2354 words
I wasn’t even twenty when the cops picked me up for the first—and last—time. It happened because of a stupid coincidence. I was driving my buddy’s car after he’d drowned himself in liquor at a nightclub, but it never crossed my mind that this favor would land me in such deep shit. I knew my friend sold ecstasy—I’d even taken some from him at parties when he was feeling generous.
But I couldn’t have dreamed that his four-year-old, still-speedy Audi was packed to the roof with drugs. Had I known, I’d at least have driven by the rules. Instead, I was flying down the highway at nearly 200 kph, and the cops with their flashing lights didn’t take long to show up.
They dragged me out of the driver’s seat, made me blow into a breathalyzer, and didn’t exactly handle me with care. Then they asked me to pop the trunk—and that’s when the nightmare began. My buddy was hauled off to sober up, and I didn’t see him again until court, where, thank God, I was only a witness.
But before I convinced the detectives I had nothing to do with those drugs, I got a brutal lesson in the school of hard knocks.
The cops didn’t hold back. They shoved my face into a puddle, slapped cuffs on me, and gave me a “luxury ride” to the station in the back of their patrol car—on a seat stained with years of vomit. They didn’t say a word, just marched me straight to the basement, where rows of brightly lit holding cells waited.
Half were already occupied; the other half stood empty, their future guests still out causing trouble. The night was young.
They shoved me into an office on the left side of the hallway leading to the cells. It had a large, frosted window so the officers could monitor the detainees. There were also monitors—every cell had cameras.
I stared at the screens, each labeled with cell numbers, until my eyes landed on the last display: four small, empty cells with solid doors, labeled Correction 1 through 4. I wondered what “Correction” meant.
They unlocked my cuffs.
“Strip, kid!” a voice barked from my left. I turned, stunned.
“Excuse me?” I protested.
“Save the lip. You’re suspected of drug trafficking, so we’re searching you—make sure you’re not hiding anything. We’ll also need blood, urine, and stool samples for drug analysis.”
“No! Those drugs were my friend’s! You know the car wasn’t even mine!” I was desperate. Police brutality wasn’t on my bucket list.
The baton hit me out of nowhere—first in the gut, then across my back. I crumpled onto all fours, only for one cop to yank me up by my collar. Another started tearing at my clothes. I fought like a lion, but it was useless. The guy behind me crushed my neck in his meaty arms, and I thought my head would pop off.
I thrashed and kicked, but the baton strikes just kept raining down to “calm” me. Despite my resistance, I ended up half-naked, with two more cops—called as backup—grabbing my ankles. Helpless, I watched in horror as they inspected and groped my scrotum and limp dick, rolling back the foreskin to check for hidden contraband. Then one cop pulled out a swab kit.
“What the hell is that?” I screamed.
“Doctor wants swabs to confirm you’re healthy enough for custody. If you’ve got gonorrhea or syphilis, the court might reject the arrest warrant on medical grounds.”
No one cared about my reply. Four men pinned me while a fifth snapped on latex gloves, pulled a cotton-tipped rod from its plastic sheath, and aimed it at my exposed glans. I writhed with every ounce of strength, but the cop squeezed my shaft to line up my urethra.
When the rod plunged in, I howled—it burned like hell. He shoved it deeper, coldly explaining the swab had to be “thorough.” My urethra felt like it was on fire as he twisted the rod on its way out. Just when I thought it was over, he repeated the torture with a second, even more aggressive swab.
“Alright, kid, turn around and spread ’em!” Laughter followed.
The four men manhandled me, bending me over and forcing my legs and buttocks apart. I screamed, trying to resist the inevitable degradation. No one had ever touched me there—let alone looked.
“First, I’ll check your ass for hidden goods. Then we’ll take two more swabs. Relax.”
A slick, gloved finger pressed against my clenched, virgin anus. I fought harder, but a sharp slap to my left cheek made me flinch—and loosen up. The finger breached me. I roared. It was disgusting. The pain radiated from my ass to my entire pelvis as the finger twisted and thrust, mimicking penetration.
Tears of shame and pain rolled down my face as I stood there, nearly naked, ass on display for six clothed cops. My shirt was pulled over my head—small mercy, hiding my face—but they were having a sadistic field day.
“Now for the stool swabs.”
The finger finally withdrew, but the relief was short-lived. The cotton swabs scraped and pressed against my sphincter, making me whimper twice more before it was over.
„And now a urine sample and blood draw,“ continued the demands of the cops.
They led me to the toilet, but I had to pee in front of them, which really bothered me. They insisted I could contaminate the urine otherwise. I reminded them in vain that my preliminary drug test from saliva was negative. They didn’t care. They were having a good time, mocking me with vulgar remarks while holding the collection bottle near my dick, waiting for me to fill it.
They watched with the same interest as my golden stream sprayed from my cock into the bowl. They must all have prostate problems if they’re staring this hard, it occurred to me, and I immediately felt a bit better. The blood draw went calmly after that.
„Shirt off. And since you resisted, you’re on heightened protocol,“ said the cop holding a bundle of keys. By then, I didn’t care anymore. I pulled off my shirt, then stood completely naked as I had to pack my belongings into a bag labeled with my name and number.
A plastic wristband with the same number was slapped onto me. Finally, steel cuffs clicked around my wrists behind my back, and two cops dragged me out of the office, naked as the day I was born. I screamed at them—what are you doing? Give me something to wear!—but they just laughed. „No clothes in correctional,“ they said.
„You’ll stay naked. It’s great, especially under those scratchy blankets,“ the cops jeered. „It’s a return to nature—sisal blankets, basically. And don’t worry, we’ll monitor you by camera.“ With that, they shoved me into a tiny cell barely fitting a thin mattress on the floor.
A bucket, a roll of toilet paper, a pillow, and the aforementioned gray, itchy blanket completed the luxurious furnishings of this correctional solitary. They unlocked the cuffs, slammed the door, and I was alone.
I scanned the ~3×2-meter box: walls painted a vile green, scratched with lewd graffiti—Lieutenant’s a dick! I’ll fuck you up, whore! I want your cock balls-deep!—and similar outbursts adorned the interior of this worst nightmare, a holding cell!
I lay on the mattress and tried covering myself with the blanket, but it was unbearable. It itched so badly I threw it aside and stretched out naked. Surprisingly, the cell was warm, so discomfort was minimal, and the humiliation of nudity was manageable. I stared into the camera, its red light confirming it was on.
I locked eyes with the lens and, over time, realized the situation was oddly arousing. I’d always been more sub than anything, and prison fantasies naturally fueled my masturbation. I wasn’t gay, but anything humiliating turned me on—the idea of servicing a horny prison alpha was degrading enough.
Finding a Dom in a male prison would be hard, so my fantasies matched reality. My gaze slid from the camera to my dick, which was twitching alarmingly. No longer a limp noodle, I gripped it and began slow, practiced strokes until it stood at its full 21cm glory.
I spat into my palm, slicked the head, and rubbed it with my hand while massaging my balls, hissing in pleasure. Then—click—the cell door unlocked, and the two cops who’d brought me in barged.
„Look, we’ve got a horny freak who can’t even behave in lockup,“ the older cop sneered.
„Let’s give him some sexual excitement. Wouldn’t want him feeling discriminated,“ the other laughed.
I jumped up, startled, but they grabbed me, cuffed my hands, and dragged me down the hall toward the office.
„Come on, kid. You’re gonna have so much fun you’ll dream about it—but we’re not performing for the camera.“
They hauled me back to where it all began and slammed the door. Then they threw me belly-down on the desk, and in seconds, the younger cop’s huge, hard cock was in my face, jutting from his black pants. „Suck it. Lick it nice,“ he ordered, yanking my hair to tilt my head back.
Meanwhile, the other cop spat on his fingers and started doing what I’d hated since arriving at the station—fingering my ass.
„Aaaaaaaaah,“ I roared, only for the cop in front of me to shove his cock into my mouth, muffling my scream. Ruthlessly, he immediately began thrusting into my mouth while gripping my hair. Meanwhile, the older cop’s fingers had already forced their way into my ass, his other hand pressing my face into his colleague’s lap. I gagged as the shaft slid deep into my throat.
I pushed back against the hand holding me, desperate to free myself from the invading length—but it was futile. My stomach churned, and when my tormentors finally allowed me a brief gasp of air, I was pathetically grateful. All the while, fingers wreaked havoc in my rectum, twisting, bending, and stretching me open.
“Come on, lick. Stick out your tongue and clean my dick properly!” the cop in front of me ordered.
I obeyed desperately—what choice did I have? They were two; I was bound and helpless. I felt sick, yet my own cock twitched at the prostate stimulation from the fingers buried in my ass.
Focusing on the shaft before me, I worked it meticulously with my tongue: the head, the frenulum, the underside down to the balls, then back up with firm strokes. I took him deep, sucking and teasing his slit until his breathing grew ragged. His grip on my head loosened—he knew I’d finish this blowjob willingly now.
Behind me, the older cop slid his baton into my ass. The pain was excruciating, but he growled that my hole needed to “stretch and get used to it.” Eyes clenched shut, I mechanically licked the erect cock in front of me until the cop behind freed his own. I knew what was coming—dreaded it—but part of me craved this prison fantasy, even through the agony. A wet tongue lapped at my taint, then spit landed between my cheeks, smeared around and inside me. Then his cock pressed against me.
“Arch your back and push—open that sphincter,” he instructed.
I obeyed, though it felt monstrous. As he forced himself in, the cop in front rammed his cock down my throat to stifle my screams. Still, I writhed in convulsions on the table and screamed in terrible pain from the stretched sphincter and rectum..
“Nnnnooooo! Please, take it out! Stoooop!”
“Shut up and relax. The worst’ll pass soon,” the cop behind grunted, spanking me hard.
Then the thrusts began—the pain, momentarily dulled, returned full force. The stretching was one thing; the relentless pounding was another. God, how do gay men endure this? Are they all masochists?
“Aaaaaaaaaaah! Nnnnoooooo!” I shrieked in rhythm with their thrusts, but the cops only intensified. Soon, hot cum flooded my throat—strangely, it wasn’t as vile as I’d expected. I swallowed obediently, cleaning the cop’s cock like a good dog. He patted my back, tucked himself away, and watched as his colleague finished.
With a final thrust, the older cop pulled out, painting my tailbone with his release before shoving back in for a few more strokes. The younger cop then wiped his colleague’s cum from my ass and forced his fingers into my mouth to lick clean.
Bruised and sweating, I was dragged down the hall to a shower room. After over an hour, they uncuffed me and pointed to the floor. “Lie down. Now it’s your turn to jerk off,” the younger cop sneered. Both watched as I frantically stroked myself on the cold tiles, eyes shut, mouth open, until humiliation pushed me over the edge.
Cum splattered my stomach—I expected them to make me lick it up, but the older cop just chuckled. “Stay put. We’ll clean you properly now.”
I didn’t understand—until they pulled out their cocks again. But this time, warm piss rained down on me. Twin streams hit my face and groin; the stench made me retch. Eventually, I pissed myself too, unable to hold it.
“Disgusting pig, wallowing in filth!” the younger cop spat, dousing me with icy water. Gratefully, I rinsed off the reeking mess before being cuffed and hauled back to my cell. Face to the camera, I collapsed onto the mattress—no sexual fantasies haunted me now.
My ass burned like fire, my body wrecked from the brutal fucking. Eyes closed, exhaustion dragged me under.