Joining The Force
By Bear Trainer
Rico knew he was fucked as soon as he heard the siren, pulling over and breaking into a full-fledged flopsweat. No way was he going to get away from this traffic stop without being hauled in. He and Joe had been toking the new stuff he had gotten from upstate all night, smoke with one fucking powerful kick to it, which naturally meant round about now, at 2 a.m., his belly ached from the enormous quantities of munchies they had consumed while sacked out in front of the tube—starting with nachos, progressing on to two full-out pepperoni pizzas, one each, and then the two of them polishing off a half-gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream like a pair of hogs. All Rico wanted to do was go home and sleep off the major buzz he had, literally lifting his belly up with hands to get in the car. And he thought he was being careful, going right on the limit, but there it was anyway, the flashing light, and Rico knew he was probably going to be sleeping off both the buzz and the binge in the holding tank downtown.
In the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of what looked like a mountain in a uniform approaching him, a tough-looking Italian cop, wearing mirror shades and carrying a big old nightstick. All the cops in town were Italian, thanks to Mafia connections and departmental politics, and they were also known for being mean sons-of-bitches, especially to Hispanics and blacks. Rico had been through this drill enough in high school, he just turned toward the wall without asking, spread his legs and stood still.
“Good man,” he heard from behind him. “That’s what I like, in my boys. Obedience.” The cop’s voice was deep and self-satisfied. He enjoyed his work.
“You been drinking, boy?”
Rico shook his head. “No, sir. Have not.”
The cop started running his hands over Rico, frisking him, but between the buzz, the full belly and the cold night air, he found himself breathing up sharply as the policeman’s rough, meaty hands grabbed his tits, fondled his belly and pinched his love handles, patting down Rico’s soft thighs and ending with a big swat on both of his cheeks. “Well, at least, y’ain’t packing. Makes my job simpler.”
Rico could smell the cop’s breath on his neck, coffee, doughnuts, cinnamon and sugar, and thinking that the frisking was over, Rico gasped when the big Italian unexpectedly shoved his hand under Rico’s shirt, grabbed a handful of bellyfat and started to laugh. “Unless you count the pounds you’ve been packing on here, big guy. But you ain’t the only one with that problem. . .”
In the half-darkness, Rico didn’t dare move but suddenly he felt a large warm sensation on his lower back and ass, puzzling at first, but then suddenly it all fell into place when he felt the big Italian erect nipples grazed his shoulder blades and fleshy moustachioed lips started whispering in his ear. “Are you?”
Rico was stiff as a board and shifted from side to side, trying to make room for his hard cock without taking his hands off the wall, all the while the fat Italian cop was pressing his bulk into him from behind. “Oh man, what do you want?” he managed to bleat out, trying to sound respectful, but knowing that this was going to be a traffic stop like none other. How did this cop know his secret, that he spent his days lusting after fat men, dreaming about something like this, hoping his his friend Joe would blimp up huge and hot just like this policeman?
The Italian’s lips brushed again against Rico’s earlobe and Rico could feel the guy lifting up Rico’s T-shirt and opening his own shirt, so their two big overfed bodies could rub each other in the night air. “I know you been doping, buddy. You stink of it. So does your car, which was wandering all over the road. So this is the deal. You get to go home if. . . .” The cop stopped and started licking Rico’s neck.
Rico moaned, involuntarily reaching behind him and feeling the huge thighs of the man who was pinning him against the wall. “If what, man?”
“If you manage to feed me enough to make me say uncle.”
“What do you mean?”
“I love to eat and the guys are always giving me shit about it. So I figure I could use a little help. You feed me enough tonight to make me full, really full, like so full I can’t move, and I won’t say nothing about what I saw. That’s the deal, big guy.”
Rico was trembling, half from fear—after all this Italian must weigh close to 400 pounds with a belly that looked like he could spend a week feeding without getting close to full capacity—but half from undeniable, pathetic lust. He found himself babbling, telling the cop he’d do anything, they’d hit every fast food joint and all-night diner in town, he’d take him home and bake him anything, they’d clean out every 7-11 from here to the border. “Sure, man, anything. I’ll feed you anything you want, as much as you want.”
“That’s ‘officer’ to you, boy.” The cop tried to sound stern, but Rico could feel the fat man start shaking from laughter, and between his own asscheeks, a huge cop dick was rubbing incessantly. For all his gruffness, he held Rico’s own soft mantits in an incessant, gentle caress, like he was used to fondling breasts from this position, and Rico started to fantasize what it would be like to under this enormous man, getting fucked, being played with and used like a gainerboy toy.
“I’ll feed you, officer. I’ll feed you. I don’t care how long it takes. Whatever. I’ll make you happy. Promise. Promise, officer.”
“Like I said, I like that in a boy. Obedience.” The cop reached around and grabbed Rico’s swollen basket, kneading it like a lump of dough. “And tonight, sweetcheeks, Officer Marullo could eat a fucking horse, so you got your work cut out for you. Hear me?”
Rico didn’t fully appreciate the size of the man until they had both gotten in the patrol car. Even with the seat thrust all the way back, Marullo had to squirm into the car back first and then carefully manage his enormous stomach around till he was facing front, his huge hairy arms reaching around that magnificent gut to reach the steering wheel. He hadn’t buttoned up his shirt, so the furry maw spilled out everywhere, arranging itself into hefty rolls of flesh, crowned on top by two mantits with dark protruding nipples. The big cop obviously got off on his size, because he never stopped rubbing himself, massaging the sides of his belly from the back to the front, occasionally letting a hand stray up to one of those big nipples and tugging on it absent-mindedly. Of course, the intimacy of the space was increased by the fact that the cop took up most of the seat, between his huge shoulders and wide butt, and even though sitting on the passenger side, Rico’s arms were occasionally grazed by the big cop’s love handles and forearms. The pungent masculinity of Marullo’s sweat filled the squad car and made Rico’s head spin.
“Need a boy like you. Have for some time.” The cop gave Rico a sweet smile laced with a subtle threat and with the same sort of absent-mindedness with which he was fondling himself, Marullo grabbed some of Rico’s flab and started playing with it. “See, they’ve got these new weight requirements at the department and the new chief thinks he’s going to get me down to 250 or some shit like that. But it ain’t gonna happen. No way. This size is my strength. Took me years of serious eating to get here and I ain’t letting some candy-ass from the academy take my strength away. But they’re making it hard.”
Rico tried to breathe regularly but found himself gasping at how turned on he was. Particularly in the semi-darkness, the sound of the officer’s voice was seductive and, still buzzed from the dope, Rico just leaned back and listened. “Always been on the 12 to 8 shift, which was great, you know. Not much happening. Plenty of time to hit the all-night places. They all know me, you know, give me what I want. It’s kind of like a contest with me for them—see who can feed Marullo best, you know. Cheesecake. Pies. Pastries. Burgers. You name it, all I used to have to do was pull up in front anywhere in town here. But that fucking prick’s got to ‘em.”
Rico shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“What I said. He got to them. Heard from the waitress down at the Empire Diner that he was going to get the health department on any or all of them if he even heard they were giving out free food to anyone in the department.”
The cop turned the ignition and pulled out onto Greebrook Road. “First they were going to put me on bike patrol, which I got the union to fight. Prickhead actually said that he thought it’d do me some good, work some of this fat off. Fuck him. But now this. Marullo’s no dummy, though. That’s where you come in.” The Italian looked incredibly handsome when he smiled, thick black moustache framing his sexy mouth. “They didn’t say nothing about giving free food away to anyone else, did they?” With a rough gesture, he yanked up Rico’s shirt and gave the young Latino’s gut a big daddypat. “So that’s the story, baby. For tonight, you’re going to be go getting my eats for me, you’re going to be my feeder, boy. Worse things I could do to keep your big old Hispanic ass out of jail, but that’s all I want for tonight. Maybe I’ll even share some o’ my food. And from the looks of you, I’d guess you’d like that, huh?” He kept patting Rico’s belly, laughing slyly under his breath while Rico squirmed on the seat.
“First stop,” Marullo announced, pulling along the side of Angelfluff Donuts. “Marie in there should have a dozen or so apple fritters and chocolate covered crullers all set in a bag. Get a coupla cups of coffee, too, while you’re at it. Lots of sugar and cream.” The butch cop licked his lips lasciviously. “I like my cream.”
Rico tried to pull his shirt down and look presentable, but he was soaked in sweat, and Marie, a very pretty middle-aged brunette, gave Rico a wink and Marullo a wave through the window as she handed over the bag and the coffees. “Shame what they are doing to that man. I don’t know what this world is coming to.”
The rich aroma of the fresh fritters and melting chocolate made Rico’s own stomach grumble and, as they pulled over to a shady spot, Marullo left the engine running but turned the lights out. “So where are them treats you got Daddy? You going to be a tease, feederboy?”
Rico’s fingers were trembling with desire as he pulled the first pastry out and lifted it up to the fatcop’s open mouth.
“That’s right, baby. That’s the way you treat your daddy, isn’t it? Make daddy happy. Give him his food. Treat him like a king. Make him fat. Make him strong.” Marullo had closed his eyes and leaned back, savoring the sweetness, rubbing his huge stomach, occasionally darting his tongue out and licking off Rico’s sugar-coated fingers, moaning and sighing as each one of the pastries went down the gullet with a bite or two. Rico couldn’t believe how easily this cop was putting away a bag of baked goods, like they were a handful of potato chips, and with a big loud slurp, Marullo knocked back most of the coffee and let out a belch. “Man, just what I needed to start myself off. You hungry, boy?”
When the cop turned his intense gaze at Rico, the young man didn’t really know how to open his mouth, and Marullo bust out laughing at the sight of him. “Hell, bubba, I ain’t going to eat you. You can say yes, you can tell your copdaddy that it turns you on, it’s OK. Believe me, I understand. I mean, look at you now, my man. You’re wearing your own extra 40 or so, aincha? Couple of years and you’re going to be a big old fatman like me. Huh? Huh?”
Marullo rooted around in the bag and took out the last chocolate cruller, wiping the end of it carefully on the bottom of the bag where the chocolate had collected and then holding it in his paw, teased Rico with it, rubbing the dripping end of it all over Rico’s mouth. “It’s OK, you can tell me you want it. You can lick it off.” The cop leaned over close to Rico and grinned. “Or you want Daddy to lick it off you?”
Almost out of his mind with excitement, Rico opened his mouth and the moment he felt the big long cruller go in, he suddenly felt his hips and buttocks start to clench, aware immediately that his cock was being stroked through his skin-tight jeans by Marullo’s expert hand and that he was being brought off almost against his will. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was full and so all he could do really was throw himself against the bulk of the near-naked cop and ride the wave of pleasure.
“That’s right. Let yourself go. Let daddy do it. You know you’ve wanted this. You know you have. Let it go, babyboy. Feed and cum. Feed—“ Marullo pushed the last bit of the pastry into Rico’s mouth—“and cum”—he pushed his whole hairy forearm between Rico’s legs, letting the youngman hump it wildly. It took a long while for Rico to catch his breath, the whole world spinning around, and the first thing he was aware of was Marullo chuckling in his ear. “Well, boy, guess you’re going to have a fun night, if you gotta cum every time you feed me. Because we got plenty of stops yet to make. Charlie at the diner has my chilidogs ready just about now, usually makes them with a couple of big fucking orders of onion rings and crispy fries. You know, those crispy fries, curls of potato, real spicy. I like them a lot, and you are going to feed them to me one by one, aincha, boy? Maybe get you to kiss each and every one of them before you put them into my hungry Italian mouth. I think I’d like that. Gesture of respect. And all that does is get me ready for the pizza Vito’s got waiting. Mmm-mmm. Hope you like big old slabs of pepperoni, ham and sausage on your double cheese Sicilian. Maybe we’ll get two tonight and see how far you get. Yeah, that’s an idea. Eat a pizza—beat the rap.” Marullo bust out laughing at the joke. “And we gotta have our milkshakes afterward. I love the way Ginny does them down there at the Tasty-Freeze. Don’t you? Aren’t you wearing a couple of those milkshakes around here, chubbyboy?” The cop dug his fingers down the back of Rico’s jeans and pinched the round tops of his asscheeks. “Yup, feels like a pair of TastyFreeze milkshakes to me. Yup, it do.”
Rico groaned and looked at the clock on the dashboard. It read 3:08 a.m. He had cum once already. His crotch was soaked. His cock was still stiff as a board, and all the first load seemed to do was make Rico even hornier. Not that Marullo seemed to mind. He wasn’t letting up one bit, in fact, he could see the big cop’s nipples and cock swell even larger with every word, his eyes glittering like headlights every time he mentioned something else he was going to eat—ice cream, pound cake, cannoli, meatball sandwich—something else he was going to feed Rico.
But Marullo caught him looking at the clock. “Hey, baby, you better relax and enjoy the ride. I got you till 8 a.m. And you know what that means, doncha? Means, it’s going to be a long fucking night.”
It was better than jail, that was for damn sure. But Rico just hoped he’d still fit into his jeans by the end of it.
Had Rico known the effect of that night, he might have opted for jail on a charge of possession, because the aftermath was far worse than a night in the drunktank and a court date. Marullo was faithful to his word and kept Rico frantically busy the whole night, running from watering hole to watering hole like his buttboy. By the end of it all, between the almost intolerable quantities of food the fat cop had eaten, the repeated forced orgasms he demanded Rico produce at random intervals throughout the night, and his constant running commentary, Rico was dropped off at his car in the dim light of the morning pretty much out of his mind with food, sex and domination. He sat, his eyes glazed, his mouth open and drooling, for at least a half hour in front of his steering wheel before he pulled himself together and drove to his apartment.
It was home that the effect of Marullo’s treatment became clear. Thinking he’d want to run into the bathroom, strip down and take a long hot shower, throw his cum-stained jeans and T-shirt reeking of grease and sweat into the washing machine and get rid of the whole sordid evening, Rico found himself instead wandering slowly into his bedroom and standing in front of the mirror, just looking at himself in a daze in the deadly quiet of his empty apartment. With his belly hanging out of his open jeans, stuffed so full of the night’s eats that his brown skin was pulled taut and shiny, his navel gaping wide, he took off his shirt and raised it to his face. Marullo’s funky thick stench was still over all it, and burying his face in this smell like an animal, sniffing, licking, snorting, Rico watched himself jerk off in the mirror, as if he were watching someone else, some overweight Latino slob with jiggly tits and fat dark uncut prick, and when he came for the fifth time in almost as many hours, he looked at his own reflection in shock, mouthing the words “Marullo” before collapsing on the bed and passing out from fatigue, pants still on, clutching the filthy T-shirt in both hands.
His sleep was fitful and disturbed by relentlessly erotic dreams—serving huge swarthy powerful men, tending to their every bodily need, giving himself over to their power, control, greed and lust—visions of his most secret, forbidden fantasies becoming irretrievably mixed with memories of the evening he had just spent. As the line between consciousness and unconsciousness became blurred, it was the next morning, a full 24 hours later, when the sharp ring of the phone in the living room finally brought him to full awareness. He stumbled out of his bedroom, realizing that he was naked somehow, though he didn’t remember undressing, acutely aware of how hungry he was.
It was Joe. “Whassup, man? Where you been? I was about to call the police. Pops is hopping mad. We got a shitload to do down here.”
Rico peered at the clock and made an attempt to sound cool. “What are you talking about? It’s only 5 o’clock in the morning. I don’t have to be at the shop for another 3 hours.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Rico? It ain’t 5 in the morning. It’s fucking five in the afternoon. You missed the whole fucking day of work!” Joe didn’t sound pissed as much as worried, clipping the words under his breath, as if Pops were in earshot of the conversation. “Oh man that’s terrible,” he then said with a false politeness and holding the phone away, Rico could hear him saying, “Yeah, Pops, he’s been in the hospital all night. Real bad case of food poisoning. Just got home.” Then back to Rico, in that intense tone of voice, Joe asked quickly, “You want me to come over? You okay? What happened?”
The magnitude of it all stunned Rico into a long silence. There was no way he could tell Joe—tell anyone—what had happened. “Nah, I’m fine. It’s just that dope we smoked really fucked me up. I just woke up.”
Joe whistled. “I’ll say it fucked you up. You better be here tomorrow, man, or I ain’t going to be able to cover for you. You sound like shit, man. You sure you don’t need me to come over? I could bring a few burgers and a six pack. Help you kick back.”
Suddenly Rico’s head was swimming again, cock erect and demanding at the mere mention of the food and the sight of a huge hairy powerful Italian copbelly covered his vision. “No, no, Joe. I’m cool. Really. I’m cool. I’ll go over my mom’s tonight, she’ll gimme dinner. Don’t worry. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
But Rico didn’t go over to his mom’s that night. Instead, he stumbled into the kitchen, pulling on his wet dick the whole time, flung open the refrigerator door and began to eat whatever he could lay his hands on. A few cartons of leftover Chinese food were there and scooping out the food with his hands he ate voraciously, the long strands of the chowmein sliding down his throat deliciously, the cold plump nuggets of chicken and pork salty and rich, and with slow long licks, he sucked every one of his greasy fingers clean and started in on the egg foo yung that was there, mechanically shoving the food in while playing with himself, the cold air of the refrigerator making his nipples stand up and beg for attention. It felt so good to binge like this, he had dreamt for years and years of finding this kind of freedom to just let go, just give himself whatever he wanted, let himself feel the full pleasure of pigging out, but the whole time he saw one man in front of him and heard only one name ringing again and again in his ears. He shuddered his way into an orgasm right there on the kitchen floor the moment he smelt the sweet cream of the coconut custard pie, and then not a minute later, having scarfed the pie down in a swift four gulps, Rico brought himself off again a second time, this time sinking to his knees weakly and mumbling a single word, at once a prayer, a complaint and a sigh: “Marullo.”
The fat Italian cop became Rico’s sole obsession that week. Every part of the huge man’s body passed repeatedly in front of Rico’s eyes—the swollen gut, the wide asscheeks, the thin-lipped butch mouth, the thick jabbing fingers, the spill of his flesh around his waist—and the sound of Marullo’s deep voice calling Rico his “feederboy,” his “chubster,” his “fatguy,” accompanied Rico wherever and whatever he did. It was so bad that Rico found himself unable to leave the house, using Joe’s spontaneous excuse of food poisoning to beg off work, one day, then the next and the next. It was food poisoning, all right, he comforted himself with this twist in the truth. Indeed, Rico couldn’t think about much else except food, except stuffing himself silly and jerking off, sometimes as many as a dozen times a day, and so by the end of the week, the jeans and T-shirt he had worn that momentous night were so encrusted with sperm that Rico wasn’t sure, even if he did wash them, that he’d ever get the smell of the obsession out of them.
The erotic fever broke around Friday afternoon, and realizing he had spent most of the week humping the bed or in front of the refrigerator, he pulled himself together enough to throw open the drapes, let a little sunlight and fresh air into his apartment, and got himself into the shower where he took a good long hot soak under the jets. Maybe he’d give Joe a call tonight and see if he could come over.
Or maybe he’d just go out to a movie by himself. Still feeling a little shaky but basically clear-headed, he toweled himself off and decided to put on his comfortable shorts and his white polo shirt. “Time to get the hell of here, give myself a little change of scenery,” he told himself, winking in the mirror.
Slipping on the huge plaid cotton Bermudas, though, he went to fasten them and with a sudden jolt realized that the buttonhole and the button were at least two inches apart, a gap filled in with a big roll of extra flab. “No fucking way. There’s just no fucking way.” Waddling hurriedly into the bathroom, he stepped on the scale and gasping at the number, he just as hurriedly jumped off, leaning against the wall. The scale read 245. Last week he had weighed in at 231.
Rico frantically tried to button the pants, sucking in his gut and pulling hard, and once buttoned breathed out only to feel the waistband bite into the reality of this week’s orgy of food and masturbation. He heard a voice in his head say, “You’re fat. You’re a fatboy. You’re my fatboy,” and the sound of it, the gruff tone, the clipped mocking words, made Rico take off the now-tiny shorts and fold them up carefully and put them away. He knew now that he was a goner. That there really was only one thing to do that night. For better or worse his fate had been decided. So he capitulated, feeling the hot rush of desire as he reached for the jeans and the T-shirt he had used all week long and would be using again tonight.
He didn’t know how long he sat there in the darkness waiting. He had spent the drive here wondering if there might be a better way, but nothing had seemed right.
He couldn’t very well just walk into the station and ask for Marullo. The phone book didn’t list him. He had thought briefly of maybe staking out the police station parking lot and following the cop home at the end of his shift, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand waiting that long. So in the end, after driving around a bit, finishing off a large bag of chocolate covered peanuts and a dozen donuts on the way, all washed down with half-and-half, his huge gut pressing against the bottom of the steering wheel, he waited till midnight rang on St. Jude’s belltower and pulled over to that spot off Greenbrook Road where it had all begun. And there he waited.
So quietly, at first, Rico wasn’t sure if it was his overheated imagination still playing tricks on him or not, he saw someone pull in behind him in the rearview mirror, headlights off, the soft crunch of the gravel the only indication it was a car. A glint of blue and red in the moonlight let Rico relax and he leaned back the way you lean back at the top of a roller coaster, knowing the inevitable plunge into excitement is at hand.
The footsteps he heard over the hum of the engine were heavy and deliberate, footsteps he had heard a thousand times that week in his mind, and as if in a trance, Rico rolled down his window.
Saying nothing but smelling rich and powerful as he had before, damp and earthy, Marullo lifted his stomach and pushed it through the open window into Rico’s eager face.
“This is what you want, isn’t it, feederboy? You dreamt of this gut, haven’t you? How many times did you come thinking about it? You want this huge powerful belly, don’t you?”
Rico made love to Marullo’s belly with his face and hands, fastening his whole mouth on the deep navel and licking it, caressing the expanse of flesh with his fingertips and palms, kneeling on the seat sideways and moaning from the pleasure of it, feeling the mass of it, the power of it, in his hands.
“Feel undernearth? Feel all that fresh fat? All soft? Feel it?” Rico ran his hands in the darkness over the tender underbelly. “That’s yours, feederboy. You put that on me. You made that flesh last week. You gonna help me again, baby? Huh? You gonna help your copdaddy get big and powerful some more.” Rico grunted a eager, “Yes, sir.”
Marullo didn’t move, thrusting his belly a bit farther into Rico’s car through the window. “Suck on it. Lick it. Come on, make your copdaddy hot, feederboy. Better than a cock, isn’t it? Bigger and more powerful than any dick you ever sucked, isn’t it, cocksucker. Huh? What are you going to feed me tonight, baby? Tell your daddy.”
“Donuts,” Rico said quickly, rubbing the sides of Marullo’s maw as if he were pulling it into his face.
“Copdaddy loves donuts. What else?” Marullo’s voice was beginning to sound a little breathless. “Pizza. Sandwiches. Cookies.” Marullo started rubbing his crotch against the door of the car. “What kind of cookies?” “Chocolate chips. Big gooey chocolate chips.”
“You thought of that all week long, didn’t you, piglet? Thought about feeding big fat Marullo soft gooey chocolate chips, making him fatter and fatter.” Rico’s car began to rock from the weight of the big cop humping his belly and cock. “You been feeding big, Rico? Getting fat? Getting fat like your copdaddy?”
Rico thrust his hand down his pants and began to pull on himself. “Yes, sir. Want to get fat. Want to get huge. I want to be daddy. Big daddy.” Rubbing his face back and forth on Marullo’s stomach, he could feel little rivulets of the cop’s sweat coat his eyelids and lips. With his tongue he licked off the perspiration, kissing the matted fur of Marullo’s gut which was beginning to shake faster and faster.
“I’m going to get you fat, Ricoboy. Show what it’s like to be a man, big man, powerful man. Worship my fat gut, feederboy. You sat here waiting for it. Take it. Make love to it. Show me. Come on,” and with a final huge thrust, Marullo crammed his hands through the window and pulled Rico face first into the sea of his bellyfat. Rico couldn’t breathe, his mouth and nose covered with Marullo’s gut, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he did suffocate. He wanted to pass out. Lose consciousness. Fall into this cop’s enormous stomach head first and never come out. Head swimming and eyes closed, he felt himself start spurt hot jets of cum into his own hands, abandoning himself fully to the moment.
Locked like this for a long time, Rico’s face buried in Marullo’s stomach, the fat cop took his time, slowing down his thrusts against the side of the car now that he had cum, grunting in deep satisfaction. Then, in a flash, Rico found himself falling out of the car and into Marullo’s arms, as the cop unexpectedly opened the car door.
“Oof! You’re a chunka meat these days, chubbyboy. Been packing on the pounds, I see,” Marullo chuckled goodnaturedly, picking up Rico under his arms like he was a doll and setting the poor, spent Latino guy on his feet in front of him. “How long you been waiting for me here?” As he spoke, Marullo’s hands wandered over Rico’s big soft body as if he owned him, and Rico offered no resistance. “I dunno. An hour or so, I guess,” Rico said sheepishly, looking down.
“Had to have some more, didn’t you?” Marullo’s voice was sharp but comic, and he punctuated his comment by grabbing Rico by the love handles. “Look at me, boy. Had to get some more, didn’t you? Some more fatman?”
Rico looked up into Marullo’s eyes from under his eyelashes. The cop was smiling jauntily, and his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “I did, sir. Yes, sir.”
“So are you signing on?”
Rico looked confused. “Signing on?”
“To the department. Signing on. You know, as a rookie. I told everyone this week I was recruiting this Latino kid.” Marullo started twiddling Rico’s tits, holding them by the meaty nipples and just gently jiggling them, teasing the young man breathless. Rico tried to tell if Marullo was serious. “You’re shitting me. No way.”
“Some mouth on you, feederboy. That the way you talk to your departmental sponsor?” The cop popped a big thumb in Rico’s mouth and stroked Rico’s tongue inside. “Suck on that and maybe you won’t swear so much. I’m not kidding you, nah. I thought it was a good idea. What do you got anyway, some shit job down at that machine shop on Broad Street. And you proved yourself quite an excellent partner last night and tonight. I thought it was a great idea. Problem is, I think you are a bit too overweight for the job. Specially after the way you been porking out this week. But I thought maybe I could take charge of your training, you know, watch your weight and your diet for you. What do you say?”
Rico still couldn’t tell whether Marullo was kidding or not, but with the cop’s thumb in his mouth, his belly pinning him against the side of the car, he was at a loss for words.
“Tell you what, feederboy. Why don’t you take some time to think about it? Wouldn’t want to jump into anything like this too suddenly. And besides, me and my buddies gotta still take care of that ballbusting chief, but we have a plan for that mother, forget about it. So how ‘bout this? We’ll call tonight your first official ride-along, you check it out, see if you want to be a cop, training’d be a snap for a big strong guy like you, especially with me standing over you, giving you the motivation and the know-how.” Marullo poked Rico in the belly and laughed. “I got know-how. Man, I got nothing but know-how, look at me, huh.” He took his thumb out of Rico’s mouth and licked it off with his own tongue. “Love the taste of fatboys. Hmmm, hmmm. Anyway, meanwhile, Marie’s going to be wondering what the fuck happened to me. You up for two dozen fritters tonight?”
The cop turned and walked toward the patrol car, his tremendous buttocks shifting seductively in the skintight blue serge, before looking over his shoulder. “I ordered two dozen because I had a feeling you’d be here. Come on, rookie. You got some police work ahead of you tonight.”
The sight of Marullo there, enormous, cocky, and confident, was so hot, that Rico didn’t even think before he took a couple of gulps and began to walk toward his seat on the right side of the squad car.
“Yup, that’s what I like. Obedience. And a healthy appetite.” Marullo crammed himself into the front seat and reached over to flip open the door for Rico, his big soft mantits hanging down as the cop looked up. “Get in, feederboy. Fasten your seat belt and meet your destiny.”
. . .
It took Joe about a minute to take in the sight of him—after all he hadn’t seen him for nearly a week and a half—but when he did, his eyes grew wide and he let out a long involuntary whistle, like a bomb was falling. “Holy shit, Rico. Look the gut on you! Who the fuck knocked you up?”
Marullo had discreetly dropped Rico off about two blocks down the street from the machine shop that Monday morning, and by the time Rico waddled into the back door of the shop, once loose cotton shorts now slung under his swollen belly, shirt riding up in front and back no matter how he pulled it down and tried to tuck it in, the aroma of sausage-egg-muffin andwiches and lemon poppyseed poundcake from Nina’s Country Kitchen still on his breath, Rico felt himself go red in the face, looking up at Joe sheepishly, wearing an idiotic grin.
“You musta put on 20 pounds in the last two weeks, bud! How the hell are you going to sell Pops on the idea you had stomach troubles?” Joe had always been in excellent shape, a wiry soccer player who could eat anything and never gain an ounce, so he patted Rico’s stomach in disbelief, cocking his eyes toward the boss’s door. “You look you are carrying twins, man. What have you been doing?”
Rico gulped, not knowing quite what to say. He hadn’t been home since Friday night and the truth was that the last 72 hours had been almost equaly divided between nonstop feedings during Marullo’s midnight-to-dawn shifts and nonstop sex play at the cop’s house afterward, ferrying the big Italian his eats in bed after having he had taken his sweet time using every part of Rico’s body two and three times over until the now fat young man could only babble with pleasure. His mind was still filled with visions of what it was like to be laid on his belly and mounted by a man nearly twice his size, opening his mouth to moan only to have that mouth filled with some sweet treat—a malted milk ball, a peanut butter cup, a wedge of baklava. He still felt Marullo’s hands slapping his butt when they’d pull up in front of the next place and he hop out to get the next course—lasagne sloppy with sauce from Donato’s place, cheesesteaks from Philly Dreams, pepperoni-stuffed pretzels from the backdoor of the bakery on Front Street. Rico’s lips were now permanently held in a kind of pout, pooched out slightly and loose from suckling at his Italian cop lover’s enormous and insatiable nipples, first one then the other and then back again for hours at a time while Marullo stroked his head and murmured, “What a good tittyslave, what a good tittyslave” in his ear, until Marullo couldn’t hold back another second and grunted out another load onto Rico’s jiggling, sweaty belly.
None of it, of course, was anything Rico was about to tell Joe or anyone. So he shifted his weight back and forth and decided to stick to the truth. “What have I been doing? I’ve been thinking over my life, that’s what. And there are going to be some big changes, Joe.”
“Big changes ain’t the word, man.” Joe poked Rico’s underbelly with three short jabs. “This ain’t just big. You’re a goddamn blimp.” And he kept poking until finally, Rico got pissed.
Using his new bulk the way he had seen Marullo use it over the last few weeks, Rico didn’t think twice but, still wearing a frozen smile, he belly-bumped a very surprised Joe back, pinned the little guy against the desk and growled slowly. “Like I said, buddy, there’s going to be some changes made.”
It was Joe’s turn to gulp. “All right, all right, man. Shit, I’m just riding you. Lighten up. Whassup?”
Rico took a careful step back and gave Joe a stern look. “I’m joining the police department. Put my application in today after work. I’m giving Pops two weeks notice.”
Looking as if he were about to make a snide comment, Joe cast a long look over the new and substantially larger Rico Rodriguez in front of him and reconsidered saying what he was going to say. “So is this like, I don’t know, man, like part of your training or something? Bulking up? I don’t know. Lemme see what you been up to.” Joe tested out Rico’s arms, barely able to get his hands around the biceps, threw a couple of soft punches on the tops of Rico’s broad thighs, and when he patted Rico’s belly this time, it was with less mockery and more respect.
“That’s right. You got it. I’m bulking up.” Rico was quietly relieved at Joe providing an explanation. “So watch your step.”
“I can’t believe it, Rico. You, on the police force. It’s like nothing but fat Italians. Is this some diversity shit or something? You sure they’ll take you?”
Rico could hardly believe what he was saying himself, hearing Marullo in his head as he said it. “Face it, Joe. This job is nowhere. I need to do something with my life. The department would train me. I’ll make good money. I’m a hometown boy. I know everyone. Trust me. They’ll take me. I got my sources.”
Joe stared at Rico’s gut a little bit more, as if he were evaluating it, and then he laughed. “Well, man, if that’s what’s going on, then you better get busy eating and working out some more, because those Italian guys have got it way over you. You ever see the size of them. You look like a toothpick compared to some of those fat slobs—I mean, big bruisers.” Joe licked his lips. “Who would have thought, man? I’m like totally shocked. But, hell, anything I can do to help. Train you. Feed you. You eat breakfast, Rico? I can go get you something down the corner, if you want. Don’t want to get on the wrong side of the law, you know what I mean, buddy? We go way back, don’t we? So you just tell Joey what he can do to help you.” Joe put his arm around Rico’s shoulders, barely reaching the other side. “You got it, homes?”
Rico laughed. “Hey, I don’t got my badge yet. You don’t have to start sucking up to me till then. Got it, civilian?”
. . .
Pops took it well, not looking especially surprised at either Rico’s sudden expansion or his plans, but then again nothing shocked Pops anymore. The old man flicked the end of his cigarette against the ashtray and told Rico that he didn’t have to give notice. He could keep on here till he got settled, if he needed the money, but with his new self-confidence, Rico told him that if everything went according to plan, he would need to keep the next few months clear of commitments.
At about four, that day, though, there was a honk outside the shop, and sure enough, there was Marullo, with his mirror shades on and all of his hairy body spilling out of a white polo shirt and plaid Bermudas, driving his own car, a beat-up beige Valiant. “Hey, bigguy. Hop in. You gotta meet the compari.”
Pops gave Rico the heads-up and Rico hopped in the car. “What do you mean?” “I mean, you gotta meet the guys. We got a planning meeting. Thought you should come along since we might need your help” Marullo wedged his big paw between Rico’s spreading thighs and pinched the flesh affectionately. “Hope you haven’t eaten dinner. I meet up with Angelo and Dom when they get off dayshift at 5, we eat dinner together, then I sit around Rosie’s till I gotta go in at midnight. You might as well start getting into the swing of things, because it’s gonna be the two of them training you, most probably.”
“Training me?”
“Oh yeah. Angelo’s in charge of the physical training of the new recruits, kind of takes care of the little departmental gym we got. He’s second in line after that prick of a chief, which is something that’s gonna come in handy real soon, you’ll hear.
Anyway, he used to be a pro bodybuilder so we just hand all the new boys over to him. Dom? Well, Dom’s kind of like me, not too ambitious, likes his pleasures. But most of all, takes care of his friends. And since we all grew up together here, well, it’s going to be up to us to resolve this situation with the chief.” Marullo reached to the back seat and plopped a big bag of cheese puffs on Rico’s lap. “Thought maybe you could use a little something to whet your appetite. So this is kind of a planning meeting, you might call it. Dig in, baby,” he said, ripping open the bag of snacks for Rico while driving and cramming a handful of them in his own mouth. “You’re playing with the big boys now.”
Rosie’s was still pretty empty when the two of them walked in, but the bartender gave Marullo a big wave and the waitress, a middle-aged lady with too much make-up, patted Marullo on the back once they sat down at the table near the kitchen, and said, “Beer, no beer? You gotta work, beautiful?”
“Nope, Donna. Gotta work.” Marullo said, taking off his glasses and raising his eyebrows.
“Gotcha, doll. So the regular, then? Two scoops or three.”
The cop rubbed his stomach like he was taking stock. “Make it three. We guys got our work cut out for us. And bring one for my new partner here.” With a gesture, he introduced the two of them. “Rico, this is Donna, queen of the Rosie’s Rootbeer Rumble.”
Donna smiled and leaned over Marullo’s big shoulder. “Pleased to meet you. Just don’t let this guy run your life. He can be a handful.” And to illustrate she grabbed a healthy chunk of Marullo’s gut and laughed.
“I owe that all to Rosie’s,” the cop said.
“Yeah, us and the rest of the joints in town you are eating out of house and home,” Donna said good-naturedly, walking away to the kitchen. “You’re an animal, Vin. A fucking animal.”
Not knowing what to expect, Rico started to put away the root-beer-and-ice cream floats Donna brought the two of them, high towers of whipped cream reaching eye level on the table, but then Rico felt himself get dizzy when Angelo and Dom finally showed up, walking through the double doors of Rosie’s with the sun behind them, casting long shadows on the floor as they lumbered up to the table.
“Yo, guys. What took you? Me and Rico were about to order another float.”
Dom looked at Angelo and raised his eyebrows. “I was waiting for him. Now that he’s lieutenant, he’s Mr. Gotta-Dot-Every-I-and-Cross-Every-T. Couldn’t get him out of there.” The chair next to Rico groaned as Dom sat down on it, all 325 or so pounds of him heaped up in rolls under a tight blue uniform. “You Rico?”
Rico nodded. “Yup, that’s me.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said with a tired smile, his big hairy hand rough and damp as he shook Rico’s. “Vinnie says you’re coming aboard, huh?”
“Hope to,” Rico said, slurping the last of bit of liquid chocolate ice cream from the bottom of the glass, and looking up at Angelo who stood on the other side. If Rico thought Marullo was magnificent, Angelo was like a dream come true. About 6’5” and built like a brick shithouse on top which the years of unrestrained self-indulgence had piled on plenty of poundage, Angelo had a pair of piercing blue eyes and jet black curly hair. He stood, huge and handsome, with his hands on his hips, and made no bones about the way he was looking Rico up and down. Rico tried not to gasp as his future trainer took his hand in a handshake and pulled him on to his feet for an impromptu inspection, poking here and there, making Rico flex his arms and legs, ending with the same kind of hard swat on the ass that Rico was getting used to from Marullo.
“Hey, Vin. Good work. The kid’s got potential.” Angelo patted Rico’s face. “I can work with you. Still kind of scrawny, you know. But after a month or two with me at the gym and the training table, you’ll hit the three-figure cut-off.” Angelo pushed
Rico down into his chair and waved for Donna to start bringing them the food.
“Three-figure cut-off?” Rico asked, watching the plates of antipasto and garlic bread start arriving.
Marullo chuckled. “Yeah, time was in the department you weren’t considered strong enough for the job unless you weighed 300.”
Angelo nodded, pulling off a hunk of the butter-soaked loaf and stuffing it full of cheese and salami. “Time was, yeah. Which is what we’re going to talk about, right, ragazzi?”
“That’s right,” Dom jerked open his belt and unbuttoned his shirt which threatened to split right down the seams every time he leaned forward to grab another plateful of mortadella. “And it’s my plan, don’t forget it.”
“Your plan?” Marullo dipped half a loaf of garlic bread in the bowl of marinara sauce next to him and opened wide. “Ain’t gonna be none of us on the force till we get that prick out of the way. So what’s the deal?”
“There’s where you come in, bubba. You play basketball?” Angelo dumped back a glass of wine and poured himself another, filling Rico’s glass full. Rico looked at the out-of-shape jock tentatively, as Marullo reached across and started piling Rico’s plate full of roasted peppers, provolone and calamari salad.
“Yeah, sure. You know, pick-up games. Wasn’t on the team if that’s what you mean.”
Angelo tweaked Rico’s lovehandles. “With your build you look more like the wrestling type anyway. What you weigh in at these days?”
Once he was would have cringed at the thought of being so overweight, but by now, Rico was getting used to the astronomical figures and in this company, saying “262” was practically a mark of shame. He got busy tucking away the plateful Marullo had set in front of him.
“Hey, 262 ain’t bad. It’s kinda good, actually. We can’t make it look too obvious, you know. Plus, you not being in the department yet and all. On top of you being a Rican makes it all perfect. Just perfect.”
Dom chuckled and waved his fork at Donna across the room. “What are you doing? Trying to starve us. Bring us another round.”
And Rico could see the three Italian cops look at each other, mouths crammed full of food and he knew something was up.
“I don’t get it. What are you going to do?” Marullo grabbed Rico’s chubby cheek and twisted it affectionately. “Angelo will fill you in tonight when you start training.”
Rico swallowed his wine quickly and took a long look at the gorgeous Angelo’s beefy mantits and chunky on the other side of him. “Training?”
“That’s right, brother. Training.” Angelo’s hand was heavy on the middle of Rico’s back, each one of his fingers the size of a sausgae. “Eat big, think big. You pass the test tonight and you’ll find out what’s up, all right. Don’t you worry.”
Donna showed up with another two platters of meat, cheese and garlic bread and tapping her foot between Angelo and Dom, asked, “So what’s it going to be, fatboys? We got spaghetti and meatballs, eggplant parm, veal scaloppine and braciole. One of everything? You want we should get busy on it in the kitchen, or you just all going to sit here and gas all night like usual?”
Marullo laughed. “Welll, sure, Donna honey. One of everything for us. But two of everything for the kid.”
She leaned forward and shook her head at Rico, smiling wickedly. “You are getting into a bad crowd, boy. There ain’t gonna be no hope for you when they’re through with ya.”
Three hours later, with Marullo and Dom stuffed so full and leaning back so far that piling in the last few spoonfuls of spumoni meant peering over their bellies and stabbing blindly at the table with their spoons in an attempt to find the bowls, Rico looked over his own engorged stomach at the vast wasteland of empty plates, silverware and napkins they had used, his head swimming as he contemplated the quantity of food the four of them had managed to consume. It was staggering sight to him—he had seen his whole extended family eat far less at Thanksgiving than what was obviously just an ordinary, everyday Friday night meal for these cops—and the fact that Angelo beside him let out a contented belch under his breath while picking casually at his teeth drove the point home. Indeed, Rico wasn’t sure if the big cop was kidding when he jauntily said, “Well, Rico, ready to hit the weights? I mean, that is, if you ain’t gonna finish that tiramisu you got there.”
“No way, man. I can’t move. No way I can work out.”
Angelo put a heavy hand on the back of Rico’s neck and he could feel the guy’s strength. “I said, are you ready to hit the weights? All this, beautiful, was just fuel for that work-out I promised you. And besides—“ Angelo winked conspiratorially at Marullo, “You and me, we got business to take care of. Vinnie, there, he’s just going to keep picking at his dessert, ain’t you, Vin?”
Marullo caught Rico’s eye and nodded. “My friend Angelo will take care of you good, I promise. You want to help me out, don’t you, boy?” The question had a mixture of affection and threat behind it. “Trust me, Angelo knows what he’s doing, don’t you, Angelo? They don’t call him the Fixer for nothin’”
Rico struggled to get to his feet but his gut was so swollen and his clothes so tight, he had to rock back and forth a few times to get up the momentum. Angelo threw him a paw and yanked him up. “Man, we gotta get your capacity up, Rico. Few little pieces of garlic bread and a bit of pasta and look at you. You’re as bad as Dom there.”
Dom just sat and rubbed his belly like it was his best and only friend in the world, thumping it now and then the way you pat a dog. “Hey, fuck you, Angelo. We ain’t all big tough jocks like you.”
“You’ll be thanking me for saving your fat asses tomorrow, don’t you worry. Thanking me and Ricky here. Come on, stud. You gotta show me what you got.”
And with that, Rico was ushered out of the restaurant, with Marullo and Dom chuckling behind them.
As soon as they got in the locker room, Angelo threw Rico a ridiculously small pair of grey cotton stretch shorts with the department logo on them. “Here. Put them on. They’re gonna be tight, I know, but I don’t put up with no whining. I gotta reason for everything I do, you hear me.”
Rico gratefully climbed out of his shorts and T-shirt under the watchful eye of the overfed jock, getting at least a few moments of relief from the confines of the clothes. “Shit, that feels good. Feels like I might even be able to start digesting all what I ate. You don’t eat like that every night?”
Angelo didn’t take his gaze away from Rico, carefully studying the young Latino’s body as he stripped, and Rico could feel his trainer’s interest in every curve, bulge, shake and jiggle. He turned around to pull his underwear off, and Angelo laughed behind him. “Now that’s what I call a pair of cheeks. Rico, you can bet we are going to be doing some serious lower body training, with your thighs and ass big as they are before I get you doing squats and leg presses. Wooee! Marullo sure do know how to pick ‘em, don’t he!”
Rico took a few second to wiggle into the shorts, at first trying to pull the waistband over his glutted underbelly but eventually giving up and just let it rest slung undernearth. Angelo smiled, “Yeah, that’s it. Don’t fucking bother. You got a gut, guy. Show it off. I mean look at me,” and he pulled up his own white polo shirt to show Rico a hairy ballbelly jutting out far over the waistband of his own work-out pants. “You get used to it. That’s why I give you these. Figure you might as well get used to being the size you are gonna be.”
Rico shifted awkwardly back and forth, feeling his big brown nipples grow hard in the slightly cool air of the lockeroom. “And a shirt?”
Angelo strode past him and gave Rico a tweak on the left tit. “Nah, no shirts here. You’re among men. Come on. Let’s go, cupcake.”
The departmental gym was really just a small room full of free weights, a few benches, and a couple of Nautilus machines, but it looked bigger because the walls were all mirrors. In the corner was a couple of old exercise bikes and a treadmill, and the air was hot and humid, lacking any ventilation except a lazy ceiling fan.
Angelo took off his own shirt, revealing a beautiful broad chest covered in thick dark hair which wound down and over the expanse of his stomach, and his square, big-bellied powerlifter build of his reminded Rico of the guys in the various strongman contests on ESPN he had sometimes jerked off to. He patted the bench where he wanted Rico to start.
“Let’s see what you can press. Meanwhile, I’m going to fill you in and what’s gonna go down tomorrow.”
Rico obediently laid down on the bench, while the Italian loaded up an Olympic bar with a pair of 45’s, his crotch and belly hovering tantalizingly over Rico’s red face. He lifted the bar and started pumping out the reps as Angelo counted.
“The deal is this. The chief has it in for Marullo and Dom. He’s a real fucking asshole about it, too. Just hates fat guys. I mean, like hates them. He’s not from round here, only got appointed because he he blew the mayor or some shit like that. They brough him from the big city brought in two years ago to ‘bring the department into the 90’s.’ At least that was the jive-ass talk they gave us at the time. Real tight-ass German guy. Richter is his name, and believe me it’s been a disaster. He’s pissing everyone off. Come on, Rico, that’s three, keep it steady. He don’t fuck with me because he considers me a jock, like himself—he was some minor league baseball player before he went into law enforcement, thinks he’s a real tough stud. Plus I got job security as an administrator, so he can’t touch me, but he thinks Marullo and Dom are big lazy fucks and he wants them out. Five, six, good job, boy. Don’t slow down. Thing is, Vinnie and Dom are lazy fucks, but they are good guys and they do their job and they been doing it for years just fine.
Besides, a friend’s a friend, and we all grew up together. ‘Course, Richter, don’t know this, don’t know how far back we three go, but that’s cool because we can use that. Anyway, lately, he started to really go after Marullo and Dom, and they’ve been fighting it with the union and all, so far so good, but Richter is just not going to let up. So this is what we are going to do. Let’s go, lemme see twelve, twelve nice ones. . . .”
Angelo gently put his fingers under the bar as Rico grunted out the last rep, staring straight up into Angelo’s deep furry armpits and bulging crotch for inspiration. Of course, the side effect of such inspiration was that he was getting hard, a difficult secret to keep in these shorts that were practically painted on him, but between his stuffed stomach, the seductive sound of Angelo’s voice and the quiet of the gym, Rico realized not a whole lot was going to be kept secret anyway between them all. So he just laid back and enjoyed the erection.
“No resting. I got check out whether I’m right about you Puerto Ricans. Come on, let’s go. Shoulder presses. I want to see 15 of these puppies. You can do it. Big boy like you. No problem”
Rico had to spread his thighs wide to sit at the end of the bench, and the sight of himself spilling out all over in the mirror in front of him, cock wedged stiff into the shorts under his gut, with big Angelo looming over him handing him the 75-pound barbell made him break out into a profuse sweat. He started pumping out the reps slowly, never taking his eyes off Angelo in the mirror behind him
“So anyway. The chief hurt himself last year in a skiing accident. He was out for almot three months on disability. Somehow he really fucked up his right ankle and knee, and well, he had to spend a good part of it doing nothing but laying in bed.
So what happens? Hey, Rico, watch the form. I don’t like sloppy form. That’s right, seven, eight.” Angelo pressed himself full up against Rico’s back, straddling the bench behind him, lifting Rico’s elbows gently with every rep.
“You know what happened, of course. Good old Richter put on a few pounds, not a lot, about 20 or so, maybe. Got himself a bit of a belly going, so naturally that just makes him hate Marullo and Dom even more. He’s vain fuck, what can you say?
Anyway, he’s been back to work now about nine months, lost the belly, but he ain’t letting up. He’s a fucking Nazi, all them Germans, got this intense fucking attitude.
What’s he start doing now? He’s trying to get the regs changed to make officers either ‘shape up or ship out.’ That’s the way he says it. Didn’t take me long to figure out that if we’re going to get back to normal here, we gotta go to plan B and take care of this guy once and for all.”
Rico pumped out the last rep, breathing hard and jumping a little, as he felt the Italian run his hands all over Rico’s torso, back and shoulders. “Man, you are a sweaty mother. Marullo wasn’t kidding.”
Rico didn’t know what to do—whether to turn and throw himself at this big fat jock-trainer behind him, which is what he wanted to do, or maybe just let Angelo himself make the first move. His tits were so hard from excitement, they felt like headlights blinking in the stuffy hot air of this small gym.
Angelo swung himself off the bench and gave Rico a friendly slap, reading the young man’s mind. “Don’t get no ideas, Rico. I know about you and Marullo, and I ain’t that kind of guy, and even if I were, I wouldn’t be two-timing my best friend. So you and me, we’re keeping this professional, you hear. I got my reasons for doing what I’m doing here, because we need a big sweater. Gotta make the accident look realistic.” Rico was puzzled as Angelo handed him a pair of 40-pound dumbells, and knelt down in front of him on the floor, watching Rico’s form. “Seated curls, creampuff. Let’s see 15 pretty ones.”
“Accident?” Rico asked, getting into the rhythm, perspiration pouring down his lovehandles and the small of his back. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you know that basketball court outside. Bunch of us usually play three-on-three on Saturdays. Thing is,” Angelo’s eyes narrowed and he grinned slyly. “When that new surface they put on last year gets wet, it gets real slippery. And we big guys, well, Rico, we just sweat lots and lots. Sometimes it kind of looks like a goddamn swimming pool by the time were through. Real dangerous. I mean, look at you here, you’re practically dripping, ain’t you?”
Angelo rubbed his full hands over Rico’s slick tits, jiggling them slightly as Rico was helpless to resist, his own hands full of iron.
“But the chief? What’s that got to do with. . . .?”
Angelo spotted Rico’s last few reps and took the weights from him, pumping out a few curls of his own like child’s play. “Well, Richter works till 5 on Saturday’s and he usually goes right past the court on his way to the car. So I thought maybe we could invite him to join in. And then maybe you and me, well, you know, maybe a fast drive across the court, a squeeze play on the way to a shot, and well, who knows? Accidents happen, you get what I mean?”
Rico looked up at Angelo, as what was being planned eventually came into focus. “You mean like. . . .”
“Yeah. Right. Just like that. Doctor told Richter that another serious injury like he had last year and well, he might need to go on permanent disability. But Richter’s a proud guy.” Angelo’s incongruously blue eyes looked innocently down at his own huge biceps flexing big with every curl. “I bet if we needed him to round out the numbers, particularly if he could see Marullo and Dom sitting on the side, he’d probably join in, just to prove a point.”
Rico stood up, a lot shorter than Angelo but suddenly feeling pumped and strong.
He took the weights from the big Italian cop and laughed. “Tomorrow, huh?”
“Tomorrow, yup. Four o’clock. But for tonight, I want to you to finish off with a little treadmill. Nothing quite so fine as watching a big tub of lard like yourself like you working hard on the treadmill. Especially since I ain’t ever going to have you for myself.” Angelo licked his lips seductively. “That fuck Marullo always beats me to the good stuff. I don’t know why I’m helping him out. Saint Angelo, that’s me.” And he leaned over the console of the treadmill, as Rico began to jog, all his extra sweat-slick flab bouncing up and down in front of Angelo who watched with ill-concealed lust.
“You do this for us, fatboy, and you gotta a permanent place on the force, you know that. Because Angelo here will be acting chief, and my word will be law. You know what I’m saying.” He shook a beefy finger at Rico and punched the speed up a few notches, making the young man pick up the pace. “Once Italians get our hooks into you, you can’t get away. Treat us right, we treat you right. And you better treat Vinnie right, boy, because he looks and acts tough but he’s a big old creampuff just like you. And when a big guy like him falls for someone, he falls hard. Got my drift?” Angelo poked Rico dead center in his gut to make the point.
“I gotcha. I gotcha,” Rico gasped, breathless from the jogging but even so because of how rapidly his life had change, though at that moment, he really was only praying for one thing: that he could keep from coming in his shorts before his 20 minutes on the treadmill was up.
Rico knew he was going to be getting a good night’s sleep that night, between the complete pig-out at Rosie’s, the workout under Angelo’s supervision and yet another night of fun and games in Marullo’s squad car and bed. Despite the 20-course bacchanalia earlier at Rosie’s, Marullo picked Rico up in the usual spot on the outskirts of town at midnight, announcing that this was going to be a desserts-only shift. “Got a little bit of a hunger for something sweet tonight,” he said, indolently unbuttoning his khaki shirt from the bottom up, leaving the top two buttons fastened and pooching his gut out invitingly. “Know what I’m saying? Nothing but cakes, pies and pastries, I think. Hit the bakeries and donut shops for my sweet tooth. And I bet you got a fierce hunger after that work out with Angelo, didn’t you, boy? You and he get everything straight.”
Rico mumbled a muffled “uh-huh”, his head wedged between Marullo and the steering wheel, face pressed full into what was quickly becoming the center of his universe.
“Yeah, I ain’t worried about Angelo, because he’s as straight as they come. Big old flirt, though. Broke many gay boys’ hearts in his prime, I’m telling you. Besides, you know where your sugar is, don’t you?” Marullo smirked, stroking the Latino’s close-shaven head and guiding his mouth in lazy circles around his daddygut. “Don’t you, Ricoman? “
Rico did indeed sleep the sleep of the dead that night, held fast under one of Marullo’s hefty arms, listening to his big cop snore next to him. But he woke up early and started going over the plan in his head, making Belgian waffles from the mix he had bought and knowing that the smell of the coffee would wake Marullo up. The day turned out sunny and hot, which Rico took as a sign that what they had planned to do was the right thing, and even as Marullo sat in front of him, sleepy and a little grumpy in his XXXL boxers, putting away the first dozen waffles with whipped cream and strawberries, hankering for another with that imperious look he had gotten into the habit of, Rico was rehearsing in his head what would be going down.
When they arrived at the basketball court in Marullo’s car, Angelo and some big dark-skinned guy named Kareem were tossing baskets on the court, while Dom, spread out like a big Italian buddha on the makeshift bleachers in the shade, had surrounded himself with a couple of coolers packed with beer and grocery bags full of chips, pretzels and peanuts. “Never know, Vin.
Might be Richter could get a little hungry, know what I mean?”
Marullo settled in next to his buddy, popped a beer and started fisting peanuts into his mouth. “Go on, bubba,” he said to Rico. “Show your partner you got the stuff.”
Angelo had told Rico that it was always shirts-skins, with the fatguys playing skins of course, so Rico shucked off his guinea T and bounded onto the court taking his place between Angelo and Kareem.
“Rico, this is Kareem, also known as the Creamer, because he always creams the opposition, don’t you?”
Swarthy and built like an offseason linebacker, Kareem towered over the chunky Latino and gave him a big handshake. “You cool, man? You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”
Rico was indeed playing with the big boys now—his eyes were at about the level of Kareem’s enormous dark manteats and he could see the huge puddles of sweat both Kareem and Angelo had managed to work up from themselves already in the sun. “Don’t worry about me, Creamer. I’m cool. So where’s this opposition.”
Angelo passed Rico the ball who passed it to Kareem and back again. “It’s the Saturday day shift guys—bunch of old soccer players. We always give them a run for their money.”
Kareem laughed, big gut shaking like chocolate pudding. “Yeah, we let ‘em win now and then.”
Sure enough, right on four, a bunch of cops Rico had seen at various times around town came jogging out, with all kinds of hooting and hollering, some of them sprawling around Dom and Marullo, cracking beers and jokes, three of the best-looking stealing the ball and doing their warm-ups as Angelo and Kareem stood watching their antics.. At first, given the difference in size, it looked a little bit more like they were getting set to play touch football, as the three “shirts” called time and the three big guys squared off and tracked the ball back and forth. The opposition, being smalller and quicker, gave the big guys run for their money, but soon, Rico found that despite the considerable weight difference, Angelo and Kareem easily kept up with the other three and in fact used their size occasionally to scare the bejesus of them. When three guys with a combined weight of nearly 800 pounds comes at you in a full court press, Rico discovered it took nerves of steel not to flinch, and each second offguard gave the big ones the opening they needed to steal the ball and score. Not to mention the fine sight it was when Angelo dunked the ball, shiny wet flesh shimmying and shaking after a leap or when Kareem wiped his sopping-wet forehead with his arm, flashing a dark armpit that looked like it could accommodate Rico’s entire head. Rico knew basketball could be physical, particularly these pick-up games, but playing with these fat guys was like hog heaven and he soon got used to bumping off bellies and flanks as he scrambled to get at the ball, hip-checking some of the opponents with a gusto that surprised even himself.
Throughout the first hour, which began slow and started heating up after the skins scored five fast hard two-pointers, Kareem tossing one in from mid-court to a chorus of whoops and whistles, Angelo and Rico kept their eye on Marullo who was going to be giving them the high sign at around five, and like clockwork, who should appear on the edge of the court but a stiff-looking guy in his mid-forties, khaki shorts creased, crisp cotton shirt tucked in snug over a well-muscled torso. The chief’s salt and pepper hair was cut high and tight, military style, in a crew-cut, and his moustache was clipped small and neat around his thin lips. He looked like a drill sergeant and held himself erect, like he owned the place. Rico immediately disliked him.
“Yo, chief. How’s it going?” Marullo waved from across the court, his amiability greatly exaggerated as part of the plan.
Richter gave him a disdainful stare and turned to go away, at which point a quick exchage of glance between Kareem and Angelo put the plot in motion.
“I’m done, Jello. I’m out. You need to get me a replacement,” Kareem made a big deal of leaning over and breathing hard, stomach hanging down to his knees. It was indeed a very convincing imitation of exhaustion.
“Hey, Chief. What do you say?” Angelo called out, bouncing the ball as he walked over to the chain link fence. “Me and Rico here could use a jock on our side. Help the big boys out. What do you say?”
The three shirts, not knowing what was going on behind the scenes, fell into a good-natured razzing, taking their cue from Angelo. “Yeah, chief. Come on. Kick our butts. Take us on.”
Richter didn’t smile, being the stuck-up, up-tight, tight-assed dude that he was, but Angelo just kept smiling and marking time with the ball. “Marullo will share one of his beers with you, if you help us out, won’t you, Vinnie? You’ll share a beer with the chief, if he helps us win against these fucks, huh?”
That’s all it took. Richter looked across the court at Dom and Marullo, shot them a look that mixed contempt for them and vanity concerning himself, and grim-faced as a gargoyle, the chief of police strutted onto the middle of the basketball court slick with the sweat of the last hour or so. He made a big deal about taking off his shirt while standing in front of Marullo and Dom, and then, thinking to add insult to injury, tightened the belt of his shorts against his trim, flat waist. “Sure, Angelo. Let’s show them how the game is played,” he said, in a quiet voice that gave Rico the chills.
In a flash, one of the guys from the other team swiped the ball out of Angelo’s hands and off they went, stakes immediately raised now that Richter was involved.
There was little talk on the court, and Rico could feel the play getting deadly serious now, speeding up as Richter did indeed throw himself into the game. He was good and swift, that Rico had to give him, ruthless and very intense in the way he played, a natural leader, and Rico started passing him the ball down court, letting him make a few good solid shots. If he wanted to lead, let him lead, Rico figured, hoping to lull the chief into a sense of camaraderie. Angelo smiled slightly, seeing what Rico was setting up, and once again, things fell into place as one of the guys from the other team, while trying to gain possession, almost slipped on a wet spot mid-court, swearing out loud and telling everyone to watch their step.
Richter appeared not to hear, treating the advice as a distraction and homing his eye on the movement of the ball. When the shirts scored their 11th basket, tying the game 22 to 22, Rico managed a recovery and dribbled to the opposite end of the court, where from the opposite end, he saw Angelo jerk his chin up twice, real quick, with a knowing glance. Rico passed the ball to Richter, going for a full-court drive, knowing the chief would be taking the bait. Which he did, flying down the center of the court like a madman, Rico in front of him, Angelo waiting at the other end, the three shirts nipping at his heels like a pack of terriers. Then, in the middle of it all, just as Richter lifted his head up to shoot, Marullo shouted out, “Go, chief. Show ‘em all what you got,” catching the chief offguard for a split second and down he went from the distraction, sliding feet first with all his weight straight into the post, feet crumpling beneath him. The crack of the bones could be heard loud and clear, after which Richter let out a long pained yelp. Everyone on the court froze, staring at the chief laying helpless and writhing under the backboard—everyone, that is, except Angelo who, after making sure Richter was seriously injured, carefully put the ball down in the center of the court and said calmly, “Yo, Vinnie. I think you should call the rescue squad. I think the chief mighta twisted his ankles again.”
Marullo sat for a moment, knocked back the rest of his beer, crumpled the can in his hands, threw it into the cooler, clapped Dom on the shoulder and then slowly rose, taking his time to waddle over to the chief where he leaned over, belly hanging down, face full of false concern. “Don’t worry, chief. I’ll take care of you.
You can count on Vinnie Marullo, that’s for sure. Might take me a while, though, you know. Being so fat and all. I can’t move so fast. But I’ll do what I can, don’t you worry.” And with that, Rico watched his partner saunter off the court toward the station, laughing shamelessly under his breath.
. . .
Donna at Rosie’s looked incredulous as Dom came back to the table. “No way. No way!”
Dom swung his thigh over the end of the chair and dug into the St. Honore cake they had ordered in celebration—five layers of puff pastry, filled with vanilla cream and chocolate custard, topped with a crown of cream puffs and frosted in whipped cream. “Way. You bet. Just serve the fucking champagne doll. Whaddayou think I’m kidding? Broke both his ankles, this time, and his left knee is shot. Full leg casts, for four months, at least. Just heard it from the hospital. Man, that should be good for about fifty pounds. You saw the way he porked up last time. Guess he’s not going to have much to do except eat and watch TV. Poor bastard. “
“You guys, this is just the kind of shit I’d expect from you guys. All heart, every one of you,” she said, pouring all four of them tall glasses of Asti Spumante. “But the chief’s a jock, ain’t he?”
Marullo raised his glass. “Was. Was a jock. And besides, he ain’t chief, no more, is he, Angelo?”
Angelo handed Donna a glass of champagne for herself. “No more, Vin. Now you all gotta deal with me.”
Donna looked around the table at the red chubby faces, shoving their cake away with a gusto that even she hadn’t seen from these guys before. “Yo, boys, slow down. We only got three of them cakes in the back.”
“Well in that case, make sure you wrap one up because I’m taking it home,” Marullo said, leaning forward to slice himself and Rico another substantial wedge, custard oozing out all over his fingers which he sucked with lascivious abandon, looking Rico right in the eye. “We got some celebrating yet to do tonight, and I think my new partner here might like a little sweet stuff for later. That right, Rico?
Huh, buddy? We can’t have the newest member of the force going hungry now, can we?” Marullo stuck his hand up Rico’s shirt, patting his belly the way he had that first night on the side of Greenbrook Road, then letting his hand rest underneath, holding Rico’s gut the way he held it in the middle of the night, strong, powerful, like the hand of god.
Rico leaned back and let himself enjoy the feeling, not caring who saw or what they thought. “Nope. Don’t want to be hungry. No more of that,” he said, opening his eyes just in time to catch Marullo aiming a huge forkful of cake right at his mouth.
“But then again, I have a feeling that getting enough sweet stuff that isn’t going to be one of my problems for a very long time.” And with that Rico opened wide, taking everything Marullo was dishing out at him and loving every minute of it.
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