Rattrap

“Oh yes…” Teddy shifted his arms and slipped his hand down the front of his Levi’s. He groaned as his cock thickened in appreciation. “Fuck, yes.” He unzipped and allowed his aching dick some room. Easy access was one of the reasons Teddy never wore underwear. He took a firm grip and jacked himself a few times. It would have been a lot better with some lube, but cells did not come equipped with useful supplies. There was a roll of toilet paper to clean up with, though—a small mercy. Teddy attempted to picture Sheriff Hayder on his knees and naked, taking Teddy’s cock into his mouth. Hayder had the prettiest pink lips that would look perfect wrapped around Teddy’s dick. In Teddy’s opinion, they had been designed for just that purpose.

He stroked himself slowly, letting the pleasure build. He panted and groaned, hamming it up shamelessly, hoping that the sheriff could hear from his small office on the other side of the wall. Teddy moved his hand faster, building heat and friction. His balls drew up tight against his body, then Teddy yelled as heat coursed through him and he came into his hand in a series of powerful spurts. The scent of his arousal filled the small room. There was no way that the sheriff would not know what he’d been up to the next time he opened the cell door. Teddy grinned.

“Soon. Soon I’ll be coming all over that man’s pretty face. He’ll lick my cream off his lips like it’s the best treat ever, and if he’s really good and asks nice, I might even let him come too.” Teddy hummed a happy tune. It was just a matter of time, and Teddy had patience. He’d spent hours and days on stakeouts, hidden in seedy hotel rooms, cramped vans and damp rooftops where making the wrong move could mean the difference between a successful collar and an ass reaming from his boss. Waiting out one stubborn lawman did not faze him in the least.

Teddy did a cursory clean-up then resumed his position on the bunk, legs crossed at the ankles, hands behind his head. He could have been lying on a beach, cloud watching, rather than staring at the whitewashed, cobweb-festooned ceiling of an eight by ten feet box. Without a watch or phone Teddy had no means of telling the time. Sheriff Hayder had hauled him out of The Oil Drum around mid-afternoon. After going through the all-too-familiar booking in routine, handing over the contents of his pockets and removing his belt, Teddy could have made his own way to the cells. He reckoned that one day he might get his own nameplate on the door. Hayder always put him in the same one, right at the end of the row, and it felt nice and homey.

Teddy chuckled as he recalled the expression on the sheriff’s face as he rolled Teddy’s belt to stow it away. It was his favorite. Black leather. An inch wide. The buckle fashioned in the shape of pair of handcuffs. Sheriff Hayder had very pretty eyes. His lashes were so dark it appeared as if he wore eyeliner, highlighting irises the color of the desert sky at the height of summer—intensely blue. Those eyes had widened at the sight of the buckle, though he’d recovered quickly and had tried to hide his reaction. Teddy had caught it, though. He’d been trained to see things, to be observant, and he didn’t miss a thing where Adrian Hayder was concerned.

Hayder knew that Teddy frequented The Scourge BDSM Club. He’d obviously put two and two together and made five. Teddy had no intention of disabusing him of his kinky notions. Let the sheriff think that Teddy was into the scene—it might keep him on edge, which was just where Teddy wanted him.