Date: Sat, 22 Mar 2014 14:55:10 -0700 (PDT)
From: Bob Archman <bldhrymn@yahoo.com>
Subject: Catfish Finds  Old Gold 11

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

If you enjoy these stories. Please consider giving a donation to Nifty!

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."