Jeramie Lecleaux is an eighteen-year old teen detective and slut puppy. When trouble strikes, he uses his sharp eyes, clever wits, and well-trained boypussy to root out clues and interrogate suspects.
A fire at the local Baptist church on a Sunday morning would be scandalous enough, but someone made off with the church cash box. Once the smoke clears, Jeramie is on the case. Can the boyslut detective track down who took the latest tithes while having several of the older men in the congregation scratch his needy itch?
The Case of the Church Kitchen Catastrophe is an 11,000-word short story.
Mr. DuPree was dressed in his usual Sunday suit, a pair of slack pants with shined shoes and dress socks. A slick coat covered a blue button-up shirt. His tie hung out at the moment, as though Mr. DuPree had been worrying with it. His brown beard had a few flakes of white, and he had a slight paunch sticking out in front.
Overall, though, Jeramie thought Mr. DuPree was quite handsome, in his own way.
“I wanted to ask you,” Jeramie began, “if you had any peppermint. I’m fresh out.”
Mr. DuPree always carried peppermint around. He claimed that it helped him sit still during church services. He kept plenty in his coat pocket, and would offer it to anyone if they asked.
“Oh!” said Mr. DuPree, lighting up a little. “Of course. Here, just lemme check real quick…”
Jeramie waited, watching Mr. DuPree closely. The first pocket he checked was empty, but the second one had several pieces. Mr. DuPree pulled out a fist full and held it out for Jeramie to choose.
“Help yourself,” said Mr. DuPree.
Jeramie reached for the pile in Mr. DuPree’s hand, then hesitated. The movement was on purpose. He looked up then, right into Mr. DuPree’s vivid blue eyes.
“You know,” he said, “I found a piece like these in the kitchen.”
Mr. DuPree’s fingers closed around the handful of peppermints. His hand jerked back reflexively. Jeramie took note of the movements and smiled, giving Mr. DuPree another one of his cherubic grins.
“It was on the floor,” he went on. “Someone had stepped on it.”
“I…” Mr. DuPree began, sweating. “You shouldn’t have been in there, Jeramie. Not after a fire. It’s very dangerous.”
Jeramie’s smile widened. “I was helping my Dad,” he explained, pretending to look sad at the admonishment. “Besides, it wasn’t a real fire. Just burned meatloaf.”
“Oh,” said Mr. DuPree, and he relaxed a little. “Yeah, I suppose…”
“Funny, though.” Jeramie moved in closer, pretending to go for the peppermint again. “The oven was still warm.”
Mr. DuPree’s eyes widened. Jeramie saw his opening, and moved his hand past the peppermints. His fingers went for the front of Mr. DuPree’s slacks. Mr. DuPree let out a soft gasp as Jeramie wrapped his small digits around the older man’s cock through the soft fabric.
“Like the oven had been turned up on high,” Jeramine continued, as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening.
Fresh sweat popped out on Mr. DuPree’s forehead. His mouth hung open, and his breath deepened. Mr. DuPree stared in shock for a moment while Jeramine’s hand worked his shaft up and down through the front of the older man’s slacks.
Jeramie could feel the shaft growing thicker, harder, in his hand. “You shouldn’t…” Mr. DuPree stammered. “Jeramie, that’s very wrong, you know! I could get in trouble!”
Mr. DuPree was doing his damnedest to sound authoritative, but it had no effect whatsoever on Jeramie. He merely smiled and pushed Mr. DuPree’s hand away so he could move closer.
“I like this candy better,” Jeramie said, sinking to his knees.
Mr. DuPree remained rooted to his chair. He didn’t stop Jeramie from undoing the button on his trousers with his tiny fingers. He didn’t move when Jeramie slid the zipper all the way down, nor did he use his hands to force Jeramie away when the little slut puppy fished his cock out.
Cold air blew over Mr. DuPree’s thick shaft once it was freed. It was quickly followed by Jeramie’s hot breath. The randy teenager heated the already smoldering man cock in front of him with a few quick puffs of air. His fingers slid back around the eight inches of meat, gripping it tight.
Mr. DuPree moaned. “Oh, God!” he whimpered. “God… no!”
Jeramie knew he had his suspect right where he wanted him now. His pink tongue slid out between his soft, puckered lips. The tip ran up along the underside of the shaft, sending a shiver up through Mr. DuPree’s much bigger body.
“Mmm!” Jeramie moaned, making sure it was loud enough for Mr. DuPree to hear. “Definitely better than peppermint.”