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The Blues

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5.

FUCK THE POLICE.

Brock Rumlow wasn’t exactly a talented graffiti artist - or an artist of any kind - but he had a can of yellow spray paint and a singular dedication to a mission.

Because cops were fucking scum.

For example, last weekend, on a peaceful protest, two of his friends had got arrested for no fucking reason at all. Fingerprinted and swabbed and fucked around with on some trumped up bullshit, what-the-fuck fucking reason. And the same fucking cops had fucking pepper sprayed everyone they could get their hands on for good measure. Fucking assholes. Brock hated cops.

With a final angry flourish, Brock finished the graffiti message with a capital A and drew a circle around it. Then he took a step back and a deep, proud breath as he admired what he’d done. The wall Brock was getting artsy on wasn’t exactly a busy public thoroughfare. Just the back of a residential block that looked over some shitty waste ground where teenage goths came to smoke blunts, but his vivid lettering would be visible from the street across the scrub. He nodded at it. It was late afternoon, hot and dusty. He wiped off his hands on the back of his skinny jeans, wiggled his little hips in a satisfied kind of way. “Yeah,” he said to himself “Fuck the police. Fucking bastards.”

“You think so, do you?” The voice came from behind him, came out of nowhere and was so sudden Brock dropped the spray can. He could have sworn blind there was no one anywhere near him. But he spun around to find a cop standing there. A fucking cop. A fucking big fucking cop. Tall, in full blues and mirror shades. Fucking mirror aviators. Brock could see his reflection in them. And, his reflection looked tiny and vulnerable.

Brock swallowed. “W-what the fuck, dude?” he said. It came out shaky, garbled. The cop said nothing back, but a hot wind blew across the waste ground and made the skin on Brock’s arms tingle, as the cop walked over, crouched down in front of Brock, and casually picked up the spray can from the ground. He turned it over. Brock looked for a second at his big hands as he ran them over the can. “What were you sneaking up on me for?” Brock said. The cop looked up at him over his shades. Brock could see the his big arm muscles in his short sleeves, puffed up, stupidly over-sized like he had something to fucking prove.

Why would a cunt like him need fucking muscles like that? He had a gun didn’t he? Brock looked. Yeah. He had a gun. Brock’s sucked on his bottom lip.

The cop stood up, still turning the spray can around in his hands again like he was somehow puzzled by it. He shifted so he could lean back against the wall, right by where Brock’s graffiti was still wet and glistening. With his free hand he took a toothpick from his pocket, brought it to his mouth and sucked on it. He had a name and number on the pocket of his shirt. The name was Office J Rollins. He saw Brock looking before he said, “The reason I sneaked up on you, you dumb ass piece of shit,” — he spoke, slow and heavy, looking from the can to Brock, talking like he had he expected Brock to shut up and listen to him obediently —, “is that you’re breaking the fucking law, you dumb fucking cunt.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Fuck the police?”

Brock puffed his chest out harder. “Yeah? Breaking the law, yeah? Writing on a wall? That ain’t hurting no one. You’re all such a bunch of fascists. You don’t own the world just ‘cause you’re in a fucking uniform. I mean, what the fuck - it ain’t your fucking wall.”

Rollins moved the matchstick from one corner of his mouth to the other. Even leaning back, like this, he was over a head taller than Brock. “Yeah, thing about that, cocksucker, is, this is my fucking wall. This is my fucking building. I live here. And so I reckon you need to start treating it, and me, with some goddamn respect.” He raised an eyebrow above his shades, slowly, like a sexual invitation. “You need to be taught that?”

Brock’s mouth went suddenly, achingly dry, but he wasn’t going to let this dick see it. He hooked his fingers in the loops of his jeans. “Yeah. Treat you with respect? You gotta earn respect, old man.” He glanced at the gun again, and his breath got a little quicker.

“Right,” said Rollins. “I see. Are you looking at my dick there, son?”

“What?” Rollins had spoken casually, but Brock almost startled with surprise at that. “Of course I fucking didn’t look at your dick! Why would I look at a fucking cop’s fucking dick. Cops gross me out.” Brock was suddenly flustered. His reflection in the cop’s mirror shades looked even smaller.

One moment, Brock was staring Rollins down, the next he was being shoved up hard against the wall.

It had happened fast. Rollins had taken a breath like a sigh as he stood up straight. He’d taken a step towards Brock, grabbed his shoulder with one hand and spun him around - done it like it was no effort at all, and so fast it had taken Brock’s breath, even before Rollins had slammed Brock hard, face-first against the wall, right into the middle of his still drying vandalism, and before Brock knew where he was or what was happening. “Why would you?” Rollins snarled, right into his the side of Brock’s face as he jerked Brock’s wrists into the small of his back and held them there, pressing Brock into the wall with his full weight. “Why would you look at my dick, you depraved piece of shit? Because you’re trying to fucking provoke me, that’s why, asshole.” Rollins moved his thigh, where is was close against Brock’s ass, Brock felt the hard metal press of his gun. “You think I don’t fucking see it? You think I don’t have to deal with a dozen faggy twinks like you every goddamn day? Jesus.”

“Get off me,” Brock said eventually, but he said it too late to seem like he meant it.

“Now, you piece of shit, you feel this?” Rollins had got something from his pocket. He was pressing it against Brock’s wrists as he held them tight in one big hand. Something cold. Something metal. “These are handcuffs,” Rollins said.

“Yeah,” said Brock and his voice came out breathy which he hoped he could blame on the way Rollins was crushing him into the wall. “Figured.” He didn’t want the handcuffs though. Why would he want…?

“So you want me to cuff you? Teach you some manners? Or are you gonna apologise for looking at my dick?”

“What? I didn’t look at you dick. What is wrong with you. I—“ Brock bit off his own sentence when one of Rollins’s hands slipped around, over his hip and rubbed his crotch.

“Did you just say,” Rollins said, rubbing, “did you just say, you want to suck my dick?”

“No, you sick fuck! No!” Brock bucked in Rollins’s arms, but he held him so well and so tight he could barely move at all.

“I see.” One of he handcuff bracelets snicked shut around Brock’s left wrist. The wind took up again; her was dust in the air, dust in Brock’s mouth. He spluttered, trying to spit it away. “Aww,” Rollins said as he cuffed Brock’s other wrist. “Something get in your face?” And he leaned around spat there, right on Brock’s cheek, and the way he did it made Brock let his weight fall into the wall he was crushed against, made him exhale hard and fast with a breathy moan. “Oh, so you like me. That’s cute, fag. Now,” Rollins breathed, so close, practically licking his face. “So cute. Now, if you apologise for looking at my dick, I won’t arrest you.”

Brock huffed out a heavy breath and fought to clear his head. “What are you even gonna arrest me for?”

“You mean apart from the criminal damage? How about lewd suggestions? Insubordination? Failure to respect natural authority?”

Brock jerked his body uselessly in Rollins’s arms again. “Fuck you. Those ain’t real fucking crimes.”

Rollins tutted in Brock’s ear. “Oh dear. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing you worthless piece of fucking shit. You’re holding out on me, aren’t you. Want to see how far I’ll go. Want something more than just begging in the dirt don’t you, slut?”

“What? I fucking said ‘fuck you’,” Brock jerked his wrists in the cuffs. They held fast. He tugged harder and it hurt. “Let me fucking go.” Rollins was so strong anyway. Even without the handcuffs he wouldn’t stand a chance. And with them…

…“Thought so. Holding out for something better. Stupid sick fucking faggot. How’s this?” And Rollins pulled a can of pepper spray from his belt and emptied it into Brock’s face.

*

4.

Brock was still choking and spluttering when his knees hit the floor of Officer J Rollins’s living room. He’d heard him make calls as he’d dragged, Brock - blinded and choking - into the building he’d spray painted, shoved his face to the wall as he called the elevator.

Now they were in a spacious open plan living room. Brock still couldn’t see properly, but he sensed a couch beside him, a carpet under him. His writs were still cuffed and his breathing was finally calming when he felt Rollins over him, straddling his back as he knelt on the floor. “Now then,” he said, low and calm and like this situation was normal for him. “I got some guests coming. So we need to get the place ready. Be hospitable.”

“What?” Brock said, but Rollins ignored him, leaning back a little and taking hold of the hem of his t shirt. With a jerk, he ripped the thing in half, right up the back. Brock yelled out, “Wait! Hey!” as the fabric fell away from his body. But there was nothing he could do. Arousal pooled in his belly and his ass shook in his jeans. He felt Rollins’s hands slip around his hips and underneath him. Brock whimpered as Rollin’s unfastened his jeans. He lowered his head down onto the rug and let him without another word, just let him tug his jeans and underwear down around his knees so his bare ass was up in the air. Rollins trailed the edge of his hand up the crack of it. Brock’s eyes were squeezed shut and he made a high, desperate noise as he pushed out his breath. Rollins kept stroking him there but bent low, bent right over him so his mouth was close to Brock’s cheek as he pushed his face to the floor. Rollins but his free hand on the back of Brock’s neck. “You’re excited about this, I can tell.”

“Fuck you,” Brock said into the floor. “I want my fucking lawyer.”

“Lawyer? Jesus, kid, you serious. This is my fucking living room, you dumb cunt. Why do you need a lawyer?”

Brock remembered, slightly dreamily then, where he was. “Huh. Yeah,” he said. “I thought you were arresting me.”

“Nope, just teaching you some fucking manners.”

“You’re a sick fucking fucker,” Brock said, soft.

Rollins’s voice dropped just as low. “Flatterer. You did this on purpose, fag. I know you fucking did. You knew that was my wall. And you wanted this to happen. Fucking admit it.”

“Fuck off,” Brock spat and Rollins’s slapped his bare ass hard - and just as he did so the doorbell rang.

Before Brock felt like he had really gotten a chance to think was that meant, Rollins had gone and answered the door and three cops, three cops in uniform like Rollins, and big and built like Rollins, were right there in the room with him. Brock’s mouth was dry. He was naked on the floor of a strangers apartment looking at six big boots on the rug, heart hammering, blood in his ears like a siren call.

Rollins said, “Right. Before the others get here, help me get the prick onto the table. He’s a sassy motherfucker. Doesn’t quite get it. We’ll need to fucking belt him first to make him understand his role here.” There were amused noises at this, grunts of agreement, things were said, jeering mocking things, degrading comments about what was going to happen… It didn’t really matter. All Brock had heard was the word belt.

Brock looked up. Rollins was in front of him. As he met Rollins’s eye, he smiled but didn’t speak. And then there were eight strange hands on him. He cried out, “No, no please,” at the first touch, but that changed nothing and then he was shouting and fighting the cuffs and it was hopeless. He was outnumbered by muscular cops and he was going where they were taking him.

The apartment was open plan. Just beyond the couch there was a dining set. Brock was dragged to it, flung down over the table so hard the edge of it winded him. He yelled and struggled as the handcuffs were removed and his wrists were chained instead to the legs of the table, stretched and spread in front of him. His feet were on the floor if he strained, his ankles fastened somehow to the table legs at the other end, more restraints, something thin, holding the tops of his thighs and spreading him open. At some point, while he fought and protested, the door bell had rung again, and by the time he was laid out helpless on the table, facedown and sobbing slightly, there were eight men standing around his naked, vulnerable body.

Brock jerked as a single big hand cupped his ass cheek, caressed it quite lovingly, blunt thumb slipping into the crack, rough pad over his hole. “Yeah. Nice boy, Jack. Nice ass,” said someone. Brock couldn’t tell if the owner of the voice and the owner of the hand were the same person. He looked up and Rollins was in front of him again. Rollins’s crotch right in his eyeline. The shape of his hard dick obvious in his dark blue pants. Brock wetted his dry lips. He was thirsty - it had been hot outside all afternoon. He hadn’t had anything to drink for a while - but was more thirsty for that dick than water.

Rollins reached down and adjusted Brock’s chin. Brock looked up at him, eyes still sore, blinking. Rollins’s other hand were on his belt. He was so close Brock could smell the old leather over the sour, soft scent of Rollins’s dick. There was a dark wet patch by the hard head of it. Small, but growing. Brock squirmed in the restraints, ground his dick against the table top. Behind him a voice, another voice, said, “Jesus, fucking slut. Look at it.” And someone slapped his ass so hard his chin jerked forward into Rollins’s hand. Rollins said nothing, just repositioned Brock’s face so he was looking back up at him, and began to unbuckle his belt.

Brock wet his dry lips again. Rollins shook his head. “It ain’t gonna be what you’re wanting, faggot. Not yet, at least.”

“What?” Brock managed, realising and remembering what he’d been told would happen. “Please, please don’t.”

“You were committing a crime. You need to be punished. Sometimes we take these matters into our own hands. Save on paperwork.” Rollins had the belt free now, let it slip ominously through his big hands.

Brock swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Reckon you know,” said Rollins and he passed the belt over Brock’d head to someone behind him. “Give him twenty,” he said over Brock’s head.

“What? What?” Brock jerked hard at the cuffs that held his wrists. Not that they were going to give. It just hurt. He tried to turn, tried to see who had the belt. But he couldn’t. And then the belt whistled through the air and cracked right across his ass and he yelled, and found himself yelling right in Rollins’s mouth as Rollins, suddenly, kissed him.

The belt hurt. The kiss was wet and soft. Rollins’s hand in Brock’s hair. The stripe the belt had left across his ass burned, and burned more when someone reached out and pinched him hard where he was hot and sore. He yelled out again into Rollins’s mouth as Rollins pulled back and away. Brock whimpered. Rollins stroked his hair. “Yeah, cocksucker, yeah. But I ain’t gonna kiss you all through your beating. Because you don’t deserve that.” The belt came down again, Brock screamed and he saw Rollins breathe in fast and sharp at that. It hurt more, burned and burned extra hard. He was hit a third and fourth time while he yelled and he noticed someone was counting the strokes. He twisted. He tried to move away from it. But he couldn’t move anywhere that would save him, or protect himself.

He couldn’t do much except take it. Could turn or twist or move away. Yelling did nothing. Begging, “Stop, stop, please. It hurts, please,” did nothing. There were hands on him, stroking where he was raw, pinching where he was raw. Rollins’s hand was on his cheek, caressing the stubble on his jaw. Soothing him as he took it. Even though he was the one who had told them to do it. As they hit him again and again. They were past halfway when he started crying and Rollin’s thumb slipped into his mouth. He sucked it like a dick to soothe himself. Rollins looked at him, almost charmed, and pumped it in and out.

After three more lashes a voice behind Brock said, “Hey, Jack, you want to do the last five? Make sure he doesn’t forget them?”

Rollins nodded as he slipped his thumb from Brock’s mouth. Brock gasped, sad to lose it, then shivered as Rollins walked around behind him and took up the belt. “Heh,” said someone. “Now you’re gonna feel it, aren’t you? Stupid fucking slut.”

Rollins hit him with the belt. It was nothing like the first fifteen. He felt as if someone had just set him alight. He screamed, louder than he had before. Screamed out and thrashed and yelled. “No, god. Jesus. No. No!”

There was laughter. Rollins hit him again. His whole body shook. “No!” He jerked at his restraints so hard the table moved. “No!” he screamed again, yanking at the cuffs that held his wrists, so hard he couldn’t feel his hands.

“Shut him up, Wylie,” Rollins said, casually. Another voice said, “I’d love to.” And a fat bald cop wandered around in front of him, stood for a second with his legs spread wide, another dick obvious in Brock’s face. And then he shoved two blunt fingers into Brock’s mouth and Jack hit Brock hard with the belt again and Brock bit down.

Wylie yelled out, ripping his fingers away and punched Brock in the side of the head. Brock gasped at that, seeing stars as his head jerked to the side. Wylie grabbed Brock’s jaw and squeezed, shoved his ugly, reddened face in Brock’s. Brock was still panting from the punch. Wylie said, “You gonna do that again?”

“Fuck you,” Brock gasped.

Wylie squeezed Brock’s jaw tighter. “Listen to me you piece of shit. You want to take this whole belting over? You want to take it double? You want me to take that belt and go wet it so it’s heavier before we start? ‘Cause all of that can fucking happen. So, you gonna do that again?”

Brock swallowed. He couldn’t take more. He knew it. “N-no.”

“No?” said Wylie.

“No sir.”

And with a satisfied grunt, Wylie slid his two fingers back into Brock’s mouth. And Brock sucked on them. And Rollins hit him again. Hit him so hard he couldn’t fucking breathe.

*

3.

After the belting was done they left him crying chained to the table. It was a few moments before Rollins came over, buckling his belt. “We all enjoyed that, kid,” he said. “Enjoyed it a lot. So, thing is, you’ve turned everyone on. So they’re all gonna fuck you now. You’ve got them all going, you know, need to follow through - can’t be a little bitch about it.” Someone was behind Brock. He felt a hand on his ass and then fingers working into him. He gasped, twisted away for a moment, then slid back, slid onto them. “That’s it, kid.” Rollins stroked Brock’s face.

Brock looked up. His throat was so dry. “Please,” he said. “Please can I have some water.”

“No,” said Rollins. “You’re being punished. This isn’t for you.” Rollins used his thumb to pull down Brock’s bottom lip and toy with it. “Did you like the way I beat you?” he said gently, voice suddenly breathy.

“No sir,” Brock said, blushing, ashamed of how his voice sounded with Rollins tugging down his lip.

“Why not?” said Rollins as the man behind him slipped a second finger into Brock’s ass.

“It hurt sir. It hurt so much.”

Rollins smiled. “You’re gonna take my buddy’s dick in your mouth now. Do it good. Don’t make me look like a fucking cunt.”

Brock held down a moan. Not even Rollins’s dick. Rollins’s dick which he’d resigned himself to, would have begged for if it had stopped the belt whipping, but the dick of some ugly stranger. He could smell the dicks around him now, as he thought of it. Smell sweat and faint piss and a frightening fug of arousal. “Please,” said Brock. “Please. I can’t.”

“Look, fag,” Rollins lowered his voice, bending close and pinching Brock’s lip hard, “I’ll do my best for you. But some of these fuckers, you push them and they’ll just beat you until you can’t get up and jerk off over what’s left. So help me out here, okay? Take it. Suck him off. I know you know how, you faggot piece of shit.”

Brock’s gasped, he didn’t even know why. He looked up at Rollins with big, pitiable eyes. He had nothing else to fight with. He didn’t look at the face of the man standing next to Rollins who had already dropped his pants. He kept his eyes locked on Rollins’s as he opened his mouth for dick.

The man didn’t care. Went quickly from a couple of tentative thrusts to jamming himself inside Brock’s throat so deep Brock’s nose pressed into the soft hairy skin of the man’s belly, cutting his air. The man made a chuckling noise and twisted Brock’s hair, holding him there until he fought and panicked. “Sweet,” said the man as he released Brock and pulled back, only letting him drag in one desperate breath before the man hauled Brock’s face up his dick again, held him there until he choked again.

By the time it was done, Brock was choking and gagging and crying, eyes watering; semen, spit and snot everywhere. All over his face. Rollins was watching the whole thing as if it was just mildly distracting enough to hold his attention. And before Brock had pulled in one ragged breath, there was another dick in his mouth.

This time, although his face was fucked just as chokingly hard, the owner of the fat, firm, slightly pissy dick, yanked it out of Brock’s mouth towards the end, with a groan and jerked himself hard and fast right in Brock’s face. Brock tried to close his eyes, turn his face away, but the unnamed cop slapped him hard and his eyes clicked open. The cop sneered down at him. His lips were pink and slimy looking. They twisted up into a smirk. The cop was panting, close to coming. Brock was so repulsed by him, by the idea of his filthy semen splattering onto his face. The cop said, “Put your tongue out for it. Beg for this with your tongue.”

Brock shook his head. “No,” he gasped out. “No. No I won’t.”

The cop raised his hand to slap Brock again. Brock flinched, but at the same moment he heard Rollins sigh and there was a soft click by his ear. Rollins had pulled his gun. “Just fucking do it, fag.” Rollins said. “I’ve had enough of your fucking bullshit. You’re being punished. Fucking take it like a man.”

The gun. Ice down Brock’s spine. He closed his eyes. He opened his mouth, pressed out his tongue, like he was desperate. He wondered if Rollins knew how much that had turned him on.

The cop sighed, a big hand fell hard onto Brock’s shoulder as he came in gross hot jets over Brock’s face and waiting, eager tongue. As he did, Brock felt someone else come over his back. He looked at Rollins, felt tears prickling behind his eyes. Wished someone would at least wipe some of the come from his face. But no one did and no one was going to.

*

2.

Rollins crouched in front of Brock. Brock looked at him. “You’re a worthless piece of fucking shit,” Rollins said. Brock stared at him. “Your fucking mouth is pissing me off.” The room was quieter. There was more air moving around Brock’s body. He couldn’t see or know for sure, but he thought the other cops might have drifted back over the couch. He heard a distant pop and hiss, like a can of beer opening.

“I—“ Brock swallowed and it hurt a bit. His mouth was so dry now. He hadn’t noticed over the come on his face, the belting his ass had taken, the fingers stroking into his ass, being opened up, being slapped and pinched on his welted skin, being so spread open and breathless and helpless. But now, now he felt the burn of his dry mouth, heard the rough scratch in his voice. “I’m sorry,” Brock said, looking at Rollins. He touched his top lip with his tongue. Rollins was holding something he couldn’t tell what it was.

With his empty hand, Rollins took hold of a handful of the hair at the back of Brock’s neck and steadied his head. He brought the thing in his hand to Brock’s bottom lip. And rubbed. Brock moaned and tried to move his head. Rollins’s fingers tightened. Brock wondered for a moment, where Rollins had put his gun. Rollins rubbed the thing more firmly on Brock’s lip. It hurt, scratched at his hot dry skin. Brock struggled to place the feeling and smell of it, dusty, like dry stones. When he realised and looked up Rollins, he must have seen something in Brock’s eyes. Rollins smiled and rubbed the sandpaper hard over Brock’s bottom lip. And Brock sobbed out in pain.

Rollins kept sanding. Holding Brock’s hair tighter and jerking at his head when he tried to pull away. “Your mouth,” Rollins said with a nasty snarl, “needs to pay for what it’s done, needs to learn some fucking obedience faggot. The skin on his bottom lip was swollen, split and bleeding places. Rollins shoved the sandpaper over Brock’s top lip.

Brock tried to speak. Tried to say ‘please’ again. And ‘please, please’, but he could hardly speak. His mouth hurt so much. His lips would barely move. He could taste the blood now.

“That’s right,” Rollins said, still scraping his top lip raw with the scrunch of sandpaper. “It’s meant to hurt, you cunt.” And he spat then onto Brock’s face, caught his left cheek just by his nose. Brock pulled at the handcuffs, knowing there was no point, but wanting to do something that wasn’t giving in to brutality completely. When Rollins took the sandpaper away, he said softly, “The next dick in your slut mouth is going to fucking hurt.”

He wasn’t sure where the two cops had come from. Skinny ones this time. With long thin dicks poking out of their uniforms. Rollins had the gun again. “Come on slut,” he said idly. And Brock wasn’t exactly scared Rollins would shoot him, probably another session with the belt was more likely if he outright refused, but somehow the gun made it easier to obey, especially when just opening wide for the first dick made him moan with pain. He took one, while the other jerked off, then switched around. It was messy and it hurt and he was sobbing. He didn’t think his mouth was bleeding too much, but it was bleeding enough that he tasted metal on the men’s dicks as he moved from one to another. They both came like the man before on his tongue and he gasped with relief, then shied and moaned again when Rollins stepped forward and rubbed at the semen on his face with the sandpaper, scratching at his skin again and pressing the other cops’ come into the broken sore places on his lips. Brock whimpered at how purposely cruel Rollins was. He was squirming against the table.

All he thought about when Jack stepped away was how dry his mouth was again and his heart leapt an little when Rollins slid a bowl of liquid onto the table in front of him. It was a dog bowl, and Brock thought, for one second, how odd that was as this man did not appear to own a dog. Then a sharp scent caught his nostrils. And he realised the bowl wasn’t a bowl of water.

He looked at Rollins and shook his head.

Rollins smiled, “Oh, don’t be ungrateful, faggot.”

As Rollins said that, behind Brock, someone shoved a dick into his ass. The sudden thrust almost shoved his face into the bowl but not quite. The thin restraints that held his thighs to the table legs bit into him, felt as if they might be breaking his skin. He sobbed out and looked up at Rollins, who still had one hand on the rattling bowl of piss on the table.

Rollins reached out, took a handful of Brock’s sticky hair. Brock watched him. His mouth was so dry but he managed, just, to whisper the word, “Please,” up at him. It wasn’t please, do it or please don’t it was something else. It was both.

Behind Brock the fuck was rough and fast. Thick and cruel and a long way from the endless teasing fingers that had been inside him earlier. This dick made him miss those degrading, invasive touches in his ass more than anything. And at the same time, Rollins took him by the hair and shoved him face down into the bowl of piss. It burned where it touched the scrapes and cuts all over his mouth. It burned his squeezed-shut eyes. And he was so thirsty and so desperate, he drank it. He drank it all.

Rollins hauled him up again. He was grinning as he stroked over his wet face. He was still being fucked. It felt oddly far away. “See,” Rollins sad sweetly, “you can obey the law when you try, can’t you? Or when it’s fucking turning you on you sick little cunt.” Brock moaned out as he cop behind him came in his ass.

When Rollins let go of his hair, Brock put his head down on the table top next to the empty bowl. The table smelt like piss and polish. Something was dripping out of his ass. Something? He knew exactly what it was. Every part of him hurt, but the shame burned harder. There was a hand on his ass. A thumb brushing in the semen drips, massaging it into his hot, broken skin. Brock was shaking with shame.

*

1.

Rollins unlocked the handcuffs and got Brock off the table, dragging him on loose legs back through the apartment. The cops were sitting around on the couch, bustling in and out of the kitchen with whisky and beer. At least two were asleep. Brock didn’t know how late it was or how long he’d been there.

Rollins dragged him into the lobby and called the elevator. Brock remembered he was naked as Rollins shoved him inside. “Please,” he said once, as Rollins pressed behind him to hold him against the wall as he hit the button for the first floor. The wall was mirrored. Brock could see himself. Dried come on his face. Red marks on his cheek. Lips swollen to twice their normal size, ripped up and bleeding. Brock was crying. Couldn’t stop, wasn’t even sure when he’s started.

When the elevator doors opened, Rollins dragged him out, took him around the building and slammed his back up against the wall he’d graffitied. “Here you are now, kid,” Rollins said. “What you’ve been fucking waiting for.”

Rollins pressed Brock against the bricks and unfastened his pants. Brock gasped to feel Rollins’s hot skin touch his own. His own bare, abused skin.

Rollins lifted Brock up, a big hand cupping and spreading each thigh, and eased his worn out hole onto Rollins’s taut dick. He did it like it was nothing, just a soft grunt and it was done, began to jerk Brock up and down, like he was some kind of exotic sex toy Rollins was using to get himself off, just something to pump his dick with. But then, when his moves got more frantic, he leaned forward and kissed Brock, slow kissed his sore, sore, scraped sore mouth. Brock whimpered into the kiss. It hurt but he wanted it. He wanted Rollins’s hot mouth on his dry, sore skin.

“You like this,” Rollins hissed into his mouth.

Brock moaned, kissing back, letting Rollins tongue slide into his mouth. “No. Don’t.” Rollins was leaning hard against him, his solid weight pushing all the air out of Brock’s chest. His sore, whipped ass was pressed against the wall and every thrust of Rollins body scraped his skin raw against rough bricks. Brock squirmed. “You’re hurting me.”

Rollins gave a broken up laugh at that. “Yeah, I know. You love it.”

Brock shook his head, rolling it against the wall.

Rollins’s dick jolted harder inside him, as Rollins came he muttered, “I know, I know, cunt, you’re gonna need some help admitting it.”

When Rollins stepped away, Brock fell down onto the ground. He wanted to stay there, just lie there on the dusty scrub with the old broken beer bottles and the dog shit. Just have Rollins let him go, let him be. He whimpered to himself. Rollins sat down next to him, back against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him. “Cheer up, you fucking piece of shit. Time for you to get what you deserve. I know you’ve been waiting all night.” And he hauled Brock over his lap, as if he was as light as a child.

Brock huffed out a long breath, face in the dirt. HIs bruised, sore ass up in the air, Rollins stroked over it and Brock winced. “Oh yeah,” said Rollins gently. His hand was rough, it caught the sore spots as he rubbed over it, but something about the touch made Brock arch up, made him want it. He didn’t care much anymore about his pride. He just wanted…. He wondered what he wanted for a moment, and then he knew he wanted, really, really wanted to come. But he also wanted…

Rollins hit him, spanked his bruised, ass and said, “This is for lying, you fucking smart-mouthed dick.” And spanked him again. Brock made a soft noise at the pain. It was only a spanking, but his ass was so sore.

And Brock realised too late what Rollins was doing. The way he was hitting and stroking him, the way one of his legs was jamming up into Brock’s crotch. He was working to make Brock come. Like this. Humiliated like this. If he had any wetness left in his entire body he would have started weeping again. He couldn’t stop what Rollins was going to do to him. He had no fight left. Almost none. “I didn’t lie,” Brock managed, rubbing himself in Rollins lap.

“Yes you did, cunt,” said Rollins. “You said you didn’t like this, didn’t want it. But you did. You wrote that on my wall on purpose. You knew I’d catch you.” Rollins spanked Brock over and over through this speech. “You knew what I would do.”

“You fucking raped me.” Brock was writhing in Rollins lap now, panting.

Rollins stopped and pinched a very sore place on Brock’s ass very hard. “You liked it. Admit you liked it,” he said, holding the pinch of ruined skin. Brock yelped and tried to twist free. Rollins pinched harder. “Say it.”

Brock was about to come, he knew and he couldn’t stop it. Rollins let go his pinch and slapped him again, and Brock spat out, “I liked it, sir. I did,” as he jerked and came and came, breathless and white.

“One more thing.”

Rollins was standing up. Brock looked at him through eyes that were almost swollen shut. His ass was still on fire. He was on the ground, covered in come and piss, bruises and grazes. “What?” he said. He couldn’t feel his lips.

“Get up and clean that fucking wall.”

Brock made a soft whimpering noise. Rollins didn’t move or acknowledge that it in any other way. Slowly, Brock stood up. He looked at the graffitied walls. FUCK THE POLICE. His legs wobbled. “I, I can’t, sir.”

“Or do you want me to take you back inside?”

Brock’s stomach flipped over at the thought. All seven of them. He swallowed thinking about the big dick of the guy who’d fucked him, bit his bottom lip and noticed how sore it was. “What,” he said carefully, “what do you want me to clean it with?”

Rollins shrugged. “This’ll do.” And he threw Brock a bundle of cloth that turned out to be his t shirt.

Brock didn’t say anything. He took his shirt, stumbling naked over to the wall on shaky legs, and started scrubbing at the lettering. It didn’t really budge under dry fabric. Not even when Rollins strolled over with a bottle of water and poured it over the wall. Brock’s mouth was so dry this made him shake, made him want to lick the water from the brickwork. But he didn’t. He just scrubbed until the paint smeared.

When he was done he took a step back and looked at Rollins, leaning against the wall. “Are you even a real cop? Are any of you?”

Rollins shrugged. “Fuck off, kid,” he said and went back into the building.

 

FUCK THE POLICE.