All Fools' Day Foolery

Finding it harder to try to move against the flow of the revelers, he turned and headed east, across the French Quarter, on Dauphine and then down the Esplanade to Frenchmen Street. At the corner of Charles and Frenchmen, a golden boy with spiked red hair accosted Kavanagh.

"Hello, gorgeous," the glittering sprite said. "Why no costume or are you a plumber going as a businessman tonight? You look like a good sport and a real bruiser. We could have good sport together. I'm in the mood for a rough fuck. No charge."

Kavanagh was sorely tested, even though the willowy red-headed young man, body covered with gold glitter, wasn't precisely his type. He even gave the young man's crotch a feel and let the man cup his package as well. The golden one whistled, with a comment on how big and ready Kavanagh was—and indeed the detective was half hard from the view of all the luscious bared man flesh he'd waded through in the French Quarter. But Kavanagh had gotten release earlier today by fucking Manny Lopez, and, although his libido said he was good to go again, his needs weren't immediate. Besides, he was saving himself for the cute waiter, Kyle, for later.

"Sorry, on the job," he muttered, as he let his suit coat open so that the young sprite could see the badge attached to his belt. The effect was immediate; the golden sprite disappeared back into the crowd, and Kavanagh, somewhat regretfully, as the offer had been a tempting one, continued onto Frenchmen's Street.

The nightclubs here were in full swing as well and he was slowed down by encountering an overabundance of men to his liking, many of them indicating liking of him as well, but eventually he made it to the brothel, where he wanted to see if Madame Zena had reappeared yet. She hadn't, and this time Sam 1 was a bit worried and asked if Kavanagh would ask for some discreet help at the police department to locate her. Kavanagh said he could, accepting a blow job from Sam 1 as just a friendly gesture.

If Kavanagh thought that the relief of a blow job would tamper his libido down after having milled through a street clogged with barely dressed and luscious young men propositioning him, he was mistaken. If he could have afforded it and wasn't saving himself for trying to be at the coffee shop on Dauphine when Kyle closed it up that evening, he would have stayed for a more testing dalliance with one of the Sams, but after zipping up and leaning down and sharing a bit of his cum with Sam 1 in a kiss, he was off again in search of a steakhouse with a free table for one.

* * * *

Caught in the swirl of the dancers spilling out of the French Quarter on Charles Street and continuing on to Frenchmen Street, Cary Ulster giggled as strong hands pulled him off the teeming street into the darkness of an alley and behind a dustbin. At last he'd found a playmate.

The strong hands belonged to a Grim Reaper costumed in a hooded black, flowing robe, masked, and carrying a machete instead of a traditional long scythe. In contrast, Cary was wearing next to nothing, gold lamé bikini briefs covered with gold glitter, arm and thigh and throat bands similarly in gold lamé, and gold sandals on his feet. His face and body were covered in gold glitter and gold glitter was brushed through his spiked red hair. A small gold purse containing the bare necessities hung from his shoulder on a long gold chain. He was quite the willowy sprite and he was on the make tonight, the last day of the festival.

He was letting loose after an afternoon and evening of fretting over the possibility of losing his job as Justice Peters' law clerk. It was a good job. It wasn't quite as lucrative as he made at night on the streets of New Orleans, but it was more assured income and the promise of a comfortable future after his cute, strawberry-red curls looks deserted him. Tonight he wanted to let loose. He wanted to be laid without the contract that usually entailed. The hedonist celebration of All Fools' Day on the streets of New Orleans provided the perfect release for him and the moments of forgetting the problems of his day. Getting laid right here in this alley was quite all right with him.

And get laid, he did, right there in the alley, behind the dustbin, backed up against a brick wall, his legs hooked on the hips of a masked Grim Reaper, who had bunched up his robe to his waist to reveal that he was naked underneath, horse hung, and in full, sheathed erection. It took less than a moment for Cary's bikini briefs to be ripped from his crotch and for his thin body to be lifted in strong arms, his channel to be forced down on the possessing cock, and for the Grim Reaper to be pumping him hard and deep, Cary crying out in passion and want. Getting under Cary's pelvis and pushing up and against the wall, the assaulter's hands went to the wall on either side of Cary's head. Hanging on for dear life, Cary let the more powerful man move his body up and down the brick wall with the strength of the thrusts of his cock. Cary arched his back against the wall, grasped the costumed assaulter's biceps with his hands, howled to the slit of sky between the close-set buildings of the alley, and reveled in just the release he had been seeking.

There was a familiarity about the man who was working his body, pushing him into the wall with his palms against the wall, trapping Cary and demonstrating his control. There was a familiar scent to him, a sense that his cock had known Cary's channel before. He was manipulating Cary's body as if they had fucked before, and Cary was going with his demands. But there had been so many man who had been there, and Cary was enjoying the rough taking too much to be analytical.

He came and so must the Grim Reaper have done, as he was pulling out of Cary and stripping the used condom off his cock and carefully depositing it in a hidden pocket of his robe. But then he held Cary there, fumbling around with something in his hand. Cary opened his eyes in surprise and shock. His mouth opened wide too in a silent scream that produced no sound.

* * * *

After a great steak at a busy restaurant on Frenchmen Street, just on the other side of the wall from where Cary Ulster was just then having his face painted in a clown mask by the Grim Reaper, Kavanagh swam upstream of a growing raucous crowd in the French Quarter to police headquarters, where he made some calls for an informal check on the whereabouts of Madame Zena and the Sam she'd taken with her. He knew that the blow job by Sam 1 hadn't come for free.

Then he sat at his desk, contemplating the puzzle he needed to unravel, before checking his supply of Trojan Magnum condoms and leaving the police station a bit before 9:00 to walk over to the coffee shop on Dauphine. The mission was to help the waiter, Kyle, close up shop—and with anything else he could convince Kyle he needed help with. It remained to be seen if Kyle really was still a virgin, as advertised, but Kavanagh didn't mind taking up the burden of finding out and then curing the young man of that problem.

Kavanagh stood momentarily on the front steps of the police department, savoring the warmth of the evening and the sounds of joyful partying in the streets. A good night to ravish a virgin, he thought, a smile on his lips.

The place was practically deserted when Kavanagh got there. Potential patrons were either out on the street getting the most they could out of the last night of the All Fools' Day festival or in their own homes, trying to avoid the raucous crowds that had taken over the streets of the French Quarter. Happily, Kyle was the only one on duty in the café. Kavanagh sat at the window, dividing his attention between the hedonist partying going on outside on the street, which had made him hard and was keeping him that way, and watching the small, blond Kyle moving about the shop, serving the few patrons present, cleaning off the tables, and tidying up behind the counter. Kyle's movements were keeping Kavanagh hard too, and the furtive looks Kyle was giving him strongly suggested that the waiter was just as aroused.

At 9:30 closing, the two of them were the last ones in the place and Kyle had done everything but turn out the lights, leave, and lock the front door. He stood there, expectantly by the light switch at the back of the shop, beside the counter and the door into the back.

"Uh, it was nice of you to stay around and keep me company tonight," Kyle said. "Guess it's time for me to close up and us to go our separate ways."

"I like it right here," Kavanagh said, coming up close to Kyle and placing a possessive hand on the young man's arm. He could feel Kyle trembling. "Why don't you close up in a different order tonight? Lock up first and then come back and turn out the lights."

"Umm. That would mean . . . I really can't—"

"I think you can, Kyle." Kavanagh reached up, cupped the back of Kyle's head, and brought his him for a kiss. The other arm went around his waist. Kyle writhed a bit and resisted the kiss at first, but slowly he gave way, relaxed in Kavanagh's embrace, and was giving as good as he was getting in the exchange of tongue swabbing in each other's mouth cavities.

"Turn out the lights and drop your pants," Kavanagh growled when they came out of the kiss.

"Please. I can't. I've never—"

"Yes, you can. You've wanted to, haven't you? You're ripe for it, and you want it from me. Turn out the lights and drop your pants. You have to do that. You have to commit to it."

"Not here. We can't . . . here," Kyle whispered. That he'd backed off from not doing it and not doing it with Kavanagh was not lost on the detective.

"Yes, here. Now. Turn off the lights and drop your pants. I'm going to fuck you here, now. I'll treat you right the first time."

With a whimper, Kyle reached over and turned off the lights. Kavanagh smiled at the sound of Kyle's belt buckle opening and his pants falling to the floor. Seconds later Kavanagh's had done the same and Kyle was whimpering and moaning louder, as Kavanagh held him close and frotted their already nearly engorged cocks together with one hand while still holding Kyle around the waist with the other.

Kavanagh indeed treated the young virgin right the first time. The randy detective had two approaches to sex: the hardened rent-boys he took immediately hard and rough; the inexperienced he took slow and methodically, building up toward their edges of tolerance. He fucked Kyle on a table near the rear of the shop, in darkness, so they couldn't be seen from the street, while the hedonist swirl of nearly unclad bodies bringing the festival to a close out on the lit street and frantically pairing off to reach their own climaxes provided the two, the experienced detective and the ripe virgin waiter, with heightened arousal.

Kyle lay on his back on a table, his arms outstretched and legs hung over Kavanagh's shoulders, bare below the waist and his shirt flared open to give play access to nipples by Kavanagh's search fingers, while Kavanagh sucked his cock and balls to a quick, moaning ejaculation. After Kyle had come Kavanagh turned his attention to opening up and preparing Kyle's passage with his fingers and tongue.

Kyle gasped, arched his back, and cried out to the ceiling, his cry drowned by the noise of the revelry out on the street, as Kavanagh slowly opened and sank into him with his sheathed cock. Kavanagh, thick and long, only entered him far enough, this first time, to reach and work Kyle's prostate to a second, explosive, groaning ejaculation. Even with Kavanagh holding back to this, Kyle was whimpering and near sobs at the stretching of the penetration, prompting Kavanagh to ask, "Too much pain? Do you want me to stop?" willing to try to do so, but not sure he could now short of a climax.

"No, please, don't stop. I need this. I want this. Oh, god, I'm coming again. I can feel it! I can feel yours too!"

Kavanagh's release of cum was punctuated with a "Shit. Oh, fuck!"

"What's the matter? Did I do something wrong?" Kyle asked. "God, that felt . . . amazing."

"No, you didn't do something fuckin' wrong," Kavanagh answered. "Equipment malfunction. The rubber split. You were feeling me come inside you, raw . . . barebacked. I wasn't supposed to do that."

"Yeah . . . I guess not. So, what . . .?"

"You really a virgin?" Kavanagh asked?

"Not anymore."

"Smart ass. Although you don't know all of what not being a virgin means yet. I'm asking if you were straight with me? This was your first taking it in the ass . . . being barebacked?"

"Yes."

"Well, no harm done then. You wouldn't have picked up anything. And I was checked in my physical before I came down here and have used rubbers since."

"Well . . . I liked it," Kyle said.

"Of course you did. But that was just a taste of it. It'll get better and better."

"You mean . . ."

"Yes, unless you run away from me."

"I can't very well run in this position," Kyle answered in a low, hoarse voice.

"No you can't."

They lay there, both panting heavily, Kavanagh crouched over Kyle's body, Kyle's ankles hooked behind Kavanagh's waist and his hands stroking Kavanagh's shoulder blades, both of them aware of the older cop, flaccid, but still all-possessing inside Kyle. Both aware too as Kavanagh engorged again.

"I'm going to turn you on the table now and fuck you doggy style."

"Yes."

"Deeper and harder. Helping you to learn to take it all. But let me know if it's too much."

"Does that mean you'll stop if I say it's too much?"

"It means I'll take it slower. It doesn't mean you're not going to take it all. Do you want me to fuck you again?"

A hesitation, but then a "Yes." This was followed, though, by a, "Do you need a new condom?"

"Why bother now? Horses and open barn doors and all. We'll both enjoy it more."

"Yeah, I guess. Oh shit, oh fuck. Yes! Yes, yes! Fuck me!"

Gentle and slow were now a thing of the past. The senses of both men focused on a band outside, on the rhythmic beating of a drum. Kavanagh's thrust moved to the beat of the drum. Bent over his back as Kyle was bent over the table, Kavanagh was arching the young man's torso back to him with one hand cupping Kyle's chin and the other fisting Kyle's wrist and pinning one of Kyle's arms to his back. Kavanagh's cock was forcing Kyle's passage walls to stretch and shimmer as it explored new depth and vigor of the stroke, keeping just barely ahead of Kyle's increased ability to accommodate him. Thrusting to the beat of the drum.

Kyle writhing under him, panting hard, nearly sobbing—but not asking Kavanagh to stop.

* * * *

The phone in the hotel room woke Kavanagh up, and he turned to reach for it and his cigarettes on the nightstand in what was still darkness preceding dawn. Encountering a prone body between him and the nightstand, though, he fumbled around long enough for the phone to stop ringing.

"Fuck," he exclaimed.

"Yes, please," a sleepy voice said, as a hand groped for his cock. He managed to reach the top of the nightstand with his hand, turned on the lamp there, and reached for his cigarettes and lighter. He lay back against the headboard, lit up, and looked down the length of his torso to where Kyle now was crouched, sucking his cock. They'd come a long way during the night. Kyle could now take most of the cock in his mouth without gagging and all the way to the hilt in his ass. He'd forever be one of the quickest graduates of Kavanagh's "Breaking In" academy.

Kavanagh smoked the cigarette down to the butt while Kyle sucked him to an erection. Then, stubbing the butt out in an ashtray on the nightstand, he pushed Kyle over on his back[ came up on his knees between Kyle's thighs; grabbed Kyle's ankles, jerking the younger man's legs apart and raising them; and pushed his knees under Kyle's buttocks. As Kyle arched his back and groaned deeply, Kavanagh thrust strongly inside him and took him quickly and vigorously, adding fresh cum to that which had been deposited in Kyle's passage repeatedly through the night.

As they had established in the coffee shop when Kavanagh's rubber had failed him, there was no reason for them not to enjoy the delights of barebacking now.

Kavanagh had just finished taking Kyle a second time for the morning a half hour later when the phone rang again. This time Kavanagh was sitting on the side of the bed, Kyle in his lap, impaled on the cock, his torso arched back toward the carpet at Kavanagh's direction and his hands gripping Kavanagh's ankles. Kavanagh was pulling the young man's channel on and off his cock. Both men were still enjoying a raw, skin-on-skin slide and the gushing of cum inside the channel. Kavanagh was steadily using more demanding positions with the fresh young waiter. He figured that by tonight, he could bind Kyle and start using toys with him.

The blast of Kavanagh's load coincided with the ring of the telephone. He picked it up after signaling with a hand on Kyle's belly that he was to stay where he was, and Kavanagh talked into the phone as he moved his hand to Kyle's cock and masturbated him to an ejaculation.

"You think you can find the corner of Charles and Frenchmen on the other side of the Quarter from you?" No other introduction, but Kavanagh recognized the voice of Leon Monroe.

"Yea," Kavanagh answered. "I was there last night."

"Where and why?"

"Felippe's Steak house. For a steak. What's this about?"

"When?"

"When what?"

"When were you there?"

"I don't know. Around eight. Why?"

"Sweet jesuzz. Well, come on down. We've got another one going . . . well, gone. Marco and Felix are already here."

"Another serial killing?"

"Yo."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." Kyle was reaching for his cock again, but Kavanagh gently pushed it away. "Can't, sorry. The job calls. If I can, I'll be there for closing again tonight."

Kavanagh's fellow detectives were gathered around a crumpled body behind a trash bin at the base of an alley wall when Kavanagh showed up. He'd gotten what had set Monroe into the wheres and whys as he walked up to the mouth of the alley and saw that the alley abutted the steakhouse he'd eaten at the previous evening, the table he'd eaten at abutting this very wall.

Felix was saying, "Just like the other three," as Kavanagh arrived. He'd had his eye on the body and the scene as he approached. Gutted like the others; clown face painted on him, like the others. Dressed—or, rather undressed—like a rent-boy. But he'd discount that because this was how a lot of guys were undressed out there the previous night, the last one of the festival. This one looked more than vaguely familiar, and Kavanagh's stomach turned over as he realized he'd both seen and talked to him the previous evening, near here.

"Not just like the others," he said.

"How so?" asked Monroe, as he got off his haunches where he'd been going through a small gold shoulder purse, presumably, Kavanagh thought, the victim's.

"He's not a blond. He's a redhead. It would be unusual for a serial killer to change his MO on something like that—not with all the young, blond rent-boys we had roaming this town last night."

"And you saw them all?" Marco asked.

Both Kavanagh and Monroe gave the detective sergeant a sharp look, but he didn't seem to be talking from any knowledge of Kavanagh's proclivities.

"I saw enough of them. And I saw this one. Live and kicking and having himself a jolly time on the street. Obviously on the make last night. Not attached when I saw him."

"And you know this how?" Felix asked.

Monroe interrupted where this conversation might have been headed. "Can you remember when and where you saw him, Mike?"

"Right over there, in the intersection. And it must have been about 8:00 p.m., just as I was coming to this steakhouse here."

"That would match with the ME's tentative time of death," Monroe said. "He said shortly after eight. It must have happened right after you saw him. And you didn't see him with anyone?"