Officer Wetzel Meets a Demon (Part 1)

Every year. It was absolutely disgusting. Officer Wetzel could at least tolerate the pride parade in June–there was no modesty, but at least it wasn’t so…filthy. No, there were the drag queens, which were relatively harmless. The dykes on bikes, the…occasional man in leather or rubber, but this weekend, each year, the streets were clogged with them. Leather uniforms, rubber and latex body suits, men wearing next to nothing at all, men pretending to be dogs and pigs, the alleys stinking of piss even more than usual, as well as that sour odor he’d realized was cum a few years back, and was still hoping he could forget. Each year, he begged his Lieutenant not to force him to work that weekend–he’d request vacations, he’d try anything. Sometimes it worked, and then sometimes, like this year, he was stuck. Here, amidst the throngs, men leering all around at him as he scowled back, making sure they knew that his uniform wasn’t some fetishistic role play. Some of them still didn’t get the hint, and those were usually the ones who ended up with their face against the wall, and then in the drunk tank at the local precinct.

Still, it was only three days, one long weekend. That’s what he told himself, but it didn’t help matters much. If anything, he was becoming rather desensitized to the filth and perversion and whoring going on around him–and that alone was enough to worry him. No one should consider this normal. These displays were a modern Sodom; if only God would come down and wipe this place clean like he did Millennia ago. A little divine intervention, that’s exactly what this fucking city could use.

The day was wearing on him. It was mid afternoon, the heat still climbing even as the sun was starting to drop. His uniform was itchy and uncomfortable. This was just the first day, and he didn’t know if he was going to be able to take two more days of this filth without some well deserved police brutality. Maybe on the last day, when they were too drunk to care about reporting it. Still, considering some of the shit he’d broken up before, the pigs would probably just enjoy it, so what the hell was the point?

In his glum and dour mood, he hadn’t noticed the older fellow, a bit of a belly but quite muscled, shirtless and wearing a pair of tight leather pants, smoking a cigar and holding a beer, walk up and lean on the building beside him. “Well hello Officer,” he said, “You might be a bit more comfortable in this heat if you…took off a few layers. I could help, if you want.”

The man’s hand slipped closer, and Officer Wetzel recoiled, “Lay one of those pervert hands on me, and I swear to god, you’ll be in a jail cell so fast you won’t know what happened to you, faggot.”

“Oh my–I saw that you could use a little bit of temptation, but I suppose I hadn’t quite imagined how much.”

Officer Wetzel had had enough of this fuck–might as well get the bashing done early–as a plus, he’d have to spend the rest of the weekend doing paper work. He slipped his baton out of his holster, went to raise it up, when the man caught his wrist in a firm, sensual hold, and closed the space between them in an instant, lips inches apart, the air now mostly smoke. The cigar stank worse than most, with hints of coal and sulfur. They were in the shade of a building, but even in the shadow, the man’s eyes cast an odd glow, like a flame was reflecting in them. “Now now, officer Wetzel. Why don’t you relax for a little bit? Enjoy yourself a bit?” He glanced over at the people streaming along the sidewalk, caught the eye of some older faggot wearing only a collar and jockstrap, and pulled him closer with a beckoning finger. “How about you, cocksucker? You want to help Officer Wetzel here relax a bit?”

“Would I fucking ever!” he said, got down on his knees, right there on the sidewalk, and started opening the fly of his uniform pants. Wetzel tried to protest, he tried to shove the man away, clober him with the baton he still had raised in his hand, but he couldn’t move. The one hand, firm on his wrist, had frozen his entire body–or rather, everything but his cock, which grew hard as soon as the old pig took the head in his mouth. He was disgusted with himself. He couldn’t really be turned on by this faggot sucking his cock, could he? What kind of man was he? What kind of godly man was he?

“Oh, God isn’t here–God hasn’t come down here in a long time, Officer Beauregard Wetzel. But I come up here every year. And every year, I bring someone down to my level–and this year, I think that’s going to be you.”

Officer Wetzel’s eyes went wide, and he began to try harder to pull himself away, both from the stranger’s hand, and from the man sucking his cock. The man just gave a deep belly laugh, leaned in closer, locked lips with him, and blew the smoke deep. It was hot, so hot it hurt, deep inside him in a place he couldn’t quite identify. He tried to cough, but the force of the man’s breath just kept filling him up, making him light headed, his arm relaxing, the baton falling to the ground as his hand went limp. The man pulled away, gently, Wetzel following him without thinking about it, a slight moan escaping his lips.

“Oh officer, you droped your baton. You really should put that in a safer place, don’t you think?”

Officer Wetzel nodded. Careful to not disrupt the cocksucker, he squatted down and retrieved his baton, and allowed his pants and underwear to drop down around his boots. The thought was in his mind, and he was horrified. He wouldn’t do this to himself, he couldn’t do this, not here, not in front of these freaks. Indeed, men had started to slow, stop, and stare at the scene unfolding here. “Go on officer, I promise that there’s no place safer.”

Wetzel gave a quiet sob, and bent over, moving his baton to the opening of his asshole.

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