Catfish Finds Old Gold 11 By Bald Hairy Man
This is a story for adult men. It depicts gay sex. If this offends or bothers you, DO NOT READ IT. It is a fantasy and is not a sex manual, or a discussion of safe sex. If you have, comments send them to bldhrymn@yahoo.com or bldhrymn@aol.com
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The police forensic people were working their magic as the exhibition took form. They were able to test the gold ingots and confirm that some were from the same batch as the Confederate gold recovered from the island. While gold is gold, the processing added some impurities. These were the same. That linked the gold to Norman Giles' murder. They also found J.J. fingerprints on the both the Confederate and Nazi gold ingots. One Confederate ingot was still missing.
I thought most of that was a forgone conclusion but the forensic people like every tee crossed and every "i" dotted.
Wilbur Devane, my archaeologist friend had made some discoveries too. He came by my apartment with his sidekick Roger to give me an update. Three of the bodies were black men, presumably slaves, and one was a white man. A test on the white man indicated he was Irish and had suffered from malnutrition in his youth. That could have been due to the Potato Famine. All four men were accustomed to heavy labor.
Their killers used Confederate issue bullets. Wilbur said there was a lot of ammunition of varying manufacture in the Confederacy. Actual ammunition issued by the Confederate government was comparatively rare. The four men were probably shot by soldiers or at least people acting in an official capacity. Since the masons' tools were with the bodies, it was probable the men were shot to keep the location of the gold secret.
I wondered if they were murdered to keep the gold from the Union soldiers, or to keep it away from other Confederates. It was a lot of gold, and some might not appreciate officials using the gold to save their hides rather than to help pay for the war effort.
It seemed to me that there was no chance of finding out the identity of the bodies, but Roger thought there was a possibility. Wilbur was the hands on field man; Roger was into documentary research. Roger explained that the last days of the war were confused, but a good portion of the participants could read and write. There might be something in a newspaper broadside or a letter.
The bodies from the plantation also yielded some clues. J.J.'s body was not one of them. That I had guessed. One of the deaths appeared to be accidental, but two died of gunshot wounds before they were burned. The bullets were not police issue.
Given the number of dead men and the vast amount of loot, Wilbur guessed that J. J. was deranged, out of control. The medical examiners seemed to think that scam artists and robbers tend to avoid murder.
I had a nice play period with Wilbur and Roger when we first met and I assumed they came to see me in person hoping for some pleasure mixed in with business. When Roger went off to the toilet room, Wilbur told me they would enjoy some playtime.
"Roger liked your cock a lot," he said.
"Is that a problem for you?" I asked. "I could tell you two are close."
"I admit I was a bit surprised at first, but the sex has been real good since he met you. We had been in a sexual rut," Wilbur said. "I think he's been fantasizing about you while he fucks me. that gets him nice and hard. He finally told me that he wants me to suck him as you fuck him. Can you help us?"
"Are you sure you don't mind?"
"I'm sure," Wilbur replied. "I want to watch you fuck him. I bottom and I don't get a chance to do that. I want you to fuck him until he shoots and then I'll take the load. I want you to cum in him and then I want to watch your sperm drool from his ass."
I smiled. "You have this planned out, don't you?"
"I hope our fantasy doesn't bother you," Wilbur said. "Roger loves to lick up my semen from my ass. I've never done it for him."
It seemed complicated but Wilbur indeed had it planned. Regardless of the amount of planning, lust always wins out and we had a good time. Roger was excited. His ass was tighter than it had been before, but it was also more welcoming. Wilber watched my cock slip in his lover's ass and wanted me to pull out and watch it again. Eventually, Roger's ass stayed open between penetrations.
Roger did not last long after I started heavy duty thrusting. Roger cried out he was ejaculating, and Wilbur was there to take the load. Roger's ass twitched as he shot off and made me climax. Wilbur was there to watch me pull out. I was still drooling. I had been doing Roger doggy style so my sperm began to ooze from his ass. Wilbur was there.
My cock was still hard, so I ad-libbed and took a quick poke into Wilbur's behind. He was already lubricated, so he must have anticipated something. I misjudged my sexual capacity. Instead of a quick poke, we had a full scale, ass-pounding fuck, followed by an impressive orgasm. Wilbur was licking my sperm from Roger's ass as I rear loaded him. It was good for all of us. Both Wilbur and Roger looked happy.
The Academy made an official announcement that they would have an exhibit of stolen and suspect artwork from J. J.'s secret collection. That caused a sensation in the art world. I had seen only a part of the collection. He had his favorite works on display in the underground gallery. The storage rooms below held more works as did the house.
Paintings and drawings do not take up much room, especially if they are unframed. Rare coins are small and most Mesoamerican antiquities are quite small. Mixed in with the small ceramic works were Sumerian and Mesopotamian statuettes. They were probably stolen from Iraq.
Rusty had most of J.J.'s financial records both corporate and personal. The fire had been accidental and there had not been time to destroy them. There were no records of large sums paid for art. Since there was no reason to hide the acquisition of art on the open market, we assumed most was suspect. There was a grand total of 345 paintings, and another 500 or so prints as well as well over a thousand coins, statuettes and antiquities. Many were packed up and ready to be moved elsewhere. I suspected the fire interrupted a move to a safer place.
The art exhibit was a wild success. People were flying in from Europe and Asia to see the art works. The Academy decided to add more night hours and to allow special tours on Saturday and Sunday nights for foreign visitors. Major museums in Europe such as the National Gallery in London, the Louvre and several German and Dutch museums sponsored the tours.
I donned the uniform of the Commonwealth Security Company for these extra exhibitions. I own the Commonwealth Company. It is a rent-a-cop service that we use to cover our own agents. It looked like a normal rent-a-cop business with retired men and women who presented no threat to serious thieves. I have a good memory for faces so I had looked over pictures of the usual suspects in the art theft world. I shaved my beard into a sideburns and handlebar mustache confection that suggested I was a hillbilly. I figured that would go over well with foreigners.
The Academy was a zoo. Visitors filled the temporary exhibit galleries, as well as every vacant spot in the main galleries. Visitors filled the museum restaurants, and the Academy added extra working extra hours in the gift shop. Photographs of the suspect works were available and selling like hotcakes. More important than that was our collection of credit card numbers. These could be traced.
In all the hustle and bustle, the security arrangements were almost invisible. I knew where we had hidden the cameras and had a hard time finding them. There was a tour group at 7:00, 8:00 and at 9:00. The first group was from Amsterdam. Officially, it was a museum-sponsored group, but it included dealers, gallery owners as well as collectors. Some did not seem to fit into any category, and I assumed they were agents for collectors who were looking for particular works.
The Academy had the suspected Nazi loot in two galleries. That seemed to attract the most attention. The Academy had a desk set up in each gallery to answer questions and take down the names of those who thought they had a claim or thought they knew the origin of a particular work.
If there was a question about J.J., the Academy staff members sent them to me. They told the guest that I had been in the crew that found the loot so I was an eyewitness. I told them what I knew and let them know I had kept up with the investigation. Sometimes I'm afraid people will guess I'm smarter than I look. That wasn't a problem. Actually, that never is a problem. They thought I was redneck who was happy to be in the limelight. In the first day, I talked with a man named Boris who was interested in J. J.'s possible location. He was central European and did not strike me as an art connoisseur.
He had been interested in a Renoir painting of a woman and made a cell call when he saw it. It wasn't a big Renoir, but you don't buy them by the square inch. It was pretty. When he came to me, I told him what I knew. Boris wanted to know where a man might hide in Eastern Virginia.
I had the impression that Boris knew where you might hide in Europe. I mentioned the complicated shoreline of Virginia and the Great Dismal Swamp. "I guess he could had gone west to the mountains, but that way was blocked by the police and the firemen as I recall," I explained. "That entire area around the plantation is swamps and bogs. I do not think that J. J. was into roughing it. I was a real dark night with no moon. They say that before the Civil War slaves often vanished into the swamp for years." Boris went off, looking in other galleries.
The next group was from Los Angles. One women in the next group almost collapsed when she saw a big, strange looking painting. It was a modern thing that I did not like much. When her friends got her calmed down, she produced a photograph. It was an old, faded picture of her family sitting at a dining table. The painting was on the wall behind the head of the family.
Five minutes later the head curator appeared and went to her. It was a definite identification. The picture was of her grandparents, mother and the rest of the family in their home in Berlin. Her mother escaped to England in 1934 and was the only family member to survive. The woman had never seen the paintings and she knew of them from family photographs. The curators took care of her.
The Academy closed at 10:00 on the dot. When I left the building, Beauregard was outside and recognized me. He was dressed normally and had ditched the Confederate paraphernalia. He was with a friend from Georgia named Barton. Barton was a book editor. He was working with Beauregard on editing his father's notes for publication. I took them home for coffee.
"You're working for the Academy now?" Beauregard asked.
"To tell you the truth, I have always been working for the academy," I said. "When we met I was undercover."
"I thought you were a pal," he said.
"I'd like to think I was," I replied. "I was there to separate the bad actors from the good guys. It was clear you were one of the good guys, as was your father. Your information was the key to the entire affair."
"What do you mean?"
"As far as we can tell, you father's search for Confederate gold was the key event that got J. J. involved. We know J.J. was at the reenactment. I assume your father's murder was the first of J. J.'s many crimes." I explained. "We don't know if he was your father's partner or if they connected by accident. We do not know if he betrayed or ambushed your father.
"Dad kept detailed notes about everything," Beauregard said. "I've been going over them in detail. There is no indication of a partner. Dad was interested in the gold as an indicator of the Confederate leaders' personalities. When he finally saw the stash, he must have realized there was far more gold there than was needed to bribe a ship's captain for passage to Europe. He did mention he met some nice guys at the reenactment in his last letter, but there were no names."
Barton was quiet and tended to speak up only to clarify one of Beauregard's comments. I assumed that was what an editor did. Barton was young, maybe twenty-five or thirty, and bland. He was the sort of man you would describe as average. He had a little mustache and pale, blue eyes. He struck me as a timid man. I did notice a bigger than average bulge at his crotch. I knew Beauregard was into size and I assumed that added to Barton's attractiveness.
Barton worked for a major publishing house and he mentioned there was a potential television special under consideration with one of the "big boys." I began to suspect Barton was both an editor and a cheerleader. He was always differential to Beauregard.
I offered them a beer, and both accepted. It was getting late but Beauregard wanted to talk. I saw Barton taking a gander at my bulge. I did a little rearranging to show my equipment to better advantage. I did that without thinking, it was my natural reaction. I had no plans.
I was talking with Beauregard, and noticed out of the corner on my eye that Barton was rearranging some himself. As I said, I had no plans. My cock has a mind of its own. It firmed up. Both Barton and Beauregard noticed that.
"It's getting late, I need to have my beauty sleep," I said. "If you want to crash here, be my guest."
"We have a hotel room," Beauregard said. "You may have noticed that Barton is a big boy. I kind of told him you were big too. He said he has never seen bigger cock than his is.
"I wouldn't mind a little show and tell before bed," I said. I had planned to say that I was tired and maybe another day, but that wasn't what I said.
"Maybe a little demonstration would be nice," Beauregard suggested.
""I don't know about that," I said. "I'm not good at half speed. I like I like full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. It's all or nothing for me."
"I don't know if Beauregard can take it," he said with a smile. From the way he said it I knew Beauregard would have no problem. I began to strip.
Barton began to unbutton his shirt. He was smooth and pink, with a long, white snake dangling from his pubic bush. He was uncut and eight inches soft.
"Beauregard, I assume you've taken all of it?" I asked. He nodded.
I looked at Barton. "Do you find many guys who can take it?" I asked.
"A few," he replied. "It's finding men who can enjoy it, that's the problem. Beauregard is a real find." He looked at me. "Beauregard told me you weren't pretty. He said it was all sex without physical attraction with you."
"Does that bother you?" I asked.
"I thought it would, but it isn't. That cock of yours is a fucking sex magnet!" Barton said. Barton's cock was a cut, smooth snake, with a bloated purple knob. A big glob of precum glistened on his wide slit.
My cock his uncut, with some extra skin and veiny. My knob was still mostly in the wrapper. My glob of precum was almost ready to drip on the floor. I wasn't sure about Barton until he dropped to his knees and intercepted the drool before it reached the floor. We were off to the races. I held him steady as he tried to swallow my cock. He was shivering in excitement.
As with Wilbur and Roger a week earlier, I seemed to function as a marital aide, inspiring Barton and Beauregard to new heights of passion. Barton's cock was a little longer than mine was, but I was quite a bit thicker than he was. We shared Beauregard's ass, alternating fucking him for almost an hour.
Beauregard had incredible stamina, and his ass remained firm and responsive. Barton and I both shot off several times and as Beauregard's ass filled with sperm, it became smoother and more responsive. One time I shot at Beau's anus. Barton used his cock to push my semen deep into the ass. He shot off and moaned as he did this.
Things calmed down after this. I was genuinely tired and I fell asleep for a while. I had an odd dream in which I was naked, erect, and trying to hide that fact from Beauregard and Barton. I woke up realizing it was an impossible task.
When Beauregard and Barton woke, they were still playful. I sat on Beauregard's cock. I had used his hole the night before and I assumed he needed a break. He seemed happy. I got on my hands and knees so he could do me doggy style. Barton liked that too because he could slip into Beauregard's well used ass.
Barton pounded Beauregard and eventually Beau gave my prostate a sperm bath. When Beau pulled out, Barton replaced him. I am a small guy and it was real filling. He didn't pound me, he seemed to park his cock in my rectum and wiggle a little to keep it hard.
"I'm going to shoot!" he exclaimed. I was going to tell him to go ahead, but I felt him squirting. It was good. It was Saturday and I was going to spend the day at the academy watching the visitors. Beauregard and Barton went off and I went to work. There had been no sign of J.J. yet, but a good portion of the upscale art thieves of Europe had made a visit. One person had tried to carry off a smaller painting, but it was a weak effort. They arrested him outside the museum without much fuss.
There were a number of false claims of ownership, but there were five credible claims. Most of the false claims were made by persons of interest to European police. They had substantial charges waiting for them in Europe. We arrested the petty crooks but let the more important ones return home to the waiting arms of the police.
For the police this was a chance to break up organized art thievery. The lure of hundreds of stolen art works was too much to resist. The media sensation focused on the art. I focused on the murders.
After my interlude with Boris, I thought there was a good chance that he was still in Virginia. The police confirmed that Boris was a "person of interest." He was not a thief; he was an enforcer for a Russian Oligarch. I asked if that meant he was a hit man.
My pal, Captain Miller, said no. "His boss is a big time industrialist. He transitioning from being a mafia type boss to a respectable executive. He is not the forgiving type. Having a painting stolen from him is a personal affront. He would not like to have the word get around that you can steal from him a get away with it. He's not the forgiving type."
"J.J. stole from the wrong man?" I asked.
"Apparently the respectable executive's wife loved the painting," Captain Miller added. "J.J. made a big mistake."