that the newcomer could play; Lorenzo was too focused on the offer itself to pay them any attention at all. It was so strange that Lorenzo was able to tear his eyes away from Aaron and actually look at the man, who was indicating the gray sweats Lorenzo had already spent plenty of time noticing. Was he actually proposing—? “What about… up top?” Lorenzo asked slowly. He was feeling slightly disoriented.

Sean shrugged, but it was Aaron who spoke. “Bottoms will be enough,” he said. Then he added with just the intimation of a wink, “Don’t you think?”

Now that he was sure now that he was being played with, just as much as the balls—the tennis balls, that is—Lorenzo tried to think of a witty reposte regarding bottoms being enough for now, but he knew he couldn’t pull it off in his present state. He’d find some other way to let Aaron know that while he loved sucking cock more than just about everything, it was Lorenzo’s hefty dick that regularly plowed Aaron’s (or, rather, Blue’s) tight, hot asses in the privacy of Lorenzo’s dreams.

Maybe Aaron wants to see my hairy chest, Lorenzo thought. The idea seemed too much like his own self-scripted erotrica to be real, but the way Aarin was looking at him, it seemed almost possible.

Play it like it’s a given he’s into you, came a stray sober word of advice. Stay in control of yourself, and this might not be a disaster.

This was so crazy. And yet… well, there was a lot of merit in gaining Aaron’s trust. Not to mention that of his close friend and housemate, who also happened to be the one paying Lorenzo’s considerable fees and expenses. More to the point, getting to know Aaron (and Sean), including their behaviors, habits, and social circle, was the first priority in finding a path to uncovering Aaron’s stalker, if stalker he was. Lorenzo had a hunch that somebody that brazen, especially with enough info to catching him the way he had, was connected somehow to Aaron’s private world more than his public one. Lorenzo would need to be completely on the inside if he were going to bring this case home—shit, that was definitely the wrong way to put it. His dick, man, his fucking dick—!

He’d best face the truth. Lorenzo’s dick was going to be hard and desperate every day all day for this whole gig, most likely. Only the certain knowledge that Aaron was used to men being incredibly aroused around him stopped him from collapsing through the asphalt straight into hell in that very moment. As for everyone else: well, who did he know in Tampa?

He glanced over to see that Sean was already walking backwards off the court toward the changing room door a few courts behind him, an inquiring expression on his boyish face. Lorenzo knew that he didn’t have much choice. This was the path he needed to take. “Lead the way,” he told him, finally unrooting his own feet and managing to track after a smirking Sean as the other man turned and trotted for the darkened doorway. Lorenzo followed him across the courts, conscious of Aaron’s bright eyes on his butt as he walked away even as Sean’s firm ass bounced suggestively in front of him—in sweatpants that were very shortly going to be hugging Lorenzo’s own ass, and his junk, too.

This… is going to be weird, he thought, as the damp tip of his dick streaked back and forth along his hip. He also knew, without a doubt, that he might just be having one of the hottest and most erotically memorable days of his life, and on that score he could not help follow see where this path was leading him.


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