Hot Karl

This story is loosely based on a little vignette I saw on a reality show about conservation officers. LOOSELY. All the characters in here are pretty new, except Prince Carlos.

Oh. And, I never thought I'd type this, but... apologies to Bryan Adams.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Unit Four. Show me at..." I peered out the windshield, having completely forgotten the address Dispatch had sent me. I hoped I had the right house; I hated sounding like a moron over the radio. "1443, uh, Justin Street? Responding to that noise complaint, over."

The pause that staticked its way out of my speakers told me I'd fucked it up. "That's 1443

Josslyn

Street, Unit Four? Over?" I closed my eyes and cursed silently. "You're sure you're on the right street?"

"Affirmative. Out," I grunted back. I was. And if I wasn't? It didn't matter. I'd just kick the fucking door in anyway, and the residents of 1443 Whatever-The-Fuck-It-Was Street could take it up with my captain later.

Besides, it was clearly the right house: the whole place was done up in balloons and streamers. Strobe lights pulsed out into the night, and I could see the shadows of arms flailing behind the blinds. Hell, I could feel the bass shaking my patrol rig from clear across the street. I parked behind a dusty blue van advertising some kind of dog-walking service.

The song sounded like "Kernkraft 400." I cringed.

Sighing, I studied myself in the big truck's side mirror. I always tried to look stern in a gig like this, since it's always really hard to break up a party single-handed. I thought about radioing for the other deputy on shift, but this was a nice neighborhood: most likely a bunch of kids. They'd probably scatter as soon as I hollered, "County Sheriff! Stay where you are!"

They'd disobey, of course, because nobody respected sheriffs. Out here in the boonies we were the primary law enforcement, but since we didn't wear blue people didn't think we were really law enforcement. So? I tried to look serious, tipping my Stetson low over my tight braids, making sure my mouth was set in a firm line. I thought about wearing shades, but it was nearly midnight and my fucking name is Colleen Weber, not Corey Hart.

I hitched my gunbelt around, hearing the clink of my cuffs on the back, and then I was off, up the brick walk between nicely-kept laws. A curtain flicked aside off to my left, two houses down: ah. That would be the busybody that had called 911 for a fucking party.

I sighed. You join up, thinking law enforcement is going to be taking down drug dealers and busting child molesters, only to find it's an endless sea of traffic stops and dealing with really, really smelly people. In fact, this party was probably going to be the highlight of my week.

The front door glared at me, pink with three diagonal windows up over my head. I leaned sideways to peer into the bay window, but the blinds defeated me. The music throbbed through the porch under my boots, and I peered at the door while I decided whether it would get tore up if I used my Mag-lite to knock.

Fuckit.

The flashlight thudded hard into the pink, and yep. It left a mark. I pounded again. "Hey!" I called out loudly. "County Sheriff. Come to the door, please!" I was not surprised when the music stayed loud, the party humming. I hesitated, then tried the door.

Well. Unlocked. I'll be damned. And the scene that greeted me when I leaned in gave me a strange sense of déjà vu, but then I recalled my ex sister-in-law's bachelorette party and everything started to make a lot more sense.

The first thing I figured was that whoever was throwing the party had to be loaded, meaning this little ranch house on Josslyn wasn't theirs. No, the person footing the bill of this had to have big money, West Park money, because that was the only way to explain the ratio. See, when we'd hired strippers for my ex-SIL's party, it had been so expensive we'd needed to spread the cost of three dancers among like 25 guests just to make it practical. And as I glanced around the trim little living room now livid with whirling strobes, I only saw six guests.

And three nude men, two of them thrusting enthusiastically with gloriously enlarged penises. The third, judging by the dripping face of the woman kneeling in front of him, had definitely been just as gloriously enlarged a few seconds before.

Fuck me! Three for six! Loaded, definitely, and in more ways than one.

Most of the people in the room saw me at once, the activity continuing with that weird sort of disbelieving confusion that tends to come along with a cop at a party. Six sets of female eyes swung toward me, one pair blinking through a semen curtain; three sets of male eyes did the same thing, and everyone was wondering the same thing for different reasons: who's the stripper dressed like a cop, and why is she a woman?

But the music throbbed through the room, so I focused and dragged my attention off the dicks and onto my job. "Hey!" I shouted. "St Agnes Sheriff! You need to turn the music down!"

"Huh?" It came from a woman on the far end, in clothes way too nice to be the hostess here. So, she was the bankroll. She blinked up at me through makeup thickly caked. "You serious?"

"Who's the homeowner?" I demanded, ignoring her. My eyes roved over the other female eyes, all wide, all well-lashed, one of them under a rhinestone tiara. She'd be the bachelorette. "Who lives here?" I was trying hard for

command presence,

that intangible something that made people snap to it and obey. But I'd only been in law enforcement for two years now; I didn't have that instant gravitas. "You?" I was screaming.

The bride (she had a sash, I noticed now, as my eyes flicked briefly over her miniskirted body) waved a hand vaguely toward a woman on the other side of her, one of three packed onto a ratty couch. Her other hand had a death grip on the dangling scrotum of an oiled man with massively bulging muscles, who now stood calmly with his hands on his hips and his eyes transparently trying to figure out how big my tits were.

Big enough, thank you.

The woman next to the guest of honor met my eyes, then rolled hers. The music poured into my ears, the whole house shaking, and I nodded meaningfully. She made one of those faces you see on a teenager denied permission to bring her flask into the Prom, then flounced up out of the couch and past the oily man to where a tablet stood propped on a bookshelf. We all watched as her fingers slid across the surface, and then the music cut off like the wail of a rapist when you shoot him in the head.

I'd only been in there for twenty seconds, and my ears were already ringing; I wondered vaguely why everyone else in the tiny room wasn't bleeding from their cochleas. The woman looked at me with defiant hostility. "Well?"

I made myself smile. "Noise complaint, ma'am. Are you the homeowner?"

"Yes, officer."

"Deputy," I corrected, pointlessly.

"Whatever." She ran a hand through thickly curled hair. The woman was wearing tiny shorts and a crop top, and she definitely had the body for it. "Was it that fucking skank next door?"

"Ma'am," I replied tonelessly, "departmental policy is to maintain informant confidentiality at all times." I couldn't stop looking at where the bachelorette had resumed stroking the muscled man's wide cock. They saw me look, and didn't stop. "But to be honest, y'all are so loud I'd have pulled over myself." The silence was a ringing thickness in the room, broken only by the swish of a kleenex box as the kneeling woman cleared the cum off her face. I was still staring at that thick, stubby penis. It looked familiar. "Uh, you guys going to be partying much longer?"

The bride looked offended. "None of your business. But we'll keep the noise down."

"Well. The music, anyway, officer." That came from one of the men, and everyone else giggled.

"Deputy," I sighed, nodding. I remembered now where I'd seen that penis, and suddenly I hoped the nude man didn't. One of the other guys looked familiar too, a tall black man straddling an older woman's lap. "The music, definitely." I hoped I sounded firm. I found my eyes sliding toward the black guy. He was as hot as he'd been the first time I saw him, at my SIL's party, blurting his cum all over my chest.

Same guys she'd hired.

I cleared my throat, the question obvious. "So. Should I assume no illegal activity is occurring here tonight?"

The black guy stirred, the old bitch's fingers tracing the veins of that long lovely cock he had. "We're fully licensed and insured," he shrugged. His body belonged to a Greek statue. Hell, they all did. "Independent contractors? We're just dancing."

"Dancing and performing sex acts," I pointed out, nodding casually at the guy with the depleted scrotum. The woman on the floor, her face now mostly clear, was holding his thigh like a dog humping a leg. "I'd need to study the statute, maybe call the DA, but I'm fairly sure that's frowned upon."

"No," the black guy countered, smiling with his eyes staying flat. "Under the circumstances, deputy, it wasn't my coworker and fellow dancer Doc that performed the sex act."

"Doc?" I raised an eyebrow. "Is he a Seven Dwarf?"

"Steve," the man allowed. He'd not gone even slightly soft, I noticed. "You'll find Steve's name on the entertainment contract we signed for this private event. It's not his fault if one of the guests gets carried away. It's just a contractor and a citizen, having a consensual moment."

"Yeah," the woman announced defiantly. I was gratified when she visibly shrank back in response to my glare. "Please don't arrest me," she added like a little mouse.

I opened my mouth to answer, but then a door opened in the back of the room and yet another naked man loomed through the doorway

. Jesus!

I thought to myself.

Four strippers!

"Hey!" He seemed pissed. I noticed a shining condom clinging tightly to his long erection. "We're trying to get our fuck on in here. What happened to the music?"

I nodded, my eyes glittering in triumph toward the black guy. "Is this gentleman's name on the contract also, sir?" I asked, arching one eyebrow. "Just out of curiosity." A shape was peering from behind the guy in the doorway; I caught wide eyes and a flash of nipple before the door shut quietly.

My ears still rang.

"Look, deputy?" The black dude was nodding. "I can see how that looks. Maybe I could explain a few things? Like, you and me? Alone?" Holding my gaze carefully, he took the older lady's hand and moved it deliberately off his deeply ridged shaft. I felt myself swallow instinctively as I looked at it, which I'm sure he noticed even as he slid off the loveseat. "Let everybody else get back to having fun. You know, quietly?" He glanced around, nodding at the women while I just stood there with my face turning red. "Come on. We're not hurting anybody, deputy..." He stood there naked and hard, carrying himself as if he was just standing out in a park or something, offering me directions. I gaped at him until I realized he was waiting for me to give him my name.

"Deputy Weber," I nodded. "You're in charge here? Like, you're the... the main contractor?" I stumbled, feeling like an idiot even as I played his game. But he knew I would. I had no interest in busting a bunch of suburban moms for solicitation, and he knew it.

"That's right." He gestured coolly toward a door behind me. "Why don't you head into the kitchen? I'll grab my paperwork and show you that everything's in order."

The kitchen was typical, a galley opening out to a larger space at the back where the table was supposed to go. But this place had a nice Boos island back there, and that's where the dancer laid his little stapled packet once he'd walked past me by the sink. He let me get a good look at the rocks of his butt before he turned slowly and crossed his arms over his wide chest. "Now then. How can we work this out, Deputy?"

I blushed, trying not to look. "You should probably put some clothes on, sir."

"I probably should," he shrugged, "but there's no real point. Everything I wore here is a shredded mass of Velcro and whipped cream, you know?" He laughed, a very engaging laugh. I'd heard that laugh before, and now he smiled knowingly at me. "Besides, Deputy Weber, you've seen it all." He stood, easy and confident, his dick only now starting to droop a bit. He stared a moment, then shrugged. "You've seen it before too, right? Like, you've seen me dance before?"

My blush deepened, my entire body hot all of a sudden. "Not relevant," I snapped, but he was nodding.

"Bachelorette? Few years ago?" He leaned comfortably back against the little kitchen island, his dark body a gleaming mass of muscle. "I think I remember your face. At a restaurant, maybe? Over in Seaborne?" He lowered his eyes to where my vest crushed my tits. "I think I remember other things, too."

I sighed. "Not appropriate." I tried to look stern. "What's your name, sir?"

"You remember my name," he replied, his voice silk. Goddamn, he was sexy. His pubic hair bristled in tiny black curls over the root of his dick, still half-hard above his big balls. "Don't you?"

It wasn't really a question, though, and I glanced out the big doorway toward the living room. "Prince something."

"Prince Carlos." His smile had gone devious. "You do know me."

I did, in a way. In that weird intimate/distant way you know the people who cum on you at sex parties. Prince had been an incredible dancer, and I'd just been one face in a large crowd of sexy, grinning young women, but I'd taken one look at him and decided I was the girl who'd get his cum. I'd gone crazy when the other stripper had come over to my group, just me and Holly and Amira at a cocktail table loaded down with many empty bottles. I'd gone absolutely apeshit for that guy, guessing I could impress him enough that he'd go find that big dark god of a man and tell him about the short, titty little thing with the round ass and the need for a mouthful of cum.

And that's what happened, ultimately, after I'd turned and flipped my skirt up for that other stripper. He'd laughed roughly, smacked both bare cheeks, then run a crude finger down between my thighs, along the front of my thong. I'd shivered at his finger on the damp satin. "You're in heat, babe," he'd gloated, but then he'd sauntered off and, sure enough, I'd just sat down when I smelled sweat and aftershave, then turned to see an uncut black cock covered with the drying remnants of many other womens' spit. It was soft then, or at least sort of soft, looking like a dragon recovering after wiping out a town.

"Hi, little lady." His voice had been a deep rumble, as it still was here in some anonymous kitchen four years later. "Goddamn, baby, stand up and let me get a look at you."

"Why would I do that?" I'd flirted back, my blood shuddering as it pumped hard through my veins. "I'm married," I winked, fluttering my ring at him. Married, sure, but already Lucas and I had had The Conversation, getting things rolling down that long, rocky slope that would eventually end in a divorce decree.

"You'd do that," he'd boomed back, "because my boy Shawny tells me you're good to go already. Hop on up, sexy, and let me dance for you." Amira, beside me, nearly spat out her Manhattan, her eyes shining as I rose from the cheap banquette seat, my eyes crinkling in a grin. "Spin around for me, honey." It seemed the most natural thing in the world to take his hand and raise it high, then twirl for him with whatever exaggerated sinuous grace I could muster. "Jesus," I heard him whistle.

"Not Jesus," I murmured up at him, grinning recklessly, "more like the slut that fucked him."

He was laughing as his massive paw cupped my ass, my tits. When he spoke, his voice was a grate in my ear, his soft cock a hot throbbing mass against my butt. "Shit," he nodded, my body melting against his. "You're hot as fuck. You're the kind of white girl that brothers write raps about, you know?"

Standing in that tiny suburban kitchen now, that comment still made me glow a little inside. He'd clearly meant it as a high compliment, and in case I'd missed what he thought about my body he'd promptly straddled my face and reached down to cup my boobs. "Taste what you do to me," he'd muttered from above me, his dark muscles curving over my frantic mouth, and he hadn't been lying: dude had gotten hard in about five seconds.

I'd gotten a sore jaw, and as I looked at him now, in this anonymous ranch house, I could remember why.

He'd insisted on seeing my tits, and then he'd ended up masturbating furiously over them as I knelt, both of us surrounded by drunk cheering bitches. His face as he came had awed me: he'd done a really good job looking like he was into me. I cleared my throat. "Prince Carlos," I nodded now, my voice hoarse. "Yeah. I remember you," I confessed quietly. His load had been copious.

"Mmhmm." He winked easily at me. "Good. I thought you might. You took my nut on your titties, right? After Shawn got you ready." I knew I was scarlet now. Fuck. He really did remember. "So what do you think we can do about this little escapade, Deputy Weber? About, you know, the stuff that might be going on right now in that back bedroom?" He smiled coolly. "Or soon, in the living room?" And then he chuckled. "Or now. In the kitchen."

"Stop that." It came out flatly, louder than I'd intended, but I wasn't that kind of cop. "This isn't

Bad Lieutenant

. I'm not here to get off. I'm here to settle a noise complaint." I glanced down at Prince's hard-on. "You can go ahead and get rid of that," I muttered.

"You know I'll need it later," he shrugged, jerking his head back toward the living room.

"Then find it later," I snapped. I suddenly wasn't in the mood for this, and I knew why: remembering my ex sister-in-law's party had pissed me off. I didn't like that I was standing here with a man who knew I'd wanted him, however long ago. "Your buddy in the back room..."

"Brother Kenny." He smiled, and even his teeth were sexy. "He calls himself Snake, though, at events like this."

"Kenny," I nodded. "Sure. Well, so unless that contract there lays out Kenny's credentials as a licensed sex therapist or something like that, I'm pretty sure that what I saw back there constitutes prostitution."

Prince lost his smile at once. "You didn't see him fucking," he spat out.

"No, but I saw a wet rubber on his... on his penis. And I'm quite certain I could get that woman he has back there to tell me exactly what she was doing with him." I stirred. "Then, of course, I've got your own thinly-veiled innuendo from a couple seconds ago."

"What kind of innuendo did you hear, Deputy Weber?" That silk was still there, but with a more ominous undertone now; I scanned his body quickly, looking for gang tats.

"'Or now,'" I mimicked. "'In the kitchen.' Plus the fact you're standing there with your own penis pointing right at me, and that you're not covering up despite my stated wish that you do so. Seems like sexual harassment to me. I might have a civil-rights lawsuit on my hands..." I was starting to see angles here, possibilities. A chance to impress my captain. "All that sounds like something my boss might be interested in, frankly."

The smile was long gone now, and so was the hard-on. "What do you want, then?"

I had no idea, but the question thrilled me. "Do you know anyone? Anything? The kind of people and things that law enforcement might be interested in?" I sensed that I was doing this clumsily, and his scornful reply told me I was right.

"You want me to be a snitch?" He rolled his eyes. "I'm a black man on the fringes of the sex trade, but that doesn't mean I'm dialed into the criminal underworld of the Greater Seaborne region, you racist little bitch," he hissed.