Cali Lawyer Has Tight Grip On Crime

Well, my employers sent me to Ft. Wayne ... that's in Indiana ... to drop off some press parts. My stories were all filed and another paper ... one owned by a good friend of one of our top managers ... was about to lose some cog or widget or gasket or something. And I guess we had several spares in inventory, so it's "Errand Boy" to the rescue. I suppose FedEx or UPS just weren't quick enough options, but me and my Chevy were headin' west ... slightly west!

The drop off went great ... the press jockeys in Ft. W couldn't shake my hand fervently enough or squeeze my shoulder in a vivacious enough manner for coming to their rescue. Too bad neither of the old timers I met rocked

my rod, because the press room sure looked like it had a lot of little dark corners where a pair ... or trio ... of dudes could pass some time and some salty spunk between them!

Anyway, I was told to wait for a few minutes because the owner had something he wanted to send back with me. It was maybe five minutes before an attractive secretary or assistant came down to the press room exterior door where I was loitering and handed me two bottles of expensive-looking wine ... one plain and one affixed with an intricate bow that included a small card.

"We can't thank you enough for making the run over here," she praised with an earnest alto voice. "Our guys say we were probably looking at a breakdown in 12 hours or less." She then indicated the bottles. "The one with the bow is for Mr. Edwin at your paper ... and please tell him how much we appreciated his aid. The other bottle is for you ... my boss, Mr. Henrick, is a collector of wine so I'm sure it's something special."

"Why, thanks ... I'm just glad I ... uh, we ... could help you guys out in a pinch." She smiled and then turned to walk back the way she came. I closed the heavy door and walked into the late afternoon sunshine. It was only a short jaunt around the corner of the old newspaper building to my car. I unlocked my automobile and placed the bottles of wine carefully in my backseat, wrapping them in a heavy gym towel to keep them out of direct sunlight. Guess I'll be running the air conditioning all the way home, I mused, because I think wine gets nasty in the heat.

I pulled away from the newspaper and had maybe traveled five blocks when I noticed the vents were not putting out much cool air. I was just adjusting a few knobs and dials when I saw a warning light spring to life on my dashboard and my car started to lurch. Luckily the street I was on wasn't busy ... I got myself quickly to the curb and popped the hood.

By the time I got myself extricated from the seat belt and was rounding the front of my vehicle, a continuous gout of steam was seeping out from under the hood. I went to my trunk and found a pair of work gloves ... I have no idea why they were in there ... and put them on to protect my hands. Like a demented surgeon, I went back to the front of my car and got the hood propped up on its spindly support arm. Then I just stared ... like something would magically turn color or make a noise that told me how to fix the problem and be on my way.

Within an hour ... it was now about 5:40 p.m. ... my vehicle and I were at a car dealership garage courtesy of the corporate AAA account number I called from my cell. A studly young mechanic began talking in "enginese" about what he had deduced about my malfunctioning ride. As he continued to explain, my eyes glazed over. Bottom line ... the problem was an easy fix but one they couldn't complete until first thing the next morning. The buff technician assured me that I could be on the road by 10 a.m.

Just then, a slim, middle-aged woman stepped over and introduced herself. "I'm Lyla, a sales agent here. I heard you two talking and I think I can help out. I'm leaving for the day and there's a decent motel about a mile from here. If you like, I can call and check on vacancies, but they always have them. And if it's okay, I'll drop you off and Devin here can come by and get you in the morning when your car's ready."

I reluctantly agreed ... I was flustered and just wanted to be in my own apartment. Lyla smiled sweetly, like she understood my pain, and went back to her cubicle to contact the motel. Some 20 minutes later, she was waving goodbye to me as she pulled away from the central office of Peterson's Budget Inn, her 2010 fully-functional vehicle gleaming in the early evening sun as if mocking me and my situation. I stood there for a moment, clutching a travel bag I kept in my truck for emergencies ... soap, deodorant, shaving supplies, and a change of casual clothes ... and my laptop and camera bags which I had rescued from my car, before I went inside. A friendly hawkish man of probably 50 ... his name tag said "Hamish" ... walked me through the basics of registration and detailed the amenities offered. I was to be residing in room 7, almost to the end of the bottom floor extending to the right of the office. "Room 7's right beside the ice and vending machines," the part-time manager announced, "which is good because the restaurant down the block closes at 9." I asked Hamish about the cuisine at this place he mentioned because my stomach had started to growl on the ride over from the dealership; he sort of scowled and asked if I liked pizza. "Between you and me, you're better off grabbing a pie or a sub from one of the places that delivers." I left $20 with Hamish and he agreed to order me a medium sausage and mushroom deep-dish and call my room when it arrived. "And I'll be sure to get you a receipt." I thanked him and suggested he give the delivery person a $2 tip.

My room ... a double with two twin beds ... was very basic but cool and, at a glance, clean. I dropped my stuff on the bed nearest the door and made my way to the bathroom area. The light buzzed a little when I turned it on, illuminating a wide counter area with a sink, large mirror, and soaps and shampoos wrapped in plastic. To my right was a metal rack with several hangers for clothes and a small pile of whitish towels. A door to my left revealed a compact toilet and tub-and-shower area tiled with dingy off-white squares. I stepped in and relieved myself, then unwrapped the clear drinking glass from its protective covering and drew a cup full of cool tap water.

I took the glass to the small dinette set near the room's only window and sat gingerly in one of the fragile-looking chairs. As I sipped the water, I parted the curtains and looked out at the bleak surrounding buildings ... abandoned industrial hovels ... and the mishmash of cars parked alongside the hotel. The heavy brown curtains fell back into place when I stood and moved over to sit on the farthest bed facing my scant belongings. Sitting my glass on a marred side table, I unearthed the two thin pillows from their cage of tightly-made bedding and propped them against the headboard. I heaved my legs up onto the bed and sprawled out. Grabbing the TV remote, I turned on the bolted-down set and flipped through the channels. I spent a few moments watching bad weather pummel southeast Asia and then jumped to a campy episode of "The Nanny" ... I guess they're ALL campy ... before letting my mind go fuzzy and settling on the antics of one "SpongeBob Squarepants." I felt my eyelids drooping slightly when the shrill bleating of the room's phone startled me to instant clarity.

"Hello," I answered sheepishly.

"Front desk, sir ... your pizza and change await." There was a mixture of humor and boredom in the voice.

"I'll be right there."

It took me about two minutes to lock my room and get to the motel office. Hamish sat behind his small desk beaming. "Smells great, huh?" he declared, making his nose flare. The heady aroma of garlic and herbs had smelled glorious filling the small space.

"Hell, yeah," I answered enthusiastically. "I didn't realize how hungry I was." I started to pick up the box when I noticed Hamish's small, dark eyes focused longingly on the white cardboard container. "I appreciate you taking care of this ... uh, would you like a slice?"

Almost before my lips and tongue formed the last word, the motel worker whisked a paper plate and napkin from behind the registration desk with the flourish of a stage magician. "If it's no trouble, I'd love a small taste. My wife packed me an egg salad sandwich and an apple. She keeps forgetting that she's the only one in our family that likes egg salad." The weasel knew I was gonna offer him some, I laughed to myself.

I presented the box to him and like Julia Roberts reaching for the necklace in "Pretty Woman," Hamish reverently reached in and took a slice of steaming crust and toppings and put it on his plate. I closed the box with purpose, out of fear he'd take another. I haven't had anythig since lunch, dammit, I thought to myself, and the fucker can eat his stinky egg salad if he's that hungry. I turned to exit, but Hamish stopped me to give me my receipt and change. He also asked if I wanted to exchange my $5 for ones for the soda machine. I thanked him for his quick thinking and accepted the monetary switch.

Soon, I was back in my room with my shoes off and MTV playing videos of groups I'd never heard of on the TV screen. I ate the pizza like a desperate man enjoying his last meal. I guzzled the two Pepsis I'd purchased with equal gusto until my throat burned and my tummy felt sated. I lazily tossed the pizza box onto the nearby table, the remaining piece and a few orts of crust rattling as it landed. Now I turned my full attention to the TV to see what I could make of my evening in the Hoosier State. Fox ... maybe later ... MSNBC ... to heavy ... Cinemax ... maybe some softcore hetero porn after midnight. And like a bolt of lightning, my mind brightened as the word porn forged several connections in my apathetic brain. I sat up quickly to assemble what I needed.

First, I rummaged through my belongings and dug out my shiny silver laptop. I also delighted myself by discovering the two bottles of wine I had absentmindedly placed in my emergency duffle when I was giving my car a final check. I extracted the one meant for me and sat admiring the thick label and it's skecth of an attractive Italian villa. Spinning to the side, I then grabbed up the phone receiver. I punched "0" and waited only a few seconds.

"Front desk," came Hamish's clipped words. "how can I be of ..."

"This is the pizza guy in room 7 ... by any chance do you have a corkscrew over there I can borrow?'

A brief pause followed. "I believe there's one in one of these drawers. I can call you back when I ..."

"I'm on my way!" The phone hit the cradle with a sharp crack. Without locking my door or even putting on my shoes, I sprinted the short distance in my socks to the office. Luckily the path was graveled or I'd be throwing away a pair of tar-covered dress socks ... it was still very warm out and it was nearly 8:15 p.m. Hamish looked up just as I entered, and soon his hand followed with a slightly-tarnished version of the "kitchen aid" I requested. I crossed the room and snatched it from his hand. Hamish looked like he wanted more of a story or, at the very least, a little conversation to break up his shift, but "Thanks" was the only explanation I gave and scampered back to my room.

Once the door closed on #7, I turned the lock and engaged the security latch. Let's get this show on the road, I silently smirked and began to remove my clothes in a hasty fashion. My shirt, pants, briefs, and socks formed a pile right there by the door. Once unencumbered, I glanced down at my thickening cock and literally jumped to the bed. I switched off the television and, after only a few minutes of work, had the wine open and my water glass filled to the brim with the cloying-but-welcome intoxicant. I took a sip. Damn, my mind sang, I could get used to this stuff!

After a more substantial dreg, I pulled my laptop over and got it booted up. As my computer sought any available network connections, I continued to stroke my uncut pecker and thanked my agile mind for remembering Hamish's registration spiel ... "free wireless Internet in ALL 32 rooms!" Once connected, I turned over onto my side and arranged myself so I could manipulate the keyboard and my genitals with ease ... as well as reach the wine. I immediately went to an amateur porn site I had been frequenting for a few weeks and looked over the "Recent Vids" section. I clicked on the first one that caught my attention ... a hot Hispanic teen rimming an equally young and chiseled white guy ... and commenced to rubbing my dick lovingly. No real hurry, I thought as I began to squirm from my own touch, I've got all night!

After the vid was done ... it ended with the wiry Hispanic guy dousing the white boy's pink hole with torrents of cum ... I took a moment to read the comments. The second or third posting was from a user named "ItalianSteve8" and it was hilarious. "Now he looks like a bakery cupcake ... good enough to eat. I might have to put on a chef's hat and come over and fuck you both!" From the icon to the side of the comment I saw that ItalianSteve8 was actively online, so I clicked on the e-mail link and responded, "I've got an icing gun primed and ready, so can I come help!!" I hit the "send" tab.

I perused a few more videos, edging my tool and then backing off to keep from popping too soon. Every so often, I spit into may hand and coated my shaft with the thick wine-tinged drool. I was between sips of wine and fingertips smeared with pre-cum when I got a signal that I had a new message in my site account ... "blow322." I eagerly opened the message center and saw that the missive was from none other than ItalianSteve8.

LUVD YOUR NOTE ... I ALWAYS APPRECIATE A HELPING HAND. OR HOLE.

Shit ... my dick jumped in my hand, in serious danger of erupting. I quit touching myself, taking a huge gulp of wine and collecting my thought. My fingers danced over the keyboard of my laptop. THNX. I KNOW THIS IS KIND OF A CLICHE, BUT WHAT'S YOUR STORY? TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF. I sent the reply and hoped that my cyber pen pal wouldn't bolt.

Close to a minute later, the alert sounded to acknowledge another message. I'M A HORNY ITALIAN WITH 8 INCHES OF HUNGRY, UNCUT SPICY SAUSAGE LOOKING TO GET OFF AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE! My staff grew much harder from his lusty words than from my previous stroking. I imagined a gruff voice saying those words out loud.

With a wicked grin, I clacked out a suggestive response. I MEANT LIKE LOCATION OR OCCUPATION, BUT A HEAVY 8 WILL DO JUST FINE ... REAL FINE! And we were off and running. For probably 15 minutes, ItalianSteve8 and I exchanged all kinds of information. He gave me little snippets about being a busy lawyer on the West Coast, while I provided glimmers into the average life of a budding journalist who had lived in Ohio almost all his life. And in these playful e-mails, I also confessed to being a hungry bottom with a love of rimming and studs in jock straps. He, in turn, supplied me with graphic details about how he was a boisterous masturbator and an outrageously loud lover.

Then, ItalianSteve8 upped the ante with two simple words: WANNA CAM?!

It felt like a devil was leering up at me , telling me that I had struck gold! But since the universe is all about balance, there was also an irksome angel putting his halo in my business by reminding me of the reality of the situation. DON'T HAVE ONE. FUCK THIS CHEAP LAPTOP!! AND FUCK CHEAPASS ME FOR NOT EVER BUYING A WEBCAM!

Now, I figured this guy was gone for good. I wasn't sure if he'd send a final message before moving on to another, more assertive online dude or just not message me anymore. But I should have considered my gut and its feeling that ItalianSteve8 was a cool guy. After a brief respite, my computer flashed and I just about broke my knuckle punching the "accept" icon. WILL A PICTURE DO? This message came with an attachment, and I started stroking my cock again as it slowly downloaded. And there before me was ItalianSteve8 ... all of him! Fuck ... he was beefy with hair in all the right places lying in thick patches. His build was natural and so alluring, appearing to be about average height. His tool was what had me riveted to the screen, though. It was so painfully hard looking ... almost red with anger from needing a wet hole to punch and jab. And unlike a lot of online strokers, ItalianSteve8 showed his handsome face in his pic. But who the fuck wouldn't when they looked like that, I thought ... brooding, dark eyes and a cut jawline covered with the sexiest beard I had seen in ages. This was a man who could fuck and ... I hadn't dared to ask ... maybe occasionally GET fucked!

Looking at the pic on my laptop screen, my pud physically ached. This dude is really pushing my buttons, I thought, and he keeps upping the chip count ... what can I do to ... I jumped up, almost knocking the laptop off the bed, and grabbed the camera bag. I got out the expensive little digital jobby that the paper supplied me with and set it on AUTO. Then I adjusted a knob to a MACRO setting for capturing close-up images and started snapping photos of my dick. I took about 10 and then switched the camera over to DISPLAY to see the results of my testosterone-driven photo shoot. Two photos made me look deformed ... and small, three were so blurry that the subject matter was lost, but the rest were actually pretty sexy. I chose one that actually looked shiny from the pre-cum on my cockhead. With an audible laugh, I shut the camera off, dug out the memory card, and plugged it into the front reader port of my laptop. A few minutes later my dick-pic was on its way with a message reading, MY EDITOR SAYS THAT I SOMETIMES BURY THE LEAD OF MY STORY ... ALL I WANNA DO TONIGHT IS BURY MY COCK UP YOUR HAIRY ASSHOLE! I couldn't believe I was being so bold, but I was a little tipsy from the extravagant wine and ultrahorny from my "flirtations" with this beefy California stud.

His reply was just another pic ... this time of his hairy, filled-to-the-seams nutsack. I sent him a different cock shot from the original 10 and then hurriedly reinstalled the memory card into my camera so I could attempt some different poses. My feet ... the tattoo on my upper left arm ... I even tried to get a shot of my ass, but none of them were that great. What I didn't do ... because although I'm an okay-looking dude, I still have plenty of issues with confidence and inner-courage ... was send any shots of my face.

So ItalianSteve8 and I continued rapid-firing pics across the nation. He must either have some pics on file or he spends his off-hours in a God damn photo studio, I thought, because the images he's sending me just keep getting more and more stunning!! Most of the messages we sent were just attached images. Occasionally, he would add something like MY BALLS WANNA DROP A SALTY NUT ALL OVER YOUR HOLE AND THEN SHOVE MY SEED DEEP INSIDE, BITCH BOY!, and sometimes I would type something like YOU MAKE ME SO FUCKIN' HOT! ... or I CAN'T KEEP MY FINGERS AWAY FROM MY STEAMY MANPUSSY! Seriously ... I wrote that.

And inbetween sends and downloads, I was pumping my rod rigorously, trying to think of something to do to put this fucking tease session over the top. I riffled through my belongings looking for inspiration. I had a few condoms and a couple of packets of lube, so I tossed them on the bed. Socks ... fresh boxer briefs ... a spare belt ... cologne ... a small first aid kit ... a Mag-Lite in case of emergencies ... MAG-LITE!!

Like a gymnast, I vaulted over to the bed where my laptop purred, bringing with me the good-sized black metal flashlight and a paclet of lube. I took the camera and tried to remember how to set the DELAY TIMER mode ... I knew the mechanism could be set to wait up to 30 seconds and then take a series of five shots at two-second intervals. I clicked what I thought were the right buttons and set the camera at the bottom of the bed. Like an animal in heat, I tore open the lubricant and smeared some into my sweaty anus. One finger slowly worked the gel into my hairless crevice ... another soon joined it and I was gasping like a fish out of water. I brought myself back into focus and spread the remaining lube on the cool barrel of the six-inch flashlight. Holding it aloft like Lady Liberty and her mighty torch, I leaned down and clicked the little button on the side of the camera to activate the one-touch function I had set. A futuristic "beeping" began as the 3o seconds wound down. I went back onto my side, raising one leg up to spread open my crack and pushing my bottom out provocatively. I puressed the Mag-Lite into my rectum in a bit of a rush ... I was on a timer, you know ... and the sides of my asshole complained momentarity before letting the slick metal sheath invade my sphincter. The feeling was hot and cold, painful and delicious ... I just pumped my makeshift "toy" in and out, trying to lose myself in the sensations. The camera emitted different sounds as it took the pictures.

In rapid succession, I leaned up and hit the timer button several times, trying to shift my position slightly but always keeping my now-dripping hole facing the camera. On the third "take," I heard the modulation in sound that the camera made when snapping images but I didn't care anymore. My eyes were glued to my laptop screen where I had called up that first sexy image of ItalianSteve8, my mind overwhelmed with connecting his hairy body to the nerves firing in my anal cavity and the powerful pressure building in my balls.

It took only a few seconds to climb the mountain of passion and jump off cock first. "AAAHHHH!," I screamed. "FUCK ME, STUD ... FUCK MY TIGHT BITCH HOLE!! ... SHIT, HERE I ... AAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!" Cum rocketed from my piss slit and rained down on my stomach and closely-trimmed pubes ... maybe five or six silky spurts of babies-that-would-never-be. I was gasping from the exertion and the fact that I'm pretty much a "dribbler" ... this orgasm truly rocked me to my core.

I don't know how long I laid there in that dreamy state where your pulse slows and your dick begins to shrink. Between lolling my head from side to side and cracking the bones in my toes and ankles like a cat, I was barely aware of my surroundings. I know I trailed my hand through the drying cum and popped several coated fingers into my mouth to enjoy. I was just scooping some of the splooge on my tummy up when I noticed the computer letting me know I had a message ... maybe more than one.

Overlooking the mess on my abdomen, I sat up and started to reach for the camera. Feeling kind of drowsy and so very satisfied, I bypassed the camera and rolled my body forward to check the wine bottle. There was still about a third of the fine dark spirit left and another still-sealed drinking glass on the bathroom-area counter. I knew my first duty was to see if I had captured a suitable image to send to ItalianSteve8 as a proper "thank you" for inspiring me to such an explosive nut. But once that was done, I had to get dressed and take Hamish a glass of wine in honor of "free wireless Internet in ALL 32 rooms!"

HEADLINE: Cali Lawyer Has Tight Grip On Crime