Precinct 27’s New Recruit

When Jordan heard that he was being assigned to Precinct 27 after graduating from the academy, a couple of other trainees pulled him aside and asked what he’d done to get that assignment. From their tone, he couldn’t quite tell if it was a curse or a blessing. When he asked why they seemed surprised, none of them would really give him any details. The only hard fact he could get out of any of them was that the precinct was on the edge of a chunk of the city which was generally called Pigtown, which was a rather unsavory locale, where it was best not to be caught after dark. Jordan, having grown up in the suburbs of the city, hadn’t heard of it, which only seemed to surprise the fellows more. In any case, none of them had been there, or if they had, they weren’t talking about it, so they moved on to other conversations. Jordan learned what they meany by unsavory, however, when he pulled into a parking garage not far from the precinct house, and stumbled upon two guys fucking near the elevator.

He froze. The fellows looked over at him, from the shadows, and one of them was so bold as to beckon him over. Jordan didn’t join them, and if he’d been on duty, he would have hauled them in for public indecency. Instead, a bit rattled, he retreated down to street level, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and found it hard to believe he was still in the same city he’d always thought he’d known. The ground and storefronts were grungy and dirty, the air choked with smoke and exhaust, the streets narrow and full of alleys that seemed to weave around in directions that made no sense. The men passing him on the sidewalk (and it was only men, he realized after a few minutes) were all dressed in leather, denim, rubber, work gear, none of it clean, and some of it rather suggestive, but not as suggestive as what they catcalled him with as he passed by. 

He found his way to the precinct eventually, nearly getting lost in the process. He was certain, somehow, that the streets were moving around him, but that couldn’t be possible, right? In any case, he got there on time, climbed the steps and stepped inside, eager to find somewhere normal after such a strange start to his day, but he quickly discovered that there was a reason precinct 27 had…a reputation with the rest of the cops in the city. 

The building seemed tired. Whether it was because it was simply old, just uncared for, or something else, he couldn’t tell. The tiles of the floor were peeling up and scuffed. The walls had any number of stains on them. The chairs were falling apart, the officer manning the desk had his boots up on the desk in front of him, and he was flipping through a magazine that, Jordan realized as he came closer, looked to be a vintage gay porno rag. He cleared his throat, giving the officer the chance to put the magazine away, but he just looked over the top of it. “What’s up?” he said.

“Uh, hi. My name is Jordan Bethell, I’m a new recruit assigned here? I’m supposed to have a meeting with the commander today at ten.”

The man leered at him. Jordan had never really known what a leer was, until the moment this officer’s nose and lips turned up, upon the news that the precinct had a new recruit. “Sure thing man. His office is on the third floor. Elevator’s broke though, gonna have to climb,” the officer said, pointing to the stairs.

“They gonna fix it soon?”

The man just laughed, and returned to his magazine, groping the crotch of his uniform openly as he reached the centerfold. Jordan backed away, confused, and took the stairs up. He’d be sure to mention the officer’s rather inappropriate behavior when he spoke to the commander. The higher he climbed in the building, the hotter it became, adding ten, then maybe fifteen degrees of heat, despite it being a rather cool Spring day outside. He passed a few officers on the way up, and each of them were walking uniform violations–beards on almost all of them past regulation length, some men who were quite a bit too fat to pass the physical exam, illegal modifications to their uniforms–and he was certain that one of them smelled like alcohol as he passed, and another stank of piss. What kind of operation was the commander running here? He had met a few captains and commanders while he was at the academy, and all of them had seemed rather rigid and sticklers when it came to the rules of how an officer ought to present themselves. Whoever was leading this place–if this is what he let his officers get away with, how could he expect them to look up to him as a leader?

At the top floor, the temperature in the building had to be eighty degrees, and Jordan was already sweating through his undershirt and out onto the crisp, clean button down he’d worn, since he didn’t have his official uniform to change into yet. Those were stored at the precinct, and given to recruits when they arrived. He turned the corner at the top of the stairs, and at the end of the hall, he saw one officer had shoved another up against the wall, and was…making out with him? The other one had his hand down the other officer’s pants and was stroking the man’s cock, making him moan. “What…what the fuck are you two doing?” Jordan asked.

Both officers turned to him, surprised and annoyed at having been interrupted. “Who the fuck are you, askin’?” the larger one asked. He was big, one of the larger men that Jordan had ever seen, and he stalked towards him, footfalls reverberating through the floor, and Jordan stepped backwards, only to stumble into someone else. The officer stopped, stood up straight, and saluted, “Commander,” he said, and the other officer behind him pushed off the wall and saluted as well, “I was just inquiring as to what this…civilian was doing in our precinct.”

“I believe this civilian is Jordan Bethell, our new recruit out of the academy,” the voice behind him said. Jordan turned around, and found himself looking up at Commander Rumwell. He was a few inches taller than Jordan was, his body thickly packed with muscle. Unlike the other officers he’d seen, his uniform was at least worn as it ought to be, but that didn’t stop the older fellow’s musk from forming a thick cloud around him in the heat. Jordan’s nose wrinkled at the smell–it reminded him of the days back in high school after football practice, the air full of sex and hormones and sweat. He shuddered a bit, but wasn’t quite sure why. “We have a meeting, don’t we Jordan? Thank you for your promptness,” the commander said.

The other two officers backed off, and Jordan followed Rumwell down the hall to his office. Somehow, it was even hotter in there, but Jordan didn’t understand how that could be possible. He loosened the tie he’d added to his ensemble, hoping to appear more professional, but now he just felt silly somehow. “Thank you, Sir,” Jordan said once the door was closed behind them. “I walked in on those two making out in the hallway! I…and the man at the reception desk was reading a porno mag. A gay one, I think.”

“Oh yes, Lark and Willis are partners, they usually don’t make it without fucking in the hall until around noon, and Jimmy at the desk pretty much always has his nose in a rag like that. He gets them at an old shop around the corner. I’m surprised you didn’t walk in on him with his cock out–happens more often than you might think.”

“You…you can’t be serious,” Jordan said, and tugged at the collar on his shirt. “Is…the air conditioning broken, or something?”

“Yeah, very broken,” Rumwell said, “I can turn on my fan, if you want.”

Jordan nodded. The older man turned around, twisted the knob on the back of the fan he had sitting behind him, and air started flowing. It didn’t make anything that much cooler, and the air had to pass by the commander before it reached Jordan, which meant that it stank of the man’s musk. It’s not that it was particularly rank–it was…Jordan had a hard time describing it exactly. Rugged? Masculine? Powerful? He shook his head and shuddered again, trying to keep his composure. 

“Precinct 27 is…a special case, in the city,” Rumwell was saying, and Jordan struggled to recall what had started the monologue. “This is all classified, and does not leave this precinct. There is a bar, about ten to fifteen blocks west of here, depending on how you walk there, called Pigtown. It has always had a certain…reputation, but as of late, that reputation has become…an aura. Or a zone, perhaps. There’s a perimeter around the bar that, well, it has an effect on people. On men, especially. This precinct is charged specifically with trying to contain and understand this influence, so we can stop it from spreading further. Not many recruits from the academy have the stones to make it here, you know, but I think you’ll do fine once you’re a little seasoned. I selected you in part because your instructors took note of your determination and grit–and also because you’re a rather handsome young man, if I do say so myself.”

“E-Excuse me?” Jordan said, his words a bit slurred. He felt…high, almost. He wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with him, and figured it had to be heat exhaustion. “Do…do you have something to drink? I’m feeling a bit dizzy. From the heat.”

“Are you sure it’s from the heat?” Rumwell asked him and chuckled, a deep chuckle that made Jordan’s heart jump a bit for reasons he didn’t quite want to explore too deeply. He dug a water bottle out from his desk and tossed it to Jordan. He guzzled it, but it didn’t help his head clear much. “Anyway, this precinct and the bar have…an agreement. We enforce the perimeter, and do our best to keep everything on the inside, in, and everything on the outside, out. Nice, and separate. We have our place, in here, and they have their place, out there.”

“Wait, in? Aren’t we…out?”

“Oh no, the perimeter is at 134th street–we’re a good five blocks inside here.”

Wait, it’s…how big is it?”

“Too big, perhaps. This far out, it’s  noticeable, but the further in you go, especially at night…well, you’ll see in good time. No reason to send you running away screaming on your first day. Around here we have a little more lewd conduct on the street than other places in the city, and the only folks who live around here tend to be men, but beyond that, nothing too out of the ordinary, especially during the daytime.”

“I saw some guys fucking in the parking garage…”

“Yeah, like that.”

“I…this…I don’t understand, what are we doing here?”

“It’s a lot to take in, and it looks like you’re having trouble focusing, Jordan,” Runwell said, put his arms back behind his head, and the smell of his musk intensified. Jordan moaned, and realized his cock was tenting the front of his pants. “Seems like your commander’s scent has you all riled up. Don’t fight it–no one around here can resist it. That’s why I’m in charge, you see. That’s why all of the men here, including you, have to obey everything I tell them to do.”

“I…I don’t understand…”

“That’s ok. Recruits like you, if I told you everything right away, well, your heads would probably explode. But that’s ok. You’re kind of tired of listening to an old man like me prattle on and on, aren’t you? Isn’t there something else you’d rather do?” The commander stood up from his chair, and Jordan gaped at him. Six foot five, massive frame packed into a uniform a little too small for him, pit stains under his arms, a thick beard growing out of his face down to the collar of his shirt, a firm muscle gut pushing out, and the bulge of his cock and balls under that. Jordan realized he was staring, but he also couldn’t quite bring himself to pull his eyes away. Would that bulge smell different from his pits? How would his ass smell, he wondered? He shook his head, and managed to push out of his chair.

“This…it’s a trap,” he said, but he couldn’t quite manage to walk to the door, something was…keeping him there, a voice, maybe. A desire. An urge.

“It’s not…not a trap. I really did choose you because I knew you would be able to take it. The work here requires a…certain kind of man. You aren’t quite there yet, but give it a few months around the rest of your brothers here, and you’ll be one fine fuckin’ specimen, I can fucking tell. Yeah, look at you, all clean shaven, short hair, lean frame…but fuck, we’ll make a damn fine man out of you. Isn’t that what you want? For me to make a man out of you?”

Jordan tried to go for the door, stumbled, and fell to the floor on his hands and knees. Before he could crawl, Rumwell stood beside him and rolled him over with one boot, when he was on his back, planted it on his chest. Jordan tried to push him off, but whatever it was that was in the commander’s musk, he just felt weak. He couldn’t oppose this man. He couldn’t fight him. And if he couldn’t do those things, what could he do?

He could submit.

The idea popped into his head a little too readily for him to trust it, as much as he wanted to. He struggled anyway, even knowing that there was nothing he could do. Sensing resistance, Rumwell moved the boot, planting it on Jordan’s neck, applying just enough pressure to make breathing difficult, and Jordan froze.

“Bitchell–you don’t mind that I call you that,” the commander said. It was stated as a fact, not as a question. “Bitchell, you’re going to have to learn here that, as a recruit, you are on the bottom of the totem pole. The harder you fight, the worse you’ll make it for yourself, and the more likely it is that you’ll find yourself dragged away down some alley in the middle of the night, and when you come crawling back out–if you come crawling back out–you will not be the same man that you were when you were taken. Obedience is what protects you. If you obey me, if you only obey me, then you will always come back to me, because that is where men like you belong, do you understand?”

Jordan nodded as best he could with the boot on his throat.

“Now, I am going to remove my boot, place it on the floor, and you will lick it. Then, I will remove my boots, and you will worship my feet–you will do this not because you want to, but because as your superior, in every way, you must obey me.”

Rumwell pulled his boot away, and Jordan did everything he could to push back against the man’s musk and command, and bolt for the door. He managed to roll over onto his belly, but before he could push himself up to run, he crawled over to the boot and started licking at the leather. All the while, he was stuck in his head, screaming at himself to run, but it was like all control of his body had been severed away from him. His mind was reeling still, his vision swirling from the smell of leather and musk and the heat. Rumwell smirked, and then walked back to his desk. Jordan followed, trying to lick the boot as he walked, until the commander sat back down in his chair and put his booted feet up on his desk. “Take off your clothes, including your underwear, then take off my boots and socks and worship my feet, recruit.”

Jordan did as he was ordered, stripping off his tie, shirts and slacks until he was naked and sweaty in the commander’s office, horrifically embarrassed to find himself completely naked before the uniformed older man in front of him. He pulled off one of Rumwell’s boots, and the smell that struck him was even stronger than the general musk of the room, and much to his own disgust, he almost craved it. Not…the smell itself, exactly. He craved…he craved the pure manliness of it. He wanted to drink it down. He wanted it to pour out of him as well. He pulled off the other boot and sock, faster now, and then got down and started licking the commanders size seventeen feet clean, shoving his nose between his toes, snorting up the scent, taking in as much of it as he could.

“That’s a good recruit, get as much of that in you as you can. I had a feeling you’d have good instincts. You want it, don’t you? You might not understand why yet, but fuck, you want it. I can see it, I can tell–there’s no use trying to hide it. Go on, enjoy it. Relish it. Take it all in.”

Jordan didn’t know how long he was there in front of the desk, cleaning the commander’s feet, but when he finally took them away and pulled his socks and boots back on, Jordan collapsed back in the chair, looked at the clock, and saw that an hour and a half had passed since the start of their meeting. “I…What the fuck are you doing to me?” he said.

“Heh, that was just the introduction, recruit. Get up and follow me. Leave your clothes here–you won’t be needing them again. We’ll get you into the recruit uniform for now.”

“I…won’t…everyone see me?”

“You aren’t a very quick learner, are you?” the commander said, “Get out there–locker room is on the ground floor.”

The commander marched him down the stairs, past a few officers who catcalled and whistled at him as they passed, making Jordan’s face burn in humiliation. But as he walked, he was certain that something about him was off. He didn’t quite know what it was, exactly–like he was a little thicker, or a little hairier, his dick a bit bigger–it was rock hard despite how horrified he was by this entire scene. The officers that passed them went and told the rest of the shift that there was a new recruit about to be broken in, and a mob of officers followed them into the locker room, surrounding Jordan, making him feel even more self-conscious. 

“Now, recruits tend to wash out here pretty regularly. They run out into the streets, and when we find them again, they usually aren’t very interested in being officers any longer. We started saving time keeping just one recruit at a time, and you all get the same uniform. I always tell the guy who had it last to wash it, but they never do, for some reason,” Rumwell said, opened up a locker, and pulled out a grungy looking uniform stuck to a hanger. The commander pulled it off, and it was…crispy. He brought over to Jordan, and he realized, from the smell, that the reason it was crispy was because it had been saturated with cum–and probably a bit of piss–and left to dry there in the locker. Once the pants were laid out, he saw that the ass of the pants had been ripped open, giving ready access to whoever’s ass might be underneath. His ass, soon enough, he supposed. 

“I…No fucking way am I putting that shit on,” Jordan said.

“Recruit, put on your uniform–that’s a fucking order,” Rumwell said, and watched the young man struggle to resist. There was no underwear of course, and no boots or socks. He pulled on the shirt, trying not to gag when he realized that some patches were still a little wet–apparently it had been worn more recently than he’d thought. The pants were next, and he had to use the belt that the commander handed him to cinch them up, because they were too small for him, the ankles pooling around his feet. The officers around him laughed, and all Jordan wanted to do was run away.

“Well men, this is our new recruit. For now, you all will address him as Bitchell, until he’s proven to us that he’d good for more than being the precinct’s bitch, right?”

Again, the men laughed and some advanced closer to him, a few with their cocks hanging out of the flies of their uniform pants. This has to be a dream, Jordan thought to himself. He didn’t know what to make of it, if it was, but it was better than this actually happening to him. He tried to shrink away, but the officers were coming from every side, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

“Attention, Recruit!” Rumwell snapped at him, and Jordan immediately took the proper position. “Here are your orders. From now on, you will serve this precinct as our cumdump, urinal and bitch. You are not to leave the premises under any circumstances. A cell will be reserved for you below, where you will sleep when you are not on your shift. When you are working, you will service any officer who requires it. You will not refuse a request from an officer under any circumstance, no matter how much it might personally revolt you–but I have a feeling you’ll come around to our way of things soon enough,” the commander added, whispering that into Jordan’s ear.

With that, the men of the precinct descended upon him in the locker room, bending him over the length of the bench between the lockers. One officer took his mouth, another took his ass, and with that, Jordan lost his virginity to two sizable cocks at both ends. He tried to do something, anything, to get away, but his body refused to obey him again, and the smell of the men around him was so heady and intoxicating he wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to leave. The men didn’t last long. Some waited until they could have a turn at either end, while others were too excited and simply shot their loads all over the back of Bitchell’s uniform, as they all called him now. After an hour or so of constant sex, with his hole pulsing and his jaw aching, he was finally done, and just stayed on the bench for a few minutes, shuddering, feeling the cum ooze out of his ass, drain down between his thighs and pool in the crotch of his pants. 

He pushed himself up, and found that he wasn’t alone. The commander was still there, standing against the lockers, admiring the sight of the new recruit plastered with his men’s cum, and a few loads of piss to go with it. “Fuck, you’re gonna be a handsome pig once we’re done with you, I can already fucking tell,” Rumwell said, “I knew it from the first time I saw you in the yard that day, that I had to have you.”

“Please Sir, please…I…just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I…please…” Jordan said, crawling over to where the commander was standing and kissing his boots.

“Are you sure you want to leave, recruit? Get up, I want to show you something.”

He got down and hauled Jordan up off the floor, and helped him over to the mirror at the end of a bank of lockers. There, Jordan got his first good look at himself since putting on the disgusting uniform…and he was appalled. There was cum all over his face and hair–but then he saw something else that hadn’t been there earlier. He had a five o’clock shadow. He never had a shadow like that. Hell, he generally didn’t have to shave his beard more than a few days a week, because he didn’t grow that much. He opened up the shirt, and saw that the same thing had happened across his chest and belly, a thicker trail of hair had appeared than there’d been before. There was something else too, but harder to pinpoint. He smelled different. At first he thought he was just smelling all of the cum that was on him, but it was more than that. He’d never had much of a musk before this, but he could really smell himself, and…and he liked it. 

“Look at you, already growing into a proper man. Probably won’t even have to have you in the recruit uniform for very long, if you work hard and bulk up quick, and show that I can trust you to be good and obedient. You like being obedient, don’t you? It feels good to obey men like me. The better you obey me, the sooner you’ll be a man just like me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you recruit?”

He came closer and licked the side of Jordan’s face, one hand groping his cock and balls through the front of the crispy uniform–only the crotch wasn’t so crispy anymore. Some of that was because of the cum that had drooled out of his ass, but he realized he’d been leaking this entire time into the front as well. “Please, I…” Jordan managed to say, but then the commander pulled him into a kiss, forcing his tongue into his mouth, invading it, dominating it, and Jordan just…relented, as the commander’s other hand slid behind him, found his well used hole, and slid a finger inside it.

The commander pulled away, and put his lips to Jordan’s ear again. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Getting fucked by men feels good. It feels good to service them. The more you service them, the faster you’ll stop being a bitch, and grow into a real man like them too. You want to be a real man, don’t you? You don’t want to be a bitchy little recruit forever, do you?”

“No, Sir.”

“No–you want to grow big, and strong, and hairy, and musky like a real man, don’t you?”

“Fuck…fuck Sir, I…I do Sir.”

“Do you want me to fuck you Bitchell? Do you want me to pound that hole of yours, flood your guts with my seed? Do you want me to make you even hairier, and bigger, and smellier than you already are? Do you want to become a proper pig like the rest of my men here? You do, don’t you?”

“Please Sir, please fuck me…” Jordan moaned.

“You fucking bitch slut, if you insist.”

The commander pushed him over in front of the mirror, lined up his cock, and pushed inside Jordan’s hole, sliding right in up to the hilt. His cock wasn’t the longest, but it was the thickest, and the stretch of his hole made Jordan gasp and contract. “Don’t fight it bitch, you need this. You want this load. You want every load this bitch hole can take, isn’t that right? If you don’t, you aren’t going to be man enough to stay here. You’ll just wash out, and we’ll leave you out back for the freaks to come collect when night falls–that what you want? You want those pigs out there to drag you into the alley and do all sorts of unspeakable things to you?”

Jordan shook his head.

“Yeah, why would you want that, when we can do all those filthy, unspeakable things to you right here,” Rumwell said, and fucked him harder. He came, flooding Jordan’s guts with his load, and he could feel it, this time. The potency of the commander’s seed, the corrupted essence of it, Jordan looked at himself in the mirror, saw his shoulders widen, his pecs beef up, his waist expand enough that he needed to let the belt out a notch. Even his feet grew larger, and had a fine coating of hair on the surface. 

The commander pulled him close, making sure he got every last drop, and then led him downstairs to the jail. Most of the cells were empty, but the commander showed him to his new room, but left the door open. After all, the men needed easy access to the bitch. His first shift would start tonight–the night shift was always more active here in Pigtown, and a lot of the officers liked to blow off some steam before going out on patrol–it helped keep some of the temptations down. As the commander was leaving, Jordan asked, “Wait, what about my car? My stuff? I can’t…just stay here.”

“Don’t worry about that life anymore, Bitchell,” the commander said, “We’ll take care of you from now on. This is your home now–even when you aren’t the bitch anymore, you won’t want to be anywhere else. You’ll see. That’s the thing, really. In the end, Pigtown will claim us all. Until then, well, someone has to keep order around here.”

With that, the commander left. Jordan thought about trying to escape, but he was exhausted. He curled up on the cot, still in his uniform, and passed out. It wasn’t until around nine at night that someone shook him awake, and shoved a dick in his mouth. The night shift was here, and Jordan’s time as the precinct’s newest recruit had begun.


Those first few months were hard, as Jordan adapted to his new role in life as the precinct’s bitch. Nothing worked the way it ought to. He felt like he was trapped in some sick and twisted gay porno–all the actors were wearing cop uniforms, but none of them were actually cops, no matter what they might look like or say. Except, they were. It was all confusing, and he struggled to keep his footing, just trying to take things as they came, rather than sort the whole mess out all at once. One thing was certain, and that was that the night shift at the precinct was much more active than the day shift. It was populated with a different sort of officer as well–younger, bigger men, all of them forming a stern and tight knit community. They didn’t talk to Bitchell much or engage with him as a fellow officer–it was clear that they didn’t see him as an equal, but merely as a tool. They would go out on their patrols, but who they returned with, if they had to make an arrest, shocked him at first, and one thing the officers always told him, was to stay away from the other cells in the block when they were occupied–best, in fact, to avoid the jail altogether during the night. He had plenty to keep him busy in the rest of the precinct anyway. After their patrols, the officers were usually so horned up and desperate, they either fucked each other right there over the desks or up against the wall, or if no one else was available, they’d use Bitchell. 

Once the night shift ended around dawn, Jordan would go down to the jail, once one of the officers had given him the allclear, and find that all of the men that the officers had dragged in over the course of the night had disappeared from their cells–he’d never see them leave the building in other ways, and there was no other way out of the jail that he had seen yet. It was like the perverts, the leather beasts, the rubber pigs, all of them just evaporated with the morning sun. The one exception, on occasion, would be a rather bewildered businessman waking up with a massive hangover, possibly someone that an officer had dragged in to keep them from going too deep. One thing was clear–if you went too deep, you weren’t going to come out the same person again. Even just skipping across the surface, you’d slip under eventually. He saw a few of these businessmen reappear in the cells as the months passed by, the cops doing their best to convince them to stay away, but the place had its hooks in them, the suits giving way to leather and rubber, tattoos appearing across their bodies, begging the officers for abuse–and some of the cops even gave it to them, if they begged enough. Then, they wouldn’t show up again, or if they were showing up, they were disappearing with the morning, like the rest of them.

Once the cells were empty, Jordan would collapse and sleep in his own cot for six or seven hours, until the day shift had gotten in and was ramping up. Then, Jordan would wake up (or be woken up, if one of the officers was particularly desperate) and he’d spend the afternoon and evening servicing them. The day crew was generally older, chubbier, and looked a little more ragged around the edges both physically and mentally. There was more laughter he supposed, but less camaraderie. None of them remained in the building after sunset, and on a few occasions, he heard them talking about the nights, about their time on the night shift–work that none of them could do anymore, not after what they’d seen, what they’d done, or what had grabbed them in an alleyway during a patrol and done to them. They were scared, he realized. Scared of Pigtown, to some extent, but more terrified of themselves, of what would happen to them when their resolve failed, when they decided to stay out one night, and just relent, at last. But until then, they had each other, and that was enough, even as that fear also held them apart. They processed the paperwork left by the night crew, took note of which apparitions seemed to be active or growing stronger and what could be done about that, and they would leave their advice and suggestions for the night shift, sometimes heeded, and other times balled up with a laugh and chucked against the wall.

But Jordan didn’t understand what they were doing here. When he had the occasional opportunity, he would make his way up to the commander’s office and try and get a straight answer out of him, but for the most part, Commander Rumwell wasn’t interested in giving him a clear answer. He would just tell Jordan to focus on his training–that he’d understand in time. As for his training, it felt like a cruel joke to Jordan. Mostly, his training meant crawling from officer to officer, servicing them in whatever sick way they preferred, and then doing it all over again with the next one. In the bathroom (where Jordan tried not to remain for too long, if he didn’t want to spend a few hours doing urinal service exclusively) he’d look at himself in the mirror, and every day, he looked at a different version of himself. Hairier, more muscular, fatter, taller, shorter, older, strong, weak, filthy, tattoos, piercings, shaved head, shaggy mop, long beard goatee–it wasn’t long before he couldn’t even really remember who he’d been to begin with, that bright eyed, clean cut, young man was gone for good. Not too long after that, he lost his last name–he just couldn’t remember it. All that would come to him was Bitchell. He clung to Jordan for a while after that, but lost it one night, when he made his first proper mistake.

It had been a crazy night at the precinct, which meant that for Bitchell, it had been relatively boring. When most of the officers were out on patrol, or dealing with the men they’d arrested, that usually meant that Jordan was stuck in the office, bored out of his mind and working out in the small gym next to the locker room, waiting for someone to come and need one of his holes. It wasn’t dawn yet, but most of the officers had left, tired and ragged, and so Jordan, without thinking about the fact it was still an hour or so until dawn, descended down into the jail, and found one of the cells was still occupied.

The officers usually took care to make sure that Jordan didn’t get a good look at the men they brought in (he thought of them as men, still, though the officers generally called them beasts, apparitions, or monsters) but Jordan had always assumed they were at least human. They had to be human, didn’t they? Downstairs, Jordan had his first proper encounter with one of the apparitions of pigtown, men who had been swallowed up by the bar at some point, then spit back out as something else and now they roamed the streets, their single purpose now to corrupt others. This one had no flesh visible, just a pile of grimy rubber gear heaped around him, but whether he was wearing it, or whether it was simply stuck to him, it wasn’t clear. Each time it turned its head, another face appeared on the rubber mask it had on, always facing him: a pig, a gimp, a demon–so many so quickly, that all he could do was stare at it, and step closer, and closer to see, to feel it. The next thing he knew, the officers had him by the shoulders and hips, dragging him back, the sensation of the rubber coming unstuck from his face, where the thing had latched onto him–something between a kiss and a sucker–and all he could do was try to get back down there. The other officers spent the next few hours with him in the locker room, shoving their own musk in his face, dominating him, fucking him, but it took the commander coming in and brutally fucking him, to finally break the things hold on him properly. When he was back to himself, back to Bitchell, the rubber beast was just a memory now–faint, but powerful, and he asked what had happened, none of them could come up with an answer that satisfied him.

He came away relatively unscathed–but he did lose his first name–it had just been pulled right from his mind by the beast’s sucking rubber. If that rubber thing had kept a grip on him, what else could he have lost, and how quickly? Bitchell looked at the night shift with more respect after that. They could have abandoned him to that thing, the apparitions were always easier to wrangle after a snack, but they’d saved him. It was the first time that Bitchell felt like he belonged there, and he minded them and their orders more carefully in the future.

As the weeks became months, Bitchell’s body began to shift less from day to day, and was beginning to solidify into something he could at least recognize as a person. He hadn’t grown much older, at least. Some of the times he’d looked at himself in the mirror he’d seemed older than half the officers at the precinct. There was a thick beard coating his face, about an inch long. It never seemed to get longer, oddly enough, but it would get thicker and bushier. His face was more angular, brow heavier. His eyes were no longer blue, but instead a dark grey. The rest of his body was filling out the recruit’s uniform he’d been given rather well. Where before everything had been relatively baggy on him, on some days it now felt too tight. The belt was on the last notch, when he could even manage to get it fastened, the buttons across his chest were threatening to pop free, and he could fell the fabric stretched tight across his thighs, biceps, and hips. The officers had pitied him after a month and thrown him some boots–they’d been size sixteen, and now his toes cramped up in them after a day.

There were other changes as well. While he found himself still bound to obey the other officers, and especially the commander, the compulsion no longer seemed as strong. Lying on his cot in his cell in the mornings, while he listened to the activity above him, he wondered if it was because the commands were losing force because he was stronger, or whether it was simply because he wanted this. Did he want this? He hadn’t seen the outside world in so long now, he wasn’t entirely sure that it existed. There was just the constancy of his service, wallowing in the musk and the fucking and the piss and the debauchery of his precinct. Wasn’t he enjoying himself? He struggled to remember the academy, what he’d learned there, but none of it seemed to matter anymore. The men of precinct 27 carried their guns, but they were largely worthless. They couldn’t keep you safe from Pigtown. It was the strength of your will that saved you, not a bullet. Was he getting stronger though? Is that why he was thinking…all of these new thoughts? Having all of these dreams?

His sleep had been filled with visions lately, fantasies of storming through the precinct house, bigger than he is now, roaring, pinning down the officers one by one and fucking the daylights out of them, culminating with the commander in his office, but he always woke up before they came to blows. The dreams terrified and thrilled him, and more than once, he’d filled the front of his stained breeches with a load or several even before waking up and climbing from the jail to assume his duties. 

Then one day, he lost it. It had been Hopkins of course–that fucker was always taunting him, from his first week at the precinct. Hopkins, Bitchell had managed to deduce, had been a stellar cop at a central precinct, aiming for a promotion, before he’d been transferred here as a way to get rid of him for some failure Bitchell hadn’t deduced yet. The commander almost never took experienced cops–they simply didn’t understand what they were getting into. Hopkins had disregarded all of the commanders warnings, gotten in over his head within the first month, with several cops having to drag him back to the precinct just to keep from losing him entirely. Now, he was dayshift only, and Bitchell had heard that he got up to some rather…freaky shit when he wasn’t here. He took a lot of his rage out on Bitchell because he was an easy target–at least until Bitchell had had enough, and with a snarl, thrown Hopkins to the floor, tore out the rear of his pants, and mounted him right there in the middle of the office. 

The rest of the officers had just laughed and watched–there was no real love for Hopkins at the station. They all knew that one day, he just wouldn’t show up, and he’d be just another one of the freaks out there. Hopkins knew it too, and that terrified him more than anything. By the time Bitchell was through with him, he was begging for more, begging him to fuck him harder, and only when Bitchell pulled his cock out, and Hopkins looked around him, did he realize what had happened. He fled the station, and Bitchell was summoned to the commander’s office. He’d expected to be reprimanded, but instead, he was told that he was being promoted, and to get out of that filthy uniform. He was so thrilled, and so thankful, he stripped down and bent over the desk, allowing the commander full use of his ass, and then he received his first civilian clothes in ages, and that afternoon, he left the precinct for the first time in nearly nine months. The sunlight on his skin, even just in the evening, sent a shudder down his spine, and he cried a little. Gunner, the other officer he was with who had offered him a spare room in his place, just held him for a moment, and let him use his shoulder. “You’re alright, brother,” Gunner said, “I know it sucks, but its fuckin’ necessary. Come on, let’s get a meal in you, and then get home.”

They got there as twilight was ending, and already, the denizens of Pigtown were out in force, selling their wares, or just tempting the unsuspecting men travelling through for a little fun in an alley. Gunner showed Bitchell into his apartment–a cozy and rather rundown two bedroom flat, but after sleeping in a prison cell for most of a year, it was heaven. Gunner had made up the second bed, as an offer, but he wasn’t surprised when Bitchell climbed into bed with him, nuzzled up to him, but he was asleep before the two of them could get past foreplay. Bitchell wasn’t sure whether he should be embarrassed or apologetic the next morning, but Gunner got down, blew him, then fucked him, and that was enough to explain that there was nothing to feel bad about. Back at the precinct, he received his new uniform–and it really was a new uniform, much to his surprise. He pulled it on, and found that he missed the smell of his old one–he’d felt…surrounded, in it, by everyone at the station. Now, it was just him–his own musk, warped and twisted by the men around him, sure, but it was still him. Lastly, he received his badge, but where he’d half expected to see the name Bitchell written there, instead, he saw the name Bulldog. “I think it’ll suit you, soon enough,” Rumwell told him with a wink, and with that, he was officially a full-fledged officer of precinct 27.

He trained with the day shift at first, as they explained what to expect outside the walls of the precinct, and what their job was. They had two tasks, really. Protect the folks outside of the zone, and do their best to keep them out. This was what the day shift did, primarily, policed the space between and tried to keep everyone on their proper sides. This was the best they could do to keep Pigtown from getting any larger than it already was. Over the years, they’d learned that the more men that congregated there, the stronger the power at the center became, and while they knew the deal would hold between them and the owner of the bar, they were sure that, as soon as the opportunity arrived to overwhelm them, the owner would do so without hesitation. The second task was the night–dealing with the rogue agents of Pigtown–the apparitions, the beasts, the monsters–whatever you wanted to call them. He wasn’t ready for that yet, but he would be soon. For now, he was partnered up with Gunner, who worked both shifts off and on, and kept sleeping at his place for the time being. Together they walked the streets, did their best to steer folks away using whatever means necessary, and gathered what intel they could from the men, in exchange for a load of cum or piss, usually. 

Then, after about six months there, he was transferred–the commander thought he was ready for the night shift. The crew that greeted him was familiar to him, but now, instead of keeping him at arm’s length, they welcomed him into the fold as a fellow officer. After all, the night was different from the day. Out in the maze of the night, the only folks they could rely on were each other. It was night when the apparitions came out. None of them knew for certain what they were, if they’d been men before this, if they were men during the day, if there were something else entirely, some tendril of power coming from the bar itself. The only thing they knew, was that the stronger they got, the harder they would be to fight. So they captured and tamed them, as best they could, worked to uncover their weaknesses, or at least tried to keep them confined to the inner segments of the neighborhood. Those first few nights were unlike anything Bulldog had ever witnessed, and when they got back to the precinct house, he tore open another officer’s clothes and fucked him there in the entryway–the other officers pulling him off, calming him down, but all of them were so caught up in it, it wasn’t long before an orgy had broken out around the office. When a new recruit appeared in the jail one night, Bulldog realized how necessary his own role had been–the more he could fuck here without distracting another officer, the clearer his head could be out there without impeding their mission.

He proved himself many times over the next few years, dragging a few of his fellow officers back from the brink, and surviving more than a few encounters with apparitions that should have been the end of him, but which he scraped free from with just his wits and sheer force of will. The only weakness he had was rubber. More than once he’d seen that apparition from the cell when he’d been a recruit, just watching him. Perhaps, one day, when he finally fell, it would be at the hands of that thing, everything sucked from him, until he was just a pile of rubber, just another face in the mask–but not tonight. Not for a long, long time, if he had anything to say about it. 

Officers came and went. Hopkins never came into work about a year after their encounter in the office. Not too long after that, a couple of officers found him in a rather sleazy den, the property of a leather clad pimp. Hopkins was decked out in a rubber cop uniform with a zipper up the ass, his hole drooling cum and lube, his mind already gone for the most part. They did their due diligence and tried to get him to return with them–a brother is a brother, after all–but he no longer remembered anything before his service with his new master, and so they left him. He was happier now, in any case, right? New cops came, usually three or four a year, barely enough to replace the ones they lost. Only a few came up from the academy–most of the others ended up in precinct 27 because they pissed off someone more important than they were, and they needed to disappear. Usually they did, but the rare one, who listened to Bulldog and the others, managed to stay relatively sane and become a proper brother. 

Bulldog and Gunner had something like a relationship, but neither of them could really explain what it was between them. A shared tragedy, mostly. Gunner had been the recruit before him, raised up to a proper officer just a week before Bulldog had arrived. They had seen everything together, and no one else could really understand them, other than the commander, perhaps. Bulldog kept meaning to move out and find his own place, but being alone no longer felt right. They were safer together, in the end, even off duty, even if commitment seemed dangerous and terrifying. Would that make them a target? Could he bear to lose him one day? Could he resist him, if he had to? It was better not to worry about it, to take the shelter where he could find it. Happiness was fleeting, and that made it all the more important to hold onto, wherever you could find it.

Slowly, he found himself not just a brother, but a leader. The other officers started asking him for his advice, and more often, he was the one leading their incursions into Pigtown, tracking down the troubling apparitions and finding ways to drain at least a bit of their power and keep their city safe for a little longer. It was a losing battle–Pigtown would creep larger, pulling in a few more blocks each year. The further out you went, the less you felt it, but it was there. At the same time, Bulldog knew he’d never be able to leave. It was home, now. A part of him. He wondered, at times, what it would be like, if Pigtown were…everywhere. He tried not to listen to the part that seemed thrilled by the prospect. They wouldn’t have to fight it anymore. They could just…give in. Fuck. Night would go on forever then, they would never have to go to bed, they’d never have to wake up. It would be hell, it would be paradise. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it. He had to be a force for order. He had to, if he was going to live with himself.

He was surprised when, a couple months shy of his five year anniversary at the precinct, Commander Rumwell invited him to his home for dinner. It wasn’t the first time he’d been to the commander’s townhouse, but it was the first time he’d been invited alone. Unsure of what to expect from the older man, he arrived looking as sharp as he could out of his uniform, as twilight was falling, and stepped inside.

“Evening Bulldog, good to see you,” Rumwell said, and pulled him into a hug and a short kiss. This close to the man, Bulldog felt that same flutter he always did when he smelled his commanding officer’s musk. No matter how many holes he fucked, no matter how much of a top he was, he knew he’d always bend over for Rumwell with just a word, no matter what. 

“Evening Sir, my pleasure,” Bulldog said, took off his leather jacket and hung it up, along with his cap. “I just wonder what the occasion is,” he added.

“What, I can’t have dinner with one of my most reliable and trusted officers at the precinct? I can’t congratulate him on the fine work he’s done over the last few years?”

“I mean, sure, but…” Bulldog wasn’t really sure what to say to that. There had to be more. It felt like there was more, between Rumwell’s words. 

Rumwell put an arm around his shoulder, and pulled him towards the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat. We can discuss more over a cigar after, alright?”

The food was delightful–Bulldog had always been surprised that the commander was a decent cook. With Gunner, he mostly relied on takeout and a good workout regimen to keep the fat off as necessary. After they’d eaten their fill, they retired downstairs to the commander’s modest, but well supplied dungeon, stripped out of the rest of their clothes, and took a cigar each from the humidor. Even now, being naked with the commander made him feel so…vulnerable. He could almost remember a young kid, fresh out of the academy, a sweltering hot office, a scent he could barely even understand, a power he not only wanted to worship, but a power he desired himself, worshiping this burly, masculine, forceful man. But that felt like a lifetime away, now.

They chatted for a while about some cases that were ongoing, before they fell into a lull of silence, and Rumwell said. “The reason I’ve asked you over, Bulldog, is more than just to congratulate you on your work, though fine it is. I’m offering you a promotion. Precinct Captain. I trust you won’t refuse.”

Bulldog stared at him, a bit confused. The precinct didn’t have a captain. In fact, it didn’t really have rank at all–they were all just officers. Equals, aside from the commander, and whatever recruit they might have crawling around at the moment. “I…I guess I didn’t know there was a position for a captain available.”

“There usually isn’t. But I’ve been doing this for…nearly twenty years now. I have a few more left in me, but I know, one of these days, it will get me too. I’m…I’m ready, in some ways, but not yet. I needed someone that I knew would be able to handle this job when I’m gone–a proper successor. And I want that man to be you, Bulldog.”

“I–I mean…” Bulldog stammered, but in all honesty, he’d never allowed himself to think about a future where the commander wasn’t there. But if there was one thing he’d learned about Pigtown, it was that none of them would escape it, in the end. Not even he would. Not even Rumwell either.

“And more than that, as well,” Rumwell said, getting up and walking over to a cabinet, where he pulled out a uniform not unlike Bulldog’s own. But when the commander brought it close, and Bulldog smelled it…he moaned. It smelled like the commander, pure, delightful, pungent power, almost dripping from it. “I’ve been wearing this one for a few weeks at home, getting it ready for you, boy,” Rumwell whispered in his ear, “Look at the badge, too.”

Bulldog did, and saw that it was a captain’s badge–and the name on it was, “Bulldog Rumwell”. 

“I…I don’t understand…”

“I’ve always wanted a son, you know? Rumwell said, pulling Bulldog up from his chair and helping him get dressed in the uniform he’d prepared for him, “In this place of course, that’s out of the question, but…but I think this just might work. Wrap you up in my scent, seed that ass of yours, and maybe, if we believe enough, we can get what we both want, eh son?”

Bulldog shuddered at the word, and nodded, smelling his own scent from his body melding with the scent of the uniform, becoming something between them. He fell to his knees and pushed his face into his commanders–no, into his father’s crotch, inhaling his scent, licking at the head, sucking the web of pre that had already formed between the head of his cock and his low hanging balls. “Feed me Daddy,” he said, “Feed me your seed, and make me your son, your successor, please…”

He lost count of how many loads Rumwell fed him that night. It seemed that the magic of the place was suffusing them both, stretching out time, driving them to heights of arousal and perversion neither of them had experienced before. By morning, they were a tired, aching, heaving knot, Bulldog’s uniform discarded and crumpled off in a corner of the dungeon. Rumwell Sr. was snoring still, when Bulldog got up, thighs, and hole aching, and stumbled into the bathroom to take his morning piss, but froze in the mirror. 

His face–it was his face, almost. But the nose, the jaw, the auburn hair–there was no mistaking it, was there? He lifted up an arm and sniffed his ripe pit, and moaned in delight–he smelled like his dad, fuck! That same authority, that same masculinity was flooding the bathroom around him, and it was so hot he could barely contain himself. He tried to stroke off, his arm was too tired from the night before to finish the job, and he had to go back to his father lying on the floor, lick him clean, thank him for his gift, for his power, and Rumwell Sr. was so thrilled to have his son, that they spent the morning fucking as well.

Everyone at the precinct was nervous, when Bulldog and Rumwell showed up late. The commander was never late, after all, and never arrived to work…with anyone. But as soon as they caught a whiff of them both, they found themselves beginning to understand what had happened, and by the time Rumwell gathered them all in the office to announce the promotion of his son, Bulldog Rumwell, to the position of Precinct Captain, no one could object. Bulldog would oversee the night shift as their shift commander and report to Rumwell Sr., while the commander would continue to supervise the day shift, as he had been. 

Afterwards, the other officers came up to congratulate Bulldog, and to get a good sniff of him too–which Bulldog was more than happy to give them all. And when they were all drunk of his own powerful musk, he enjoyed ordering them all up against the wall so he could sample all of their holes with his cock–and whoever was the nicest fuck would get his load. His father looked on, proud of his boy and pleased to see how quickly he’d been able to assume control over the officers. He could rest a bit more easily now, knowing that when he was gone, there would be a leader here. And maybe, when Bulldog found the right man, the Rumwell legacy could continue. Someone had to keep the city safe, after all. Bulldog looked back at his father, and realized that this is what he’d always been looking for, when he’d decided to become an officer. A family, and a duty. And now that he had both, he would do whatever he could to protect it, until he too, fell under, until they all did, one day. But that was for the future. For now, he had holes to breed–it was time to put these pigs in their place, and show them who would be boss around here, soon enough.

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