by Cray Z
I was pulled over on a byway, just outside of the town of Thistle, and was eventually carted off to the station.
The officer in charge, a man who called himself Captain Hanson, wore a dark blue uniform that fit in with the sleepy little town . . . and a handsome, experienced face which did not. He was six-foot four, two hundred pounds, and was perhaps six or seven years beyond my own twenty-four. His close-cropped hair was a lighter blond than mine, his eyes a sea green. He held himself like a soldier in the days when America liked Ike—stately, proud and ramrod straight.
I stood near a chair that faced his desk, but didn’t sit down. “Look, I’m late for a party out in Silverlake. If you’ll just let me use a phone, I’ll call my friends to wire me the money to pay my fi—“
“Sit down, amigo.” the officer said derisively, sitting down himself. His spring-back chair squeaked as he did so.
I glanced out of the opened door of the office where I could see one redhead secretary pounding away on an out-dated typewriter, and one uniformed black cop watching me with a look that was a mixture of pity and commiseration. I supposed that badge-wearing “brutha” had seen plenty of “undesirables” railroaded in his precinct. Plenty who looked like me, and I’ll bet plenty who looked like him.
“I said, sit down.” Said Hanson.
I turned back to face the head blond officer. My annoyance was growing rapidly, but I sat down. “Why can’t I—“
“Look, we’re going to handle this my way, taco-bender,” Captain Hanson said, smiling coldly and falsely. “Let me see some identification.”
“But you already checked—“
“Hand over your wallet again.”
The tone of his voice raised gooseflesh on my arms. The subdued malevolence I detected in his voice chilled me. I pulled my wallet from my hip pocket and pushed it across the desk towards him.
The policeman studied the contents, taking special note of the card that identified me as a member of the Male Sole Syndicate. Captain Hanson showed me the card in my wallet. “You’re a member of some kind of syndicate?”
“It’s not a real syndicate--it’s a foot fetish club.”
The policeman looked up at me with his hard green eyes. Or rather he glared at me. “What’s that?”
“It’s a club for men who . . . uh, like the feet of other men.”
“You mean like sucking their toes and all of that?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Leaning across his desk, his voice a low and deadly whisper, the policeman proceeded to call me every vile, inflammatory demeaning name he could think of. Then he went on and on about what a filthy disgusting pervert I was. Now, I’m not a violent person. Most of the time. But he kept pressing the point . . . kept going on and on until finally I snapped. I punched Hanson solidly on the jaw, putting my whole hundred and sixty-six pounds into the blow, plus the added force of my anger.
The Captain crashed to the floor in a muscled heap. He leaped to his feet agilely, a trickle of blood drooling from one corner of his mouth. Officer Perkins—the black cop—rushed into the office then. An enraged Captain Hanson, after gingerly stroking his jaw, dropped his hand to his holster while I prepared myself to die.
Hanson brought the gun up quickly and was about to fire—he was that angry. But Officer Perkins chopped the Captain’s wrist before he could aim carefully. As a result of this, a spurt of flame and the bullet with my name on it whizzed right past my left ear.
I didn’t have time to thank my lucky stars because, no sooner had he saved my life, the black cop whacked me alongside my skull with the butt of his revolver. Darkness fell.
When I regained consciousness again, I was lying on the floor of the Captain’s office. Hanson was in there with me, but the black cop was nowhere to be found. I suppose Officer Leroy Perkins had been fired immediately after having assaulted a higher-ranking officer in order to save my life. I felt bad about that. And as my head cleared I even realized why Perkins had cold-conked me. He was once again acting to save my life. He knew that the only way to keep Captain Hanson from murdering me was by removing me as a threat. Knocking me out accomplished that without Hanson having to put a bullet through my brain.
Seeing that I was conscious, Captain Hanson immediately pounced on me. The top cop actually pinned me again. He lay on top me, his muscled legs pinning my own, and his left arm holding my arms back above my head . . . so that I was stretched out on my back and absolutely helpless.
Captain Hanson then took his right hand, reached up underneath my T-shirt and started lightly tickling me on my ribcage! It tickled so bad, I swear I thought I would perish right there on the office floor. I wriggled and gasped for breath and wailed like a madman in an asylum, but the top cop had me held tautly and there was nothing I could do but lie there and try to endure it. I screamed myself hoarse.
Once he finished I was too weak to stop him from binding my hands and feet with electrical tape.
“So you like feet, eh mijo? Well, I like ‘em too. I like ticklin’ them until the sissyboy who owns them pisses in his pants!” Hanson said and he bound me.
Once I was helpless—and he had removed my shoes and socks—the top cop trailed a single finger down the smooth pink sole of my left bare foot. My reaction was convulsive. I scrunched my eyes shut, threw my head from side to side and let loose with a banshee-like shriek. As the cop’s relentless finger continued to stroke up and down along the bottom of my wiggling foot, I gasped for breath and came close to strangling; even after I had no oxygen left, my tortured screams kept coming until I reached the edge of hyperventilation.
Eventually Captain Hanson freed my feet . . . just before he freed his cock from his pants and underwear. He plopped down in his desk chair and ordered me to kneel before him. I did as I was commanded and it wasn’t long before I was moving my tongue to the base of his cock. I started licking my way in long, slow lingering swipes up the throbbing length of hot flesh. As I licked, I saw Hanson’s muscular legs tense and quiver. The top cop was full of jizz, but I didn’t see it because he forced me to swallow it all down.
"Lie down now, cream-sucker." He ordered as I wiped my cum-slicked mouth on my own shoulder. He was pointed at the floor at his feet. I did as I was commanded. I even looked up from my new position and saw the police officer glaring down at me. Timorously I reached over and began to unlace his shoes. I have to admit that this act momentarily suspended the fear within me. I mean, Captain Hanson had feet that were at least a size thirteen! My heart thudded like crazy as one shoe then the other was removed. I looked at his feet and saw how the black socks clung to his shapely soles. He wiggled these toes a bit, then he used my face as a footrest.
As the officer’s hot, sweaty size thirteen soles were pressed into my face, I moaned and groaned. The top cop laughed, called me more brutal names and began to wipe his smelly sock-clad feet on my face--back and forth and all around. He smeared me all over with his foot-sweat! I breathed in through my nose and was literally hit with the overpowering odor of the cop’s dark socks! I started to sniff his feet feeling as though their powerful smell was somehow taking me higher like a drug. As he unbuttoned and removed his shirt, Captain Hanson glared down at me—his helpless plaything—with a hateful expression on his face. He ran the bottom of his sweaty toes over my nostrils and I nearly fainted!
I went down on his feet and began licking the sides and bottoms of his dark socks. I planted kisses on each of his bare toes. I wrapped my hands around his feet and licked more ardently. It wasn't long at all before the Captain’s socks were soaked and smelling loudly now that his foot-sweat had combined with my saliva. My penis was hard as a rock now. Rock-hard and pressing against the material of my underwear and pants. Though the top cop’s feet were smelling strongly enough to encompass the entire small office, I continued to lick and kiss them resolutely. I ran my tongue across the bottoms of his feet and up along the sides again while my penis grew harder and harder. It felt like my cock was going to explode in my pants. It was throbbing and pulsating and I could feel the pre-cum dribbling from the tip.
Before I shot my load, I rolled away from his feet to survey my situation. My own fiery groin felt as if it were on the verge of exploding, while Captain Hanson—as he peeled off his dark socks one at a time—looked ready to explode himself. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and took huge, deep gasps that made his hairy, muscular chest rise and fall in a enchanting manner as he forced me to lick his now bare feet. Because I was aware that he’d hurt me if he knew, I tried desperately not to show how turned on I was.
Eventually he kicked me away and ordered me—red faced and through clenched teeth—to pleasure his cock again.
I hungrily plunged my mouth around his twitching penis and slathed my hot tongue upon it. The top cop gave a primordial grunt as his thighs stiffened and my tongue felt his cum racing up the length of his cock. He exploded into my mouth in a series of violent seizures, all the while making animal-like grunting noises.
“Now get the fuck out of here, faggot,” Hanson ordered once he was spent. I got dressed and left as fast I could.
