Chapter One: Forgotten Ghosts with Faces
My name is Dan Mercer. I’ve worn the police uniform for five years in Carroway, a small city of just under two thousand people nestled between a river and pine-covered hills. It’s not so small that everyone knows each other, but word travels fast, especially when you’re a cop. The job’s shine has faded, but its purpose still holds me.
Most shifts, I patrol alone. Carroway is quiet, with dispatch operating out of City Hall’s basement, staffed by one or two people on a busy night. The silence can stretch for hours, but trouble strikes quickly when it comes. I’ve handled countless domestic calls, pulled kids from wrecked pickups, and chased meth dealers through muddy alleys behind closed motels. The job teaches you to expect calm one moment and chaos the next. That’s just the nature of police work.
I was twenty-four when I joined the force. My rookie year tested me. The academy fills you with discipline and ideals, but nothing prepares you for a man with a fatal stab wound, screaming for his dead mother as he bleeds out on a living room floor. Or the exhaustion in your arms during CPR that’s already too late but you just won’t give up until EMS gets there. I thought about quitting more than once. But I stayed. The good of the job outweighed the bad. It had to.
I told myself I mattered. I still do.
My Mom died with cancer when I was twelve. My father was a cop in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He carried silence like a shield, never letting anyone see beneath it. He never let anyone in. Always stoic, distant, unloving. We weren’t close. Maybe that’s why I became a cop, chasing his shadow instead of escaping it. I hoped he’d notice me. But he never did. I filled the gap of indifference with my personal ambition and desire. He died in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s.
This story isn’t about him. It’s about me. And Marcus Vale.
I arrested Vale during my rookie year. He was twenty-one, already skilled at being the wrong kind of person. He’d been breaking into houses since his teens, slipping in and out to pawn stolen goods for drug money. Drugs owned him, always whispering in his ear. But Vale had charm, the kind that made you forget he was studying your house while petting your dog.
I caught him by chance. Two weeks into solo patrol, still leaning on training and instinct, I responded to a suspicious person complaint in the Eastwick neighborhood. It was late and freezing. I saw a figure climbing out a side window, backpack slung over one shoulder, breath visible in the moonlight. No mask, no gloves. Just boldness.
I unsnapped my sidearm and shouted commands, barely believing my own voice. He froze, put his hands up, turned to me and then smiled. Not a smirk, but a warm, honest grin, like I’d caught him at a picnic instead of a burglary. “Well damn, Officer,” he said. “I guess you caught me.”
He dropped the backpack and faced the house, hands behind his back. I approached cautiously and followed procedure: handcuffing him followed by a thorough pat-down. Then I checked his backpack and found watches, a laptop, earrings, and a grandmother’s wedding ring inside the bag. The homeowner was out of town. The job was clean, too clean for a first attempt. I’m sure he’d committed burglaries many times before. I was the unexpected variable. The court convicted him of second-degree burglary, and his priors earned him five years in the State Prison.
I testified honestly with no embellishment. Vale didn’t deny the charges. His public defender seemed frustrated by his lack of fight. He pleaded guilty with calm respect, as if asking for a glass of water. Maybe prison seemed easier than the life waiting outside.
After a while, I forgot about him.
Two weeks ago, everything changed. It was a crisp spring morning, the kind that feels warm but carries a chill. I was parked across from the library, writing a report about a stolen bicycle, when I saw him walking down the sidewalk. Marcus Vale, older and leaner, moved with a wiry gait. His windbreaker was half-zipped, his jeans worn, his sneakers battered. His pale gray-blue eyes held the same restless energy I remembered.
He saw me and didn’t look away. Instead, he smiled like we were old friends. I stepped out of the cruiser.
“Vale,” I said, my voice steady. “What are you doing back?”
He stopped a few feet away. “Got out three months ago. Staying with my cousin. Just started a job at the hardware store.”
His face seemed calmer, less slick than before. Not soft, but settled. I asked if he was doing okay.
He laughed. “Is that a cop question or a person question?”
“Maybe both.”
He nodded. “I’m clean. It took work, but I’m staying that way. Group meetings, job, routine. I don’t plan too far ahead. Keeps the demons quiet.”
We stood in silence for a moment. Then he looked me in the eye. “I remember what you said at my trial. You told the truth without adding to the story. Not every cop does that.”
I didn’t know how to respond. People don’t usually thank you after serving time because of your testimony.
He offered his hand. “No hard feelings, Officer Mercer. I made my choices. You did your duty.”
Part of me, the cop instinct, warned against trusting him. But a deeper part, one that remembered my father’s closed fists, wanted to believe him. I shook his hand. His grip was firm, honest, like he had nothing to hide.
“See you around,” he said, stepping back. He walked off, vanishing behind a pickup truck and a couple with a schnauzer.
I returned to my cruiser and stared at the unfinished report. The words felt empty.
That night, Marcus Vale stayed in my thoughts. I’d seen plenty of repeat offenders slide back into old habits. But Vale seemed different, sincere, like someone trying to cross a frozen pond without breaking through. Could I believe in that? Should I care? Maybe I was searching for meaning where there was none. Or maybe I was tired of only seeing people at their worst.
Vale was a ghost with a heartbeat, a story I couldn’t yet read. Something told me our paths would cross again. And I couldn’t ignore that he was good-looking, too. I felt something I try to keep buried.
Chapter Two: Coffee and Steel
I wanted to call it coincidence, but Carroway isn’t small enough for that. You don’t run into the same ex-convict three times in five days by accident. Either someone’s drawn to something, or they’re not pulling away.
The first time was at the grocery store on a Friday morning. I was off duty, still in workout clothes, grabbing eggs and peanut butter. In the next aisle, Vale held a head of cabbage, looking unsure whether it was food or a prop. He glanced up, saw me, and flashed that slow smile.
“Ever wonder if tofu counts as food?” he asked.
“I try not to think about tofu,” I replied.
He held my gaze a moment longer than necessary, his eyes lingering and then raking up and down my body. We talked briefly. He mentioned assembling lawnmowers at the hardware store, learning about engines. I was impressed. Most people in his position struggle to keep a job, let alone grow in one. As we parted, he rested his arm around my shoulders for a moment as we walked. It was a brief, private gesture that sent a shiver through me.
On Sunday morning, I saw him again outside Mike’s Diner, sitting on the curb with a takeout coffee. I was on duty, finishing a report in the cruiser. When I stepped out to stretch, he waved.
“You’ve added muscle since you arrested me,” he said. “You’re a great looking fellow. The uniform looks good on you now.”
I glanced at my French blue shirt, black tie, and polished chrome badge. The midnight navy pants had a lighter stripe down the seams. My campaign hat rested on the dashboard, casting a sharp shadow. The gun belt creaked with my Glock, cuffs, pepper spray, and radio. My Bates boots were solid, reliable, like me.
“Dress code hasn’t changed,” I said. “Five years in.”
“The uniform hasn’t changed but you have.” he said with a grin.
I didn’t smile back, but I didn’t walk away either. He asked if I wanted real coffee instead of station brew. I hesitated. There are rules, spoken and unspoken, about fraternizing with former felons. But it was a quiet day, and curiosity and a needy feeling tugged at me. I said yes. We talked about a lot of things. He always looked right into my eyes as we sat there having coffee. As we walked out of the diner, he gave me a hug before I walked back to my cruiser. I noticed he wore a nice smelling cologne.
We started meeting at Mike’s Diner, a neutral place with chrome napkin holders and old men sipping coffee until noon. Loretta, the waitress, didn’t care who sat together as long as you tipped. Vale spoke slowly, like he was rediscovering his voice. He didn’t blame anyone for his past. He described prison like a long, dull storm he’d weathered by reading, lifting weights, and staying quiet.
“There’s a trick to surviving inside,” he said one afternoon, stirring sugar into his coffee. “You find your role fast, or someone assigns one to you.”
I leaned forward, interested. He noticed and continued. “You learn to read people. The way they shift when you walk in. The way a guy holds his tray in the lunch line. You see the signs.”
“Sounds like cop work,” I said.
He chuckled, a warm, deep sound. “Maybe. But no pension plan.”
Silence settled between us. I sipped my coffee. He didn’t. Then I asked the question that had been on my mind.
“Do you ever think about the burglaries? Do you regret them?”
His jaw tightened slightly, not in anger but in thought. “Yeah. Not because I got caught or went to prison. I regret what I became. I regret scaring people, making them feel unsafe in their own homes. I chose those houses. I knew who lived there—kids, single women. I broke their locks anyway. That stays with you.”
I believed him. Liars don’t normally cut themselves open to seem honest. I felt a flicker of empathy, a pull toward him. As we left the diner, he placed his hand on my lower back, steering me gently toward the door, a quiet assertion of control.
A week later, something shifted at Mike’s. Vale was talking about prison, about learning who’s dangerous and who you can trust. “And who trusts you,” he added softly.
I looked up. His eyes were steady, calculating, like he was testing something. “Survival isn’t always fighting,” he said. “Sometimes it’s control. Holding your space. Sometimes sex is power. Or surrender.”
He sipped his coffee. “I took power. Not out of cruelty, but necessity. You either become someone’s property or you take someone as property. Some guys want to be controlled, and I gave them that.”
His gaze met mine. “I’m not ashamed. I’ve been with men. Still want to be. What bothers me was learning that part of myself through violence and fear. But now I own it. I can help people who need that control.”
I shifted in my seat, feeling a spark of arousal. Not shock, but a hum of something magnetic. He saw it. He knew he was getting through to the part of me I kept buried deep inside.
“Why do you keep saying yes to coffee?” he asked. “Why do you take off your hat when we talk? In subtle ways, you’re giving up control. I understand you.”
I had no answer. Because he was right.
That night, I sat in his cousin’s backyard under a broken patio umbrella. I brought cheap beer, cold and sharp. We didn’t talk much, just sat close. His arm draped over my shoulders, pulling me closer, a possessive gesture that felt both comforting and commanding. When I stood to leave, he put his hand on my lower back, leading me toward the gate. “You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re just afraid of what you hide.” He gave me a hug and sent me on my way. “I’ll see you later.”
He didn’t push. He let the words settle. I knew I wanted him—not just his touch, but the truth he carried. I wanted to stop hiding. I didn’t kiss him yet, but I didn’t walk away either. He had nice arms, great pecs, and a body that made me weak. His blond hair and easy smile just added to the allure. I was already pushing my luck hanging out with a felon. But I was willing to do it to scratch the itch that was growing.
Chapter Three: Under the Skin
Some things only make sense in hindsight, like a shadow’s shape when you turn from the light. I kept seeing Vale, sometimes planned, sometimes by chance that felt deliberate. I thought of him now as Marcus, not just Vale. His hazel eyes, narrowing slightly when he smiled, pulled me like gravity. I kept returning.
He never pushed directly. He tilted the world just enough to make me slide toward him. One evening after my shift, still in uniform, I met him at Mike’s. He looked me over slowly as I set my campaign hat beside my coffee. As we sat, he rested his hand on my lower back, his fingers pushing under my belt a private claim that made my pulse quicken.
“You always carry that much weight on your hips?” he asked, nodding at my gun belt.
“It’s the job,” I said.
“I bet you forget it’s there sometimes.”
“I don’t.”
He grinned. “You should. The gun doesn’t make you. The uniform doesn’t define you.”
His words lingered like a whisper I couldn’t shake. Marcus had a gift for slipping past defenses without force. He started inviting me to new places, like a quiet trail behind the old textile mill, just dirt and rusted machinery. I wasn’t on duty but wore my boots, a tight gray T-shirt, and cargo pants, wanting to feel sharp. Marcus wore a dark green Henley that hugged his frame, his blond hair trimmed close. His confidence wasn’t loud, just present. As we walked, he placed a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me toward the path he chose.
“Do uniforms shape you?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“They give you boundaries, like a coloring book for grown men. Most people need that to feel solid. Don’t you?”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”
He looked at me, really looked. “I learned to color outside the lines long ago.”
We stopped by the river, sunlight glinting off the water. His hazel eyes caught the light, almost golden. “Do you still think I’m dangerous?” he asked.
I paused. “You could be.”
He smiled. “That’s honest.”
“So are you.”
He glanced at my boots, then my face. “Do you ever take it all off and remember who you are underneath? What you want and what you need?”
The question struck deep, beyond clothes, touching the armor I’d worn for years—cop, son, protector, and the parts I hid. I noticed his height, 5’10” like me, his build, the way he moved. I imagined, unbidden, what it would feel like with no space between us. He was attractive, clean, magnetic. His cologne smelled good. I wanted something. As we turned to leave, his arm around me, leading me back to the trailhead. It felt good to let him lead me.
It wasn’t sudden, but gradual, like a slow breath. Marcus took control in subtle ways—choosing seats, setting the pace, picking times to meet. I followed, not submitting but yielding, trusting. It scared me how much I liked it. How much I desired him.
One night after a shift, I studied myself in the mirror. The badge over my heart, the uniform taut across my shoulders, the belt on my waist. I wondered what Marcus saw in me and whether I wanted him to strip it away, layer by layer, to find what I’d hidden.
At our next meeting at Mike’s, Marcus sat in a booth, sliding over so I’d sit beside him, not across. I felt the weight of that choice but didn’t hesitate. His thigh against mine, a warm, deliberate pressure. “You’ve got good posture,” he said.
“That’s a weird compliment.”
“It means you carry yourself like someone who knows they’re watched. That’s power.”
“I don’t think about it.”
“You do,” he said softly. “You just don’t admit it. You want people to see the uniform, not the man hiding under it.”
I looked down but then stared into his eyes.
Our hands brushed over a sugar packet. Neither of us pulled away. “Dan,” he said, my name quiet and intimate. “I see you. Not just the badge or the small-town cop. I see what you keep hidden.”
My throat tightened with relief, not fear. He was right, and I didn’t want to run from it. As we left, he placed his hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the exit, his touch a quiet command.
Chapter Four: The Quiet Surrender
I didn’t plan to invite Marcus over. It started like other off-duty nights—drinks at the Rusted Tap, a quiet bar with Johnny Cash on the jukebox. Marcus had two whiskeys, I had one. His words were low, his hazel eyes steady, pulling me in with deliberate intent. As we sat, he draped his arm around my waist, his fingers exploring towards my butt crack. It was a possessive and aggressive gesture that sent heat through me.
Outside, a light mist drifted down. He didn’t ask to come back with me. He followed. He put his hand on my back, leading me to my car, his push firm and sure. He got in and rode home with me.
In my home, I hung my jacket by the door. Marcus stood at the window, watching the street. “You always keep it this neat?” he asked.
“I like order.”
He turned, his eyes locking on mine. “Do you like control?”
I didn’t answer. He stepped close, not touching but near enough for me to feel his presence. “You don’t have to be strong for me,” he said. “I know what you want.”
His hand snaked behind my head, rubbing my short, brown hair. The kiss started soft, a tentative brush of lips, then he pulled my head toward him, the kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine, hungry and sure. My pulse raced as his hands roamed my shoulders, tugging at my shirt, then lower to my belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease. My cock stirred, hardening against my jeans as he pressed himself closer, his own arousal evident through his pants.
I followed him to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. He pushed me onto the sheets, his weight pinning me as he kissed me harder, teeth grazing my lip. His hands stripped me bare, fingers trailing over my chest, my stomach, then wrapping around my erection, stroking slowly until I gasped. “I see the man you hide inside. The big, bad cop who needs a man. You want this,” he murmured, his breath hot against my neck.
He lifted my legs over his shoulders, his mouth finding my cock first, sucking the tip, tongue swirling over the sensitive head. My precum flowed from the tap. I moaned, hips bucking as he took me deeper, his lips tight around me. Then he moved lower, licking my balls, his tongue warm and wet, before lapping his way down my taint. When his tongue flicked against my anus, I shuddered, the sensation raw and electric. He worked me open, probing deeper, loosening me with his tongue and spit until I was writhing, desperate for more.
“I’ve never done this,” I said, voice trembling with lust and fear. “Go slow. Lube’s in the nightstand.”
He grabbed the bottle, pouring a generous amount into my crack, the cool liquid making me shiver. He smeared it over my hole, then pushed a finger inside, slow and deliberate. I tensed, the stretch unfamiliar, but he waited, moving gently until I relaxed. A second finger joined, then a third, stretching me wider, the burn giving way to pleasure as he curled them against my prostate. “In prison, it’s not like this,” he said. “I’m giving you time to adjust.”
He coated his cock with lube, thick and hard, and pressed the head against my entrance. I gasped as he pushed past the tight ring, the sharp pain making me clench. He paused, letting me adjust, his eyes locked on mine. I nodded, and he slid deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully inside, filling me completely. The pain faded as he began to move, slow thrusts brushing my prostate, sparks of pleasure building with each stroke. My cock, which had gone soft at first, hardened again, leaking precum with his every thrust. He was owning my ass with his control, his body, his mind. “Once you lose your cherry to a guy, he owns you for good. You’re mine now.”
He picked up the pace, his hips slapping against me, the bed creaking under us. I moaned, pushing back, lost in the rhythm. The intensity overwhelmed me, and I came untouched, ropes of cum splattering my chest, my ass clenching around him. “You’re my property now,” he growled, thrusting harder. “You never forget your first.” He slammed into me a few more times, then groaned, his cock pulsing as he filled me with hot, slick cum. He collapsed on me, his chest pressing into my sticky release, his slightly softening cock still inside.
We fell asleep like that, tangled and spent.
When I woke, he lay beside me, one hand behind his head. “You’re different now,” he said.
“How?”
“You stopped hiding. And now you’re owned. Just like prison, you’re my property now.”
I closed my eyes. He was right. I didn’t know if that truth freed me or broke me, but I wanted more. I wanted his control.
Chapter Five: Night Watch
I woke to pale light filtering through the window, my body sore but satisfied. My ass still burned but felt empty, wanting. The bed was empty. Then I heard a creak of leather.
Marcus stood at the foot of the bed, wearing my uniform—shirt, tie, pants, gun belt, radio, Glock, even my boots and campaign hat. It all fit him well. He looked like me, but not.
“What are you doing?” I asked, heart pounding.
He adjusted the belt, calm and sure. “This means control to you. To me, it’s proof I can be more than what they said. It gives me what I’ve taken from you. Your control and authority.”
“You don’t need to wear it for that.”
He smiled faintly. “I need you to wear it for me later. But now put some clothes on.”
I dressed in my jeans and a hoody, socks and tennis shoes. I put on my baseball cap and turned towards him. He reached for the cuffs. “Turn around.”
I hesitated, then obeyed. He cuffed my wrists gently and took my arm, leading me to the cruiser, his grip firm. He opened the back door. “Get in.”
The vinyl was cold against my skin. He drove through Carroway in silence, wearing my uniform, my authority. At the courthouse, he waved to a janitor with perfect form. I said nothing, my throat burning. He circled around behind the courthouse and parked by a back door. He looked around and commented, “No cameras on the door.” He put the cruiser back in drive and drove around the town.
We returned to my home at sunrise. He uncuffed me and helped me out. “I just took over for you. You didn’t stop me,” he said.
“I didn’t want to,” I whispered.
“You let me make you my property.”
“But I didn’t say you could impersonate me. This is serious. What if someone saw you?”
He just grinned. We walked back upstairs, his hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward.
Chapter Six: Unspoken Rules
The next evening, Marcus arrived with a duffle bag and dropped it on my floor. “I’m moving in,” he said casually. It was a statement with finality. He was not asking for permission.
“That’s not how this works,” I said. I was still in my uniform having just arrived home from my late shift. “I’m a cop. You’re…”
“A convicted felon,” he finished. “Big deal, Buddy, I fucked you. You’re my property now. We’re past that now. No one has to know.”
I didn’t argue. The silence in me spoke louder. He took the couch that night, but by morning, he was in my kitchen, shirtless, brewing coffee, humming like he belonged. “Late shift tonight?” he asked.
“Eleven,” I said, sitting down on the sofa.
“Great! Then we’ve got some time before I’m due at the hardware store.”
He crossed the room and pulled me up from the sofa. His hand was on my lower back, pushing me gently toward the bedroom. He kissed me slowly, his tongue exploring my mouth as he unbuttoned my shirt, peeling off my clothing piece by piece. My cock was already hard, straining against my briefs as he stripped them off. He cuffed my wrists to the metal headboard, then tied my ankles to the bedposts with soft rope from his bag. I didn’t resist. I begged for it.
He stripped, his cock thick and erect, and climbed over me. He lubed his fingers, working them into my ass, stretching me until I moaned, my hips lifting off the bed. “You’re so fucking tight,” he said, adding more lube before slicking his cock. He entered me slowly, the stretch intense but familiar now, his girth filling me completely. He varied his thrusts—slow and deep, then fast and shallow—hitting my prostate with precision. I groaned, my cock leaking precum onto my stomach.
He fucked me for hours, drawing out my pleasure, making me cum once from his hand stroking me as he pounded against my prostate. My ass clenched around him, milking his cock. He came three times, each load hot and slick, coating my insides until it leaked out, pooling beneath me. I continued to ooze precum in streams from my cock. “Your ass belongs to me,” he whispered, biting my earlobe as he thrust through his final orgasm. “You’re my property.”
He pulled out and left me as he went to shower. When he walked back into the bedroom, he grabbed my campaign hat from the dresser and set it over my hard cock, the soft felt interior brushing against the sensitive head, making me shudder. The sensation was heightened by the hat's chinstrap resting under my balls. I could feel my precum soaking into the felt. “Stay like that,” he said, dressing in my jeans, T-shirt, and off-duty cap. He kissed my forehead. “I’ll be back before your shift.” The door closed behind him.
I lay there, bound, nude, my cum drying on my chest, his cum leaking from my ass. The felt of the hat rubbed against my cock with every slight movement, the soft friction relentless. He owned me. I was his prison bitch. His property to use as he wanted. Those thoughts kept running through my mind as I lay there helpless. Hours passed, the sensation building until I couldn’t hold back. I came hard, a fountain of cum soaking the hat’s interior, staining the felt and dripping down onto my balls, warm and slick. My body trembled, exposed and used, yet I still felt wanted. And excited. The badge on the front of the hat faced me; glinted in the light like a knowing wink.
Chapter Seven: No One’s Watching
That night on my shift, I couldn’t shake the memory of being restrained, the hat’s felt against my cock, the cum staining it. And now I wore that hat with the stains still damp inside. At 1:53 a.m., my phone buzzed. A command from Marcus: “Behind the old depot. Come here now.”
I drove without thinking. He stepped from the shadows, hands in his hoodie. Without a word, he grabbed my shoulders, pulling me into a hard kiss, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth, his other hand unbuckling my duty belt. He yanked down my uniform pants and briefs, exposing my ass to the cold night air. My cock was hard, bobbing as he bent me over the cruiser’s back seat.
He spit into my crack, the wet warmth sliding down to my hole. He rubbed his cock along my ass, then pushed inside without lube, the raw stretch making me cry out in pain. He clamped his hand over my mouth, muffling my screams as he forced his full length into me, his balls slapping against my thighs. The burn was intense, but my body adjusted, pleasure mixing with pain as he fucked me fast and hard, his cock slamming my prostate. He came quickly, his hot cum flooding me, slicking my insides as he pulled out, leaving me gaping and dripping.
He looked at me with a cold eye and said, “Now that’s the way to use my property.”
“Get dressed,” he said, zipping up. “I’m ready for a drive.”
In the cruiser, he ran a finger along the dash. “Ever wonder how many secrets these seats hold?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re one of them now.”
We drove in silence, me at the wheel, Marcus beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder, squeezing my neck. When I dropped him off, he leaned close. “You’re getting good at being property.”
Chapter Eight: Compliance
As I sank more into submission and lust, my life was slipping off track. People at the station noticed. I started showing up a few minutes late for shifts, my uniform wrinkled, my eyes heavy from sleepless times with Marcus. My reports, once sharp and detailed, were sometimes sloppy—sometimes missing dates and having vague descriptions, rushed sentences. Dispatch logs were worse. My entries didn’t match the cruiser’s GPS data, showing me in places I hadn’t reported, like the old depot or quiet alleys where Marcus and I met.
Lieutenant Grace, my supervisor, gave me stern looks during briefings, his silence louder than any lecture. Officer McDaniels and the others whispered sometimes when I passed, their trust in me fraying. The weight of their scrutiny pressed on my mind, a constant reminder I was fucking up the one thing I’d always held together—my duty.
Marcus knew it too. That evening, in my apartment, he grabbed my arm as I tossed my gear on the couch, his grip tight, pulling me close. He was angry. “You’re fucking slipping, Dan,” he said, his voice sharp. “Your reports are shit, and your logs don’t add up. Grace is watching you. You think I don’t hear about it at the hardware store? Fix this. I need you as a cop, not some washed-up desk jockey. You get fired, and we’re both screwed.”
His words stung, not just because they were true, but because he saw me as a tool, a means to an end of whatever he was planning. I wanted to snap back, to tell him I wasn’t his puppet, but the truth was, I’d let him pull my strings. My stomach twisted with shame, but I nodded. “I’ll handle it,” I said, voice low.
He handed me a folded paper. “This is a start. A written explanation for your shift irregularities. Submit it to Grace.”
I didn’t respond. The document explained late arrivals and missed logs, citing a fake family death and the need to hide and think about things. He’d typed it on my laptop, signed it in my handwriting. I handed it to Lt. Grace the next day. He read it and then looked at me unconvinced, his eyes searching for the truth I couldn’t give. He said nothing, but I felt his doubt like a weight.
The next morning, Marcus was waiting in my home, his presence filling the room. “Keep the all the uniform on,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I need to see you as the cop I own.”
He crossed the room, his hand on my lower back, pushing me toward the bedroom. He kissed me hard, his tongue dominating mine, teeth scraping my lip. My cock hardened instantly, straining against the uniform pants. He turned me toward the bed and pushed me down. Then he pulled out a box cutter. He opened the seam of my uniform pants over my hole and then cut through my briefs in the same spot.
I said, “Marcus, what the hell are you doing? You’re ruining my uniform.”
He growled, “Shut the fuck up. I own you and your fucking uniform,” as he stripped himself, his cock already thick and erect, and climbed over me. Then he turned me onto my back and lifted my legs onto his shoulders with my boots near his ears. I saw anger in his face as he said, “Stay in that fucking uniform. I want to fuck you while you remember how you fucked me five years ago.” he growled, lubing his fingers and shoving them into my ass without warning. I gasped, the stretch sharp but welcome, my body opening to him as he finger-fucked me roughly, hitting my prostate with every thrust of his hand. Then he coated his cock with lube and entered me in one hard thrust, the pain searing but blending into pleasure as he filled me completely. The badge bounced against my chest with each brutal thrust and my hat slipped over my eyes, his hips slamming into me, the bed frame rattling.
“You’re all mine,” he said, his hand gripping my throat, choking me slightly while he held me in place. My cock throbbed, trapped in the uniform pants, the friction of the fabric driving me wild. He fucked me hard, relentlessly, varying his rhythm to keep me on edge, my moans filling the room. I came hard, cum soaking into my uniform pants, the wet spot spreading as my ass clenched around him. He groaned, slamming into me one last time, his cock pulsing as he filled me with hot cum, the slick heat leaking out into my uniform as he stayed inside.
He pulled out, leaving me panting, the uniform wrinkled and stained. His gaze was pure possession, the badge glinting under his scrutiny. He wiped his dripping cock on my shirt. “You’re going to do something else for me. Soon.”
Chapter Nine: Threshold
Two nights later, I was alone on shift for the night. Marcus texted me to meet behind the abandoned rail station. It was cold, moonless. He leaned against the wall, unzipped hoodie, hands bare. He unbuttoned my shirt, touched my badge. “I don’t need the uniform now,” he said. “But I’ll need to be you soon.” He placed his hand on my shoulder, pushing me gently against the wall, his control undeniable as he owned my mouth with his tongue and lips.
He stepped back and then handed me a folder with photos, diagrams, patrol schedules, and City Hall security schematics. “This is my plan,” he said. I’d drive him to the rear entrance in my cruiser. The security was outdated. No cameras monitored the back door but plenty of cameras were inside. Officers rarely patrolled back there. He had my keycard and would use my login to access computer systems, wearing my uniform. He’d go inside, impersonating me. I’d stay outside.
I started to voice my resistance, “I don’t think I can ..” but he slapped me. Hard. Across my left cheek. I stood there with fear in my eyes, rubbing my sore cheek.
He growled, “You will do exactly what I tell you to do. Don’t forget I own you, your uniform, your authority.”
I said, “This is a real bad idea Marcus. My name will be all over everything. Just what do you want in there?”
He glared at me with anger and slapped me across my face again; leaving an angry red mark on my left cheek. “That’s none of your fucking business. Just obey me and do what you’re told. You’re property so act like it! You don't get to think.”
I should have arrested him. Maybe I should have walked away. Instead, I nodded. I didn’t know how to say no anymore. Or maybe I didn’t want to. His control had become absolute. In spite of the fear of what was to come, I was hard at the thought of doing what I was told. Of serving his needs. I drove him home in silence.
Chapter Ten: The Job
At 1:55 a.m., I picked him up. He slid into the passenger seat, silent. We parked behind City Hall at 1:58. He got out and walked to my side and opened the door. “You know what comes next,” he said, pulling me out of the cruiser by my arm.
I stood and moved to the trunk and removed my uniform—hat, uniform, boots, socks, tie, belt, gun, radio. I set each item on the trunk. He stripped and dressed fully in all my uniform gear. Next, he cuffed my wrists, gagged me with his socks and secured the gag with a cloth. He opened the trunk. “Get in,” he said. In my T-shirt and briefs, I climbed in. He tossed his clothes on top of me and closed the trunk. His clothes smelled like him and heightened my misplaced desire.
He used my keycard and my login to enter City Hall and access computer systems. I knew he looked like me on camera and there were cameras everywhere inside. Time dragged. Cold sweat pooled on my chest as I lay on my handcuffed hands. My wrists ached. My thoughts of him in my uniform, impersonating me and in complete control of my life was causing me to have a painful erection while I lay there.
Then I heard a door. Footsteps. Another voice.
Suddenly, the trunk opened. Light flooded in. I expected to see Marcus. Instead, Officer McDaniels and Leiutenant Grace stared at me, cuffed, gagged, stripped of authority. My hard dick sticking up in my briefs. “Oh my God,” Grace whispered.
They pulled me gently from the trunk. There was a blanket in the trunk they wrapped my nearly nude form. In the distance, Marcus was pinned against the cruiser by another officer. He was still in my uniform, my name on his chest, my hat on his head. He didn’t struggle, just looked at me and winked.
“You’re done, Vale,” Grace said. They took him away.
Chapter Eleven: Reconstruction
At the station, I sat in a chair that felt too small. I told them everything—how Marcus pulled me in, how I let him, how he used control, sex, psychology and seduction as power. I told them how I wanted it, needed it, until it went too far.
Amazingly, Grace and McDaniels listened without apparent judgment. The chief reviewed the reports and ruled it coercion—mental, sexual, emotional. I was placed on leave, no charges filed. No one knew what Marcus accessed or tampered with in the archives; he had nothing on him and computer logs only indicated logins with my ID. No other information was found.
Lt. Grace’s use of my cruiser’s GPS tracking had saved me. They’d noticed my changes and were watching me closely. Following me.
The uniform, badge, gun, belt, and cruiser were gone. I wasn’t fired but they reassigned me to dispatch, two shifts a week, in civilian clothes with a headset. I attended counseling three times weekly with Dr. Vell, who was blunt but fair. “You weren’t powerless,” she said. “But you were taken advantage of because of your repressed needs.”
Weeks passed. I sat with the guilt, shame, and conflicted hunger. Slowly, I recovered. Dr. Vell’s final report summarized that I was “Centered. Clear. Capable of autonomous judgment. Sexuality is stable but not relevant.”
That was enough for me to move forward again.
Chapter Twelve: Normalcy Returns
Lt. Grace called me into his office. My badge sat in a box, still polished, still mine. “Do you want it back?” he asked.
I lowered my head and quietly answered, “Yes sir.”
He said, “Son, It will take time. There will be a process, a structure and close supervision before you return to full duty. You need to understand that. We need to be certain of your recovery.”
I returned to light duty—uniform, no weapon, handling radio shifts, phone calls, front desk, and public assistance. McDaniels avoided me for weeks until one morning by the lockers. “You held the line longer than most but I didn’t think you could come back whole.” he said. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, even though I heard it. I’ll have your back if you need me.”
I nodded, choking back tears, and walked away.
Marcus pled guilty. He was sentenced to six years in the State Prison. No parole for at least four years. I didn’t appear in court. I didn’t write or visit. He wasn’t my voice anymore. I was in charge of my life again.
The badge feels heavier now, but it’s mine, worn without shame. I’m not hiding from myself, my desires, or what I survived. I know I’ll have to keep my personal life discrete if I want a relationship. No matter how accepting my coworkers appear, being gay in police work is always a problem. There’s always a glance, an overhead conversation, a slow response if you need help. It all stacks against you. I know what lies ahead and I am not going to give up my career. I’ll prove myself to them.
Someday, I’ll trust again, find someone to love me as I am. It will take time, patience, hope and fear.
I command my life now and I will be who I should have been. The whole person. No hidden desires. My dangerous needs are now acknowledged, accepted and exposed.
I am whole. I am me.
