The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 9
Incredulous.
The next day.
"I can guarantee you everything is being done to arrest the perpetrators of these crimes," Gretchen said, her voice full of determination. "Everything," she repeated with even more emphasis.
She listened on for a couple of more minutes before begging off to take another call. Except, there was no other call to take.
"Uggghhh!" She growled, head in her hands, elbows on her desk.
Jill Benson, one of her best friends, an agent with Lake Realty, had called to tell her she'd lost two deals already and it wasn't even 10 a.m. In one case, the buyers cancelled their offer altogether. We're looking at another property on Leech Lake, further north, and further away from what they called "these issues," they had told Jill. The other party, some folks from Illinois who had been hot-to-trot on a large property around the bend from the house that burned to the ground, were putting their offer on indefinite hold. Jill was fearful the sellers might panic and lower their price to a fire sale level.
"That's NOT a good term to use," Gretchen admonished her.
Falling real estate prices were bad anytime, especially so at the height of the season. A murder, a fire, what next? Sheriff Concannon was not very illuminating when she talked to him.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ed!" She'd screamed into the phone when one of the few things he did reveal to her was the Mafia might be involved in the murder at Arthur Ledecker's cabin.
"Listen, Gretchen," Concannon replied in a sharp tone. He had a few things on her since when she was a wild teenager. He wasn't gonna take much more shit from her about this or anything else. "I gotta get to a meeting with the State Fire Investigator, so buh-bye." He sat for a minute, looking at the mess of papers on top of his desk. Ooh boy! First, the Chief Investigator for BCI breathing down his neck. Now, some guy who had trotted up from St. Paul early this morning to initiate an arson investigation. Trotted , he smirked, to himself. I guess that term works. The guy's name is Trotter.
Last night, they were watching the house burn down on Brighton Point Road. At least, he was. When he turned to Agent Bueller, he was looking through a small pair of binoculars, across the bay, at Ledecker Island.
"Who's that?" Shamus asked. He handed the binoculars to the Sheriff.
"That's Deck," Concannon replied, squinting through the eyepieces.
"No, not him. Over there," pointing, "next to Arthur's place."
"Oh, ah. That's Dickie Lee." He couldn't see him clearly without putting on his cheaters but his round shape was obvious.
"Okay, and who's that?" Shamus asked, pointing further toward the southwest end of the island.
For this, Concannon pulled out his glasses.
"Yeah, I'm not sure. If I had to put my money on it, I'd say it's Louie Lee." He adjusted the binocs to more clearly see a slim figure, tucked partially into some trees on the shoreline.
Today, Shamus sat facing forward on the second bench, staring intently as they approached Ledecker Island. Ten Ethyl had been all too glad to order Rome to pilot the boat. There wasn't a lot for him to do, activity having slowed to a crawl at The Bar and Gas over the past couple of days. As the kid was getting a boat ready, Shamus observed the Dunn boy running up to the boathouse. He always seemed to be rushing around, either pretending to act busy or unable to catch up with Ten Ethyl's constant orders.
"Do I need to get a lawyer?" Dickie Lee asked a few minutes later.
"That's up to you," Shamus replied. "But, this is really quite preliminary. If you're at all concerned, I can read you Miranda." He perfunctorily pulled the printed card out of his jacket pocket, preparing to read it. "You have the right…"
"Nah, that's all right," Dickie Lee replied, wiping a bead of sweat away that had suddenly appeared on his forehead.
"So, let's start from the beginning. Again," Shamus said, his eyes studying Dickie Lee.
"Yeah, um, I was, ah, entertaining a couple of friends here," Dickie Lee said, in a halting voice.
"And, who were your friends? Their names?"
"Ummm," he responded, his mind making dozens of calculations. "I, ah, think, one was Nick and, ah, the other one was," hesitating, "Blong." Dickie Lee looked blankly at Shamus.
"You think?"
More questions. The answers ranged from direct to obviously evasive.
It was established that the two Hmong boys were dropped off around 7 p.m.
"Who dropped them off?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you hear a boat approach? You didn't bother looking out the window?"
"I dunno. I might have been in the can."
"Was anyone else there? Did you see anyone come by the cabin? Hear any other boats? Did you hire someone to murder the victim?"
An emphatic "no" to each one of those questions. Dickie Lee went on. A party of sorts went on for a couple of hours after which he left for the meeting with his brothers and sister. Upon his return, the two boys left.
"How did they get back to the mainland? Did someone pick them up?"
"No. They sort of just left."
"By what means?"
"They jumped in the lake."
Shamus looked at Dickie Lee incredulously.
He swept his dark hair back, pulling it together behind his head before twisting the rubber band through the cluster of hair to create a man bun. Elliott pushed the wide brimmed black cap embroidered with the Morey's logo on the high crown down on his head just above his eyebrows. Fingers tucking the hair behind his ears, he turned his head this way and that to check himself out in the mirror.
Morey's was already bustling at noon. Just as he punched in for work, Elliott was accosted by his manager.
"Got a delivery. Here," he said, thrusting a large shopping bag in his hands with a receipt.
Elliott was about to respond with a yeah, but. He was supposed to work the counter today. But, he just shrugged. I guess ya gotta do what ya gotta do .
On the way over to Bay Lake, he got a text from Freddie. Did he want to get together? Elliott smiled to himself. The first encounter, or coupling, rather, had ended abruptly and badly. Embarrassing for sure. After he thought about it, well obsessed about it, for a couple of days afterwards, he came to the halting conclusion that he had rather enjoyed it. Or, based on the stiff cock between his legs at the moment, absolutely loved it.
To be sure, both he and his brother played around with each other, then other boys from an early age. The usual sleepover rituals, strip poker, Truth or Dare. He'd first tasted cock when he was just fourteen. His best friend, Davy. They'd ended up doing almost everything over a period of months. Elliott's biggest thrill was sixty-nine, a concept that was crudely referred to frequently by their friends. They, of course, had no clue what it even meant and, if it meant something, it was most assuredly with a girl. Sixty-nine was the ultimate act of give-and-take, he thought. He didn't even mind Davy's musky smell as long as he could enjoy his cock.
A beautiful home buried in the woods about a mile from the lake. Elliott marveled at the contemporary design as he drove up. A white concrete faced structure, multiple levels, a large garage on one side. He looked at the name on the large bag of meat and seafood—de la Renta.
Ozzie was just finishing his latest TikTok performance when the door bell rang. Let Consuella get it, he thought, as he twisted around, his butt to the camera, slowly pulling his shorts down along the side of his hip.
"Tsk!" he muttered after the doorbell rang for a second time. With an annoyed grimace and a growl, he ended his latest masterpiece.
When the door opened, Elliott looked up with a gasp. Standing in front of him, some fairy like ethereal creature. A faded pink t-shirt, hanging off of one shoulder, cut off at the bottom so at least half of his stomach was visible. Some silky slinky short shorts, cut high on the hips. Bare feet. Light beige coloring, straight sandy colored hair cut in a comb over, the long side falling over his right eye.
The face is what got him. Elegant, fine features, a small nose, round eyes, narrow cheeks, a small chin just below his thin lips. An ever so cool look of disengagement.
"Yes?" Ozzie put his weight on his right hip, right hand on his waist, his left arm up slightly, his left wrist limp.
A pregnant pause. Elliott tried to clear his throat and speak clearly. Instead, he barely squeaked out, "Delivery from Morey's?" Not even a statement, more of a question.
"Well, okay," Ozzie replied, rolling his eyes as if this was something between a bother and an annoyance. With a sigh, he said, "Bring it into the kitchen." With that, he did an about face and sort of sashayed away, perfectly aware his hips were providing quite the show.
Elliott could hardly feel the bottoms of his feet as he sort of crept across the terrazzo floor.
"Do you want me to put this stuff in the Fridge?" he asked when they reached the kitchen.
"If you wouldn't mind," Ozzie purred.
He stood and watched as Elliott opened the refrigerator and started pulling containers out of the bag. This guy is a little rough around the edges but, fuck! He's pretty hot, too! These working class boys had a kind of allure, a "gee shucks" kind of average-ness (was that even a word?) that was both desultory and magnetic. He took a closer look when Elliott bent over, displaying a rear end that was, for all intents and purposes, too cute by half.
When he turned around, Elliott was shocked to see Ozzie pulling his shirt off. They looked at each other for a long moment, Ozzie smirking when he looked down and saw the outline of Elliot's cock straining the front of his pants.
"I was just about to take a shower."
Elliott was tongue tied. He could only clear his throat again. Before him, a slender beauty of a boy. Smooth, lightly tan skin, so purely the same tone, it was if it was painted on. Flat chest with small boy nipples, not a hair anywhere. Narrow hips, the waistband of his silky shorts sitting just under his hip bones. His lips fallen open, an empty, kind of disengaged look, on his face.
Without another word, he turned and strolled away. Elliott robotically followed him up the stairs to one of the bedrooms. When he entered, Ozzie lazily dropped his shirt on the floor, walked into the bathroom, and turned the shower on.
Turning to Elliott, he pointed to a nearby stool. "Sit."
Elliott eased himself onto the stool, his heart pounding. Ozzie nudged his shorts down, pulling them over an erection that was quickly swelling.
"Jeez," was the only word that came into Elliott's mind.
A gorgeous seven inches of love power. Thick and throbbing, not really much darker than the rest of his pale thighs. With a smirk, he stepped into the shower after testing the temperature with his wrist. Turning this way and that, he arched his back and tipped his head to make sure Elliott was looking.
He was looking all right. More like mesmerized.
Ozzie took hold of an oversized bar of soap, almost like a brick, and rubbed it around his chest and sides, into his crotch, and under his arms. Turning, he jabbed it between his ass cheeks, aware that the suds were sliding down his butt and onto the backs of his thighs.
"All done," Ozzie murmured after a couple of minutes of scrubbing and a thorough rinsing off, echoing the sing-song tone of a little boy.
With Elliott watching transfixed, Ozzie stepped out of the shower, dried himself off, and with his hard-on still raging, strolled into his bedroom. He laid himself out on the edge of the bed, on his back, spread his legs, and raised them straight up in the air. A small round anus appeared surrounded by some light brown skin.
With a sigh, Elliott got up, walked into the bedroom, and knelt down in front of Ozzie, one arm on either side of his hips. He brought his lips to the crease between Ozzie's thigh and his balls and began to give him a thorough tongue bath. Up and down and around, occasionally pushing his tongue into Ozzie's asshole or consuming as much of his shaft as he could get down his throat. Eyes up to the ceiling or squeezed shut, Ozzie alternately groaned or made soft purring sounds.
Minutes, maybe hours later, but probably just minutes later, Elliott was on top of Ozzie, himself naked, urgently thrusting his cock into him. They gasped and rasped in unison as they clutched each other. Ozzie's arms were wound around Elliott's back, alternately sweeping up and pulling on his hair, having freed it from the rubber band. He drank in his smell, some cheap kind of hair shampoo, simultaneously off-putting and mildly intoxicating at the same time. Before he could decide what brand it was, Elliott stopped thrusting, his orgasm pulsing, the feeling inducing Ozzie to cum at the same time.
Ron Reece kicked at a piece of debris, then consulted notes on his iPad. Next to him, the Green's, Ken and Loretta, wept softly. Their dream of a retirement home on the lake, dashed for now, maybe forever. The tears had come after he told them an insurance settlement was now on hold, pending the outcome of the arson investigation.
Ron had been called over to Brighton Point this morning after receiving a call from his company, Combined Insurance. They held the policy on 16345 Brighton Point Road. And Ron was the area insurance adjuster. No doubt about it. A complete loss. I mean, there is literally nothing left , he told himself.
"No kidding," he huffed sarcastically when the state's Chief Fire Investigator, a guy by the name of Trotter, told him he was opening an investigation into arson. It was obvious the fire had started hot right off the bat, at the same time, from various locations in the house. The damage was too uniform and too complete. House fires don't burn that way , he thought.
Ken and Loretta Green? No way. If they were acting, an Academy Award nomination was guaranteed. They were both emotionally devastated.
Next up, a visit to the Wilson's, two doors down. Also, a Combined client. Doors and windows open, portable fans everywhere, attempting to rid the house of the smoke smell that had seemed to settle in.
Rhennie was absent although Ron could hear him on the phone, somewhere else in the house. Wendy met him at the door, an exhausted look on her face.
"I'm so sorry, Wendy," he said.
"Oh, Ron," she collapsed in tears as she hugged him.
After a quick look around and a few notes, he basically pronounced all of the upholstered furniture and carpeting a complete loss. The entire interior would have to be repainted, first with a special primer designed to cover the smoke smell.
"It's gonna be a project, Wendy. But, look at it this way—you get to go shopping for new stuff!"
He knuckled punched C.O. when he showed up a bit later. At that moment, something clicked inside of him. He hadn't seen C.O. since last season on the basketball floor. And, that was from a spot high up in the stands at Brainerd High School. Ron always thought he was a good looking guy, with his long legs, muscular build, and blond hair. But, encountering that metro-sexual kid outside the Crosslake Community Center had ignited something he had neatly buried inside his brain.
Just turned eighteen, a senior in high school himself, coasting along before graduation. Spring time, classwork was dwindling away to nothing, the teachers having thrown in the towel. At that age, Ronnie was still on the scrawny side in spite of the fact that he was shoveling food in on a non-stop basis. He'd let his light brown hair grow out for the high school musical, not realizing it gave him a kind of amorphous look, long before bi-gender was even a thing.
"Wanna make a few bucks?" a casual acquaintance asked.
Ronnie just shrugged his shoulders.
He followed him over to a rundown house out in the country. Some smelly old guy wearing bottle thick glasses came to the door when they rang the bell. Two other guys from school were there, too, one of whom was laid out on the couch in the living room, pants and underwear at his ankles. One by one, they pulled their pants down and jerked off for the old guy, each one receiving twenty bucks in return.
The whole thing was so sordid, Ron had a hard time getting off. He was surprised, then, a few days later when one of the kids who was there, a junior by the name of Coltan Johnson, came up to him after school.
"Wanna hang out?" he asked.
Ronnie was about to ask, why, when it dawned on him. With a smirk, he agreed. Later on, at his house, his cock buried deep into Coltan's throat, deep enough to make him gag, he realized this was the highlight of his life. They became a thing for a short while until Colt departed for Carleton College in Northfield, never to be seen again.
Since then, the whole Gay thing had been tucked neatly back into the deep recesses of his mind. But now, every guy, especially younger ones, seemed to have some potential. Are you Gay? Are you Gay? Something he wanted desperately to ask every good looking guy he encountered. Especially, this one.
There was something about C.O. Sure, he was extremely handsome, with his straw colored hair, perfectly straight eyebrows, and blue eyes. Lots of definition to his frame even though he wasn't exactly muscle bound. There was also something delicate and graceful about him, more like a ballet dancer than a jock.
Once Rhennie showed up, he went through the claims process with them and how they would determine the amount of the insurance settlement. Somehow, he felt like he was addressing his remarks to C.O. only. The kid just stood there next to his parents, around the kitchen island, paying rapt attention to everything Ron said. How do I get this kid alone?, He kept asking himself?
A little while later, Ron was with C.O. up in his bedroom, making some notes for the claim. Rhennie was back on the phone. Wendy was in her own bedroom sniffing her clothes, wondering if they smelled like smoke along with everything else. He's not sure why he did it. Something made him open the drawer in the nightstand next to the bed. Laying right there was a four or five-inch purple butt plug. Ron looked at C.O. standing next to him, his face turning a bright shade of red.
Nothing was said for what seemed like aeons.
"I guess you might know something about how to use this?"
C.O. remained silent, not knowing what to say.
Finally, Ron chuckled, slowly pushing the drawer closed.
"That's okay, bud. Sometimes those things come in handy."
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.
[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]
* Some browsers may require a right click instead
