I'd had enough of these repeated sexual assaults; being used like this. The next day, I packed my car and headed for home. No more than three miles beyond the campus gate, though, I heard a police siren and was pulled over to the side of the road.
I sat in the car, wondering what I had done wrong, as a policeman strutted around and took a look at both license plates, all the time swishing a mean-looking night stick with a short leather whip on one end. I rolled down the window as he approached. He leaned an arm on the sill and looked intently at me through very dark sunglasses.
"Let me see your license and registration, son."
"Umm, just a minute," I said, as I struggled to get the glove compartment open. "What seems to be the problem, officer?"
"License and registration please."
I handed them over to him, and he took them back to his cruiser and did some communicating into a mic on his dash. He got out of the car and sauntered back to mine. He was a tall, muscular Hispanic, with an evident attitude toward non-Hispanics.
He didn't hand my license back to me. "Now, I have to do some more checking, so I want you to pull your car up in the overgrown driveway up there. Pull in a good fifty feet. I'll be right behind you." I did as he asked. The lot obviously had been abandoned, and I don't think either my car or the cruiser could be seen from the road where we pulled to a stop. He came back to my window.
"Officer, what seems to be—?"
"Step out of the car, please."
"But—"
"Don't make me repeat it again, smart ass. Get out of the car now, hands showing, and assume the position, hands out wide on top and legs apart. . . . Farther apart and farther away from the car, now!"
He tapped me—no, more than tapped me—on the thigh. It hurt. But I did what he said. I was a little off balance now, concentrating hard to keep my weight balanced on my hands. I figured this was probably the point.
"Got any drugs in the car?"
"Drugs? Me? No, I don't do drugs."
"That's not necessarily what your rap sheet says."
"My rap sheet? What rap sheet?"
"Got any drugs on your person?"
"Certainly not. Listen, officer—"
"Save it."
He started patting me down, doing a real thorough job, not excepting my privates. When he was finished, he stood there beside me. He seemed to be breathing a little heavy, which probably should have clued me in.
"Afraid I'm going to have to do a cavity search."
"Excuse me? A what?"
"Now don't go resisting an officer, he said," as he tapped me meaningfully on the cheek with the big end of his nightstick.
"Open wide," and he had his fingers in my mouth and was roughly feeling around on all sides in there.
"Now, these pants are going to have to come off."
"My pants!?"
"I said a cavity search." He tapped me on the cheek with his nightstick again, and then he put it under his arm and held my butt in his left hand as he unbuckled my belt and zipped down my pants with his right."
"Pull your legs together." Down and off came the pants and underpants in one movement. "Now, take the stance again." I was about ready to cry in frustration and bewilderment, but I did as he told me. His left hand was on my bare butt now, and his right was searching around my balls and cock, which was beginning to come to life.
"Can't be too careful; they're hiding it just about anywhere these days." His voice was thick, and he was breathing heavier. He got behind me, and I felt his searching fingers going for my asshole. He entered right in. I winced and turned my butt to get away from him, but he whipped me one good one with the whip on the end of his nightstick and stuck the larger end of it between my legs and into the back of my ball sack.
"Seems to me you're resisting, son. You're going to have to pay for that."
I'd had about enough of this, cop or no cop, and I began to push off the car, but quick as a flash he had two pairs of handcuffs out and handcuffed me to the ends of the racks on the top of the car. Then his fingers went back to digging in my ass.
"Oh, God, no," I cried out. "Stop that! You can't—"
"I can't what, pretty boy?" he said close to my ear as he grabbed a handful of my hair and arched my head back. "I can do whatever I please. And you're going to let me do whatever I please." Swish, swish went the whip across my butt cheeks. And now the nightstick was being pulled back across my perineum and to my asshole and being rubbed and pushed against my asshole. All of my attention went to my hole now and doing all I could to open up to business end of the billy-club. I was sure that he was going to fuck me with that big club and was wildly wondering if that would tear me apart so badly that I'd die. But, though he did get it pushed in an inch or two, he suddenly pulled it away.
Swish, swish. He stroked the whip end against my butt cheeks and then he slapped me on the butt a couple of times. And then I felt another rod back there, between my thighs, and I saw an opened condom packet hit the ground near my feet. What he was pushing at me then was not as big as the billy club, but more insistent. He pulled my T-shirt up over my head and onto my arms as far as it would go. Then he entered me from behind. Pushing pretty quickly and steadily, not really giving me enough time to open to him. I arched my back into his chest as he went in to the root, and he swished his whip across my chest and belly and thighs. Not sharp enough to cut but enough to raise welts and to cause flickers of pain. He must have had a strap with studs on it wrapped around the base of his cock, because the rim and entry of my ass were being chafed by something nobbly. He pumped me for a good fifteen minutes before he came inside me, all the time slapping my butt cheeks and swishing that leather whip across my body.
And then he was all business. He pulled away from me and adjusted his uniform. He pulled my T back down onto my body. It stung where the material came into contact with the welts from the whipping. He then had me step back into my pants and he fastened me up. He unhandcuffed me, but he forced me back into the driver seat of my car and handcuffed both of my hands to the steering wheel. I was too dazed to resist or object further.
"Gotta take you in, pretty boy. Can't resist arrest and not be taken in for a spell."
"But, but, I didn't—"
"I wouldn't suggest that you try to take that attitude anywhere. Drive behind me. No use trying to slip away, 'cause you can't get out of those cuffs. Just drive along behind me, like a good little piece of ass."
We drove in tandem to the police office of a small town, where it appeared that he was the only one on duty.
"Okay, back in the tank," he said, as he manhandled me out of the car, through the door of the station and toward the back room. There were four cells there, but only one occupant, a big Neanderthal trucker type wearing jeans and a dirty T-shirt that he was almost busting out of at the chest, and construction-worker boots. He had been dozing on one of two cots in the cell when we entered the room. Even though the other three cells were empty, the cop forced me over to the occupied cell, unlocked the door, and pushed me in.
"Here, I brought you a present, Jack. A pretty boy; I've already tried him out myself. Good meat, if I do say so myself."
"No, please, don't" I yelled, as the cop took first my right arm and cuffed it over the bars above my head and behind me and then my left arm to the other side, stretching me out, my back to the bars and me facing the inside of the cell and the grinning cop and the slobbering trucker. There was a wooden bench below me, behind my thighs.
"Gotta go make some calls Jack. Enjoy." and the cop left the cell, shoot the lock home, and started whistling as he sauntered back to the front of the facility.
The trucker stood there in front of me for about a minute, a sloppy grin on his face, drinking me in.
"No, please don't—" I whimpered, but that was as much as I could get out, before he reached over with a big mitt grabbed hold of the collar of my T and just ripped it off my torso. Then he came into me with his beer breath and tried to kiss my lips while his was fiddling with my belt buckle and the zipper to my jeans. I turned my head, and his mouth landed in the hollow of my neck, where he bit me and then moved down to my chest and nipples, slurping and nipping. He took a couple of steps back as he pulled the jeans off my legs.
"Hot damn, Merry Christmas," he exclaimed. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, his biceps and chest muscles rippling and bulging. Even his muscles seemed to have muscles. And when he'd pulled his jeans off, I saw the most impressive muscle he had. He was almost as big and thick as the dean was. He gave an unearthly scream and plowed right into me.
I watched him in horror as he bent down and fiddled around in the pockets of his jeans and came up with a condom, which he proceeded to roll onto his engorging cock. He pushed me up the bars with his hands under my thighs and, after a couple of swallowing pumps of my cock, got his mouth applied to my asshole and slobbered that up pretty well. I had my feet on the bench now, but he lifted my right leg off the bench and up almost to the bars with his left hand, while he was positioning his rod at my asshole and then he was in, plunging to the root. Up went my other leg, and I was "hammocked" there, my wrists cuffed to the bars behind and above me, my legs being held up and out by strong hands, my welted back rubbing up against the bars, and my butt suspended in air, as my ass, firmly skewered by his big pole swayed in and out with his pumping motion.
He took even longer than the cop had to shoot off up my ass. But when he did, he just let me collapse against the bars, rolled off the used condom and let it drop on the floor beside me, and pulled his shirt and pants back on. Then he just swiveled around, went back to his cot, turned his back to me, and soon drifted off into satisfied snores.
Exhausted and trying to escape the pain and this filthy cell, I forced myself into sleep, in a sitting position on the bench, propped on one butt cheek to relieve the pressure on my ass. I slowly came to as voices came closer through the hall of the station. One of the voices sounded familiar.
"Ah, look at him," the familiar was saying, "and did you have to string him up like that?"
"Uh, sorry, Coach. He was resisting."
"Yeah, I'll bet. I knew you'd do him, but I didn't want you to rough him up."
"Well, it wasn't all me, Coach. Someone other than me has been at him too."
"But these welts; they look like the work of a wrestler I had on my team a few years back."
A little laugh from the cop. "Yeah, you know me real well, Coach, I guess. And what I like. But he ain't none the worse for wear. I didn't do any of my black leather stuff on him. Well, not much, anyway."
Ah, it was all beginning to come together now. The cop and the dean were friends. The dean had put out a call on me.
