Pounding the beat
Landon Dixon

The backseat of a car. In a lonely, darkened alley. Not far from where Harding pounded his beat, night after dreary night.
            He slammed his cock into the blonde’s stretched-out asshole, fucking the guy with an animal intensity that surprised the both of them. He shouldered the man’s thick legs, mauled his flabby chest, rolled fat, droopy nipples between thick, nicotine-yellow fingers, hips churning and churning, rusted-out Chevy groaning on shot springs, man screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs.
            What’s so special about this fuck, Harding wondered, that you give him the frenzied treatment? The knock-your-ears-back, balls-to-the-bowels kind of shafting? Maybe it was the guy’s mouth – his big, fat red-lipped mouth that just wouldn’t stop flapping, wouldn’t shut up, even with his chunky head banging a brutal tattoo against the door.
            Harding jammed three fingers into the blonde’s mouth, felt the guy’s greasy tongue instantly snake around them. The man urgently sucked on Harding’s fingers, pale, loose-fleshed body sliding back and forth in time to Harding’s angry cock-thrusts. Harding’s pants were down around his ankles, but despite the midnight chill, the bitter sordidness of it all, his body was sheathed in a thin film of sweat that defied weather and situation.
            The blonde bit into Harding’s fingers. Harding smacked him across the face.
            “Gimme your fucking tongue, tough guy!” the man hissed, feverish eyes burning through the waterfront fog.
            Harding grinned tightly, then lowered his head, stuck out his tongue. The blonde bobbed up and captured it in his mouth, bit into it, sucked on it, Harding’s hips moving, always moving, stoking the fires, plugging ass with a cock grown rock-hard with reckless passion and brittle remembrance.
            “Fuck, yeah! Fuck me, big man!” the guy screamed, clawing at Harding’s hair, smothering Harding’s mouth with his mouth.
            Harding twisted a nipple, viciously, pulled on it, almost tore it right off the man’s shuddering chest, tongues flailing away at one another. The blonde clutched at Harding’s ears and spewed more filth when Harding jerked his head back to catch some air. Harding puffed like a locomotive, hammering cock into the blonde’s oven-hot ass, sweat pouring off his face and into the man’s gaping mouth.
            But then Harding took his eyes off the moaning man beneath him, the prize waiting for him at the end of his numb cock. He looked out the window of the rocking vehicle. And that was a mistake. The fog parted like a curtain, and Harding stared at the grim, graffiti-laced wall of the alley. He’d seen that brick wall before, or one just like it, a lifetime ago.
            Don’t go back. Please, God, don’t let me go back, Harding pleaded. There’s no point in that. But it was already too late. Memories flooded his brain, washing away the blonde’s frantic cries, the sharp, unclean smack of flesh against flesh, the sour smell of sweat and sex, and finally, the sight of the greasy brick wall itself …
            He was a handsome young stud in a brushed blue uniform decorated with shiny brass buttons, bursting with pride and idealism, parents beaming from the bleachers as his name was called and he marched forward, locked hands with the Chief of Police. He’d been top man in his class of ninety-six, and he was more than ready to take on the world, change it in his own clean-cut image.
            “You’ll move up the ranks fast, son,” his father had said, his instructors had promised, his supervisors had affirmed.
            They put him to work pounding the downtown pavement, the tenderloin, paying his dues in shoe leather and aggravation, like any wet-behind-the-ears rook. Downtown, away from the skyscrapers and the nine-to-five business hours, was a far different world from the one Harding had been used to – a debauched, dog-eat-dog world of boozecans and shooting galleries, guns, gambling, gangsters, and guys and girls on the take and the make.
            Everything was up for sale in this world, money your passport, temptation your guide. It was an intoxicating place, wild with depravity, shameless in its sensuality, and Harding had been shocked at what he saw and heard, and felt, at what could happen to a man lowered to these depths. But he’d still done his level-best to carve out his own niche in this world, some good out of the bad, the boundaries the teeming streets he walked on his after-hours beat.
            He’d had some successes, too, instructing merchants on how best to secure their inventory, steering junkies and juiceheads into treatment programs, sweeping hookers and gangbangers out of the gutters and into the jails. But the odds were against him, always against him.
            He was fighting a losing battle, a never-ending battle that just couldn’t be waged in one-man twelve-hour shifts with any lasting results, other than the righteous toll it took on the man waging it. Harding’s fellow cops had known this, and warned him; they did only what they had to, and nothing beyond, took what they could get away with – protection money from the pushers and the pimps, bribes from the gangsters, blowjobs from the hookers.
            But Harding had ignored the warnings. He was different, you see. He could handle anything thrown his way, as long as he knew he was right. He’d battled long and hard, but the streets and the system were against him. He fought to clean things up, then he fought just to stay clean. Only, when you’re constantly immersed in filth, guaranteed you’re going to get dirty. The Brass left him in long enough to break his by-the-book attitude, reframe his concept of reality, and justice. And for a guy built like Harding, that was way too long.
            He’d shaken off the chill one sodden night with a low-track hustler looking for a break, and that proved to be just the beginning. By the time the Brass finally pulled him out of there, his integrity was in tatters, his idealism in shards, the one thing remaining: ambition.
            “Good work!” the Captain had said, when he’d handed Harding his stripes.
            Harding had liked those stripes, liked them plenty, but he’d liked the Captain’s bars even better. So, he’d put in the hours – on-the-job and with the books – working and studying, passing his exams with flying colors and in record time, the golden idol of material accomplishment having taken over his do-gooding soul. The guy’s got the stuff to be Chief one day, his fellow cops commented, behind his back.
            But it wasn’t the ‘one day’ Harding was thinking about just now, as he pistoned his cock in and out of the man beneath him – it was the one night, the hot, sticky night of five long years ago, when the thick, late-summer heat had built to the boiling point and Harding just had to left off steam, or explode.
            He was commanding the night watch in a suburban sub-station, the place as quiet as a tomb, too quiet. Harding needed action now like a junkie needed needle, and he knew where to find it. He commandeered an unmarked and barreled downtown, to his old stomping grounds, to the throbbing asphalt jungle where he’d been taught wrong was right, a neon siren song playing in his ears.
            His senses jumped to fever-pitch at the sight of the gaudy lights, the uncensored sounds of pain and pleasure, the raw smell of the pulsing streets. The city down here was jacked with excitement, and everything was possible for a cop without a conscience.
            Harding surged to a stop in a darkened alley, spilled out of the car and went on the prowl, searching for a special treat he knew about. He quickly found him, in a shadowy doorway just off Front Street, the salty sting of the docks hanging heavy in the languid air. “Been awhile, Joey,” he said, voice breaking, hands and body shaking.
            Joey peered out of the darkened doorway at the big man in the blue uniform, cigarette glowing in his pale, childish hand. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied in a little-boy-lost kind of voice.
            Harding grabbed the kid by the arm, jerked him out into the jagged halo of light shed by a shattered streetlamp. Joey was all fresh-faced innocence in a white t-shirt and factory-faded blue jeans, white runners, his blonde hair teased into a tousled mop. He looked like a junior-high senior with his clothes and his pose and his big, blue eyes, his slightly turned-up nose, dewy, cream-colored skin. The boy-next-door who hands you fries-with-that, takes your ticket at the cineplex.
            And when you put those youthful features together with a lean, hard body and ripe, round ass, well, you really had something – something everyone wanted. It was the contrast of heaven and hell, innocence and wantonness, that made Joey special, especially to a man like Harding. Only his pimp knew he was pushing twenty-three, pushing needles into his ankles on a regular basis.
            “You look good, Joey,” Harding rasped, wild eyes roaming all over the kid.
            “You, too, mister,” Joey chirped, smiling shyly and dropping his eyes, playing his role.
            “Let’s go for a ride,” Harding gritted.
            He pulled the kid down the sweaty street, into the stinking alley where he’d parked the police car. Then he pushed Joey into the backseat, climbed in after him. He held the kid gently in his lap, stroking his angelic face, thick, hairy fingers trembling.
            Joey was a little thing, light as a feather, but he gave off heat like a blowtorch. He made men want to love and protect him, but more than anything, fuck him – fuck his tight, little ass until his baby-blues spilled tears and his kitten-pink mouth burst open in agony and ecstasy, as you blasted him full of your juice, made him all-yours for at least those few, fleeting seconds. Harding’s cock went granite-hard under the guy’s taut bottom.
            He kissed Joey, tenderly at first, then not so tenderly, mashing his lips against the kid’s lips, shoving his tongue into the kid’s mouth and thrashing it around. Joey playfully shoved back, and they swirled their slippery tongues together. Harding held the kid like a china doll, like he was afraid he might break him, even though Joey’d been broken years and years ago.
            Joey coiled his left arm around Harding’s neck, slithered his right hand down onto Harding’s cock. “I wanna suck you, mister!” he gasped, pulling back from the cop’s ravenous mouth.
            He slid off Harding’s lap, down onto the floor of the car, fitting snugly in between Harding’s legs. He brushed Harding’s big, clumsy hands aside and expertly unfastened the policeman’s belt, unzipped him, pulled a huge, pulsing cock out of Harding’s pants and gripped it.
            “Fuck!” Harding grunted, body arching off the seat as Joey swirled his hot little hand all over the turgid meat.
            It was tropical-hot in the car, and sweat rivered down Harding’s red, tight-lipped face as he watched the kid handle his cock, the calculated-to-please touch penetrating him to his sexual core, where raged brimstone fire. Joey looked up at Harding and grinned, fake braces flashing in the dim light, moon eyes glowing, porcelain hand streaking up and down throbbing cock.
            “Suck it, Joey! Suck my fucking cock!” Harding pleaded.
            Joey giggled, tugged on the big man’s straining prick with both hands. Then he gulped like he was scared, dropped his head down and enveloped Harding’s boiled-up cockhead with his full, red lips.
            Harding jerked up off the seat, grabbing Joey’s hair and holding on tight, riding the electric, erotic storm of the kid’s tender lips inching down his angry cock, sealing more and more thick, veined member in his warm, wet mouth. Joey started bobbing his blonde head up and down, sliding his lips back and forth on Harding’s pulsating shaft, tongue-stroking the super-sensitive underside of the man’s cock, breath puffing out of his flared nostrils and bathing Harding’s groin.
            “Jesus fucking Christ!” Harding howled, balls tightening with more than the kid’s playful fingers.
            Harding frantically bucked his hips, desperately fucked Joey’s wet-heat mouth, ramming steel-hard prick as far back into the kid’s throat as he could. He let out a strangled cry and his cock exploded, white-hot sperm blasting out of his slit and flooding Joey’s mouth.
            And then, suddenly, the interior of the car lit up with daytime brilliance, blinding light flashing from a side window, exposing everything. Another flash, Harding and Joey staring dumbly into the stark, white light, Harding’s glistening welter of a cock still gouting viscous cum onto Joey’s dimpled chin.
            “Thanks, folks!” someone yelled, before taking off down the alley, footfalls echoing away before Harding could even shove the kid aside and yank his pants up.
            The story broke in the crusading city paper the following morning: ‘Dirty Cop!’ the six-inch banner screamed, Harding and Joey’s startled, flash-bright faces sullying the front page. The X-rated parts were blurred, of course, but it was plain from the positioning, and the accompanying article, as to what was going on. It was a picture worth a thousand words and federal indictments on a corrupt police force and a complicit Mayor’s office, and Harding was the poster boy …
            He gave his head a shake, the grime-slick brick of the alley coming back into focus – a different alley, but the same alley. He glanced down at the dye-job blonde’s skidding tits, the wrinkles crowding the guy’s face as he grimaced, as Harding mindlessly shunted cock back and forth in asshole. The obscene noise of his trade leeched back into his head. “Fuck me, stud!” the guy screamed over and over. “Fuck my ass!”
            You would’ve shut this shithead up before, Harding told himself. You would’ve done the talking and he the listening, telling him the what and the how. But that was when you were walking the beat with your head up high, nightstick keeping time with the swagger in your hips. Now you took the orders, pal, walked a different kind of beat. Still on the prowl, sure, still with the hips moving, only the head wasn’t so high, and the gun and the stick were gone – along with the badge. Harding felt the cold, damp night close in on him, start to sap him of energy, rob him of what little power he had left.
            But then, surprisingly, he began to simmer with anger. A long-dead rage boiled up inside Harding, a rage at what he’d done and what he could’ve done and what he was doing now. You tried and you failed, sure, but at least you tried, didn’t you? Sure you did. And that’s way more than most could say.
            And wait a minute, what was that? Beyond the damp crack of sour flesh against flesh? A tingling in your balls? A tightening of your scrotum? God almighty, don’t tell me you’re going to come, you dirty, stinking bastard!?
            Harding grunted like a stuck pig, blasting his condom full of juice, the blonde screeching a hand-jacked orgasm of his own, the moon breaking free of the clouds and shining down on the quivering car. Maybe, just maybe, the street owed Harding something, after all.