New Rookie

When I was a police officer, I had life changing experience that to this day I have found myself never able to forget, or forgive.

I was the first one on the scene, responding to reports that a robbery had taken place. The home was in one of those suburban HOA neighborhoods, and the call came that the Millers, people of whom I knew personally, had seen strangers in their home and required assistance.

I entered through the back door. All the lights in the house were on and didn't seem like anything was actually happening. But then I rounded the corner into the office den, and I saw the man in the black mask rifling through the open safe.

I removed my service pistol and said, "Stop what're you doing right now. You're under arrest."

The man spun around and stared at me through the eye slits of the mask, hard cold grey eyes, and he didn't even flinch, or say a word.

"Let me see your hands," I shouted. "Get them up, now!"

Then from behind me I felt a presence, and felt the barrel of a pistol press against the back of my head.

"No, officer," the voice said, a gruff smoker's voice of a hard man. "You drop your pistol, and put your hands behind your back."

I thought of my training and thought I should react, but in the short time frame the man in the black mask before me had drawn his pistol and had it trained on me.

I was outmatched, afraid, and not sure how to respond, but instinct told me to just do what they say and I might, I might, walk away from this one. After all they could have already shot me, but they didn't. I went with that thought.

I dropped my pistol, and reluctantly put my hands behind me back. I felt the cold bite of handcuffs pierce my wrists as the man behind me locked them together. They weren't my cuffs, I knew that. This fellow had his one pair.

"Don't speak, officer. I'm no interested in what you have to say," the man said. "I don't want to shoot you."

I complied, and keep my thoughts to myself, but inside of me a battle was raging, my heart was pounding, and I felt a little quiver in my knees.

"Sit in that chair," he ordered, pushing me forward with the barrel of his gun.

I sat, suddenly facing the man and seeing that he wore no mask, and he was none other than Mr. James Miller himself, the owner of the home, the one who made the call about the robbery, the one who I just then realized sprung the trap!

He smiled at me when he saw the realization on my face, proud of his plan, but what his plan was, what the end game to all of this was, I could not say.

"Gag him," James Miller told the man in the black mask, who by this point still had not said a word. He was a quiet giant of man, and he stepped up behind me and gagged me with massive ball gag that he buckled roughly behind my head, real tight too, and he grunted with delight the whole time he did so.

The ball gag had a chin strap, which he quickly pulled tight, forcing me to clamp down on the big ball now lodged deep into my mouth.

Now I knew I was fucked.

"Now," James Miller began. "I've had my little eye on you since you were just a cadet, officer. Always wondered what it would be like to kidnap a little boy cop like yourself." He chuckled. "You're too pretty to be a cop, has anyone ever told you that before?"

"Phuck yoo!" I protested, through the big red ball. "Phuck yoo!"

Both of the men laughed at me.

"Awe, he's getting all hot and bothered. Don't worry. So are we."

Then, the big silent man in the black mask pulled my face, and held me against a giant bulge protruding from his jeans. It was hard and thick and he pressed it into my cheek. He held me there, and waggled his hips so that I could feel it's girth.

"That's right, officer. Like I said. I've had my eye on you for quite some time."

I moaned, helpless and hopeless and crying inside with what might happen to me next.

"Let's get him in the van, and be on our way, but first," James Miller said.

"Pwweease," I cried. "Pwwease, wemme wo!"

"Hush," James Miller said, as if he was speaking to a child.

And then I watched him take out a length of white rope from his pocket. I had the urge to kick him in the face, but the big man put his thick arm around my neck and squeezed until I nearly passed out. I was seeing red, and by the time I shook it off, my ankles were tied tightly together.

As an officer, I carry handcuffs, but I also carry zip ties.

James Miller took two sets off my belt, and handed them to the big man.

The big man cinched my wrists together despite the fact I was wearing handcuffs already, and with the second pair he cinched my upper arms together just above my elbows, forcing my back to arch and my chest to stick out.

I was fucked. I wanted to cry, but I had to keep my resolve in the eyes of these men. Me breaking would give them more joy than it would give me release from all the tension and anxiety I was feeling at that moment.

But it didn't matter much in the end, because this was just the beginning.

"Time to go," James Miller said, grinning at me as he left the room.

The big man lifted me up like I was his favorite toy and threw me over his thick shoulder as is my five-nine, one-eighty build meant nothing to him.

I whimpered like a little girl as he carried me out of the room, through the house that wasn't being robbed at all, and to the garage where an unmarked work van awaited.

With a grin, James Miller opened the sliding door, and the big man rolled me inside. I grunted as I landed and rolled into the van wall inside, but the big man wasn't done yet.

I noticed inside of the van there were metal O-rings drilled into the floorboard in what appeared to be very specific places. The big man used some more rope and tied me down to the O-rings, most likely so that I don't roll around and hurt myself as the two bastards made their getaway.

I felt the Stockholm syndrome I have heard so much about from captives starting to kick in. I was grateful they thought of me not hurting myself as they kidnapped me, which is ridiculous, but true. They could have been savages, and not have given a damn about what happens to me in transit, but this, while reassuring, only told me that they wanted me to stay pretty for what was to come, which brought on a whole other fear.

The van door was slammed, and I was cast into a pitch-black steel box.

I heard the men climb in one at a time, and soon felt the roar of the engine rumbling beneath me. And then we were off, and me, an officer of the law, laid captive in the back, bound hand and foot, gagged and drooling with a big red ball gag in my helpless little cop mouth.

As I was being taken to God knows where, I was at least happy for the fact that the big man didn't climb in the back of the van with me. With all of his grunting and strength and his obvious enjoyment of manhandling, and that bulge jabbing from his jeans, it would have been one hell of ride with him fondling him in the dark of the back of the van.

Alone, me helpless, him aroused, who knows what he might have forced me to do to him.

For that I was thankful, at the very least, I supposed.

When the van finally stopped, it must have been a good hour's drive, I figured. It was hard to grasp the reality of what had just happened to me, or what was going to happen to me, so my sense of time just sort of drifted from my mind, but it felt like an hour.

The van door slid open, and the light was blinding, but when my eyes adjusted, I stared up into the face of James Miller, the orchestrator of my kidnapping, and I just glared hard at him.

"Don't look so glum, officer," James said with a smile. "You're gonna ruin that pretty little face of yours."

The back doors of the van swung open, and the big man cut my ankles free from the O-ring embedded in the floorboard. James cut the rope that secured my torso to the floor, and then the big man dragged me out the back of the van.

He didn't throw me over his shoulder as I had expected. No, he cut my ankles completely free so that I could walk myself into the hollow hay covered bard that we had arrived to.

He shoved me, which in his silent language meant walk. Which I did, taking in the nondescript looking barn, with its bales of hay, tools hanging from the walls, wood plank walls all around. It was a barn, and I hadn't a clue what the hell we were doing here.

James followed in line behind us as the big man guided me toward a tall and bent wooden door that I assumed was an exit, but when the door opened, I was shocked to my core.

If I wasn't ball gagged so effectively, my jaw would have dropped.

Before me I saw guards, with guns, patrolling up and down an aisle where to each side of the aisle were about six men, bound and gagged and hooded with leather masks, a real horror show, I thought and they were restrained to strange looking machines that propped them up, and kept their backs arched, and their legs pulled back, with each one's arms secured in leather gloves behind their backs.

Each one had their cocks hooked up to pumping machines connected to tubes that lead to glass jars with measurements on the glasses. And the room was filled with the moans of their agonizing torment, as they were being milked and at the same time, I witnessed, mounted beneath them were mechanized rubber cocks that whirred and pumped and pummeled the men's poor little holes.

These men were being relentlessly ravaged and driven, like livestock.

I thought, this can't be real.

Can it?

These cock machines pumped and pulled at their erected cocks, drafting and distilling everything the men had, distributing samples into those glass jars.

I was panicking on the inside.

James Miller took the lead. "Welcome to your new home," he said. "Yeah, we like to keep the boys in the barn, and keep them pumping for at least a few hours until we've extracted every single last drop."

It was as if James Miller, a man I had admired, was giving me a personal tour of his factory. His tone was so business like and so casual, as if this was just business as usual, and it unnerved me to such a degree I have never felt before.

Where I saw misery, without explanation, he was speaking of it in a way of only profit and capital.

And again, if not for my cop mouth stunted by the big red ball gag -- my jaw would've dropped. Right to the floor.

And my new home? I thought, shuddering at the thought of what he just said.

"Recognize anyone?" he asked me, as he strolled past several of the men being milked and prodded like they were human cattle. Each one had a photo and stat list mounted like a placard, like you'd see at a zoo, explaining the animal, with a brief statement about its habits and history.

He pointed to one photo, and I wanted to cry.

"He was with you at the academy," James said.

And it was true. He was there.

I recognize the young willing cadet who was always the strongest candidate, a man that could have been a detective, not a captive. It was Pete Messing, one of my dear friends, who I had not seen in a couple years. I heard he moved to Boston, but I guess that wasn't true. Just a fabrication to hide where he was really taken to.

This place.

I gazed at the blank leather face, at the lean strong naked body, bucking and writhing as the big cock beneath proceeded with its mechanized thrust and fucking of his poor little hole. The cock machine pumping away and just then he grunted something fierce behind the leather.

A cry? A plead?

Elation?

I couldn't tell, and I watched as he shot his load, and the small drips that blasted into the slightly filled glass measuring jar.

I saw on his placard that Pete still hadn't met his quota for the day, and I moaned behind my own bondage.

"Don't worry," James said, patting my shoulder. "You're not ready to be mounted like this quite yet. I have something else in mind for you." He smiled at me, and then the big man walked me further through the trough.

And then James said:

"Besides, you're too pretty to be treated like an animal like this. You, my sweet little man, are going to live in the house with me. Once you have been properly broken in, and trained, I plan to have you has my house slave."

I cocked an eye at James as he continued out of the milking room, as he referred to it, and through the double doors, into a lavish hallway that in no way could be connected with the ragged likes of the barn stables.

"Yes, you heard me right," he continued.

The big man kept spanking me, as if to usher me forward as James continued:

"Like I said. You're such a pretty, pretty young man. By the time my team is through with you, you won't even be able to recognize yourself. Cheer up. You'll make sexy little tranny. Don't worry."

What did he just say?

A woman?

He wants me to be a woman, and his house slave?

The big man and James continued to usher me forward as the gravity of the situation was slowly beginning to dawn on me.

That's what this was all about?

I knew I had bodily similarities to that of a female, androgynous as they call it, but I just assumed that's how I was built. I grew into my wide hips, my long-sculpted legs, my flat tummy, my plump buttocks, thin arms, and neck, and my jawline so rounded and soft, and my lips, kissable I've been told, but never fuckable. But this can't be my destiny. Can it? Plus, what could I do? Fight? Run? Call the police?

I am the fucking police.

We entered an office den that looked more like what you see on the game board of Clue, a very bespoke room with tall bookshelves lined with tomes, a fireplace in the shape of lion's maw with portraits above, and scattered about upon the emerald green wall papered walls all around. A bar globe, I assumed, and massive oak desk with a leather laid over the top.

A den for a villain, I thought.

The big man sat me down on a plush leather chair, and then excused himself to fix a drink as James Miller sat behind his big desk.

James Miller smiled with his eyes in a strange way that I understood as an officer that there was certainly more to come following what he would say next.

He snapped his fingers.

To whom, I didn't know.

A door to the side of the office, like a secret door that I had no clue was even there opened and a beautiful looking woman stepped out. She wore the full regalia of an office queen. Real sexy. With her tall heels, a very sleek, and well fitted skirt suit. It looked tailored. And her nylons looked as if she went personally to the shop and fitted them on; instead of ordering them online, like we all do.

Her lips, dark red like maroon, and her skin so white and porcelain she almost looked gothic to me with her dark hair cut in the fashion of what I understand is a Japanese cut, bangs, short locks along the side of her pointed ear; her bun high.

She intimidated me, to say the least. And given the circumstances, I was more afraid of her than I was of the current situation I was in.

She smiled at me, an inviting smile yet peppered, not sugary. It had intent and it felt devious, as if to make me feel better, but it didn't. Her scent, luscious, and expensive, wafted and spread throughout the office den, but I could smell trouble.

James Miller said to her, "Well? What do we have?"

She turned to me, and again she smiled at me.

The look in her eyes told me that she was amused by me, seeing me bound and ball gagged, allowed to walk, and allowed to sit in this lavish den, and by my eyes; which she knew and could tell how transfixed I was by her sheer presence.

"This," she said, sultry, and seductive.

And she held it up, again -- just smiling at me.

It was on a hanger, this little maid outfit that I can imagine when she got the call about me, she personally curated this outfit herself.

I'm a man, I thought; an officer of the law. Not a handmaid, but by the way she stared me down she told me that none of that was true, and that now -- I serve a new master.

"Come with me, darling," she said, again sultry and seductive. "I'll change you," she said.

James Miller glared at me, and grinned.

"Go."