Fuck the Police

10:30 PM, Saturday, June 4 of 2022:

Officer C. Wickham dispatched to 3247 North Park Avenue from North Police District of Indianapolis, Indiana for a suspected prostitution ring in the Northside.

—

“Officer, 10-35, please confirm, over.” Chuck rolled his eyes as he finished snorting the last of his cocaine for the final leg of his shift. 10-35, of course meaning a major crime in his immediate vicinity. Sighing, the cop clicked the button on his walkie-talkie, irritated as he choked out “10-4, what is the address of the crime?” He flushed the toilet, walking out of the stall, as the dispatcher fumbled over her words.

“Uh… well… Uhm… It’s… Uhm…” Primping himself in the mirror, Chuck smirked at his handsome visage which had come in handy a myriad of times before. “Address is 3247 North Park Ave.” The officer acknowledged the dispatcher, knowing full well his obligation to intervene. He had been looking particularly sexy on this particular occasion to the restroom, and it had warrented an equally excellent picture for his tinder profile. Chicks clearly digged the man in uniform, so this would be a slam dunk. Doing his best Clint Eastwood grimace (lacklustre at best) he snapped a pic for his later profile picture update.

Satisfied with his overall look, he deleted the six “pre-post” selfies and settled on the most flattering. Posting it, he smirked, awaiting the flood of thirsty housewives that needed his alpha cock deep within them. However, there was clearly a more pressing matter he needed to attend to, and with all the stoic temperance he was able to muster, he strode out of the restroom and hopped in his patrol car. 3247 N. Park Ave was in a more affluent neighborhood of Indy, so he was looking forward to a loud and rambunctious domestic dispute or routine drug bust (likely cocaine). Thus, as he sped from his lacation at a small truck stop on 38th Street down to Park Avenue, he readied himself for the typical bullshit he’d receive from such a call.

“10-62, what is the nature of the crime?” Chuck’s bored timbre rang over the talkie, until the dispatcher responded with her rather elevated tone.

“Prostitution.” Chuck nearly slammed on the brakes. He’d heard recently of the threat of degenerate pimps renting out the innocent, godfearing women of Indianapolis. Garbage of this caliber deserved the death penatly in his evangelical christian mind. Whatever garbage human being decided to force these children of the lord to capitalize on their god-given assets deserved to rot in the deepest and darkest caverns of the American incarceration system. With this information in hand, Chuck sped down Park Avenue with a fervor that was unparalleled by his fellow officers.

The old craftsman house slowly appeared on the horizon, the sun setting behind him and casting a lovely haze on the street as he pulled up alongside the derelict two-story. From the street, it was by no means obvious that any sort of racket was operating from within it’s confines: the windows were dark and the front door was barricaded with a thick panel of plywood. Yet Chuck, knowing full well the nature of scum like the proprietors of a brothel or whorehouse, knew damn well that there was a more discrete entrance to the ‘establishment.’

In the back of his mind, he knew damn well he should be waiting for backup, or at least that they were enroute; but the clout of single handedly busting a brothel was too satisfying to pass up. It was just a bunch of prostitutes anyway, he could handle it. He quietly snuck around to the back of the house, and to the back door illuminated dimly by a red light. He pounded on the door with his fist, in his typical power tripping energy.

“POLICE. OPEN UP!” The house was quiet, but he knew full well that the sluts were inside, probably getting ready to crawl out of the windows. “I’M COMING IN!” He shouted, kicking the door in with his massive boot. Probable cause, right? Fuck a warrant. The door opened to what was probably previously the kitchen, but was now stripped bare of cabinets and appliances. Pulling his gun, he entered the dark house. “POLICE, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!” A quiet shuffling of feet from upstairs drew his attention, but no one came out of their hiding spot. With every step forward, the creaking of the floorboards signaled his movements- but it mattered not. He had the firepower to handle whatever came his way. As he walked into the front hall, the sliding door to his left slowly slid open. “COME OUT AND GET ON THE GROUND!” He bolted to the opening, not prepared whatsoever for what he saw.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Pungent, cheesy, almost like ripe Roquefort. The room was dim, but was well maintained in comparison to what he’d seen before. The walls were clean, white, paneled… leather furniture was scattered about and there, sitting on the sofa with his dirty feet propped up on the marble coffee table was a beast of a man, bare ass naked. The man was easily comparable to Chuck’s size, if not a bit burlier, and he was entirely unbothered by the cop pointing his gun at his face.

“GET ON THE GROUND. GET THE FUCK DOWN!” Chuck shouted loudly to no avail, the man was not intimidated, not obedient, and certainly a bit more stoic that he’d anticipated. Instead of heeding the policeman’s directions, the man simply lifted his hand and pointed at the cop. Immediately, there was something different in the air; Chuck could feel it. It was thick, almost as if he were drowning in water. He was gasping for air, but with every breath, all he was given was an assault of the stink wafting from the massive feet on the table.

“Drop it.” The man had an intimidating tone that wouldn’t normally faze Chuck, but to his horror, his body immediately obeyed and dropped the loaded gun to the ground. He stood there, unable to move as if his feet were glued in place, the man still pointing his meaty finger at him. “On your knees, slave.” Chuck dropped onto his knees, grimacing and snarling at the huge hunk. “Crawl your bitch ass over here.” Waving his finger to in front of the coffee table, Chuck scampered on his hands and knees closer and closer to the man, with every approaching inch the stink intensified until he was an arms length away from the feet. There were as big as his head, and absolutely filthy. Particles of sweaty lint from black socks, bits of dirt, and an inordinate amount of toe jam wafted the fetid scent of his feet like a fan blowing air.

“FUCK YOU, FUCKIN FAGGOT!” Chuck screamed out the words in a rage he’d never felt before, spitting a wad of saliva onto the soles of the man’s foot. His brow furrowed and with a pinch of his fingers, Chuck could no longer feel his lips. No matter how hard he tried to pry open his mouth, it was tightly locked shut. Staring daggers, he hoped that backup was closing in, but he quickly recalled that his hero complex allowed himself to not call for backup. He was alone, and no one was coming for him. The walkie talkie on his shoulder continued to chime with the dispatcher sending cars to and fro, millimeters from his chin but unable to call out for help.

“Sniff.” Chuck felt his heart plummet to his toes, as his head moved closer and closer to the feet until his nose finally pressed against the warm, grimy face of the man’s sole. He tried in vain to will himself to fight it, to break whatever spell this thing had cast onto him. Unfortunately, his body refuted whatever strength he thought he had within him, and Chuck took a deep breath of the filthy feet. It was over. One single inhale straight from the source was simply too much for his mind to handle, and though he was screaming in his head, as the man pressed his feet onto his face, his mind fell silent for the final time. Officer Chuck Wickham ceased to exist. For such a domaneering, obstinant good old boy to meet such a grotesquely ironic fate had a dramatic beauty to it- a pig becoming a pig. His consciousness now faded into the void of oblivion, the cop’s body eagerly sniffed and snorted the nasty stench as if it were his last meal. This was the sustenance that would be his new diet.

“Lick them, slave.” The man was entirely disinterested, as if this were just another day in his life. As the body’s tongue began to lap at the days old sweat now coagulated into beadlets of slimy stink, the reconstruction of this empty vessel began. His uniform slowly began to disintegrate into a fine dust, falling into a pile of blue cotton fibres around his kneeling body and leaving him bare on the floor. He suckled on the master’s toes, letting his tongue slip between each crevice and scoop up every ounce of salty, savory toe jam. With every lap of his tongue, his hard earned bulging muscles began to quickly deflate. Though he kept quite a bit of his cut, thick meat, he lost nearly half of his original mass, slimming down and finally settling on a nice, lean otterbod.

“Get over here, slave. Worship my cock.” A snap of the master’s fingers and the vessel crawled around the coffee table, slowly revealing the master’s gigantic dick at full mast awaiting his salivating mouth. The master slowly pumped his rod, glaring at the subhuman filth that he graciously allowed to experience his godly essence. The vessel stared at the massive cock, foreskin slipping up and down, speckles of acrid white smeg peeking out beneath his mushroom shaped head. Grabbing the back of his head, the master pulled his pet to his dirty cock before spearing his awaiting lips with it’s full force. The fishy, sharp taste of his dick made the vessel moan with orgasmic awe, every painful thrust into his throat seemed to loosen his airway and become more and more malleable. The master’s balls slapped loudly against his chin as he throat fucked his property. “You’re a toy to me, slave. You’re here to worship me every moment. Every day. Every second. You’re here to clean my cock and lick my feet. That’s all you are. A fuckin’ hole for your God to use.”

He grunted loudly as the pace increased, tears rolled down the vessel’s face, though his pain began to give way to immense pleasure. His throat became rubbery and stretchy, velvety and wet, warm and slimy: a living fleshlight for his God. The master grunted louder and louder as he throat fucked harder and harder, quicker and quicker. The pressure built up in his pulsating balls until he decided that it was time, and with one last sigh of satisfaction, he shot stream after stream of bitter, strong spunk deep into his toy’s core. Volley after volley of cum continued the vessel’s transformation, as he became merely the container for his God’s powerful seed. Hairs began to sprout from his cleanly shaved muscles, forests burst from his cavernous pits and atop his feet. The disgusting, rank stink of his master began to pour from his pores, as his superior essence began to shape it’s holder. Just as rubber will take the from of whatever slides within it, the vessel was imbued with his God’s blessing, finally filled to the absolute threshold until the master’s cum burst from his own filthy cock.

Pulling out of his toy’s mouth, he watched unfazed as the excess seed seeped out of it’s pulsing rod. This was nothing for him, it was merely another receptacle for his collection, another fuck toy to rent out to the highest bidder. The last of his seed now spilled onto the floor, the vessel sat with bated breath and begging eyes in the presence of absolute perfection.

“Get dressed and go upstairs. We have clients coming soon.” The vessel stood up, his mind now entirely enveloped with his master’s will. “You own nothing, slave. You’re not worth anything clean, anything new.” The master threw threw him a small bag of stinking, crusty gym clothes for him to wear. “You’ll wear my fuckin’ dirty laundry until I say you can change, and you’ll soak up every fuckin’ ounce of my scent until the day you die.” The vessel nodded in affirmation, and ascended the stairs to join his brethren of carriers.

—-

Oliver knocked gingerly at the door, hoping that the address was right. The man said that it was the back door with the red light, and this certainly seemed to be the only one in the neighborhood. The door opened slowly, revealing a tall hairy man, well muscled with a spattering of hair across his sweaty, smelly body. His seductive smirk and self groping confirmed this was the right place. The middle aged businessman drooled at the sight, as the man pulled him into the house, and into a sloppy, filthy kiss. Little did he know that the vessel was merely a fuck toy for his pleasure, owned by a God he would never see nor comprehend. But through his scent, his seed, his attitude… perhaps he’d get the gist.