Hanging the Chimney Hook
All Rights Reserved © 2020, Rick Haydn Horst
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
I like to train and keep myself fit for my job, but for those past eight weeks, my only exercise had been kicking myself. I hadn't much else to fill my time from a hospital bed with my noggin imitating a mummy and my keister in hot water with the Russian mob. I wouldn't take a stroll in Central Park with a target on my back and a price on my head. So, the highlights for those weeks consisted of three meals a day, brought to me like clockwork, and the unnecessary sponge baths used as a pretense to provide daily oral service from a hunky, blonde nurse named Max Roche. He had brains, a beautiful smile, and a body built like a brick shit house. Other than those often-wonderful moments, I had lots of time for self-reflection (which I used to avoid), regret (a foolish activity in which I've discovered I excel), and kicking myself.
Sexually speaking, I had never identified myself as gay, straight, or even bisexual; I was just me. I would never hang out in bars, go to a parade or anything one might perceive as stereotypical gay behavior. It never occurred to me to think of myself as anything but sexual, and I'm decidedly that.
Max proved himself a hell of a man, masculine, 6 feet tall, 240 lbs. of muscle, with a hot, sexy baritone voice that could melt butter. If he hadn't sucked my cock every day, and I met him as a stranger elsewhere, I would never have thought he was gay. I guess that just shows that gay men come in all shapes, sizes, personalities, and temperaments.
I ended up in this situation as a new private detective in town, and I had a little run-in with Lev Stepanov, the boss of the local outlet for the Russian mob. Purely by chance, I saw him shoot a man dead, and where they dumped his body. So, like a law-abiding citizen, I went to the cops. As I expected, they jumped on it, but due to the nature of the assailant, they placed me in witness protection.
After the trial, I received a government "thank you" in the form of a rearranged face and the promise of sixty grand to start over elsewhere with a new name and identity. Officially, I had ten thousand dollars of cushion money in the bank, and while I squirreled away the tax-free money that I inherited a decade ago into a Swiss bank account, sixty thousand more in immediate cash sounded pretty grand to me.
My regret started after the surgery. I wouldn't know how plastic surgery goes with all those Hollywood types, but mine hurt like hell. The gay Polish surgeon I wound up with, a Dr. Wójcik (don't worry, I couldn't pronounce it either), declared my surgery his masterpiece. Well, I had yet to see it at that point, so I couldn't say.
I had two stages of full facial reconstruction and recuperation, after which they kept the pressure on my face to reduce swelling with wrappings and only removed those to shave me or clean my wounds. That took eight weeks, nine Wednesdays to the day, which meant I finally made it to the finish line. The bandages would come off permanently, and I would find out what I looked like. Hallelujah!
Special Agent Sawyer of the U.S. Marshals oversaw my case; I liked him; he seemed like a good guy who kept me in one piece before, during, and after the trial. Unexpectedly, he arrived a couple of hours early that afternoon, satchel in hand, as Max, with his mind in the zone, stayed kneeling on the floor, blowing the hell out of me at the side of the bed. Sawyer's sudden appearance interrupted my concentration. He hadn't said anything, but he had both a smirk on his face and the effrontery to stay. He leaned against the wall six feet in front of me, dropping the satchel at his feet. Max refused to stop, and I hadn't wanted him to. As with so many people in my past, he had grown addicted to the quality and quantity of my protein shake, and at that moment, I desperately wanted that handsome, muscle-bound cocksucker to have some more. Max held my dong in one of his meaty, blonde-haired knuckled hands like an all-beef burrito, while the other wrapped around my scrotum, pulling the sack like an addict would pull a tourniquet to get his fix. He worked hard at keeping a steady rhythm, shoving my cock head deep into his gob with every descent.
Because he insisted on watching, I stared defiantly into Sawyer's eyes as Max and I continued. Sawyer smiled in surprise that his presence hadn't altered the scene in the least. He watched transfixed as my hand rode Max's bobbing head as his lips traveled up and down my knob. With all the happy, wet, contented noise that Max made, anyone beyond the door could hear him slurping and slathering my cock in spit for another ten minutes. As my orgasm came upon me for the third time that day, he drew back to just the head and expected to get less that time. When he pulled the trigger of my spunk blaster, Max's head jerked as I shot him in the kisser, but I kept his mouth firmly on the barrel as I pelted his palate as usual with a full magazine of white ammo.
I had grown quite attached to Max, as much as he had grown attached to the business end of my schlong. And while I couldn't say I loved him, I certainly liked him, and I loved his mouth as much as he loved the juice that I had to fill it.
Max cleaned me up, licking the sides of my cock of any remnants and spittle, then stood to his full six-foot height and backed away. Sawyer took a good look at me with eyes wide. "I would call you a cocky son-of-a-bitch," he said, "but that wouldn't do you justice. That's the biggest fucking dick I've ever seen."
The piece in question remained as erect as ever, and during my life, it proved both a curse and a blessing in equal measure. It got too much attention, especially when it was inconvenient, and if I neglected to have my nuts drained several times a day, I had erections that insisted on poking me between my navel and sternum beneath my shirts. However, its unique and prodigious nature provided the benefit of never having to take-care-of-business myself, as a long string of empathetic and eager volunteers had invariably come to my sexual rescue; Max was the most recent. However, unlike the others who merely wanted a taste, Max had taken the time to talk to me, demonstrating his intelligence along with a special devotion that made me see him in a different light.
Sawyer asked him, "Could you hang about in the hall while I speak to him for a moment?"
"Sure, I can do that," he said as he continued to lick his lips and winked at Sawyer as he left the room.
Sawyer pointed at the door where Max just left. "He's cocky too. Will you just sit there, airing your horse-cock?"
"Why not? Ever been to the tracks? This is what horses do. Besides, you almost interrupted one of the best blowjobs of my life, yet you had the temerity to stay and watch, so if you have reservations now, it's too little too late."
Sawyer turned up, wearing his usual gray suit for my other big reveal--meaning my face. I hadn't seen him for a few days while he took care of some business for my case, and he returned just before the hospital released me. I sat on the side of the bed, my cock standing vertical against my belly, still trying to catch my breath from Max's outstanding work. Foremost on my mind, however, I had a growing impatience to get the wrappings off. Sawyer played nonchalant, but I knew I had gotten to him.
"You know," I said, "during your absence, your temp told me they stopped performing these surgeries. So, why the special treatment?"
"I pulled some strings and got them to do it," he said.
"Why would you do that?"
He stood as erect as my cock once again, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and tried to get his growing bulge under control. "One, because you have no family.
"Two, because unlike you, most of the people who enter the system have committed crimes, and they usually ask for unreasonable things like a Ferrari and a higher grade-point average for their child. You asked for absolutely nothing. You agreed to it because you saw it as the right thing to do, and you accepted the system's requirements with no demands. In my experience, you are a rare bird.
"Three, because you work as a private detective, and as you know, we ask people in the system to leave their former lives behind entirely, but I couldn't have that. There aren't enough rare birds like you, and I find the idea of forcing you into another trade a colossal waste of potential. So, to convince my boss that we could make this work, we had to go extreme. You get a standard, new identity, with all the i-dents you could ever want. You get a new face, a new history, and a new home in a new city. The apartment may not count for much, but your success once you settle-in is up to you."
"So, what's my new name?"
"Howard Ellis Millstone," said Sawyer.
"Millstone?" I laughed. "From whose hat did you pull that name?"
