Millstone and Roche

Millstone & Roche, Chapter Three

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All Rights Reserved © 2020, Rick Haydn Horst Formerly known as Rick Heathen

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.

Thank you for delving into this work; I hope you enjoy it.

Hanging the Chimney Hook: a Millstone & Roche Investigation, By Rick Haydn Horst

Chapter Three

Max proved himself a practical man. He noticed first that a double bed would never work for us. Two men that were my size at 200 pounds (much less if one had 40 pounds more muscle) would never fit comfortably on the double. Also, as he pointed out, we wouldn't remain in the apartment due to what he referred to as its "inadequate and diminutive nature." He had a way with words, and he was right. Fortunately, the landlord hadn't locked us into a lease, so we could trade up whenever we were ready. As that was the case, we purchased a king-sized bed and placed it on the floor. It hadn't mattered that it required the removal of the bedroom door or that the movers had to wrench it into the room; they got the job done. We could cope with wall-to-wall bed for a little while.

I hadn't slept in the same bed with a man since I slept with my father as a child. And when it came to sex, for years, I had men and women chowing down on my Big Mac to get a belly full of my special sauce. However, the rarity of finding anyone willing to allow penetration, other than oral, had me not bothering to look anymore. On the occasions that opportunity arose, penetration had its difficulties, and that left me unsatisfied. I hadn't carried any thoughts that Max would consider anything else; he seemed so orally inclined and contented gobbling my knob. However, I hadn't realized what I had with Max.

Max had seen me naked repeatedly in the hospital, so he knew what to expect. I had not seen him, not even that first night when we swapped places in the bathroom for the nightly routine before bed. He wore the all-enveloping white terrycloth robe that he acquired from the Waldorf Astoria in New York.

As usual, I shaved my neck when I showered, but while standing at the sink brushing my teeth, I made a careful study of my face in the half-fogged mirror. My mind had yet to accept my appearance, and my name hadn't felt like mine either. I had no problem remembering it, but it sounded like someone else's. Then I got ahold of myself. I spit such notions down the sink drain along with the mouthwash and focused on the reality of it. I would reach a new normal, and I would be okay.

I couldn't sleep wearing clothing. I had picked up the habit from my father. I wanted to be just like him, so I followed his example when I discovered he slept naked. My mother disliked it, but my father insisted that she allow it. He said it was a man thing and that she wouldn't understand. Besides, like my father, I had developed early, and the usual underwear and pants made for males, whatever my age, always felt like a straitjacket on my junk. At nine years old, it embarrassed my mother to accompany me to the tailor the first time. I needed pants made for me because I had grown too big for my britches (as she politely put it). It never embarrassed my father; he showed me off with pride at the tailor that he'd gone to for years for the same reason.

I left the bathroom that evening in my birthday suit and turned the corner to enter the bed-filled room. I froze to find Max lying nude on his belly, facing away from me, and reading an article from the folded newspaper he brought from the diner. This pale skinned, muscular masterpiece had curly, golden blonde hair covering his entire body; it shimmered from the glow of the naked lightbulb that hung from the ceiling. The view gave me a slack-jawed sense of awe and an instant erection.

I took a deep breath. "Shit..." I whispered to myself.

He hadn't turned toward me; instead, he spoke casually in his deep baritone voice, "The college here has a baseball team. I like baseball."

"Do you? I'll carry my equipment everywhere; in case you want to play."

He turned to look at me. "Jeez." He smiled. "I have a hard time believing how big you get when you're erect."

I shrugged. "It's what my dad gave me."

"What caused this? Have you seen something you like?"

"With you? I like all that I see." I crawled onto the bed, and I touched his golden-fur-covered, concrete-like ass. He reached out to grasp my high, hard one.

"I've pleasured you for weeks," he said. "I could use a good fuck. Would you enjoy fucking me with this thing?"

"Are you serious? You want my bat in your ass?"

"Sure, why not?" he asked. "If you're afraid you'll hurt me, I regularly take toys nearly this size, but they could never feel half as good as you will. It won't be a problem."

I dropped onto the bed with my legs beneath me. "Wow! You're the proverbial gift that keeps on giving, aren't you? I would love to fuck you. Have you--you know--prepared for that?"

He got on his hands and knees; the globes of his ass faced me. "I'm clean as a whistle, pre-lubed and ready for you, buddy."

I stared at the astonishing ass before me and the hunk attached to it. I couldn't help myself, and the next thing I knew, I had my tongue buried deep in the soft, hairless cleft between two golden blonde, fur-covered cannonballs.

"Yeah, get in there, and French kiss your new friend." His groans rumbled deep in his chest. "You like that smooth hole? I had it lasered a few years ago for my convenience, and I am so glad I did." He laughed with a gruff timbre that I found incredibly sexy. "We will find lots of time for the two of you to get acquainted, but why not shove your man-rammer inside and try me on for size?"

I hadn't had much experience with fucking and never with a man. It invariably ended with complaints and no orgasm, but I felt so horny that, without hesitation, I bent over a bit and aimed my cockhead at his hole. Although it clung tightly to my shaft, it allowed me entrance, and by his sounds of pleasure, I hadn't hurt him, but I hadn't experienced anyone who could take me. So, out of fear, I stopped halfway and tentatively tried to fuck him, but he was having none of that.

"Don't tease me, Millstone," he said. "I'm not looking for a poke. I won't be happy until you bang me with the whole thing as hard as you can, breeding me repeatedly, and our nuts collide for at least an hour."

"Really?" I couldn't believe it.

He looked over his shoulder. "I imagine this is new for you, but I invite you to take that bat of yours and discover that, unlike the others who couldn't take a bunt, you're welcome to knock me out of the fucking park."

So, I grasped his hips, and with one forceful shove, slid my cock into his lube-slickened chute until I had fully seated myself deep inside him, causing him to arch his spine and throw his head back.

"Goddamn! You're fucking huge!" He tried taking a few breaths. "Oh," he said, sounding a bit breathless. "I feel so full."

"Are you okay?"

"Fuck yeah! I love it!"

"You do?"

"Oh yeah. You are so deep." He paused for a moment to breathe. "Let's go, Millstone, fuck the hell out of me."

I hauled my meat from his ass to the head, and I made a test slam. He growled like a blonde bear, saying, "Fuck yeah." So, I began fucking him as hard as I could, long-stroking him. I loved the feel of his warm, butter-like hole, stretched tight over my thick dong. I never knew that fucking full throttle could feel so good or that I would have that much fun. After about twenty minutes, I flipped him over, rotating his body around my skewering cock. I got a look at the dense, golden fur down his front, his junk on full display. Like his ass, he had lasered the hair off his stiff dick, and his big, equally hairless balls had drawn tight in their sack. I placed his legs over my shoulders and began a long pile-driving effort to pound him into our new mattress.

After about thirty minutes, he could do nothing but breathe and convulse as he had one anal orgasm after another, spewing cum all over himself without touching his cock.

When the last one ended, I asked him, "You like my fuck?" I began grinding my meat into him.

He nodded with an adorable simple smile on his face.

"I'm stretching this hole into a mancunt."

"Just for you?" he asked.

I nodded. "Just for me."

"It's yours."

"How do you like to fuck best?" I asked.

He replied, "Often."

I laughed and bent down so we could kiss. For someone Max's size, his body remained flexible. "Time to breed you."

My golden blonde bear stared into my eyes as I fucked him hard. As he began to shudder, he aimed his cock at his face and came right down his own throat. I couldn't hold back, watching this gorgeous hunk drink his own jizz, and my nuts turned inside out, breeding him for the first time. I came with my body jerking with every shot. We had both exhausted ourselves and fell sideways onto the bed. Leaving himself covered in cum, he kept my meat inside him and rotated his body around. I lay behind him, spooning him with myself fully planted inside him, using his body like a cock cozy, keeping it warm. He wouldn't let me go, and I felt too tired to get up.

"What about the light?" I asked.

"No problem." He clapped his hands twice, the light went out, and we lay in darkness.

"You want me to fall in love with you, don't you?"

He said nothing but pulled my arm over him. I slickened my hand in the cum from his chest as I dug my fingers into his fur, and we slept that way through the night.

We had three scrambled eggs at breakfast with an added cup of egg whites, spinach, tomatoes, oatmeal, and coffee. As we ate, a knock came upon our door. Sawyer had overnighted a package to me by a special courier. I signed for the thin cardboard box, and before I opened it, I returned to the barstool at the kitchen counter where my food was turning cold.

"He certainly is reliable, isn't he?" asked Max.

"Sawyer's a good man."

It contained all my photo identification and more. The thin box held a manila envelope with my driver's license, passport, my state license to conceal-carry a gun, and my state detective license, which meant I could legally work as a detective again. I put the necessary licenses into my wallet, the rest back into the envelope, and finished breakfast.

We had another visitor during clean-up, but when I glanced through the peephole, I hadn't known the man, and we no longer expected a delivery.

I asked, "Who is it?"

"It's Albert," he said, "your first cousin, once removed."

I glanced at Max, who seemed as surprised as me. I thought maybe it was someone from the government. I opened the door. "Do you know Sawyer?"

"I am Sawyer." In his early 30s, the thickly built man stood there with a wine bottle, wearing black jeans, black boots, with black leather braces over a gray stripe shirt with rolled sleeves. He had short dark hair, a clipped beard, and a full mustache that curled on the ends.

I stood there looking at him and made a reasonable guess. "You're the brother of the Sawyer I know."

"And you're our first cousin once removed! Thomas told me all about it."

"Thomas? Sawyer's name is Tom Sawyer?" I started laughing.

"And that's why he goes by his last name," said Albert. "Our parents were obliviously cruel." He held out his hand for me to shake.

I grabbed his hand, pulling him into the apartment. "Come in! Come in!" I gave him a hug, which he gladly accepted.

"Al, please meet Max Roche."

Albert shook Max's hand. "So, are the two of you..." and he left it at that, waiting for one of us to fill in the blank.

Max glanced at me for a split second, instinctively knowing that I was not ready to say it, even if it were true, and when he answered, I could only sense myself growing more attached to him. He had a kind assertiveness that I perceived as generous and genuine. Max enjoyed my cock immensely, but he wanted me. At that moment, as he glanced at me and said what he had to Albert, he spoke the truth to both of us.

In an emphatic tone, he said, "Yes, we are."

"That's great! Well, this morning, I'm the Welcome Wagon, so welcome to Franklin." He handed Max a bottle of 7-year-old French Pinot Noir. "I picked one of my favorites from the cellar; I thought you might like it."

"Thank you," said Max. "That's thoughtful."

"Yes, thank you."

Albert looked around a bit. "So, Thomas told me he helped you find an apartment. Big mistake, he should have come to me."

"What else did he tell you?" I asked as I had no desire to say too much and give myself away.

"Just that you're a detective and would replace the gambling addict."

"Does everyone know about that guy?" asked Max.

"Everyone read about it in the paper," he said.

"Aah!" I ushered him beyond the front door and into the living room, where we all seated ourselves. "Can you tell me why you only have one private detective in a city this size?"

"Probably because it takes a certain kind of person to be a detective, and of those people, who are a minority among our population, they prefer the police department. There might be someone who lives outside the city who wouldn't mind the job if it were anywhere else. However, this is Freaky Franklin, renowned for its nonconformity and maligned by the conservatives and religious community. Working here while living outside the city leaves too great a stain for most people, even among our local supporters. If I guessed, I would say that we only have a couple of hundred commuters from outside the city limits.

"Well, I told Thomas that I would help you settle in. I know you could use the help, so what do you need?"

"That's a generous offer," said Max.

"We could use some advice," I said. "We need a reputable bank and someplace to get a decent car."

"Well, cousin, that's a reasonable enough request. I have a free day today, so I can help you with that, but I need to drop by the precinct while we're out. I forgot my headphones for the gym in the morning."

"Precinct? You're a cop?"

He nodded. "Midtown."

"So, you would have the skinny on the city?"

"The skinny." He laughed. "I haven't heard that in a long while, but yes, I do. Let's get out of here and get you two a car."

Albert took us to the best dealership in town, the Mercedes dealer, where he assured us that we wouldn't get ripped off, and where they had a variety of used cars in the back lot. We entered the building, and the salesman named Terrance knew Albert. He introduced us, and me as his cousin.

As Max had never owned a vehicle (and many people living in New York haven't), he left it to me to find us one. I told Terrance what we needed, and we gave the lot a once over, but none of them suited our needs. They either had too much size, too much age, too many miles, or whoever owned it hadn't taken care of it. I tried to avoid owning the object of someone else's neglect. Terrance told us that new pre-owned cars came in all the time, so he would keep his eye open for us.

On our way back to Albert's Camry, Max had stopped to admire a gleaming, silver convertible two-seater inside the showroom when a model of what I would call "female perfection" breezed through the front door. I elbowed Max, who turned to see what had caught my eye. She had pale skin, luminous in the morning light, and her long, wavy, platinum blonde hair appeared natural. The lace on the pure white dress that draped just below her knee hugged her curves, and the light reflecting off her shone like a vision of the shining one, Aglaia of the three graces. She said nothing, but her eyes locked with Max's as she came toward us, her stride unbroken. A moment before she passed us, her blood-red lips beamed a glamorous and sensual smile at Max that no one could ignore. She kept going, not looking back, but both Max and I couldn't help but watch her. With the way Max reacted, you'd have thought an iconic celebrity had just walked past him. I could easily have dismissed her as casually flirting with him. However, she turned the corner, and before she disappeared behind a room divider, she looked to the far left to see if Max watched her. Her simple smile broadened, showing a beautiful set of pearly whites, and then she vanished.

I looked back to Albert, but he had kept walking outside, not having noticed we stopped. Max and I caught up with him.

"That was Winter," said Max.

"Yeah," Albert said as we continued, "she's probably here to pick up next year's Mercedes-Maybach or something."

"Her newspaper photo doesn't do her justice," said Max.

"The resolution of newsprint doesn't do anyone justice," said Albert.

"What's the skinny on her?" I asked.

We had opened the doors, but he stopped before we got in, and he spoke across the top of his Camry. "Winter is a millionaire philanthropist, and from what I've seen, to the community, she's kind and warm-hearted, but to the outside world, she's a harsh, barren blast of money and power. I once heard someone refer to her as a Carrion Goth. She buys the remains of failed companies outside the city at pennies on the dollar, dismantles them, and sells their valuable bits of carcass at her silent auction house, the Winter Auction."

I glanced at Max. "Jeez, I'm in the wrong business," I said, and we climbed inside. "So, she's goth?"

"Sure," said Albert, "not all goths wear black and dress like it's 1890."

On the way to the Midtown Precinct, Albert pointed out the safest and most sound financial institution in the city, the Franklin Credit Union, an institution supported by Winter.

The ultramodern design of the Midtown Precinct had a garage beneath the building. We exited the elevator on the third floor. The police uniforms in Franklin surprised me as they had made them of leather: blue leather shirt, black leather pants with a blue stripe down the leg, and a blue and black leather Muir cap.

"Hey, Sawyer, I thought you were off again today," said a man suited in plain clothes. He came from one of the offices on the far wall.

"I am Edge. I left something by mistake the other day. Let me introduce you to my first cousin once removed, Howard Millstone; he's the new private dick in town, and this is his partner Max Roche. Howard, Max, this is my friend and coworker, Detective Sergeant Wade Edgerton."

"It's good to meet you," said Edgerton shaking our hands. "So...once removed. Never did understand how that worked."

"I barely understand it," I said.

"So, anything going on the last few days?" Albert asked Edgerton.

"Yeah, and it's not too good," he said. "Tommy Two-Weeks topped himself Tuesday night. His roommate found him after he didn't show up for work."

"Oh man, I hate to hear that," said Albert and turned to us. "Tommy Haines, occasionally known in Franklin as Tommy Two-Weeks, got in trouble off and on when he first arrived, living on the street; it was nothing much, petty theft of food mostly, and no one ever pressed charges. Tommy ran away from home three years ago at sixteen; he wanted to escape his abusive father. In the last six months, Tommy tried to get his life together." He asked Edgerton, "Had he left a note?"

"We hadn't found anything."

"How had he acquired a name like Tommy Two-Weeks?" I asked.

"When he ran away from home, his father told him he wouldn't last two weeks without him. He felt pretty proud of himself for never going back."

"A nineteen-year-old kid," I said. "That's a sad thing."

"Has anyone told the sisters?" asked Albert.

"Yeah, Delaney told them," Edgerton said.

"You're sure it was suicide?" I asked.

"You've been in Franklin for ten minutes, Millstone," said Detective Edgerton. "I know a suicide when I see one."

"No offense," I said. "I apologize for questioning your conclusion; after all, I wasn't there. If you wouldn't mind, though, I have a question. Even if your conclusion is correct, Tommy still left no note. That often means it came as an impulsive decision. Did his roommate tell you Tommy went out on a date the night before?"

"How could you know that?"

"I overheard Glenn, who I assume was Tommy's roommate, tell the sisters that he finally went out on a date."

Edgerton shook his head. "That's irrelevant. Unless the guy had direct involvement in Tommy's death, he has no culpability, and since Tommy died of suicide, he's innocent. Look, I understand that you want to help, but Tommy had some serious mental problems. It surprises me he made it this long."

Albert rapidly grew uncomfortable. "How about the three of us go get some lunch."

I understood Albert's intentions, and I hadn't blamed him. Edgerton was his friend, and he wanted to keep the peace, so message received. I told Edgerton that I enjoyed meeting him, a slight over-exaggeration on my part but a necessary one. As he reminded me, I had only been in town for ten minutes; it seemed early in the game to start making enemies.

I saw the problem as one of purpose. The police exist to enforce laws, and they had no reason to run down someone who hadn't broken any. For myself, however, I have an interest in the facts. It sounded too easy to dismiss Tommy's actions as those of someone mentally ill. He was getting his life together, and suddenly, after one date, he kills himself? I hadn't liked the sound of it. It used too many assumptions that made no sense.

Max asked me, "Edgerton hates you, doesn't he?"

We sat eating in Stradeli's, an Italian deli, just off Main Street.

"I wouldn't say he hates him," Albert said and then turned to me, "but I wouldn't say he doesn't hate you either."

"Are you trying to baffle me?"

"How about just minding your P's and Q's around him until you have some more experience of one another? You're both detectives with a different experience, and trust me on this cousin, he's good at his job."

"I'm sure," I said. "I apologize if I harmed your friendship with him."

"I appreciate that, but I wouldn't worry; he's resilient, he'll bounce back."--he pulled out his cell phone--"Could I have both your phone numbers? I might need to contact you."

Max gave him his.

"I have no cellphone," I said.

"Really." He looked at me as if I were an alien. "Thomas told me you were starting over, but I hadn't realized he meant that so fully. Well, we need to get you a phone today."

I enjoyed having communication again, but we needed transportation. When Albert dropped us off for the day, we spent much of the afternoon sitting on the couch in our apartment, scavenging the local newspaper and the online ads. We couldn't find anything that hadn't screamed soccer mom, ugly, or inherently unreliable.

Halfway through, something came up, namely my cock. I hadn't cum since that morning at Max's second pounding up the bum, and it distracts from my concentration if I go too long. I slipped off my pants, and Max slipped onto the floor in front of me. That handsome stud shoved my cock down his throat and proceeded to show me his lack of gag reflex. It took little time, and I shot my load almost directly into his stomach. He dragged himself back up the length of my schlong, and the head emerged with a loud pop. He then cleaned me up, licking whatever he'd missed from my dong as he played with it. He then sucked the head of it, casually jacking me until he knew I could go again. As he picked up the pace, I felt as though he were milking me. He wanted to taste this one, and when I came, I filled his mouth with shot after shot of the rich cream he loved so much. I had never met anyone who could guzzle cum the way Max would. If I could have shot a gallon's worth, he wouldn't have stopped until it filled his belly, stretching his six-pack like he had beer-bonged an entire pony keg of man juice.

The greasy spoon up the street was not healthy food, and we knew that. Neither of us wanted to continue eating there. As a bodybuilder, Max ate clean, but he ate a lot. We had one last meal there that evening, requesting the healthiest thing on their menu. We both slumped in our chairs at the counter, looking at the seared T-bone and fries on our plates, a sad sprig of wilted parsley for garnish.

"Boy, do we need a car," said Max as neither one of us wanted to hire a cab to take us everywhere we went. That would quickly get expensive.

With every bite, my resolve to avoid buying a vehicle as unappealing and unsavory as the piece of over-cooked beef at the end of my fork softened into settling for what we could get, just as we had with the plates before us.

Please send questions, comments, or complaints to Rick.Heathen@gmail.com. I would enjoy reading what you have to say.