Sketch #4 – Cop Slave
He turns on the red and blue, and hauls his way onto the freeway from the turnaround he’d parked in. He hadn’t needed the radar gun for this one, the smooth black sedan had been going eighty at least. The car pulls over elegantly–it knows it’s been caught, it’s willing to pay a price to speed. He’s not going to be lenient with this one.
He gets out of the patrol car and walks around to the passenger side window–the back window rolls down instead. “How can I be of assistance, officer?”
The man in the back is in business casual. Sweaty in the late afternoon. The car’s AC isn’t helping him much. “I need to speak with the driver.”
“The driver can’t speak. I can assist you. Would you like his license and registration?”
The driver in the front seat hands the documents back. The suited man hands them to the officer. “What do you mean he can’t speak?” he asks, looking over the paper and card.
“He has no tongue.”
The driver opens his mouth, demonstrating. The officer wishes he hadn’t.
“Well, I’m going to have to give you a ticket. You were going eighty in a sixty zone.”
“I’m very sorry officer–I will discipline the driver later, at my home. He knows I hate recklessness slightly more than tardiness.”
“I’m sorry, but…is there…” he starts, but doesn’t finish. He doesn’t really want to know. Scribbling out the ticket, he hands it to the businessman, and receives a small metal card in return.
“Do pay me a visit sometime, I have a feeling you might enjoy my offerings.”
“I can’t accept this, it’s against–” the window was already rolling up, and the driver rolled off, leaving the officer in the gravel. He kept the card.
The offer worried on him. Not because he wanted any services from the man, but because something didn’t sit right in the whole exchange. None of the other police would look into it–a strange business card wasn’t a crime. He finally gave into curiosity and paid the place a visit, out of uniform and off the clock.
The man answered the door, dressed in a leather uniform. He escorted the officer around the building, answering all of his questions. Yes, they were all sex slaves. Yes, some had been brought here against their will. Yes, he knew that was a crime. No, he wouldn’t be letting the officer go.
They were in front of a man being trained and programmed, his cock and balls erect and milking. The master pulled the plug from the slave’s ass, and the stink of it, the officer needed it, needed to fuck it, he was balls deep before he could stop himself, fucking the ass over and over the master cutting away his clothing, asking him questions. The officer couldn’t lie, and he couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t stop.
Years later, he is fully trained and sold off. Head empty, cock a foot and a half long, permanently erect. He is a punishment for his new master’s other slaves. He fucks. He has no other purpose, no other thought. Occasionally he kills–he cannot help himself from puncturing their guts on occasion. The master does not mind, that is what he is for. Fear keeps the slaves in line. He becomes the master’s favorite tool in time. It is a fine life.