Fuced by a Pig

A ftm+male couple role-plays as a cop raping an anarchist.

*****

My phone rings. It's my live-in boyfriend Zac returning from tour. He's the drummer for an industrial band. "Hey, babe."

"'Sup, my sexy little slut?" That's his usual greeting when I answer the phone.

"Dude, I have a surprise for you when you arrive," I tease.

"Cool, I was calling to say my Amtrak train arrived in Chicago. I'll be home in about forty-five minutes."

"I can't wait till you arrive."

"So what kind of surprise is it, freak?" We are freaks and proud of it. We both have spiked mohawks, piercings, and tattoos. He has brown hair, about four inches long; I have bright blue hair, about two inches long. He has a whopping total of fifteen piercings: pierced six times in the left ear and once in the right, twice in the right eyebrow, once in the bridge of his nose, once in his septum, once in the tongue, once in the middle of his lower lip, and once on each nipple. I have a modest seven: once in my left ear cartilage, twice in the right eyebrow, once in the septum, once in the tongue, and twice on the left side of my lower lip. Both of his arms are sleeved in tattoos that look like the graffiti all over abandoned buildings in Detroit. I have an interlocking anarchy symbol and peace sign on my back shoulder and the Nine Inch Nails logo tramp stamp.

"It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you. Just... When you get here, be sure to stop at the kitchen table."

"Sounds yummy." Zac pauses, then quickly says, "I'm heading to the subway station now. Gonna lose reception."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you too."

The phone clicks. I sit down at my desk and start a hand-written note.

I am a prominent Anarchist writer and activist. You are undercover in the FBI spying on me, trying to find a way to silence me. Every time I get arrested for civil disobedience, I write another book critical of government. Your plan to silence me is through police brutality: you are going to physically and sexually assault me.

Here are the rules of the game. Anything like "no" or "stop" means "maybe; work me up and see if you can convince me to say yes." If I say, "Arrest me" or "Time out," immediately stop everything and talk to me about whether we can continue the game or not.

Love,

Aiden.

I take the note and a pair of metal handcuffs and set them down on the kitchen table.

Writing this note has gotten me soaking wet. But there's one more thing to get. I grab my black trenchcoat and head out of my apartment into the autumn air. I briskly cover the six-block walk through my Northside Chicago neighborhood to the locally-owned bakery.

"Hi Aiden! What can I get for you?" the brown-skinned, black-haired lady behind the counter cheerfully asks.

"Hola, Maria," I respond in my light Chinese accent. "Can I have one chocolate-frosted donut?"

"That all?"

"Yes, thanks."

I put the donut on a plate next to the letter and handcuffs, then check the time. 3:30. Zac would be home in any minute now. I retreat to our bedroom and nervously wiggle my tongue against my lip rings. I don't know how far Zac is going to take this. Am I going to have to use a safe word? How far am I willing to push myself?

I hear heavy footsteps from outside the apartment. It must be him! Sure enough, I hear a key turn in the door and the footsteps approach.

"A donut, handcuffs, and..." Zac's voice trails off as he lifts the letter from the table.

"The fuck?!" he shouts suddenly, then he purrs, "Aiden, you kinky bastard."

Zac bursts into the bedroom, handcuffs brandished. "FBI! You're under arrest!"

I smile at him as I turn my back to him and put my hands behind my back.

The handcuffs click around my wrists. Then Zac shoves me forward and I land hard on the bed. He uses one hand to shove my face into the pillow as he says, "Aiden Wong, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney during interrogation; if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you."

I remain silent and still, waiting for Zac's next move. I hear him leave the room, open and close a drawer, and return. I turn my head to look at him. He's holding a large chef's knife in his hand. He holds his hand out towards me, pointing the knife between my eyes.

"I'm going to plant this on you and use it as justification for beating the shit out of you."

Zac pulls the knife away from me and drops it on the floor. He looks me in the eye, seeking out the dilated pupils of arousal. He roughly grabs the hair on the back of my head with one hand and slaps me across the face with the other.

I yelp in pain. "Fuck you, pig." I spit at him, daring him to punish me.

Hands reach around my waist and fiddle with the fly of my jeans. He pulls down both my pants and my underwear at once, revealing my round ass and wet thighs.

I hear Zac's belt buckle click. He removes his belt and slaps me hard across the ass with it.

"Tell me you will stop writing that anarchist filth or I'll rape you," he snarls.

"You will never silence me," I assert.

I hear his pants fall to the floor and the sound of his spit. A wet hand slips between my ass cheeks and rubs against my anus. The hand is replaced with the head of a wet, hard dick.

Without warning, he shoves it all the way in. "Ow! Mother fucker!" I shout reflexively.

"Shut up, bitch," he growls in my ear. Then, making sure I don't have enough time to get used to his thick cock in my ass, he starts thrusting into me hard.

It hurts. It hurts bad. "Ouch! Stop stop stop..." The words, "arrest me" are about to fall off my lips when I hear him grunt.

"I think I came already," he pants. He humps me two more times, then pulls out. "Don't think I'm done with you yet, you filthy dyke." I hear him walk out of the room again.

It's been a long time since I've been called a dyke. I'm a transgender man - born a woman, identifies as a man - and I have been taking testosterone for three years. The testosterone has caused my voice to drop, my facial hair to come in, my clitoris to grow, and my sex drive to shoot way up. I was born with soft feminine features, so before I grew facial hair I was frequently mistaken for a masculine lesbian. The slurs gradually changed from "dyke" to "faggot" as we walked around hand-in-hand throughout my second puberty.

I watch Zac return to my room, donut in hand and still naked from the waist down. "I don't want to get any crumbs on my shirt. Here, hold this." He puts the donut in between my shoulders where I cannot reach it.

He takes off his shirt, revealing his lean torso and pierced nipples. Then he squats onto my ass, facing the donut. He uses my back as a plate as he messily consumes the donut.

"Well, your shirt's dirty. You don't need it any more." He grabs the chef's knife off the floor.

His tone shifts from harsh to gentle. "Honey, can I cut you?"

"Not too deep, okay, babe?"

He turns me over and climbs on top of me, his lips pressing against mine.

Then, without warning, he stops kissing me and cuts straight down the center of my black t-shirt, the blade digging shallowly into my skin.

He pulls the sides of the shirt to the side, revealing my firm breasts. "Stay still, slut," he commands as he grabs my left breast. He slashes the blade a bit deeper, a few inches above my nipple. I look down and see blood trickling over my chest. His face descends upon my breast and his lips clamp onto the open wound. His tongue wiggles back and forth on the slit.

"My battle scars," I proudly announce, arching my back so my bloody breast pushed harder against his face.

I feel his cock harden between my legs as he sucks hard on my blood.

He shifts his hips so the shaft of his cock presses against my huge clit. He shifts once again and stabs me in the cunt with his dick. He wiggles his hips, barely pulling out before pushing in again.

"If you're gonna fuck me, you're going to fuck me like a man, not a pig," I growl.

Zac sits up, slaps my bloody tit, and drags me to the edge of the bed by my legs. He stands against the bed, holding my legs straight up, and thrusts into my pussy hard.

"You are such a nasty slut," he says. "Your pussy is soaking wet. You aren't supposed to like this."

"My body says yes but I say no. I will never submit to the police."

He lets my legs drop and slaps my breast with each word. "You. Will. Submit. You. Little. Punk."

He fucks me like a real man - angled just so to hit my g-spot. "Tell me you like this."

I gasp and moan, and in between thrusts I mutter, "Yes, yes, yes!"

"I'm a good cop, really. The bad cops, when they rape detainees, they don't let you orgasm." He pounds against the walls of my vagina, making me cum hard all over his thick dick. He keeps going hard, giving me a second orgasm even better than the first. Then I feel his load shoot deep within my tight tunnel.

Zac leans over me and kisses me lightly. "I enjoyed that." He reaches around me and undoes the handcuffs.

I reach my arms around him and embrace him. "Me too."