The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A Good Citizen

by Wrestlr

1.

On the spring morning that he would be arrested, Joe woke to sunlight creeping through the window by his bed in his government-issued apartment. He yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes, and then lay back, pushing down the single sheet covering him, bunching it at his thighs. He ran his fingers over his lightly fuzzed chest and downward. He gripped his morning-stiff dick, teased it proudly, before letting it slap back against his flat-curved belly. “Horny, buddy?” he asked it and chuckled, finger-stroking it lazily. “You should still be worn out after last night!”

Joe had a sleek, strong build that other men certainly found attractive, and he packed plenty of cock. Last night, he had gone down to the neighborhood bar, spotted another horny stud, traded the ritual of buying drinks with him, then led him out into the government-mandated sex room in the back of the bar, each of them knowing what they were going there to do. They had stood in the shadows, touching, stroking, arousing each other, careful not to show too much emotion or lust—A Calm Citizen is a Happy Citizen—before finally opening their shirts and dropping their pants. The stranger was a little older than Joe, shorter, and hairy-chested, and Joe had bent down to suck his thick, stubby cock and bulging testicles. Then the man had knelt in front of Joe, murmuring with forbidden excitement at the swollen largeness of Joe’s dick, tongue-washing it, choking when he tried to suction it throat-deep, finally getting to his feet and turning to offer his ass to Joe.

Now, lying naked on his bed in the warm sunlight, Joe remembered the sex-hunger he felt last night when he shoved his lube-slick rod into the stranger’s clenching muscle-ring. The stud had gasped and groaned, but he took every inch of Joe’s rigid cock. “Fuck me, man!” the man had whispered, squirming back against Joe. “Fuck my ass with that big dick!”

Yes, right there in the darkened sex room in the back of the bar, Joe delivered a long, slow stand-up fuck. Other men came from the shadows to watch, and one of them crawled underneath and swallowed the stranger’s cock while Joe continued to plow his tight butt. Finally, Joe had wrapped his arms about the man and clamped their bodies together, as first Joe and then the stranger soared into the nerve-blazing ecstasy of climax. Joe always unloaded in powerful, distinct bursts, and he knew he was flooding the stranger’s guts with hot cum, and the stranger was popping his load into the mouth of the cock-sucker under him. And as their orgasms crested, they held together, barely moving, exhausted, until they finished settling from the thrashing summit they had reached together.

“Thanks,” the stranger murmured at last. “That was great!”

“Yeah, real great,” Joe replied, his voice carefully casual. No big deal, right? He had sure shown this stranger why his stud-rating was A-8—not that the stranger had asked. With a sigh, “Thanks,” Joe released the stranger and withdrew his softening dick from the slippery asshole, and then he pulled up his pants, turning away. “See you around, maybe.”

“Sure, maybe.”

Joe, fastening his shirt and trousers, started toward the door that led back into the bar and the street exit beyond. They had not exchanged names, nor had either wanted to. Fuck ’Em and Forget ’Em—just like the slogan on those Department of Civil Security posters said.

And then Joe saw the policeman standing in the shadows, tall and rugged-looking, his tailored uniform emphasizing his wide shoulders and slim hips, his high, polished boots glistening in the dimness. Joe stood and watched for a moment as the cop face-fucked the man kneeling before him viciously; Joe quietly hummed a bar of the latest The Police Are Your Pals jingle. And he started to remember—No, he did not want to bring back that memory!

No, that was last night, and now Joe was lying naked on his bed, the morning sunlight lapping at his exposed flesh, his powerful cock arched back and pulsing against his belly, and he hopped to his feet, flexed his muscles, scratched his sex-tight balls and headed for the kitchen alcove. “If I’d brought that stud home last night, I could be fucking him for breakfast,” he groused to himself. Then he shuddered as he pressed the button on the coffee-maker, because that idea of bringing a guy back here to fuck seemed dangerously close to sex-rebel talk. “Hell, no—I don’t want any guy moving in here, no matter how fuckable his ass is!” Fuck ’Em and Forget ’Em. No need to risk dangerous emotional attachments. Joe wanted to be a good citizen.

He sauntered back to the bathroom, giving his cock time to relax enough to make pissing possible, and he took his usual legs-spread stance in front of the open toilet. He fumble-aimed the dangling, heavy-crowned column toward the bowl, and he watched the golden piss stream from it. He looked over at the mirror and studied his reflection. Joe was in his early twenties, with short, curly black hair and strong, masculine features. His shoulders were wide, and his suntanned torso narrowed sharply to his slim hips. He was hard-muscled, built sleek and trim. He liked what he saw. “Maybe,” he said to his reflection, “I’ll skip work and spend the day down at the gym.”

The law required two visits a week to a state-run gym, to ensure citizens’ good health, but Joe went the local one more frequently. Men only, clothing optional. Joe enjoyed exercising naked like most of the other guys, swimming bare-ass in the pool, getting his rocks off in the showers or steam room. He liked the change of pace, working on his muscles, showing off his body and meat, sucking and getting sucked and fucking in the impersonal darkness, resting up on one of the benches, then starting all over again.

But the last time he had been there, a burly, horny son of a bitch had tried to fuck his ass. Hell, no, Joe told him—he had never gone for getting a stud’s cock up his butt, no matter what the stud’s rating.

Joe tugged the last droplets from his dick, and the toilet auto-flushed as he turned. “Fuck ’em and forget ’em,” he mumbled to himself. At the shower stall, he flicked on the controls, and the water began to spray, automatically adjusting to Joe’s preferred temperature.

The abrupt electronic voice—“Visitor; priority entry requested”—chimed from the front door of the apartment. “Visitor; priority entry requested.”

Joe grabbed a towel, wrapped it about his waist, and hustled to answer the summons. Without checking the video feed—hell, the announcement had said this was a priority request—he unlocked and opened door. Two uniformed Civil Security policemen in khaki uniform shirts and pants-bloused boots faced him. Naturally their name badges bore their first names only. Hello! My Name Is Chet!—This officer was round-faced and blond. Hello! My Name Is Whit!—The other was built rugged, black-haired, and swarthy. As he looked from one name badge to the other, Joe felt the subliminals embedded in them starting to work on him, making him feel relaxed and calm, cooperative. Joe had never been in trouble with the law, and he wanted to be a good citizen.

“You Joe?” growled the cop with burr-clipped black hair—Hello! My Name Is Whit!—as the two officers pushed their way into his apartment. “You’re under arrest.“