A Good Citizen
by Wrestlr
9.
Joe walked down the long, deserted hallway beside Whit, and the man’s hand on his shoulder felt strong and reassuring. The cooperation collar was locked around Joe’s neck, and his wrists were heavily cuffed, and his work shirt and pants felt binding against his skin.
“It feels strange to be wearing clothes,” he muttered. “I guess I’ve gotten used to going bare-ass around here.”
“Getting a hard-on?”
“No. I haven’t thrown one since you made me confess.”
“Shit, I didn’t make you do anything.”
“Yeah, that’s what Lefty said—he said I sorta dreamed it.” Joe drew in a deep breath. “What did I confess to, Whit?”
“I dunno. I wasn’t paying attention.” Whit stepped ahead, pressed an identification card against a reader, which beeped, and then Whit opened a massive door. “Here you go, friend.”
Joe entered a huge, brightly lit room. The walls were painted stark white, and at the far end stood a large, dark-wood desk. Behind the desk blazed a poster declaring: The Police Are Your Pals!
A tall, gray-haired man wearing judicial robes pounded the desktop with a gavel that reminded Joe of a dildo. “You Joe?” the judge growled. “Step forward.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe trudged the length of the room, numb and alone. “I—”
“Is this your confession?” the man asked, holding up a sheaf of printed pages.
“Uh, I guess so, sir.”
“Is it true?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what it says. I didn’t read it, sir.”
“I see.” The judge scanned the papers, frowning, and then he tapped the gavel again. “I find you guilty as charged.” He nodded to Whit. “Officer, the prisoner is remanded to your custody pending sentence.”
Joe felt numb. He had been arrested, questioned, tortured, made to confess, and found guilty, all without knowing what crime he was supposed to have committed.
Whit led him from the courtroom.
“Now what, Whit?”
“You heard the judge. You’re in my custody until he sentences you.”
Joe relaxed as he felt Whit’s hand on his shoulder, and they walked down a maze of sunlit corridors.
A uniformed guard came toward them, leading a naked, cock-swinging prisoner, collared and cuffed, blond and dazed-looking and surfer-shaggy. Joe eyed the short, muscular policeman thoughtfully as they passed.
“That was Mike, wasn’t it, Whit?”
“Yeah. He became a Civil Security cop after he was found not guilty.”
“Is that what’s going to happen to me?”
“Hell, no. You confessed. The judge found you guilty.”
“Oh, right.” Joe frowned. “You knew all about me, even before Parker questioned me and that machine dug into my memories. Right?”
“Right,” Whit acknowledged. “Every time a guy goes for an Attitude Adjustment, the mind-machine scans his memories and logs a bunch of information about his experiences into a data banks. We knew what we’d find in your head before we even started. Ron, your coach, Mike—all of them.”
Joe could think of no reply, so he said nothing. They continued walking down the endless hallway of numbered doors, and Joe knew somehow what was going to happen.
Whit stepped ahead and opened a side door, and they went into a large, masculinely furnished apartment. “This is my place,” the burly cop growled, tromping toward the open door to the bedroom. “Make yourself at home.”
Joe looked about the familiar surroundings, the cluttered living room and the kitchen alcove, just like the state-assigned unit he had lived in before, only a little larger and with more sunlight and a better view. He lost track of where Whit had gone, so Joe walked into the bedroom. The wide bed. Whit’s clothes carelessly scattered. The sound of a man taking a piss in the bathroom beyond. Still handcuffed and collared, Joe picked up the body-warm uniform and hung it in the closet, next to the work shirts and pants he had last seen in his own closet.
He turned, and Whit was standing there, naked, eyeing him with approval. “I’m kinda messy,” the burly cop muttered, coming forward. “You can keep things squared away around here.”
“Okay.” Joe took a deep breath. “I’ve never seen you stripped all the way before.”
“Get used to it.” He unfastened the heavy handcuffs from Joe’s wrists and the cooperation collar from his neck. “I like going bare-butt.”
“Me, too,” Joe agreed, a little disoriented as his mind began to clear from the collar’s effect.
Joe returned to the closet to peel off his clothes and hang them up, and when he dropped his work pants, his prick bobbed forward, stiff and sex-hot.
“You finally got a hard-on,” Whit observed, settling on the side of the bed. “C’mere.”
Naked, Joe crossed to the seated man, and he watched Whit grip his aroused rod, then bend forward and suck the glistening cock-head into his mouth. “Dammit, Whit!” Joe watched the rugged policeman mouth-slide all the way down on his erection, and he remembered how a cop named Bill had wanted to be his slave. Then he felt Whit’s fingers lock about his balls securely, and he knew damn well that Whit was not like Bill—hell, no! “Dammit, partner!”
“We aren’t partners,” Whit growled, pulling back. “We’re stuck with each other until the judge sentences you, and if I feel like sucking your damn dick—shit, fuck ’em and forget ’em. Right?”
“Yeah ... Okay. Sure.”
“Go get us a couple of beers, buddy.”
Joe went to the refrigerator, pulled out two cans of beer, then returned to the bedroom, wondering if Whit had really meant to call him buddy instead of pal like he and the other cops usually did. Partner as he knew now was what sex-rebels called their illegal lovers, a dangerous word that hinted of forbidden monogamy and intense emotional bonds. Buddy was dangerous too, though Joe guessed the word could just mean plain old friend, like when he and Ron had called each other buddy back in school. Hell, nobody much cared if pre-citizens buddied-up into couples of varying levels of exclusivity, and Ron called him buddy all the time—unless Ron had really meant—No, Joe thought, he couldn’t have meant it that way, could he? It was just a word, and they were just kids, not even full citizens yet, and Joe had sure not known any better. But Whit had said Ron had been arrested, and—
Joe sure knew better now.
Whit was stretched out on the bed, stripped and rugged-built and hard-cocked. Crap, Joe thought, that bastard is so damn sexy—and hung like a horse! Joe passed one of the beers to Whit and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing him, and he felt numb and confused—and so fucking horny!
“How long until the judge sentences me, Whit?”
“Dunno. Days. Weeks. Years, maybe.” Whit swallowed a mouthful of beer. “In a hurry?”
“No, I guess not.” Joe put his free hand on Whit’s chest and watched his fingers smooth the sleek black hair against to the broad, full muscle-plates. “What do I do in the meantime?”
“You clean up around this place for one, and maybe we’ll get you assigned to something in the Civil Service officer. If you’re any good at it, you can help Lefty make up confessions—shit like that.”
“Okay.” He let his palm roam downward over the man’s hard-muscled torso. “You’re a rough bastard, buddy.”
“Screw up and I’ll kick the shit out of you.”
“Yeah.” Joe remembered the beatings that damned machine had made him dream Whit was giving him, and he eased his hand into the man’s crotch. Whit’s large, loose-sacked balls slipped into his grasp, and Joe recalled the wrenching agony, whether real or imagined, of having his own nuts clamped and tortured. Whit did not shy away, and Joe fingered the orbs gently, then shifted to the massive flesh-column above. The shaft was swollen to pipe-like hardness, and Joe traced out to the slick head. He remembered taking it in his mouth, coaxing it to climax, drinking down its powerful eruption, and he wanted to make this rugged son of a bitch cum so damn badly! “Horny, Whit?”
“I’m always horny, Joe. That’s another thing you’ll have to get used to.”
Whit finished his beer. Then Joe was spilling flat on top of Whit, pressing his face to the burly chest, nuzzling the hair-sprayed muscles, finding each dark nipple and tongue-lapping it, squirming lower, lower, to the male-scented crotch, the tightening testicles, the soaring prick, and Joe felt like never before, locked between Whit’s powerful legs and worshipping his aroused masculinity.
And then Whit was jerking him up. “Roll over, Joe. I want to fuck you.”
“Dammit, Whit—”
“Shut up and roll over.”
Joe was turned on his belly, and he felt helpless to stop what was happening. With a whimper of surrender, he lay face-down and clenched the pillow beneath his head with both arms. He felt Whit’s work-rough paws on his shoulder blades, rubbing slowly, almost caressingly, working downward. Joe remembered Ron, back in school, messing around and getting him turned-on and trading hand-jobs; and Jonesy, giving him his first blow-job and getting one in return; and Tony and all the others; and the rugged, mature coach screwing his virgin tail brutally.
Whit’s palms cupped over the muscle-tight smoothness of Joe’s upturned butt, and the fingers drew along the crack between his cheeks, then pulled away. Joe felt Whit’s movement on the bed, and then the hands were back, fingers spreading his buns as the coldness of a lubricant tube tipped his exposed passage. Joe remembered that dream the machine caused him to have, of being filled with Whit’s fist, then his cock, of merging and becoming physically one with the man. “Whit? I—”
“Shut up, cock-sucker,” the burly cop interrupted, and Joe shivered as the slick lubricant met his sensitive orifice. “I’ve held off long enough. I’m going to fuck the hell out of your damn ass!”
Whit’s finger entered the crevice, spreading the lube and probing for the hidden opening, and Joe felt that finger outline its target repeatedly and finally tap the center. He tensed at the first, almost gentle pressure, and then Whit’s other hand was on his shoulder, reassuring and holding him in place as the slow, taunting massage continued. Joe gripped the pillow tighter, squirming at the sensation, and each movement was magnified a thousand times by the sensitivity of the puckered flesh. At last, Joe felt his tightness relaxed, felt Whit press more firmly. Joe gritted his teeth at the first intrusion, and then he felt Whit’s hand stroking the sweep of his spine as his body accepted the gently probing finger. The finger turned and kneaded almost caressingly, and Joe relaxed into the numb lassitude of submission.
“Roll over on your back,” Whit ordered quietly, determinedly. “I want to plow you face-to-face.”
Joe found himself being twisted over, and then he was lying back, knees cocked, Whit positioning himself between them. Dazed, Joe saw his own cock thrust upward like a stone column gleaming with heat, and then he shifted his gaze upward to the horny man. Whit was resting back on his haunches, massively built and staring down at Joe’s exposed crotch, and the barreled arcs of the cop’s chest rose and fell with his deep, almost deliberate breathing. Slowly, Whit rocked forward on his knees, and Joe saw his tremendous cock glistening under a sheath of lubricant, swollen to iron hardness.
“Dammit, Whit!”
“Shut up,” Whit grumbled, and he thrust his hands beneath Joe, gripping the cheeks of his ass and raising him. “I told you I’m going to fuck you.”
Joe was rolled back, and he hooked his legs over Whit’s powerful shoulders and threw his arms wide, clutching the bed for stability. Then he felt his ass being spread and Whit’s huge, hard cock-knob slipped into the crevice. Joe closed his eyes and locked his jaw. The cock-head fit against the center of the opening and Joe felt it press inward, and he choked a cry. “Whit ... Aw ...” Dammit, Joe thought, I’m moaning like a damn virgin!
Joe felt the unyielding cock-head push into, then through, his hole, a jab of pain, felt the head stop for a moment, then press deeper inside. Joe struggled, tried to relax, and Whit stayed still as if sensing the young man’s tortured effort. “Take it, Joe,” Whit quietly coaxed. “Take it!”
Joe’s eyes sought out Whit’s face—and then—and then—Joe felt something happen in his head. Suddenly his body went limp. He could not keep his grip on the mattress and felt the sheets slip through his fingers. His body sagged down. His hole relaxed completely, and most of Whit’s hard meat slid inside. Joe thought, That damn machine must’ve done this to me, but he could not resist the quiet looseness that left every muscle slack.
Joe felt Whit’s shaft ease its way into his limp body, inch by inch, until its thickness seemed to fill his guts. Joe wanted to twist and thrash and dislodge it, but he could not move. He simply had to adjust himself to it. His gasps for air sounded hollow in his ears.
Then Whit was gripping his hips, holding Joe pinned in place, as Joe felt Whit’s groin and hips press against the backs of his thighs, fully inside him now.
Fuck!
Joe felt his limp legs slip from Whit’s shoulders, and his own weight impaled him on the rigid column completely.
Yeah!
Joe kept his eyes locked on Whit, who crouched between Joe’s thighs, holding his hips down and staring at his fully accessible genitals. Joe watched the ass-busting cop bring one hand across and grip his prisoner’s rigid cock, and Joe felt himself swirling into a new, dreamlike, satisfied world.
“Fuck me, Whit! Fuck me!”
Now that he accepted the invader in his ass, Joe started to figure out how to move his arms and legs again. He locked his legs around Whit’s hips. They clutched at each other hungrily for a long moment, and then Whit’s hips drew back and drove his powerful rod inward again. Again. Again. Again and again—piston-like thrusts picking up speed and depth, and Joe felt as through Whit’s dick was trying to penetrate the very core of his being. “Partner,” Joe hissed, raising himself to meet the solid, demanding penetrations. “Yeah, fuck me!”
“Shut up, dammit!” Whit barked. “We’re not partners. I’m no sex-rebel. Fuck ’em and forget ’em—got it?”
Whit’s steadily-mounting thrusts made Joe gasp, and then he was clinging to Whit, arms and legs locked tight about the cop’s surging body, twisting, writhing to meet each new thrust. The sexual pressure rose hot and urgent inside him, and his fingers dug into Whit’s muscle-etched flesh.
“I’m gonna cream, Whit! I can’t stop it!”
“Go ahead, cock-sucker!”
“I’m—!” The uncontrollable power wrenched upward through Joe, almost there, and he ground himself against the thrashing man and his deep-seated cock. “Awh!”
“That’s it, Joe. Shoot it!”
“Ah!”
Joe arched back on his shoulders. His quivering cock slammed against his belly—that was enough—and the ultimate moment of climax engulfed him. Whit grimaced, starting his own orgasm only moments after Joe’s. As Whit’s huge dick pounded into Joe and both of them shook with fierce convulsions, they clung together, both of them cumming and shooting their spunk, Joe across his chest and Whit in Joe’s ass, as they shared the ecstatic experience.
Joe drifted down slowly from the climactic summit, numb and spent, forced back to reality in spite of himself. He floated in the afterglow. Whit’s naked weight pressed down on him, the powerful, muscle-hard flesh glazed with a light sweat, Joe’s cum gluing them together. The youth ran his fingers over the man’s shoulders and back, still wanting him, and when he heard Whit suck in a deep breath, he knew Whit had also returned.
“Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“That was ...” Another deep breath. “You’re a good piece of ass.”
“Thanks.” Joe hesitated, then said, “I think that damn machine changed something in me, Whit. I’ve never wanted to get fucked, but I sure wanted you to screw me.”
“Yeah, sometimes the machine makes a few changes. That a problem, Joe?”
“No ... No, I guess not. I’ve never gotten my rocks off before just from having a stud plug me.”
“Yeah, I know:”
“Shit! I forgot that you know everything about me.”
“I didn’t know my dick would feel so at home in your butt, dammit!” Whit relaxed, showing no sign of pulling his still-firm cock free. “Hell, I’ve always been a Fuck ’Em and Forget ’Em guy, right?“
“Uh, sure.” Joe wet his lips, stroking the burly son-of-a-bitch cop’s back lazily. “Going to forget this fuck, Whit?”
“I don’t go in for Attitude Adjustments. I just move on the next guy—no strings. But ... probably not.”
“Me, neither.”
They fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts, and suddenly Whit pulled up, breaking the cum-glue bond between them and sinking back on his haunches. Eyes closed, Joe felt Whit shift slightly, and the flesh-heaviness remained locked in his ass. A towel dropped to his chest, and he felt Whit move it across his bare skin and downward, sopping up the wet mixture of cum and sweat. Joe lay still, and the cop’s hand slipped from the towel as he gripped Joe’s relaxing cock and wiped it gently, and then his balls.
“Hold still,” Whit growled, and he stuffed the towel beneath the motionless young man.
Joe stiffened as he felt Whit’s massive prick ease from him, and then he fell back, limp, choking a quiet sound of regret.
Whit got up from the bed and sauntered into the bathroom.
Joe lay still and heard the rush of water in the shower, and then he turned his head and opened his eyes, focusing on the twilight glow through the window. “Fucking bastard!” he muttered. “Horny ass-fucking stud. Cock-sucker. Partner.”
He hopped to his feet and tromped into the bathroom, and he could not help grinning when he saw his shaving gear laid out next to Whit’s, like it belonged there.
He climbed into the shower stall, and Whit stepped back from under the spray, lathering his barreled chest and heavy-hanging genitals. Joe doused himself thoroughly, grabbed the soap, and started to wash up.
“Your asshole hurt?” Whit asked.
“Not like it did when you fist-fucked me.”
“Huh? I never did that. You dreamed it.”
“Yeah?—I guess I did.”
Joe showered and got out of the way as Whit moved in to rinse off. He watched the rugged, cock-swinging man for a moment, then began to soap Whit’s broad, muscle-ridged shoulders and back.
“You like showering with a guy, Joe?”
“I like showering with you, that’s for sure. I dunno. Maybe the machine ... Dammit, I feel like I belong here with you.” He watched his palms move downward. “You’ve got a nice round ass, Whit, nice and muscular. Most big guys like you have lard-butts.”
“If you’re thinking about plugging me, forget it.”
“Dammit, Whit—”
“You can plow Mike. He’s hot to get your cock up his tail again.”
“Mike? What makes you say that?” Joe asked, dropping to his knees to lather the man’s powerful legs.
“I asked him,” Whit answered casually. “We’ll be shacking up with most of the other guys now and then.”
“’We’?”
“Shit, yeah—you and me. We’re going to be roommates, so we might as well share sex-mates.”
“Want me to share my ass, Whit?”
“Hell, no.” Whit turned to face kneeling Joe. “But that’s your decision. You can fuck who you want, or get fucked if you want, just as long as you remember your butt ultimately belongs only to me, buddy.”
Joe looked up at the rugged, naked cop, and he realized that the damn judge had already sentenced him to serve the burly son of a bitch with the rough-cut features, slitted eyes, the hint of a grin, muscle-etched physique, horse-hung cock, and loose-swinging balls ...
“Bastard!” Joe mumbled and rocked forward to press his face into Whit’s crotch, clinging to him. “Yes, sir—I’ll remember that.”
“Damn right you will.”