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Off-Duty

By: IronButterfly13



The sun was slipping behind the western horizon when two figures, one in a jeans jacket, the other in a black leather jacket in a motorcycle cut, stepped out of JR's. The bar and grill, located in the same building as a former gay nightclub, was not usually where Chris got picked up by anyone, much less a customer. He'd merely stopped in for a good meal and to check out the newest waiters. It had come as a surprise to him, then, that a handsome stranger--from some place in Yorkshire, England, Chris guessed by the accent--offered to pay for his beer. When the stranger joined him, and no names were offered, Chris understood what the situation was to be.

Chris knew he was as much fantasy to his customers—more, probably—as he was reality to them. He did everything he could to preserve that. Some wanted him because of his vague resemblance to a certain popular actor; others wanted him because he fit a particular type they had in mind. His return customers wanted him because he was very good at what he did. He was over 21 (though he looked younger, a definite plus in a tight market like Denver). He had black hair that he kept long and neat; very dark brown eyes that he'd inherited from his feisty Irish mother were framed by soot-black lashes. He could pick and choose what clients he wanted to deal with—that was the idea behind being a small business operator, wasn't it? He looked up at the current consumer thoughtfully as they stepped into the alley behind the bar and turned to face one another.

"How much?" Dark brown hair and green eyes set in a strongly English face made Chris's heart beat a bit faster, as if the accent hadn't already done it to him.

Still wary, he flashed his most disarming smile. Cops asked "how much" sometimes; he learned that the hard way a few years ago. He licked his lips.

"Let's put it this way," Chris answered and stepped in a bit closer to the slightly taller Englishman. "It depends on what you want."

The man pressed his lips into a thin line and glanced furtively around. 'Maybe not a cop,' Chris thought and checked in his pocket for a condom. 'Or maybe a really good actor.'

"I want to fuck you," The voice was a husky whisper now and, so close, Chris could feel the heat off him. "How much?"

Chris grabbed the little blue packet from his pocket and held it up. "I don't do bareback. What's it worth to you?"

Briefly, the man was taken aback. That happened sometimes. Most of these guys's fantasies didn't involve anything so mundane as using a rubber. Chris gave him a grin, aware that his gold tooth probably glinted in the light from the setting sun. Finally, the man swallowed hard and said, "Two hundred dollars. But I have a special request."

Chris's grin widened. "Now you're talking, baby. Special requests are always welcome."

The man smiled back. The shadows fell across his face in such a way that his eyes glowed, his only distinguishing feature. For a second or two, Chris felt a chill of foreboding but he ignored it. He would have been happy with $50—he wasn't about to complain about a special request if he was being properly compensated. The customer lifted his right hand into the sunlight and Chris caught the glint of metal as the handcuff closed about his left wrist. 'Don't panic,' he told himself. 'The boy obviously just fancies a bit of role-play.'

"Um, officer, what's going on?" Chris managed to come up with. "What did I do?"

"Possession of a felonious arse," The Englishman growled. He spun Chris around and grabbed his right hand, locking that wrist into the other cuff. " . . . and begging for a good, hard fucking."

Chris was slammed into the bricks he had leaned his back on moments before. His cheek scraped the rough surface hard and he drew back. "Dammit, not the face! I can't get another job tonight if my face looks like I've gone ten rounds with Holyfield. Back off!"

Without warning, he felt the Englishman pressed against him, suffocating him slightly. The man's lips were next to his ear and his hard-on ground against his buttocks. "Who says you'll be allowed another job, mate? Maybe you won't ever need another job, hmm?"

For a few seconds, Chris was so caught up in the aroma of the man—not only the leather of the jacket he wore or the smell of peppermint and vodka on his breath but the smell of his sweat, earthy and sharp, with a tiny hint of cinnamon—that he couldn't think. When his brain finally wrested a few ounces of blood from his dick, though, he realized what the man had said. He felt something coldly metallic press against his neck, just behind his ear, and he nearly collapsed. 

"Look, man,--what's your name?" Chris didn't know if he was being too transparent but he didn't want to die in some filthy alley.

"Call me Nigel," The man said. "Just how talented are those hands of yours, whore? Can you put that condom on me without seeing what you're doing?"

"Of course," Chris didn't have a clue if he could do so or not. Worse, if he was going to die anyway, wouldn't he want this nut's cum inside him so he could be found? Chris felt a sob rise into his throat but he fought it down. "I'm better with my mouth, though. Just ask any of my clients."

"I don't think so," Nigel answered. Chris heard the plastic-coated paper of the condom-wrapper torn in two then the condom itself was slid into his hands. Chris closed his eyes trying to visualize how he was going to do this. His breath caught when he heard a zipper then, without any other word or sound, he felt the cock nudge into his hand. "Your hands are cold, mate. Make it fast. Oh, and don't drop the sheepskin. It's the only one you'll get, eh?"

Carefully, Chris took the head into his left hand and, using his right hand, began to roll the polyurethane sheath down across the shaft. His fingers slipped in the lubricant though and he swore under his breath as his heart pounded harder. Another slip and he thought he'd nearly dropped it. At that, the cold steel pressed more firmly against his neck and Nigel's free hand encircled his throat.

"Careful, mate," Chris became terribly aware of the strength and warmth of the long fingers across his windpipe. "Is this exciting, love? Your heart's beating like a sparrow's wings. 'Do I make you randy, baby?'"

For a moment, Chris was ticked. This maniac was threatening to kill him and he thought it was the perfect time to do his Austin Powers imitation? The condom finally reached the base of Nigel's cock and Chris pulled his hands away. He suppressed the urge to struggle and leaned his head back so that he could look into the Englishman's face. He put a slight leer on his mouth. "What do you think, officer? Why don't you frisk me and see for yourself?"

As if it hadn't occurred to him, Nigel's face went from cheerfully evil to pleasantly surprised then back to even more cheerfully evil. Chris rested his forehead against the brick wall and made an effort to relax. The cold steel feeling vanished from his neck as both of Nigel's hands began to explore his body.

Chris's cheek ached stiffly and he wondered if it was bleeding. He caught his breath as Nigel's hands slid around his hips to the front of his jeans. There was always that moment when the fear and the lust were pulling him in two directions, like an Old West gunfighter must have felt. It was too late to turn back but he didn't really want to. Time slowed to a crawl as the Brit's fingers undid the buttons on his fly. He gulped as his balls tightened. He had to fight for every breath now. 

When the jeans slid down, revealing his "felonious" ass, Chris shivered. He hadn't anticipated that the temperature would start dropping so quickly once the sun went down. The long fingers began to play with his privates--stroking his cock, tickling his scrotum, kneading his cheeks as he parted them. For a moment, it felt so good Chris wondered if he should consider knocking a few bucks off the price. Then the cold steel was pressed to his neck again and he decided against it. He had been too scared before to try to figure out what he was being threatened with but now he knew he had a few minutes left for certain. Whatever else it might have been, the shape was most definitely a circle. 'A gun, then,' Chris decided. 'Can't outrun a bullet but maybe he's got bad aim.'

Nigel let go of him long enough to guide the head of his member to its destination. Chris issued a shuddering sigh and pressed back a bit. His customer didn't seem to want him to struggle so, if his life was on the line here, he probably needed to be as cooperative as possible. He gasped when the dick started to slide up inside him. It felt like ice compared to the warmth of his interior, not to mention that the only lube was that on the condom itself--which was inadequate at the best of times. His own cheeks were feeling a bit frosty by now so when Nigel's hand returned to his cock, Chris was glad to feel that the Brit's palm was almost hot on his flesh. The combination of sensations sent a bubbling thrill up into Chris's stomach, especially when Nigel's piece slid across his prostate. Chris had to admit that Nigel knew what he was doing.

"How's that feel, mate?" Nigel gave a particularly pointed thrust of his hips and, for a second, Chris couldn't answer.

"Better than . . .," Chris grunted and bit his tongue. He'd started to say "a sharp stick in the eye," then decided against antagonizing an armed nut-job. "Very nice."

"Oh, you can do better than that, I'm sure," The gun was shifted so that it wasn't pressing into his neck again. "You whores all know how to talk dirty. So, come on, give me the details."

Chris had a nearly-uncontrollable urge to put his hiking boot through his customer's knee, there was such distaste and scorn in the way Nigel had said "You whores." But the gun was still in the wrong hands and he was still pretty much at the bastard's mercy. "Better, huh? All right. Come on, Daddy, you can fuck me harder than that. Ooh, I like it when you touch my dick. Want me to suck your balls, love? I bet you taste just like a peppermint stick. I ain't seen it, baby, but I bet it's all red and stripey, hmm?"

Chris cried out as fingers dug into his balls, twisting slightly as they tightened, not enough to damage but to imply the potential. "That attempt at humor is not appreciated, mate. Tell me how it feels, eh?"

"It feels," Chris paused, still a little tender from the squeeze but realizing how lucky he was that Nigel didn't seem to want to damage him permanently--Other than killing me, of course, he reminded himself. "Okay, seriously? It feels damn good. Your dick is just the right size, you know? And every so often--oh, like just then--you hit the sweet spot. And, man, I love it when a trick holds my cock or touches me at the least. I'm human, you know? So many of these johns just want to get their rocks off and go but you--you seem like you care, at least a little. And,--oh, that's the place--that makes all the difference. I--Officer, the cuffs are a little tight. If you could just loosen them a little--."

Abruptly, he was being crushed against the bricks again though Nigel was still cupping his privates so at least they weren't being scuffed up. "Now, love, how would that look, eh? A fine, upstanding constable like me turnin' a felon like you free?" Chris wriggled a bit so that he could draw a breath and said, "Not free, officer. Just loosen them a little. I swear on my Grandma's grave I won't try to do anything."

"No," Nigel began to lick at Chris's ear. After a few seconds, he seized the tiny gold earring Chris wore in his teeth and tugged lightly. "I fancy that little bauble, mate. Looks like one I have at home."

"Please, don't," Chris pressed his lips together to keep from begging more. His throat had gone dry and he swallowed hard. "So, Officer Nigel, are you going t-to let me go when you're done?"

For a moment, Nigel didn't answer as he intensified the strokes. Chris bit his lip and angled himself so that every move within him was concentrated pleasure. He grew aware after a few seconds that Nigel's lips caressed his nape, the Englishman's breath inspiring chills. Chris realized he was about to come and whimpered, afraid of what would happen next. Nigel's hand ceased its movement at that second and his voice slithered into Chris's ear.

"Not just yet, mate. I have a bit of business to take care of first, eh?" Chris cringed as he felt Nigel put a hand in his pocket to fish for something. 

He was expecting the click of a safety being taken off or the snap of a hammer being pulled back when, instead, Nigel's hand grasped his right wrist, the other hand then disappeared and he felt the handcuffs being removed. He sighed with relief as the circulation was restored to his hands. Nigel seized his wrists and placed the palms of Chris's hands deliberately on the bricks. Chris quivered as Nigel's hands inched their way down his torso and back to his privates. The blood pounded so loudly in his ears that Chris couldn't hear a thing as Nigel's hot hands returned to their positions on his cock and balls. At the same moment, Nigel resumed thrusting into him.

Seconds later, Chris dug his fingertips into the mortar and let out a soft cry, his dick firing hot spatters of cum on the wall. He heard Nigel inhale then bear down to climax furiously at the peak of his thrust. Nigel slumped into him, pressing him against the wall though his hand still protected Chris's package. 

Chris came aware a few minutes later to the sensations of gentle lips on the column of his neck below his ear. He shook with cold and spent passion. Slowly, the long fingers drew his jeans up, over his hips then buttoned the fly. Nigel's arms wrapped Chris up and pulled him even closer. "How's your face, my love?"

Chris twisted around a little to eye his boyfriend. "I'll survive but you'll pay for that little slip-up, babe. We'll be playing Roman centurion during the slave revolt tomorrow."

Nigel chuckled and turned Chris to face him, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek just below the graze. "By your command."

"You damn bet," Chris answered then, with a grin, held out his hand. "Hey, where's the money?"

Nigel shook his head then freed one hand to dig into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a wad of bills and a 3/4" socket. "What did we say?"

"Two hundred," Chris answered then picked up the socket, weighing it in hand. "Nice gun!"

Nigel's eyebrows rose. "It worked, didn't it?"

)O( 

Off Duty



I had just gotten into position on my hands and knees and my beach friend had just pushed his familiar cock into me. He'd pulled back and just begun his fucking motion—one thrust—when we heard the dreaded words:

"OK you two knock it off. You're under arrest. The rest of you...," he said to the weekly masturbators and casual onlookers, who were already scattering, "beat it!"

My partner remained six inches deep in me. I felt his dilemma. Pull out and he'd expose himself. At least this way the "evidence" was hidden.

"I said knock it off!" returning his attention to us. And with that my top yanked back, stood up and attempted to cover himself with a hand.

"You have clothes?" the officer asked.

"Yes."

"Put them on and get out of here."

"Y-Yessir!" my relieved "friend" stuttered, before abandoning me. I was still on my hands and knees. Well, one hand. The other was shielding my eyes. The cop was backlit by the morning sun. But at least he was blocking most of it. He appeared, from my lowly vantage, to be about eight feet tall. But he was more like six-one, 30-something and well built. Solid. He was one of those cops whose uniform fits him like a second skin. Not an ironed crease out of place. His right hand rested on his holstered pistol. He wore aviator's mirror shades under his cop. This guy was tough.

"You!" he said. "You have clothes?"

"Yessir. Right here," my Speedo, shorts and tank-top neatly piled atop my beach shoes. Forward of them sat my backpack.

"Put them on," he told me, with a lift of his dimpled chin. "What's in the backpack."

"Um...just some stuff."

"Hand it to me."

"Yessir."

"Anything in here that might hurt me? Sharp objects? Knives...?"

"No."

"Any drugs?"

"No sir."

"You sure?"

"No drugs." No knives, no...

The front pocket of the pack contained my wallet and keys, the main section, which the cop was now fishing through, condoms, lube and a Sesame Street thermos. The thermos belonged to my roommate Karly's ten-year-old son Itzack, who preferred being called Michael. I'd borrowed it.

"What's in the thermos?" the cop asked.

"Um...juice." That was half-true.

The cop uncapped it and sniffed. "And rum?" He poured it out in the sand. "How old are you, son?"

"22."

"Can you prove it?"

I gestured at my backpack. "My wallet's in there."

I was fully dressed—well, dressed—and standing now. And though the cop and I were about the same height, I for some reason felt about three-feet tall in comparison to him. My knees were shaking. And inside my Speedo my hole felt squishy with lubricant and phantom-full, as if whatshisname had left his cock behind. For some reason, at the tense moment, this secret sensation also bothered me. I felt like it was something else I was withholding from the police, like the spike in my fruit juice.

The cop was looking at me. And I was looking back at my miniature, distorted self in his mirror shades. He said: "I'm taking you in for indecent exposure and and public fornication. How did you get here? Car?"

At the time his locution—"I'm taking you in"—didn't strike me as odd. I had other concerns on my mind. It was only later, in light of subsequent events, that it occurred to me: he never actually said I was under arrest. So technically, I suppose, in his own warped brain, he felt he had an out.

"No, bike," I replied.

"Motorcycle?"

"Tenspeed. It's tied up over there," I said, pointing vaguely down the line of mangroves.

"Get it."

"Yessir."

After unlocking and unchaining my trusty Schwinn I pushed it along the path through the mangroves. I led, he followed.

"You're not going to try anything funny are you?" he asked.

Funny? Like jump on the bike and try to pedal away through the thick sand while you run and jump in your 500 hp supercar police cruiser? Or perhaps just shoot me in the back? That kind of funny?

"No sir," I replied meekly.

His cruiser was parked a few cars down the row and he directed me to put the kickstand down a few feet from his trunk. Then he told me to put my back to the driver's side rear door and put my wrists together and hold them out. He cuffed them.

"I'll read you your rights in the car," he said. He never did. And now I stood there wincing as my bike banged and clanked against his trunk's insides as the cop tried to squeeze it in, wondering all the while who the fuck I was going to call to bail me out. Not my parents, that's for sure. On charges of indecent exposure and public fornication? With another man?

I could call Karly, she was cool. She didn't know I was gay—well, bi—but...a latter-day hippy like Krazy Karly wouldn't care. In fact, she'd probably embrace me for it. "I'm so proud of you! For coming out!" On the other hand Karly was like me: no money. She had rich Miami Beach parents, however, and she could probably scrape the money together in a pinch...

"Get in," the cop said, opening the rear door. He climbed in up front and gunned the big V8. Another thing struck me as odd. His in-car police radio seemed to be turned off. There was no chatter. I wasn't an expert on the insides of police cars but wasn't the radio constantly crackling with 10-4's and whatnot? We were halfway across the causeway before he broke the silence, and it was not to read me my Miranda rights:

"That guy back there," he said through the steel mesh.

"Which...?"

"The one screwing you."

Yeah?

"You had condoms in your backpack but..."

"Oh. No."

"You have any diseases I need to know about?"

I need to know about? What are you, my health counselor.

"I'm healthy."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

After a pause to remove his cap—he had a full head of dark hair, in a buzz-cut—he asked:

"You go to that beach often?"

"Not anymore," I replied nonsensically.

"What?"

"I mean...I promise I won't go back there again."

He shrugged muscular shoulders. "I don't give a shit what you do. It's a free country. You just shouldn't-"

He glanced around at me. We were on the highway now, in heavy traffic. People in adjacent cars were staring at me. Look at that long-hair in the back of the police car! Drugs I bet!

"You realize ten years ago you could have been arrested for sodomy? Still can in some states. Twenty years in prison plus they castrate you. You're lucky you're not in Alabama..."

They have beaches in Alabama, I wondered? Let alone gay beaches? At any rate I was growing increasingly nauseated...

"So you say you're a regular at that beach?" the cop said, putting words in my mouth.

"Sometimes."

"And you have sex with somebody everytime you go there? You can be truthful with me. I can't arrest you for things you did in the past."

I cleared my throat. My mouth was dry. Sure wished I had that Sesame Street thermos. "Um...not every time."

"With that same guy?"

"What?"

"Is it always with that same guy? The guy today...?"

"I've had sex with him a few times, yeah."

"Always on bottom?"

"I bottom for him, yeah."

"He's older'n you. You like older guys?"

I shrugged in my handcuffs. "I'm really not all that experienced. It sorta just happened with him and me..."

"But you keep going back."

"I won't now."

"Let me ask you something," the whack-job up front said, switching gears. "I'm just curious. Does it hurt when he...?"

"He...?"

"I have this girlfriend—don't tell my wife," he laughed. "And she, sometimes she likes to poke her finger up my ass. When we're doing it you know? And I mean like, even that...I'm really tight back there, y'know? So I kinda wonder...doesn't it hurt when he...?"

"Maybe at first," I squirmed. "But you get used to it. You get stretched out, sorta."

"Oh, right." He glanced around again. We were on a straight fourlane road now. A road to nowhere, seemingly. The last westward subdivision having just flashed past. "Do you ever dildo yourself?"

"Um, yeah. Sometimes. I do myself in the shower before heading to the beach?"

"Yeah?"

"That way I'm kinda nice and ready if my friend..."

"Gotcha. I won't kid you, man," he snorted. "All this talk is making me hard. Were you ever in the military?"

"Um, sir? Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Are you really a police officer?"

He laughed. "Course I'm an officer of the law! What, you think I stole this uniform and this cruiser?"

"I hope not..."

"What?"

"I guess not."

"You KNOW not, son. Relax, you're in safe hands here."

"So where are you taking me again?" I asked, referring to the Nowhere we were now in the middle of, traveling at about 85 miles an hour.

"A safe place." That word again. "Humor me. It's my day off. I just want to have a little fun." He put his right-turn blinker on and leaned forward. "Should be getting pretty close now..."

To what? The edge of the Everglades?

He turned right. Now we were traveling down a paved but VERY narrow two-lane road flanked by tall rushes and cattails on either side. And alligators, I'm assuming. We drove about a mile before he once again turned right, onto overgrown pavement that soon petered out. A dead-end.

"They were gonna build a development out here," the cop said, yanking the column shifter up into Park. "You believe that? My brother was in on it. Lost his shirt, stupid fuck."

The cop got out and left his pinging door open. He removed his patent-leather gunbelt, thankfully, and re-emerged holding my backpack. Then he opened the rear door, my door, and said: "OK, you hot little cutey, pull your panties down and get on your hands and knees, like you were on the beach."

"On the backseat?" I asked in disbelief. Or amazement. Or something. And they weren't panties, it was a Speedo.

"Where else, son? Just be forewarned. I'm a lot bigger'n your friend on the beach." He laughed as he unzipped. "Just ask my wife. But don't worry, I'll lube it up good..."

I stared, open-mouthed. He WAS big. He had a beautiful cock. A ten on a scale of...I didn't have to ask his wife. No shower dildo could've prepared me for this, however. I rolled into submissive position—what choice did I have?—my right knee sunk into the backseat, my left suspended in midair in the footwell. It was awkward. But my cheeks were spread as wide as they would go. The cop came forward and caressed them.

"What a sweet little ass you have," he said. "Wish my fat-ass wife had an ass this cute."

He guided the lubed head of his cock to my hole. I told myself to relax. Tried to. He pushed. He was inside me. A little ways. This was the easy part.

"You OK, Kemosabe?" he asked. What did that make him, in his own whacked-out mind? The Lone Ranger? Still, I appreciated the concern...

"Fine," I replied.

He pushed deeper. God, he was big. Already I felt it deep inside my body.

"I'm halfway in," he said, doing the play-by-play. "Tell me if it starts to hurt."

I was silent. I was too busy breathing.

"You OK?"

"OK," I grimaced. It was more an expulsion of breath than an answer.

"You like this, don't you cunt?" His hands were swirling over my buttocks, my lower back. "You love being fucked."

"Y...es!" I managed.

He grasped the minimal flesh of my hips. He yanked me back. He was in. All the way. I could feel his coarse pubic hair meshed against my crack. He was in to my throat, or so it felt. I gurgled a cry. Of pain.

"Hurt, faggot?"

Open-mouthed, speechless, I nodded furiously.

He did not pull back. He remained deep in me, still in me. But at least he was still. The deep pain began to ebb. I raised a supporting hand, wiped the drool from my mouth. He pulled back, slowly. Pushed deep in me again.

"OK?"

I nodded. I was not but...I nodded.

He fucked me slowly at first, almost tenderly. Keeping his own standing body still, he worked my hips, my hole, sliding it back and forth on his shaft. I closed my eyes and tried to envision it. The conjunction, the melding of asshole and cock. The rhythm. The machine-like precision of lubricated piston and cylinder. The sparking of pleasure with each thrust, timed to his open door's obnoxious ping...

Once my cries turned from questions to simple moans he began fucking me harder. Soon enough my cheeks were slamming, slapping against his relatively fixed belly. My cries could not keep up with his frantic rhythm. And on that improbable day I experienced my first girly, entirely internal orgasm, my rectum momentarily tightening around his big cock like a fist.

"Oh! OH! Oh...," my voice rising an octave with each cry. I had never felt more effeminate than at this moment. I imagined myself in a lifted, pleated skirt, with my panties down. Fuck me, sir! PLEASE!

The cop had an odd, unique way of cumming. When he reached the point of orgasm—his—he stopped his motion in me and let his cock do all the work. It was the first time I ever experienced the throb of an ejaculating cock in me. Normally this seminal moment gets lost in the frantic friction of the experience. Did you cum?

There was no question about it in this case. I fully felt his throb, his elastic release. I imagined the bright white of his sperm shooting up my dark tunnel. Like approaching headlights in the subway. He, meanwhile, remained silent the whole time. Not a peep.

Seconds passed. He remained deep in my hole but shrinking. He exhaled. Ran his hands over my backside once again. I believe he said, "Great ass." Then he finally pulled out.

I looked behind—at his flagging cock. "Want me to suck it?"

"Why?" he asked, looking at his Casio.

"Um..."

"Get dressed. Get out. I'm late for a...," his words of disinterest drifting off into the reeds.

As I backed out of the car I grabbed—in my handcuffs—my backpack. He was unloading my bike, meanwhile.

"Would you mind?" I asked, holding my wrists out. The nametag above his white-on-black badge said: SMITH. One in a thousand...

"What? Oh. Sorry..."

After unlocking me he said: "Get going. This never happened. My wife..."

Typical fucking guy.

As he sped past me on the twolane road to Nowhere I became aware of two things: the cop's semen was leaking from my dilated hole, and by the time I got home both the seat of my Speedo and my bike's minimally cushioned saddle would be sopping sticky wet; and...where the fuck was I?

I only knew to head east. I was, what, twenty miles from home? Thirty? It was midday and the sun was beating down. I'll be exhausted by the time I get to the house, I thought. I shifted to a higher gear. Karly will Jewish-mother me when I get to the house. Assuming I don't have a blow-out and never arrive. Or expire from the heat...

"Where have you been? You look...exhausted. What happened to you?"

My mouth will be dry, parched. "Ith...a lung thorey."

"What? You need to lie down. You're delirious."

I'll nod, eyeing the coiled green garden hose. Water! Please!

"Hey, by the way. Have you seen Michael's lunchbox? Thermos I mean?"