Vin stood before the desk of his supervisor, Chief Deputy U.S. Marshall Clint Jenkins. He knew this wasn't a meeting to extol his many captures or his superior field capabilities. Deep down in his gut, he just knew."Tanner, I've got one question fer ya an' I want a straight—" His superior cleared his throat, then took a sip of coffee from a well-stained Remember The Alamo mug before continuing. "I want the truth."
Vin waited. There wasn't much else he could do.
"Are ya ... are ya a ... queer?"
"'Scuse me, sir?" Vin was shocked by the question itself, but more by the words his supervisor had chosen to use. Of course, this was Texas. But, usually "queer" was reserved for talk between drinking buddies — not for work and certainly not in a government office, a supervisor to a subordinate.
"Just answer the question. Are. You. A. Homo-sex-ual?"
He knew the chief was more than a bit of a good ol' boy, but Vin hadn't thought him filled with quite this much backwater. He wasn't sure what to say, so again he kept quiet.
The man got up and walked around his desk — practically barren except for a few folders, the coffee mug, and a desk calendar. The corner console held the yellow casing of a computer, as well as several disheveled stacks of papers interspersed with case files. Vin had no idea what the chief was planning, but his stomach was steadily inching its way south. He had a bad feeling about this whole thing — his supervisor walked right past him, not even meeting his eyes.
Behind him, Vin heard the click of the door locking and the swift, metallic rasp of the blinds being closed. That bad feeling was growing worse by the minute.
He waited for the man to return to his desk, but he didn't.
Finally, he heard, "This ain't the army, Tanner," as the man grabbed a handful of Vin's hair in a threat of painful restraint. "There ain't no Don't ask, don't tell policy here." When Vin remained silent, standing nearly at attention, the chief gave a quick yank on his slightly longer-than-regulation hair. "So tell."
"Aren't ya satisfied with my work, sir?" Vin managed to ask, trying to diffuse the tension that was nearly suffocating him.
Suddenly, the man let go of his hair and strode back to his desk, nearly throwing himself into the wooden swivel chair behind it.
"Answer the Goddamned question," he ordered in a low, threatening voice.
"It's none of yer business." Vin was sure of it. Even if this was Texas, it was still the United States of America — he still had rights, and he knew damn well what they were. "Sir."
A flush of red overcame Jenkins's skin, and Vin couldn't mistake it for anything but anger. And he had to admit to himself that it scared him. Uneasiness settled around his neck, in anticipation of the noose he expected to find there before tomorrow morning dawned. He was going to die like a mangy dog, after all — after all he'd managed to make of his life, as far as he'd come from nearly flunking out of high school, from living on the streets....
The chief pulled open one of the lower drawers of his desk and Vin could hear him rummaging inside. Then, his hand reappeared — it contained a small white envelope, which, when tossed onto the desktop, spilled out over a dozen pictures. Vin didn't have to look too closely to see they were all of him.
Every single one.
He instantly recalled the scene the top one captured: it was set inside a small, underground club over in Dallas. The alcohol wasn't watered down, the dance floor was solid, the music was infectious, and the patrons — all men — were more than fuckable. And Vin had done it all the one night he'd been there: drank, danced, and fucked.
The topmost picture was of him sucking off some guy wearing leather chaps and nothing else.
It was Vin who flushed with rage now. He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk to keep them from balling into fists. "Where in the hell did ya get these?"
The glow of anger was gone from the chief's features now, replaced by a grin of satisfaction — undoubtedly caused by Vin having lost his temper. Vin straightened, not giving the man another moment of satisfaction. But, his anger came to a simmer again when Jenkins picked up the top photo and began to study it closely.
Beneath that picture was another, equally as damning: Vin on the dance floor with another man's hand pressed firmly against his crotch, as they gyrated to the beat of a now long-forgotten song.
"Ya like yer job, Tanner?" the chief asked, not looking up from the photo still in his hand.
Vin didn't like where this line of questioning was going. It was sliding sharply along the razor's edge of sexual harassment.
"I think I'd like a demonstration."
Vin frowned. A demonstration of what, Vin wasn't sure, but he'd like to suggest close-range marksmanship, if the man would only lend him a gun. Suddenly, his superior tossed the picture across the desktop toward Vin, cutting right to the point.
"Yer obviously more talented than any of us aroun' here guessed. So...." And now the man swiveled his chair and pointed toward the floor directly in front of him. "On yer knees, boy."
"The hell I will!"
"Oh, you will, Tanner," the man ordered. "Don't think fer a moment that I couldn't get yer sorry ass fired. I might could even git the likes of ya tossed inta jail. Or would ya actually like that? A pretty boy like yerself would be awful popular behind bars." The man's sadistic grin suddenly turned into a harsh line. "On. Your. Knees. Boy."
Vin swallowed. He thought about making a break for the door, but knew he wouldn't reach it before the chief intercepted him. And, he doubted anyone would believe the story he had to tell. A well-seasoned Chief Deputy Marshall like Clint Jenkins didn't do perverted things like Vin did, like the pictures proved Vin did, and no one would believe accusations to the contrary — not accusations from a fag, anyway.
"Tanner," the man growled, and the name sounded like a slur to Vin's ears.
He hung his head and moved around the desk. He didn't know what else to do.
The man had undone his pants in the time it had taken Vin to reach him. And, when he didn't immediately kneel, Jenkins grabbed him by his shirtfront and yanked him down to his knees.
Vin hesitated. The man couldn't really want him to go through with this. It was some sort of act, some ploy to humiliate Vin, or ... something. He didn't know what, but he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed just the same.
"Like in the picture," Jenkins finally said, in that low, threatening voice, when Vin failed to make another move. Then he grabbed Vin's hair and pulled him forward, burying Vin's face in his musky crotch.
Vin fought the need to breathe. Jenkins repulsed him, right down to the odor of his sweat. But, he found himself sucking the man's dick into his mouth anyway. He'd do the guy quick — he knew how, all too well — but he wouldn't make it pleasant for him, and hopefully that would deter him from ever demanding this again. Hell, it was possible, Vin supposed, that this was all just some twisted bit of curiosity, a fantasy the chief suddenly felt he had the means to fulfill. A one shot deal, Vin hoped to God!!
He'd done a lot of things he'd rather not admit to — sucked men, fucked men, been used and tossed aside — so this really wasn't anything all that new. He still didn't like it. And there would never be enough soap in the world to wash the dirt off of him when he was finished.
Vin gripped the man's thighs, digging his fingers in deep, as he plied his tongue over his stiff penis. And he sucked, in his best imitation of a vacuum cleaner — a sensation, he knew, far too intense for all but the sadomasochists of society. Vin had his eyes open and he could see the chief's hands clenching the bare, wooden arms of the chair — his knuckles a shocking white against his weather-tanned skin.
He thought about squeezing the man's balls, knowing it would end things sooner, but he couldn't bring himself to touch the thick, wrinkly skin. He wanted as little contact with this man's flesh as possible — he'd be having nightmares about this for far too long as it was.
It had been less than three minutes when the man began to shudder — Vin had ticked off the seconds in his head as he prayed for this disgusting act to be over. He couldn't believe the names he'd been called over the years, when men like this — supposedly respectable men — sat behind their shiny desks, dreaming up desperate, pathetic, sickening fantasies to force upon others.
Vin might not know the name of every guy he'd fucked, but he'd never forced a single one.
Suddenly the man's hot, bitter fluid filled his mouth, and Vin was forced to swallow to prevent himself from gagging. The jizz slid down his throat, promptly curdling in his stomach. He was going to be sick after this; he just knew it — even if he had to make use of a well-placed finger.
Jenkins grabbed his hair, forcing Vin's mouth wide in a choked scream of pain, and then he pushed Vin away, onto his ass.
The chief quickly did up his pants, then swung his legs back under the desk, as if he'd been casually reading reports this entire time. "If I see yer face in this office a'gin this week, I'll find a way ta put ya behind bars" — his voice was soft, dismissive.
Vin was confused. But, he didn't stop to ponder the man's words. He was on his feet and rushing the door in a heartbeat. He fiddled with the knob, trying to unlock it. Relief flooded over him when it finally twisted open and he was able to fling the door wide.
In the restroom, he scrambled into the first stall, slamming the door shut behind him. He stood for a moment, his mind and his gut churning with what had just happened. Then, suddenly, he was on his knees again, this time puking up the thick, frothy, white liquid he'd only recently swallowed. But, once purged, his stomach refused to settle, clenching in dry heaves until his gut ached as much from the spasms as his throat burned from the mixture of jizz and bile.
Once he could breathe again, he flushed the evidence away, silently wishing he could flush himself with it.
"You fucking little piece of shit," he growled in silence. "You Goddamned fucking whore." Those were the worst things his shock-addled mind could think to call himself as he leaned his head against his arms, which spanned the water-filled bowl. He was sure he'd think of at least a few more appropriate names later.
Vin had managed to avoid Jenkins, as ordered, for over a week. Finally, it was the chief who sought him out."Tanner. My office. Now," was all the man had said, and Vin immediately felt sick to his stomach.
He wanted to run, but instead found his legs mechanically following his superior towards the small office; the blinds, Vin noted, were already drawn. He swallowed hard, remembering the taste of both the man's flesh and his spew from the last time. He didn't think he'd ever be able to cleanse it from his mouth.
God! Why was he doing this? Why was he walking toward this man's office, knowing with almost one-hundred percent certainty what this man intended for him? Why wasn't he standing his ground, shouting accusations to this room full of people — people he worked with every day, had worked with for a long time — people who should know him well enough to trust him, to believe his words.
Yet, when he looked around, he couldn't find a single face that wouldn't be repulsed by the photos he knew the chief could show to discredit him. Even the ones who might not care that he was gay, would care that he'd concealed it from them — in essence, lied to them — and they'd no longer believe anything he would say to them, especially not about the man who held the damning evidence.
The office door banged closed behind Vin, and he was reminded about the threat of jail. He knew the things that happened in prison — not just the rumors, either. He'd seen the end results, usually in the morgue, and he didn't want to be one of them.
The chief remained behind him, as if guarding the door, as if he knew Vin would try to run this time, for no other reason than he hadn't made the attempt to escape last time. And Vin had to admit the thought had crossed his mind. He was good at running away — it wouldn't be the first time, that was for sure. And, it would certainly end his problems here. Of course, it would also put an end to a job he liked — well, one that he liked up until last week. He knew he'd have no chance of a transfer to another district — not if Jenkins planned a reenactment of their last encounter today. And Vin knew if it happened once, it might not happen again; but if it happened twice, it would probably never stop.
Suddenly, he saw the chief's hand move past him; he flipped something onto the desk and Vin followed the motion until the object came to a rest. It was a police sketch. The description at the bottom read, Eyes: blue; Hair: dark blonde/light brown, shoulder-length; Height: medium, 5' 9" to 5'11"; Weight: medium, 140 to 170; Race: Caucasian. It also stated the man was wanted for murder.
Vin had no idea why his boss was showing him this sketch. The U.S. Marshall went after fugitive criminals, not people merely suspected of felonies. If this man had already been caught once, there would have been mug shots on that sheet of paper — and a name — not some vague sketch that could be matched to thousands of men.
But, the chief kindly explained. "Looks sorta like ya, don't it?"
Vin's stomach clenched tight and he thought he was going to vomit right onto the desk. But, as he wrapped an arm around his gut, Jenkins tossed a photograph beside the police sketch — it was a pictures of Vin, similar to the ones the chief had displayed the week before, but not one Vin specifically remembered seeing.
"Looks sorta like ya in this here picture," the man said quietly.
Vin didn't move. He couldn't let this happen.
"Do it. Just like in the picture."
But Vin didn't know how to prevent this. With that wanted poster, the chief could have him hauled off to jail right then and there. It didn't matter if he was innocent or not, if that was him in the sketch or not. He knew if Jenkins was smart enough to dig up that sketch, then he was smart enough to dig up enough circumstantial evidence to get him locked up, long enough for Vin's law-enforcement ass to be beaten and raped inside a prison. He'd be lucky if he lived long enough for a preliminary hearing to even take place.
"Now," Jenkins demanded.
How was this worse than jail? Vin suddenly thought to himself as his hands moved towards his pants, undoing first his belt and then his fly. Well, there was only one man here instead of a cellblock full. He supposed there was a bright side after all, as he pushed his pants and boxers off his hips and down his legs.
Then a hand came up between his shoulder blades, shoving him forward onto the desk. His hands slipped out from under him and his chest hit the wood hard, forcing the air from his lungs.
"Ya know the routine," he heard the man. "Spread 'em."
Vin's legs were kicked wide by hard edges of leather boots to his shins. He was splayed wide and feeling as helpless as if he'd been chained to the desk.
He heard the man spit into his hand, and Vin cringed, knowing the saliva wouldn't be enough lubrication. Then he felt wet fingers pressing between his ass cheeks, spreading the slimy moisture over his crack. He waited for the penetration, knowing it would be hard and painful, but it didn't happen. A minute later, a blue Trojan wrapper was tossed onto the desk beside his head.
"I ain't plannin' on catchin' nothin'," the man told him, but Vin knew he was the one who ought to be worrying. His last AIDS test had come back clean, but he doubted the chief had ever thought to bother. God knew what this man did, and with whom, and under what circumstances.
Vin shuddered as another wave of disgust coursed over him, then his blood turned to dust as the man grabbed firmly onto Vin's hips. He tried to breathe, but his throat was so dry. Even his eyes burned for the want of tears as the man shoved his prick forward, breaching Vin's tender hole as if he were driving home a railroad spike. Another rough drive forced a strangled cry from Vin's throat, which awarded him a swift crack against the side his skull.
"Quiet," Jenkins hissed, and Vin immediately fought the urge to yell bloody murder. After a moment of rational thought, he was glad for it. The door to the office was locked from the inside and the blinds were drawn. The chief would have enough time to arrange the evidence any way he chose before opening his door to whoever might be drawn to Vin's cries. And he knew his supervisor wasn't dumb enough not to have planned for that possibility. For all Vin knew, it might be one of the ways he had in mind of getting Vin hauled off to jail.
The next painful thrust had Vin biting his lower lip in a desperate effort to remain quiet, as he felt the sensitive ring of muscle tear.
While the assault on his ass continued, Vin tried to remember if he'd ever had a fucking this painful, this pleasure-less in his entire life. He couldn't recall a single one. No one had ever taken him with this much force and contempt, or had made him feel more disgusting and worthless for submitting.
Maybe this time he'd just stick his damn head right in the toilet and leave it there until unconsciousness wiped the memories from his mind and the pain from his body. It wasn't a bad way to go, he supposed, drowning in a public restroom — a step up from being fucked by his redneck boss, that was for certain.
Vin gripped the far edge of the desk as the man thrust into him, pressing his hips painfully into the desktop, cutting off the flow of blood to his legs in the process. He couldn't feel his feet now, but he could damn well feel this fuck tearing up his insides.
His fingers brushed against the desk's top drawer and his mind raced. If he could just open the drawer ... maybe grab a letter opener ... and ... and what? Stab the chief, in his own office, during working hours, in a government building? Yet another way to get his ass thrown behind bars, Vin realized.
Suddenly the hands on his hips tightened, bruising his pale flesh, and the man behind him convulsed, thrusting forward sharply and erratically for a moment, before simply stopping. Vin could hear him breathing hard, and felt droplets of the man's sweat splatter against his lower back. Then the man pulled out and Vin began to breathe again. He pushed himself away from the desk, away from the chief, quickly fastening up his pants, thankful that he wouldn't have the man's slimy spooge running down his legs, soaking into his pants.
His boss turned his back, and then Vin heard the odd plasticy noise of the condom being peeled off his dick. It landed in the wastebasket, before the man did up his own pants. Then Jenkins moved to his chair and sat down. He opened the top drawer and Vin caught the glint of a metal letter opener. But the chief didn't touch it — didn't even seem to take note of it. Instead, he pulled out a folder and tossed it onto the desk.
"Find him. Bring him in," was all Chief Jenkins said.
Vin reached forward, straining his arm, but not willing to take even a single step closer toward the man. He grabbed the manila folder and opened it. A new assignment — grand theft auto charges — and it would most likely take him out of town.
From over the top of the folder, Vin noticed the chief placing the incriminating photo, as well as the police sketch, back in the same desk drawer the other photos had been in last week. And that was when Vin formed his plan.
Tonight, he'd break in here and steal the photographs — praying there were no copies or negatives stored elsewhere — then he'd be off after this fugitive. Once out of town, he'd drop his resignation in the mailbox. He'd never be able to set foot in Tascosa again, but at the moment, he really didn't care. There were other towns — hell, other states — and, maybe, there might even be other chances. If not, he always had the option of dying like a mangy dog to fall back on.
~ fade ~
May 2002Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.
Characters from "The Magnificent Seven" were used without permission and this story in no way signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. The M7-ATF universe was created by Mog, and extra thanks go to her for allowing other people to play within it. The story itself and any non-Magnificent Seven characters belong to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.
Thanks to my beta reader for all of her helpful comments.