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Casebook Log #369

You know how humiliating it is to assume the position against a cop car, your shorts down around your ankles, your tackle flapping in the breeze, while a deputy gives you the once over before fat Sheriff Tucker covers his podgy fingers in a rubber glove to inspect your anal area for drugs?

It was such a fuckin’ buzz, and I loved it. Plus, I had them right where I wanted them.

I’d been hitchhiking along the interstate A380, stripped to the waist to show off my hot abs and ceps; my pecs and back awash with perspiration, my shorts barely hiding my fat sausage of a cock. See, I get turned on when I display myself like this. I’m an exhibitionist at heart. Hell, there ain’t much that I’m not when it comes to things sexual.

My ass is my best asset, so my cut-off jeans were way too revealing – cut so that half my ass cheeks were on display. I was – I am – hot, hot, hot! I attracted attention just the way I like it. A couple of guys drove around in circles to get a gander at me to make sure I was for real. You seldom saw what I was offering outside a porn movie. A couple of the more adventurous, or more horny, guys pulled over to see if I wanted a lift. Any driver who looked as if he was packing got my attention. And my ass or my mouth later, if he wanted them. Who am I kidding? They always wanted them. It was the only reason they picked me up. I didn’t need a lift and their concern for my comfort and welfare was anything but altruistic.

Like I’m complaining?

I could have made a fortune because most of my pick-ups thought I was on the game and their first question after “You need a lift?” and my response, “Nah, I need a fuck” once I’d hopped in their car, was usually, “How much?” When I told them it was all free they couldn’t believe their luck, especially the guys sporting wedding rings. Even more so the guys who were a little on the homely side or else putting on the weight. You see, I’m an equal opportunity fuck. Just about insatiable. As long as it’s male and has a cock, preferably on the largish size – but  even that doesn’t matter – I’m available. Solo, double acts, or groups. You name your poison. Not that anyone’s died yet from sampling my wares, although a few have had heart palpitations from the exertion of trying to satisfy me.

I knew I’d eventually attract the attention of the authorities. I was causing all sorts of traffic infringements as guys, and an almost equal number of women, slowed down to ogle the booty. The ladies were out of luck.

I noticed the cop car trailing me just far enough back they thought they were invisible, and stepped up my slutty behavior, wiggling my luscious buns even more blatantly at the passing parade. My training meant I had a second sense when it came to being followed. I was encouraging it. I wanted to provoke the cops but it seems I’d have to be more outrageous. I stopped and flexed, showing off my body even more blatantly, bending over to open my knapsack to retrieve my water bottle so that my ass spread invitingly for speeding voyeurs, the thin strip of fabric between my cheeks barely covering my twitching hole. If passers-by looked closely enough they’d probably see the sun reflected off the snail trail of dried spunk glistening in and around my butt hole.

Does it get any better than that?

Time to introduce myself properly. I’m special agent Vic Tulsa, I’m twenty-five years old, handsome as fuck (I think I already said that), hot hairless bod kept in shape by vigorous sexual workouts and the gym, and with the help of depilatory wax for the stray hairs around my butt hole. When I’m not working you’ll usually find me working out – my muscles or my sexual organs. I really gotta get me a life. I suppose you could call me a sex addict – as long as you call me.

That’s not why I was chosen for the job. The other guys at FBI headquarters don’t know about my love of all things perverse. In fact, other sex addicts can only dream of the things I get up to all legal and above board. Plus I get paid to do them.

Pity they gave me that asshole, Ted Hass, who liked to big note himself as Bad Hass around HQ, as my boss. He’s so buttoned up that sometimes I think people might mistake him for a shirt. He’s more hindrance than help. He cramps my style. You see, I’m a bit flamboyant, a bit in your face. What I’m trying to say is: my style is gay, gay, gay. And Ted, no shit, is an arch homophobe. Doesn’t believe the FBI should be employing perverts – his word not mine.

Naturally, in an industry as macho and competitive as the FBI, every male on the job has to scratch his balls at least five times every hour just to let you know how masculine he is. Or when I’m around they scratch their balls big time as if it releases a hetero testosterone that repels gay men. Yeah, like any of them are beddable. I know the other agents are saying stuff behind my back that would get them a new set of teeth and nose realignment if they said it to my face. What can I do about it?

Worst is Bluto Sanchez, named for the bully from the Popeye cartoons. He’s a fuckin’ mountain of a man, even in a suit. He’s usually sent on jobs that require intimidation or muscle. Seldom does he get jobs that require any sort of mental capacity. Me they send on jobs that no one else will handle. First, I’m single, and married guys never get the really shitty jobs. Second, my boss thinks gay men have nothing but sex on their mind constantly. In my case, that’s true, but he doesn’t know that, he’s just pandering to clichés. Third, ergo, any sex crimes that are downright sleazy and nasty should be a piece of cake for someone with my interests.

I Was a Male Nympho for the FBI


eBook Cover Price: 0.99

Length: 76 pdf Pages / 13355 words

Gay, Group / Orgy / Menage, Drama

Heat rating: 5