Shoplifting has always turned me on. The endorphin rush of fear turns my skin electric and pumps all my blood straight into my dick. I don’t keep the stuff I take, but I love having some ill-gotten item shoved in my pants when I walk out of the store scot-free. It’s almost as good as sex, though I’d prefer a hard man over a stolen “quickie.”

I glanced over the wallets on the counter. They put them there to keep people like me away from the expensive spoils. I dropped two wallets on the ground and bent down to retrieve them. One was returned, the other nestled in my tight briefs, its thick leather making friends with my hard-on. I stayed for a moment so I didn’t look conspicuous and then turned to leave. A large hand clamped itself to my shoulder and steered me from the counter into an office way in the back. He dropped me in a chair; I heard the door lock.

The man came around to face me and sat on the edge of his desk. His blue jacket had the word “Security” stitched to the front pocket. He was built like a fullback, huge muscles and a lean waist. He had a sexy goatee which telegraphed and urgent message to my groin. “Let’s have it,” he said.

I claimed I didn’t understand and he told me to stand up. When I stalled he lifted me out of my seat and dipped his hand down the front of my pants. His fingers searched my briefs. Rough fingers grabbed and dismissed my dick, then produced the wallet. He pulled it out, sniffed it. “Well, what do we have here?” The cop told me to sit down, while his crotch hovered in front of my face. His thick muscle was barely concealed by the layer of cloth stretched over it. He adjusted his cock, massaged the lengthening shaft, then sat down on the edge of the desk, legs parted.

“What are we going to do about this?”

“Make pretend it never happened.” I opened up my own legs for him to get a nice view of my boner. I dropped my hand in my lap to outline the bribe for him. He smiled. “You kids don’t have anything I want.” He told me to get up and ordered me to take off my pants so he could make sure I hadn’t stolen anything else. I did as I was told, lowering my jeans and briefs, my hard-on bouncing out against my tee-shirt.

“That for me?” he asked with a smile. I nodded, swallowed wetly. He asked me to turn around, place my hands against the wall. He massaged my ass, one globe at a time, then playfully ran his finger along the cleft, toyed with my hole and departed. “Nothing here. Take off your shirt.” I dropped my tee shirt onto the chair as he went around the desk, returned with a digital camera.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“Evidence.” He knelt down in front of me and snapped a couple of shots of the scene of the crime. We reviewed the pictures of my boner on the little screen, while his free hand investigated my asshole. He put the camera down, pushed up behind me; his thick spike urged to be free. The cop’s heavy hand grabbed my cock and jerked me off quickly. I leaned back into him, parting my legs, dry humping his crotch, came with a violent shudder. He pulled away and wiped my spunk off his hand with a tissue.

“I’m gonna let you go this time, but if I catch you shoplifting again, I’m gonna go a lot harder on you.”

He told me to get dressed and showed me the door. I’d was already planning my next caper.

 

© 2009 Christopher Stone

Christopher Stone's flash fiction and poetry have only found a home online. Although he does not write as much as he planned, he's glad to find his work revisited. 'A Stolen Quickie' originally appeared in first issue of Outsider Ink and has thankfully found an encore posting. Chris never lost the taste for shoplifting.