Campus Cops
By Red Cullions

	Cops aren't usually hunks, but they generate an atmosphere of
menace and suppressed brutality.  To moderate that with a certain
playfulness, I have a fantasy about "security" cops, the ones on the campus
police force.  I know most of them. They know me.  They catch me working
late or on holidays when they patrol the vacant corridors of my building.
Sometimes I have to "break in" (it's not hard) when they've locked all the
doors after hours.
	When the building is "secured," half the corridor lights are out,
giving the atmosphere a dingy ambience.  Let's say I've just "broken in"
(with a master key and some jiggering of bolts) and I'm rounding a dimly
lit corner when I encounter the security force, two guys nearly as old as I
am.  One is hunky and short, probably used to work out before he gained the
last 20 pounds. He's got greasy black curls and a swarthy complexion, but
he's not black, he's Italian: Lt. John Russo.  The other is Mike O'Connell,
a gray-haired Irishman, fair faced, tall and slender, very distinguished
looking.
	"Halt," he cries.  "This building is secured.  You're trespassing."
	"C'mon guys," I say.  "You know me.  You see me working late all
the time."
	"Hands up, mister."  There's a twinkle in his eye. "Got any
identification?"
	"Not on me."  I'm wearing navy blue sweats and sneakers, no
pockets, no underwear; my keys are in my right hand. "I left my wallet in
the car."
     	"Frisk him, Russo."
	"For crying out loud!"  I try to sidestep these flatfeet, but Russo
moves his chunky bod hard against my butt, and O'Connell stands in front of
me.
	"Would you be resisting an officer, now?" he says.
	"Hell, no.  Feel me up all you want to."
	"Up against the wall, mother," John laughs. "Hands above your head,
legs apart."
	When I raise my arms, my sweat shirt exposes my belly.  John slips
his hands under the cloth and pokes my armpits, then feels my chest and
squeezes my nipples. Then he slips one hand down the back of my sweats,
tucks a thumb into my asshole, and squeezes my nuts.
     	"Jesus!"  I complain.
     	"He's clean, Mike.  Except for the smell."  Russo waves his thumb
under my nose.
     	"C'mon guys.  What are you up to? Give me a clue."
     	"John figures you for a swinger.  Right John?"
     	"Don't tell me I'm wrong."
	"Not wrong guys, but a little late.  I'm 63.  I haven't done any
messing around for years.  Besides being old and ugly, I'm afraid of AIDS."
	Mike palms a pack of Trojans, then a tube of lube.  "We don't take
chances, Doc. How about it?"
	"You both aim to fuck me?"
	"Right."
	"How about security?  If we attract an audience, it'll be worse for
you than for me."
	"Trust us.  We know the layout.  Follow me."
	We're on the ground floor, which is partly below the turf level
outdoors.  A door marked "Security Personnel Only -- Fallout Shelter" leads
into a tunnel.  Russo flicks a switch, and a bare bulb reveals some heavy
duty pipes and conduits, with an access path alongside.  We go maybe a
hundred yards down the tunnel, make a turn, and stop.  It's nearly dark
here.
	"This'll do," Mike announces.  "You take him first, John. I'll
stand guard; if I flick the light switch, get dressed and act innocent."
	Mike moves back toward the door.  Russo gets red in the face, and
fidgets.  But there's a bulge in the crotch of his uniform.
	"If you're gonna fuck my ass, Lieutenant," I murmur, "I think I'm
entitled to examine the weapon."
	"Sure."  A big grin, and his hands move to his belt.
	"Let me," I say, unzipping his fly and lowering his khakis. He's
wearing a bikini brief, and as I yank that down around his knees, a thick
reddish brown cock, slightly twisted to starboard, springs to attention.  I
tongue the end of it, and Russo moans.
        "Been a while for you, too?" I say.
	"Long time.  Mike, he always puts me off, talks a lot but won't do
it, you know?  I don't have anybody else, even to talk to."
	I swallow as much of John's tool as I can, then lick my way to the
root of it.  As I mouth and massage each of his balls with my tongue, I
slip a finger up the cleft of his ass, and wiggle it into the anus about an
inch.  John squirms.
	"You can fuck me some other time," he says. "Take me up your butt
now. I'm so hot I'm afraid I'll come before I get it in."
	I stand and step out of my sweats.  John slips a condom over his
fat, throbbing penis, then turns to me and squeezes my prick and my
balls. He pushes me back against the mound of conduit, and raises my legs
around his neck.  With a little searching he finds my hole and stuffs it
with his fat schlong.
	It's all I can do not to scream, but I don't want to give Mike the
satisfaction.
	But Mike is nervous, or maybe just impatient.  About 2 minutes into
the fuck he's back, standing beside us, bitching:
	"Thought you were hot, John.  Don't take all night.  I want my
turn, too.  C'mon, something might happen."
	"Not if you're on guard, like you're supposed to be," I pant. "Get
back there, or you'll never get a crack at my hole."
	He goes.  Russo pumps harder.  My load is building, too, and within
another 2 minutes we're both spewing, trying not to shout. When we're
spent, John lifts me up and hugs me.
	"I meant it," he says.  "You can plug my ass, if you want to."
	"I want to, John.  But not tonight.  Mike'll be a basket case if we
don't humor him. Get your pants on, and relieve him on guard duty."
	Russo dresses, and heads back toward the door.  But in a moment
he's back.
	"Mike says we don't have time.  He says I took too long."
	"It won't do, John.  Unless we get Mike into the act, he just might
play the righteous cop and squeal on us.  Tell him what a great fuck I am;
tell him I'm waiting for him.  Tell him you'll stand guard, and it'll be
great, fucking fantastic."
	"Right."
	I wait five minutes.  Finally Mike appears, looking very uncertain.
"Look," he says, "I don't know.  Don't tell John, but I never fucked a man
before.  I'm afraid."
	I smile.  "Hey, Mike, it's no big deal.  Trust me.  Are you horny?"
     	"You bet."
	"Then it's no problem."  I move up to him, and start taking off his
pants.  He's half hard when I open his boxers and pull them down to his
knees.  I take half of his medium-sized pink cock down my throat, and give
it a muscle massage.  It swells.  I lick his balls, and lightly finger his
asshole.
	"No," he says. "I'm afraid of that."  I stop, and return to sucking
his cock.  In a couple of minutes it's red and throbbing. I reach into his
pockets (on the ground at his feet) and extract a condom, then slip it
quickly over the head of his tool and down along the shaft.  Then I smear
the rubber with lube from the tube of KY.
	I'm still naked, so I turn, spread my legs, and back up into Mike's
erection.  Reaching behind me, I guide it to my asshole. "Push," I say.
	"Won't it hurt you?"
	"Sure," I say, "but I'm a big boy now; I can take it. Push."
	It takes a little more encouragement to coax Mike's prong up mine,
but we get there. "Now fuck me," I growl.  "Surely you know how to fuck."
	That stirs him, and in a few moments he's pumping the shit out of
me. It takes him twice as long as John to get his rocks off, though.  When
he finishes, he falls on my back exhausted. For a minute I think I may have
a heart case, here.  But he's just winded.
	"That's it for tonight, Mike.  Let's hit the showers."
	I'm dressed in a flash and back down the passage to find John.
Mike takes a while longer to get himself together.  In this private moment,
I ask John if he's ever alone on duty.
	"Thursday nights," he says.
	"Meet me in my office at eleven," I say.  "We have some unfinished
business."
	He winks. "Gotcha."