A Good Citizen
by Wrestlr
8.
Joe awoke on his cot in the dim cell, and he lay back, running his palms over his trim nakedness, feeling lonely as hell. Was this real? Was anything real? He remembered that once he had thought he could tell the difference between a memory and a dream the mind-machine made him experience, but now he seemed to be moving from reality to memory to dream with no way of knowing. Why was the machine messing with his memories like this, and what else was it changing? He had no way of knowing.
Joe had a hard-on, and he remembered that warm spring morning when he had awakened with his dick full-hard, the morning when Whit and Chet had come to arrest him.
Joe waited for Whit to come and take him for another interrogation session, and when the rugged cop did not show up, Joe got to his feet and stumbled into the alcoved latrine to piss and wash up.
He started the shower spray and stepped under it, and he winced as the water stung against his whip-lashed back, and he was in the gym shower room with Mike, both of them lathering off the sweat after a good work-out. Joe looked at Mike and said, “I’m getting used to showering with you, little guy.”
“And I’m getting used to seeing you with a hard-on,” Mike answered, grinning and hero-worshipping Joe’s aroused nakedness with his large brown eyes. “It was damn good, fucking your butt last night.”
“But ... you didn’t fuck me, Mike.”
“Well, I sure as hell screwed somebody.” Mike shrugged. “Fuck ’em and forget ’em—that’s what Whit says.” Soaping his large, stiffening cock, he looked across Joe’s shoulder. “Who’s the new stud?”
Joe followed Mike’s gaze to the tanned blond, swimmer-built and surfer-haired, opposite them. “That’s Steve. We went to school together.”
“He’s got a neat-looking butt.”
Joe watched Mike saunter over to Steve and say something to him. The blond checked the size of Mike’s erection, then nodded and got down on all-fours on the floor. Mike knelt behind him and hip-pumped his iron hilt-deep into the offered asshole.
“Fuck me, man!” Steve urged. “Fuck me!”
Joe remembered when the blond swimmer had bellowed the same thing to him, and he finished his shower and headed for the towel room. He knew the guys would be waiting, stripped and ready for action, but when he stepped through the doorway, he was back in his darkened cell.
He dried off and sat prick-hard on the side of his bunk, and he felt so damn unsure whether anything he saw was real or a dream created by that mind-fucking machine.
The overhead light snapped on, and Whit came in, holding a pair of handcuffs for Joe’s wrists.
“Let’s go, friend.”
“Okay, Whit.”
They went out into the corridor, and two burly guards had a naked youth held against the wall while they fist-pounded him methodically.
“Ready to confess, Joe?” Whit asked, clapping him on the shoulder as they started down the hall side by side.
“Want me to?”
“I don’t give a damn.”
Joe smiled, enjoying the physical closeness to the rough-and-tough cop, the beefy paw on his shoulder, the brush of his bare thigh against the man’s trousers-clad leg.
They passed the open door to a locker room where the policemen were horsing around and changing uniforms, and two burly studs stood naked together, cock-to-cock and palm-stroking each other while the others ignored them.
“Those cock-suckers’re lovers,” Whit explained as they continued on down the corridor.
Joe blinked at Whit’s easy acknowledgement of something that seemed like illegal sex-rebel stuff, but then he knew that the police were exempt for a lot of rules that applied to citizens—maybe even that rule too. Lovers? The idea still seemed strange to Joe. “Like you and Mike?“
“Mike?” Whit’s forehead furrowed in a frown. “Which Mike? Shit, I bet I’ve shacked up with a hundred studs named Mike.” He shrugged. “Fuck ’em and forget ’em, right?”
Joe heard the whistle of a belt cutting through the air, the snap of leather against bare flesh, the agonized cry of a man being flogged.
He followed Whit into the office where Parker had questioned him endlessly, and Lefty was grinning at him, naked, and he drawled, “Howdy, Joe.”
“How’s it going, Lefty!’
“Me and Chet’ve been workin’ on your confession,” Lefty answered cheerfully, nodding to the blond cop beside him. “Only, we need to update your statisticals fer the confession form.”
“Huh?”
“Crap!” Chet exploded, laughing and coming forward with a tape measure. “What that sucker-fucker partner of mine is trying to tell you is that we’ve got to fill in the blanks he’s forgotten.”
Joe felt foolish, standing there while Chet measured him and read off his dimensions to Lefty: his neck, shoulders, biceps, chest, waist, hips, thighs, calves ...
Whit watched, his arms folded over his barreled chest, his harsh-cut features expressionless.
“Lordy!” Lefty sighed. “We should’ve measured Joe’s pecker before it got itself so stiff!”
“Hell, he’s always got a hard-on!”
Joe looked down and saw the fingers measuring his genitals clinically, and he remembered the clerk who had measured him and given him a stud-rating of A-8 instead of A-9, remembered the countless studs who had checked the size and shape of his dick, who caressed his balls, who made love to his meat, who worshipped his—
Chet and Lefty moved behind him and measured his back and ass, and Joe stood motionless, letting them check off his dimensions like they were assessing a slave for the auction block, and Joe wondered whether this were really happening or just another dream.
Joe saw the flicker of a grin twitch at the corners of Whit’s mouth.
“I reckon he’s ready,” Lefty drawled, stroking his handcuffed victim’s butt gently. “Whatta you think, Whit?”
“Take him in the other room,” Whit murmured. “You know what to do with him, farm-boy.”
“Yep!”
The other room?—The one that did not really exist?—This must be another machine-induced dream, Joe decided, but it seemed too real.
Chuckling, Lefty led Joe into the adjoining room, Chet following, and they placed him on his back on a low, slab-like table. They stretched his arms wide from his shoulders and clamped them in place, and then they attached pulley-hung ropes to his ankles. Working together easily, they hoisted his legs until he was resting back on his shoulders, bound and helpless.
Joe stared up at his stretched body and spread legs, and he realized he must have been imprisoned for a long time because his deep tan had faded to paleness.
“That’s some hard-on,” Chet observed, viewing Joe’s naked body, the heavy-headed prick dangling down toward Joe’s face. Chet imitated Lefty’s drawl: “I do reckon he’s just about as horny as you are, farm-boy.”
“He’s a mighty pleasin’ stud,” the youth grinned. “When I sucked him off, he shot the way Whit does. Real slow and hard.”
“You like that, huh?”
“Lordy, I don’t know which I like most, suckin’ or gettin’ sucked.” He came from the shadows, lean and grinning and prick-stiff, and he carried a nozzled hose in one hand. “I reckon we’d best get to work, partner, and get this over with.”
Numb, Joe watched Lefty move in beside him, and then he felt the narrow hose-tip against his exposed asshole. The pressure of his upturned body on his lungs made breathing difficult and screaming impossible. Lefty nudged, and the nozzle slithered inward between Joe’s sensitive ass-lips painlessly. “Fucking hell!” Joe muttered.
Chet moved away, and a pump whirred softly. Joe swallowed fast, and then he felt a warm liquid flowing slowly into his guts.
“Hey!” Chet chortled from away in the shadows. “What the hell’re you doing, buddy?”
“Playin’ with your fine balls.”
“You’re giving me a hard-on, dammit.”
“That’s what I aim to do, on account of we got some time to kill,” Lefty drawled happily. “Y’ know, I do believe that’s why Joe’s sex-buddy back in school foot-rubbed his nuts in the library.”
“Yeah?”
“I figure Ron wanted to get Joe horny enough to share himself, man-to-man.”
Joe heard the two men talking about him, and he watched his belly swell obscenely as the fluid flowed into him. The sensation was strangely sensuous, and he watching his aroused dick throb as he remembered Ron, his burly school buddy—the fingers probing at the front of his jeans and opening his fly, the excitement of feeling Ron play with his sex-hot genitals, their male-to-male closeness as they jerked each other off.
“Remember the first guy you jerked with, Lefty?” Chet asked quietly.
“Yup. I believe t’ain’t proper for a feller to forget the lads he’s shared himself with.”
Joe winced as his stomach, now nearly pregnancy-sized, filled and cramped. He felt as though his guts were going to split open.
“Dammit!” Chet chuckled. “You’re a wonder, Lefty!”
“Lordy, I’ve been tellin’ you that ever since we first matched peckers!” Lefty snickered, then gulped audibly. “Dang it, we forgot about Joe!”
The pump clicked silent, and Joe felt his muscles knot painfully.
The machine started again, and the fluid began to drain from Joe’s guts. He heard the two men chatting casually, and he relaxed slowly as the bloating and pain ebbed.
“There’s a party in the locker room tonight,” Chet said. “Want to go, buddy?”
“I dunno. Maybe Parker’ll want us to start workin’ on the new feller Whit brung in.”
“Got his confession written yet?”
“I’m goin’ to copy the one I wrote up for Joe,” Lefty drawled. “I’m gettin’ somewhat tired of makin’ up new ones all the dang time.”
Joe felt the last of the liquid taken from inside him, and he closed his eyes, weak and exhausted. Hands roamed over his nakedness and examined his stiff prick, and he remembered that pre-graduation party in the school gym—and the coach who had wanted to get fucked.
Shit, he needed to get his balls unloaded!
The pump started, and he groaned as his guts began to fill again.
Chet and Lefty repeated the torment, and Joe felt Ron playing with his balls to arouse him, Jonesy sucking his horny cock, the coach prick-ramming his virgin butt, and the hundreds of other studs he had had sex with.
“Mike wants to shack up with us again,” Chet murmured, turning off the pump. “Okay, Lefty?”
“Lordy, I surely do enjoy the way that little feller squirms up to us in his sleep. Whit’s mighty lucky, havin’ him for a buddy.”
“Shit, Whit doesn’t give a damn who he fucks.”
“Neither does Mike.”
They let Joe rest again, and then the hose was pressed deeper into him and the liquid flow started once more. He hung there, a slab of helpless male meat, too numb and weak to struggle.
Then it was over.
Joe opened his eyes, and the pump was silent, the hose gone from his tail. Chet and Lefty had disappeared, and Joe stared up at his pale, emptied body and still-hard dick. He heard movement across the room, and he turned his head to see Whit in the shadows, stripped to the waist, the black hair glistening on his barreled chest. Joe grinned, admiring the man’s powerful physique, and then he saw Whit apply a thick coating of lubricant to one hand and forearm. In sudden fear, he realized what the burly cop was going to do, and he knew he was helpless to complain or escape.
Whit climbed onto the table, facing Joe’s upward-stretched legs, and his rugged features were expressionless as he spread the young man’s ass cheeks. Joe gulped for breath, and he whimpered as he felt the lubricated fingertips graze over his twitching asshole. Shit, he had never enjoyed getting a prick up his butt, and now Whit was going to fist-fuck him!
Whit pressured gently, spreading the sensitive opening, and then one finger eased inward. Joe’s breath rasped in his throat, and his eyes were riveted on the brawny male hunched in the V between his tied legs. Whit met Joe’s gaze evenly, kneading the clenching flesh-ring with sureness, then inserting another finger, and another.
Joe felt each added penetration, and he wondered whether his expression showed fear or a smile as he stared up at Whit’s intense features, his massive physique, the slow, demanding thrusts, the fingers and thumb clamped together and forcing inward. The knuckles. The slow width of the hand. Whit’s face and body were slicked with sweat, and Joe clenched his teeth, straining.
The hand turned slightly, then pressured with determination, and Joe threw his head back, shrieking silently. A blaze of colors flared in front of his eyes, and as they cooled and died, he knew Whit was wrist-deep in his asshole. Joe focused on the muscle-tense man again—the harsh features, the narrowed, gleaming eyes, the hint of a smile bending the lips—and he saw the droplet of clear liquid dangling from the tip of his throbbing hard-on.
He felt Whit’s fingers probe deeper, exploring and stroking sensuously, curling into a fist around his cock, pumping with sureness, and then the man’s free palm was roaming over Joe’s inverted chest and belly. He seemed to be surrounded and filled with Whit’s maleness, and he watched the burly cop cup his sex-hot testicles, then grip his rigid prick. Joe felt like he was losing the separation between himself and Whit, losing the place where he ended and Whit began. He looked down and saw Whit’s thighs pressed to his—no, not to his, into his thighs! The flesh seemed to be merging, each of Whit’s thigh’s to Joe’s, and Whit’s cock up inside him seemed to be sticking to, maybe melting into, Joe’s ass and guts. Whit bent closer and his hand sank into Joe’s chest. Joe tried to scream but could not get enough air into his lungs. His smooth cock-head and an inch of his hard dick bulged above Whit’s clenching fist, the skin of both cock and fist were already binding together, becoming one. Joe screamed then, as loudly as he could. As Whit pressed downward toward the base, Joe’s long-withheld climax soared within him and burst free.
“Dammit, Whit!” he croaked as the first massive explosion of thick cum sprayed down on his face and torso. “I confess, Whit! I confess!” Fiery pleasure consumed him, and he plunged into warm blackness, his sperm pouring over him in torrents.
Joe awoke, lying on a wide cot in a new cell, a sunlit one, and he felt numb and strangely content. He vaguely remembered Parker and one of the shirtless guards lifting him out of the interrogation chair, making him sign each page of the neatly printed confession he had not bothered to read. Shit, Joe decided, who cares?
He stared at the bright sunlight streaming through the large window, the first he had seen since being arrested, and he ran his palms over his bared torso and into his crotch. His cock hung thick and limp, and he wondered how much time had passed since he had managed to wear his cock out enough to wake up without a hard-on.
He saw the door open, and Lefty came in, stripped to a pair of low-slung shorts, a tray of food in one hand. “Howdy, Joe,” he drawled with his usual farm-boy grin. “I brung you somethin’ to eat.”
“Where’s Whit?”
“Workin’, I reckon. I also brung you a pair of trunks like mine, so as soon as you’ve fed yourself, we can go out swimmin’ with the other detainees.”
Joe felt as though he were sleep-walking, and he followed Lefty’s directions automatically.
Wearing swim trunks after so long being naked felt odd to Joe. They swam in the huge outdoor pool, inside a high and formidable-looking wall, and a gang of young men horsed around with them, laughing and joking. Joe paid no attention, floating in his private, sun-warm world.
Then he lay in bed in the darkness of his new cell, and Lefty stretched out against him, naked and cock-hard.
“Want me to take you off, Lefty?”
“Nope. I’m savin’ my juices for Chet.” He chuckled, reaching over to fumble Joe’s relaxed genitals. “I do believe it’s my turn to fuck him, and I do wish to ride my partner proper-like.” ·
“You and Chet—” Joe held the warm, drawling youth, remembering. “You guys used that pump on me ... Filled me full and drained me ...”
“Huh? No, Joe, we ain’t never used no kind of pump!”
“And then Whit fist-fucked me.”
“That never ... Dang it, if Whit wished to plug that fine little ass of yours, he’d be likely to use his mighty pleasin’ pecker. But he knows you ain’t much fer gettin’ your butt rode. You told us that often enough when we was interrogatin’ you.” Lefty sighed, and his voice softened with honesty. “Joe ... That machine makes a feller see all kinds of shit. Sometimes, right before a feller confesses—well, it seems like maybe the machine makes him dream all kinds of strange things. Things he wishes ... or fears.”
“Whit and me?” Joe murmured. “Being partners, like you and Chet?”
Lefty did not answer, and Joe drifted off to sleep—no nightmares, no dreams, nothing.
Days began with sunshine spilling into the cell, then contented hours at the swimming pool, then the nights with the cock-hard studs shacking up with him: sometimes Lefty, sometimes Lefty and Chet together, sometimes one of the guards or a fellow detainee or a stranger who pawed Joe’s heavy genitals to arouse him, without success. They brought his food. They talked. They clipped his hair when it grew shaggy. They took him swimming and exercising. They slept with him. And Joe felt nothing.
When he woke, sunlight was creeping through the window beside his bed, and he yawned and stretched and rubbed his eyes. Today was warm morning, and the burly, uniformed policeman was seated on the edge of his bunk, one hand on Joe’s bared chest.
“Whit!”
“Hi, pal. How’s it going?”
“I’ve missed you, you son of a—” Joe exhaled, grinned and covered Whit’s hand with his own. “You son of a bitch!”
“What do you mean, you ‘missed’ me?”
“I—I dunno. Nothing.”
“That’s what I figured,” Whit muttered gruffly, and he shifted his gaze to Joe’s crotch and limp-hanging dick. “No hard-on?”
“I haven’t thrown one since you—”
“Better clean up and get dressed, Joe.”
“Okay. Yeah.”
Joe swung from the bed and went into the bathroom at the back of the cell, stepped into the shower stall and started the warm spray, and he picked up the soap to lather himself mechanically. Crap, nothing made sense—just like the first day when Whit came to arrest him! Joe scrubbed and rinsed, turned off the taps and toweled himself hastily, then went to the wash basin and started to shave. He caught his reflection in the mirror—short-clipped hair, good-looking masculine features, strong physique, sun-bronzed body—and he saw Whit come into the doorway behind him, burly and crisp-uniformed.
“This is kinda like the morning you arrested me, Whit.”
“Kinda.” He turned toward the other room. “Fuck ’em and forget ’em, huh, pal?”
“How long ago was that, Whit?” Johnny asked, remembering the endless interrogation sessions, the night-after-night of the light going out and sleeping in total darkness, losing all track of time in the endless routine and the windowless rooms, the way his tan had faded before Lefty took him swimming with the others. “How long have I been under arrest?”
Whit replied, “About a week. Why?”
Joe blinked. Only a week? “I dunno,” he said softly. “I guess it just seemed a lot longer. That mind-machine must have really messed with my head.”
Whit gave a slight shrug. “Well, better get a move on, friend.”
Joe shaved, and when he walked into the main room, Whit was viewing him intently, one hand stroking the columned hardness beneath his uniform trousers.
“Horny, Whit?”
“I’m always horny.”
“Want me to suck you off?”
“Want to?”
“Yeah,” Joe admitted, his gaze fixed hungrily on the man’s slow-moving fingers. “I remember that other time. It was damn good.”
“But we haven’t got time,” Whit grumbled and nodded to the folded clothing on the bed. “Get dressed.”
“What for?”
“We’re due in court. Today’s the day you go on trial.”