The Hardest Thing

when he sensed I was ready, third. Now we were getting somewhere. I caught up with him—I don’t know how else to express it. Whereas
before I’d submitted to his cock in my ass, and concentrated on not suffering, now I went over some kind of hump and I wanted everything he could give. I opened my legs wider, shifted my ass forward and upward to get maximum thrust. He went into fourth. I heard a sound—and I realized it was my voice, a low, monotonous groan, louder and softer as he thrust in and out. I don’t know if he was worried about anyone hearing us—but anyway, he kissed me again, and picked up speed. We were racing along in fifth, on the freeway, no traffic, no bumps in the road, just a smooth, fast, exhilarating ride toward our destination…and it was getting closer…and closer…
    I reached around and felt his balls, felt with a tingle of shock the thickness of his dick, the circumference my ass had been stretched to, and then, suddenly, I started to come.
    He must have felt it—felt some stirring inside me—because he righted himself, grabbed my cock and held it while the semen shot out, hitting the wall behind me, my chin, my neck, and finally landing in lines on my chest and stomach.
    I came and came, so long and so hard I stopped being surprised and just let it take me.
    He didn’t stop fucking. If anything, he got harder. For ten seconds, twenty, thirty, a full minute, he kept fucking my ass until the very last shiver of my orgasm was over, and then, burying himself deep inside me and covering my mouth with his, he let go. His dick seemed to double in size, but I didn’t care—it could have been three, four times as big, and I’d have still wanted it. I wanted him to keep fucking me, to stay inside until
he was ready to go again, to keep me pinned to that bench despite the growing awareness of the wooden slats digging into my back, the awkward angle of my neck, the pain in my legs, held up for so long.
    But all good things must come to an end. Carefully holding the condom in place, he pulled out of me; I half expected my intestines, perhaps even my head, to follow through in the vacuum he left.
    He sat beside me, breathing heavily, one hand on my aching thigh. I rested my head on his chest, and we kissed a little more.
    “Come on,” he said. “Shower.”
    “Yeah.” We were lucky not to have been busted. One more kiss and we were out there, soaping up under the water like any other two guys at the gym.

    He looked stunned when I asked his name and baffled when I suggested we go for a coffee; I guess most of his tricks didn’t stick around. Maybe I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t found out that he was a lawyer. His huge dick wasn’t the only attraction.
    So we sat on a bench in Central Park, watching the ducks on Harlem Meer and sipping a couple of Starbucks coffees. It was a pleasant afternoon—but, more importantly, nobody could hear us talk in the park.
    After the preliminaries (Martin Kingston, 56 years old, separated from his wife, grown-up kids), I got straight down to business.
    “Have you heard of a company called Marshall Land?”
    He sipped his coffee, wiped his beard and nodded. “Of course.”

    “Know much about them?”
    “They’re one of the more successful property developers in the greater New York area. Why?”
    “Does the name Trey Peters mean anything to you?”
    “Ah.” He sipped his coffee again while a woman pushed her baby stroller past our bench. “Trey Peters.”
    “You’ve heard of him.”
    “Oh, yes.” Sip, wipe. “The late Mr. Peters.”
    “And?”
    “I believe there is a criminal investigation underway.”
    He wasn’t this discreet when he was ramming his dick up my ass in the steam room. “Anyone who reads the papers knows that. I was kind of hoping you might know the inside story.”
    “Are you working for Marshall Land, Dan?” He half rose. “Because if you are, I must warn you…”
    “Hey, calm down.” I put a hand on his arm. “I’m not working for anybody. All I know is that somebody tried to kill me, and from what I can make out, that person was Julian Marshall.”
    He looked into my eyes—the same penetrating gaze I’d seen back at the gym—and said, “Go on.”
    So I told him everything, from my first visit from Enrico Ferrari right up to Jody’s disappearance in Buffalo. I left nothing out—the unanswered call, the strange encounter with the cops, Jody’s inexplicable mood swings, the too-convenient old couple in