Chapter 1
The First Time
It was just past 2 a.m. on the sprawling campus of Florida State University. The humid Tallahassee night clung to the trees like sweat on skin. Tyriek “Ty” Gordon was cutting across the west end of campus, where the football dorms met the maintenance sheds and parking zones.
He was 20—hood pretty, with that slow, Southern swagger. Born and raised in Liberty City, Miami. Thick dark brown skin, locs tied back under a fitted cap, and a carved-from-marble body that came from two years on the FSU scout team. He was a walking threat: 6’1”, 220 pounds, all thighs and shoulders, with a round, heavy booty that jiggled in tight grey Nike sweats every time he stepped.
That ass was famous on campus. Soft but solid, shaped like two melons, perfectly wide for his frame. When he walked, it bounced like he knew what it did to people. But Ty wasn’t out. Far from it.
He was straight. Or so he told himself.
That night he was high as hell, coming back from a lit house party just off Gaines Street. The weed, the Hennessy, the bass still thumping in his chest. His tank top clung to his sweaty abs. He was thinking about the girl he almost smashed—and more about the older white man at the party who kept watching him dance.
He didn’t hear the car until the headlights cut through the trees.
“Yo,” a voice barked. “Stop right there.”
FSU Campus PD. The Tahoe cruiser pulled up fast and blocked his path. Two white campus cops stepped out, uniforms creased, boots shining under the glow of the streetlamp.
Officer Brent, mid-40s, thick as hell. 6’2”, stocky with a barrel chest, meaty arms, and a deep Southern accent. Bald head, salt-and-pepper beard, heavy gold wedding band, and a walk that said retired military. His eyes were calm, predatory.
Officer Mitchell, early 30s, lean but strong. About 6'0", with piercing blue eyes, short sandy-blond hair, and a clean-shaven baby face. But his voice had steel. He looked like he spent more time at the gym than on patrol.
“Where you headed?” Mitchell asked, walking close.
Ty shrugged. “Dorm. Just leavin’ a party, I ain’t botherin’ nobody.”
Brent sniffed. “Smell like you just hotboxed a blunt and fucked somebody’s daughter.”
Ty grinned, a little cocky. “Ain’t do all that.”
Mitchell smirked, eyes dropping down. Ty’s thick print was impossible to ignore, swinging in those sweats like a bat. Long, wide, and fat at the base—uncut, the kind of dick that made dudes stare and women risk it all.
Brent stepped behind him, voice low. “Turn around, hands on the wall.”
Ty hesitated. “For what? I ain’t done shit.”
Mitchell’s voice dropped. “Don’t make it hard. Unless that’s what you want.”
Ty’s body tensed. He didn’t move fast enough—Brent pressed up against him, both hands sliding down his back.
“You got a weapon in these pants?” Brent growled, gripping the waistband.
Ty flinched when Brent’s hand cupped that fat, soft ass. “Yo—chill—”
But he didn’t fight.
Brent squeezed. “Goddamn. That’s a man’s ass. Ain’t no way you been walkin’ around campus with all this and stayin’ outta trouble.”
“Yo, y’all wildin’,” Ty breathed, voice trembling. “Y’all can’t—”
Mitchell had already unzipped. His thick white dick—about 8 inches, shaved and veiny—hung heavy out his boxers. “We can do whatever we want, boy. Campus cameras don’t cover this far.”
Ty turned his head just enough to see Mitchell stroke it once, slowly, his blue eyes daring him.
“You ever had your mouth full of white dick, Southside?”
Brent yanked Ty’s sweats down, exposing that thick, fat, uncut Black meat—close to 10 inches, jet black, veins like rivers. His nuts hung low, full and tight. That thick ass… jiggled when Brent spit on it.
Ty groaned.
“Nah,” he whispered, shaking his head—but he didn’t pull up his pants.
Mitchell walked up and tapped his cock against Ty’s lips. “You will.”
Ty opened. Slowly. Cautiously. Then greedily.
Mitchell slid in halfway, moaning, gripping Ty’s braids as that hot, wet mouth took him deeper.
“Shit,” he grunted. “This n***a got a throat like silk.”
Brent dropped to his knees behind Ty, buried his face in that ass and ate. Sloppy, messy, tongue deep in the hole, spit drippin’ down Ty’s thick thighs.
“Mmm. Fuck. This hole taste like Florida heat.”
Ty was moaning around Mitchell’s cock now, knees wobbling.
Brent stood up behind him, undid his belt, and pulled out a thick, veiny dick—uncut and white, about 9 inches with a fat mushroom head. He spit on it and slid it slowly into Ty’s hole.
Ty screamed into Mitchell’s dick—but didn’t stop sucking.
Brent worked it in, slow and deep. “That’s it. Take that law dick, boy.”
Sweat dripped down Ty’s back. His eyes rolled back.
They used him. Right there by the wall.
Mitchell face-fucked him till tears rolled down. Brent pounded his hole, slapping his ass so loud it echoed.
“You ever need protection on campus,” Brent growled, slamming harder, “you come find us. We'll keep that pretty lil' ass outta trouble.”
Ty was leaking. Cock twitching. Hole stretched. Mouth raw.
And he loved it.
Chapter 2
Boys in Blue, Secrets in Heat (Extended)
POV: Officer Brent Darrow
Brent Darrow had a daily ritual, a routine of control.
He wasn’t like the other cops on FSU’s force. He didn’t come to work thinking about ticket quotas or break-ins. Nah. Brent was hunting something more intimate. Something thick-thighed, deep-voiced, and “straight.”
The ones who sagged their pants just enough to let you see the curve of that ass in the boxers. The ones with deep bass in their voice who didn’t say “no” like they meant it. The ones with girlfriends, baby mamas, and Instagram bios that said #NoHomo… but had eyes that lingered too long when Brent leaned in close.
These boys were addicted to being dominated by white authority.
And Brent? He was the fix.
7:32 a.m. – Planet Fitness, Apalachee Parkway
He started his morning workout just to watch.
The gym was full of them—early risers, ball players, ex-juco dudes trying to stay in shape. Brent wore a tight FSU PD shirt that clung to his chest and arms, dick swinging heavy in his shorts. His own build was hard-earned: 6’2”, 240, thick around the chest and thighs, with a hairy stomach, a soft-but-hardened gut, and an ass that filled out his boxers like a retired lineman.
His cock? White, uncut, 9 inches, thick like a beer can at the base. Veiny, fat mushroom tip, and always semi-hard in the locker room when he saw a young nigga drying off slow, not knowing Brent was watching.
One kid this morning—maybe 19—was brushing waves in the mirror, shirtless, cocoa-brown skin glistening, basketball shorts sagging low enough to show ass cleavage. When he turned and caught Brent staring, he just smirked.
Brent made a mental note.
Too bold. Maybe later.
12:10 p.m. – Parking Enforcement Trap
Mitchell texted:
"Found a violation. Black Charger. Tinted windows. Let’s run it."
They parked across the lot from a red-bricked dorm on Call Street. Out stepped a tall, lean, dark chocolate boy in slides and a wife-beater, drawstring shorts barely holding up that fat ass. Looked like he played track—or maybe just fucked like he ran track.
Brent stepped out the cruiser slow, hand already palming the bulge in his pants.
“Hey, you the owner of this Charger?”
Boy looked around, nervous. “Yeah… I just ran in to drop something off.”
Mitchell cut in. “You park in a faculty space?”
Boy scratched the back of his head. “Didn’t know—my bad. I was just—”
Brent stepped closer, close enough to smell cocoa butter and weed. “What’s your name?”
“Rico.”
“Mmm. Rico,” Brent echoed, looking him up and down. “You look like you carry weight.”
Rico smirked, trying to stay cool, but he shifted. A clear sign.
“You come with us. We’ll handle it… off the books.”
2:40 p.m. – Storage Unit Behind Doak Campbell Stadium
It was their unofficial “detention” zone.
They led Rico inside the unit, concrete floor, metal walls, hot as fuck inside. Brent locked the door behind them.
Rico stood there, unsure, still posturing. “So y’all writin’ me up or what?”
Brent stepped up. “Nah. But you need to pay a fee.”
Mitchell grinned, already unzipping.
Rico's eyes dropped. “Man… y’all wild.”
“You wanna leave with your record clean?” Brent asked, palming Rico’s ass with both hands. “You wanna stay eligible? Or you want us to tow that Charger and file a report?”
Rico’s breath hitched.
He didn’t say yes. But he dropped his shorts.
The fuck started slow.
Mitchell’s dick went in his mouth first—slapping against Rico’s lips until he opened up. Big white cock, all vein, sliding between soft, brown lips. Rico gagged, but didn’t stop.
Brent was behind him, spitting between those fat cheeks. “Mmm. Thick as hell. You ever been stretched, boy?”
Rico shook his head.
Brent grinned. “You about to be.”
He lined his cock up with Rico’s virgin hole, grabbed his waist, and shoved.
“AHH—fuck!” Rico screamed, eyes wide.
Mitchell gripped his head and shoved deeper. “Relax that throat and that hole, boy. You wanted this.”
Brent slammed into him, sweat dripping down his back, balls slapping against those soft, chocolate cheeks.
“Damn this nigga got grip,” Brent groaned. “Tight as hell—like he was made for white cock.”
They spit-roasted him for 20 minutes, rotating. No condoms. Brent nutted first, balls twitching deep in that slick hole. Mitchell pulled out and painted Rico’s face.
The boy collapsed, breathless, hole leaking.
“You belong to us now,” Mitchell said, zipping up. “You want that record clean? Keep that ass open.”
5:13 p.m. – Back in the Cruiser
Brent lit a cigar and blew smoke out the window.
“That one was perfect,” Mitchell said. “Kinda wanna see him next week.”
“We will,” Brent replied. “They always come back.”
Chapter 3
The Mall Trap
POV: Officer Brent Darrow
Saturday, 6:26 p.m. – Governor’s Square Mall, Tallahassee
Weekends were a buffet.
Brent and Mitchell parked outside the east wing entrance, where the traffic from Foot Locker, GameStop, and Victoria’s Secret always flowed thick with young Black energy—sagged jeans, slides, tight tees, eyes half-lidded from weed and bravado.
This was where boys got caught.
Boys from the hood, down from FAMU or in town for the weekend, thinking they were slick with tags half-ripped and pockets bulging.
Brent leaned against the cruiser, sipping his iced coffee, watching like a wolf behind glass. He had on aviators, his badge clipped low, arms folded across his broad chest. Mitchell stood beside him, arms tatted, chewing gum, his dick half-hard just from the scene.
That’s when they walked out.
Two of them.
Thick. Black. Young.
One: 5’11”, golden brown, with a silky wave cap under a fitted White Sox cap, light eyes, full lips, diamond studs, and a white tee clinging to his toned chest. He had slim basketball shorts on—black mesh, no underwear—and Brent could see the long, heavy dick swinging down one leg.
Two: Stockier, darker, with short twists and a bubble-butt that bounced when he walked. Hoodie pulled halfway over his head, dragging a black shopping bag, shoulders flexing with every step. There was sweat glistening on his neck—he was built like a young linebacker.
They barely looked up.
Mitchell spotted the condom box peeking out of one of their pockets.
Bingo.
Brent tapped the window.
“Let’s go to work.”
6:31 p.m. – Mall Security Room
They didn’t bother cuffing them.
“Names?” Brent asked, once they were inside the mall’s small back security room.
The tall, light one rolled his eyes. “Jayce.”
The thicker one stayed silent.
“Speak up, son.”
“…Tariq.”
Brent leaned in close to Jayce. “You boys think stealing Trojans is funny?”
“We didn’t steal ’em,” Tariq mumbled. “We was gonna pay. We just—”
Mitchell stepped in. “Store says otherwise. Camera’s right above the entrance.”
Jayce swallowed. “So what… we getting charged for that?”
Brent smirked. “Depends. We could press charges… or handle this quietly.”
Jayce blinked. “What that mean?”
Brent closed the door behind them, locking it. “You ever been in a private room with two officers before?”
6:39 p.m. – Security Room Lights Off
Jayce was on his knees first. His lips parted slowly as Mitchell pulled out his cock—8 inches, shaved, hard, already leaking.
“Mmm. You ain’t new to this,” Mitchell whispered as Jayce started to suck, slow at first, then deep, sloppy, moaning softly.
Meanwhile, Brent walked up behind Tariq, who was frozen against the desk. His thick ass filled out his shorts so tight Brent didn’t even need to pull them down—he just yanked them halfway, exposing soft, deep brown cheeks that jiggled with every breath.
“You scared?” Brent whispered. “Or curious?”
Tariq didn’t speak.
Brent spit on his hand, rubbed between those cheeks, teasing the virgin hole with one finger.
“Fuck…” Tariq groaned. “I can’t… I never…”
Brent leaned in close, cock grinding between his cheeks. “But that hole say yes, boy.”
He spit again. Slid the fat white tip in slow.
Tariq arched—body locking up, teeth gritted. “Ahhh fuck fuck fuck…”
“That’s it,” Brent grunted, sinking deeper. “Big boy like you need a big man to break that ass in.”
Mitchell had Jayce deepthroating now, one hand gripping his curls, the other pulling down the boy’s shorts to jerk his own thick meat. His cock was heavy, fat-headed, slapping against Brent’s desk.
Brent slammed into Tariq harder, sweat dripping onto the boy’s back. “Fuckin’ tight… you been holding this for a real man.”
Tariq couldn’t speak. His moans turned to whimpers. But his dick was hard—fat, Black, and pulsing against the desk.
7:04 p.m. – Aftermath
Jayce was on the floor, covered in nut—Mitchell had painted his lips, his cheek, even his lashes.
Tariq was bent over the desk, hole stretched and leaking Brent’s load, cheeks red from the grip of Brent’s hands.
They didn’t speak much as they pulled up their pants. Jayce wiped his mouth. Tariq didn’t even look back.
Brent stood, tucking his still-throbbing cock away. “Next time y’all feel like stealing… come see us.”
Mitchell chuckled, zipping up. “You might just get a reward next time.”
Later that Night – Cruiser Notes
“Subjects: Jayce (20), Tariq (21) – both FAMU students.
Jayce: responsive oral. Sucks like he’s been trained.
Tariq: virgin hole. Tight. Warm. Will revisit.
Condoms left behind. Boys didn’t need ’em.”
Chapter 4
The Rookie’s Initiation
POV: Officer Brent Darrow
Tuesday – 3:45 p.m. | FSU PD Substation, Back Office
Brent had seen his file before he even walked in.
Officer Ryan Calloway. 24. Born in Sarasota. Fresh outta the Academy. Used to play high school ball—tight end. Single. No priors. No transfers. Tall, lean, and still wet behind the ears.
When Ryan stepped into the room, Brent already had him pegged.
6’3”, white boy with boy-band looks. Sandy-blond hair, shaved on the sides. Light tan from Florida sun. Thick chest stretching his uniform shirt, and big hands—hands that knew how to handle weight. His ass was a quiet surprise: wide for his frame, round and tight, obvious even in his tactical pants. And the bulge? Not massive, but fat, like it hung heavy all day.
Brent didn’t smile when they shook hands. He just looked him straight in the eye.
“You ready for how we really do things here?”
Ryan grinned, unsure. “You mean like the… college kids and all that?”
Brent leaned in, his voice low. “I mean what happens after hours. When the cams go dark. When boys start walking around campus with fat dicks and fatter attitudes. When we decide who gets a second chance.”
Ryan’s throat moved when he swallowed.
Mitchell stepped in from the back, tossing Brent a file. “You think he’s ready?”
Brent didn’t answer. He just motioned to the cruiser.
5:14 p.m. | Campus Gym Locker Room – Closed for Cleaning
Ryan followed them in, trying to play it cool. Brent saw his eyes twitch when he noticed the cameras were off.
The locker room stank of Axe, sweat, and boy funk.
In the far corner were two juniors—both shirtless, athletic, wearing nothing but compression shorts and slides. One was doing pull-ups on the locker bar, back flexing, glutes bouncing in his second-skin shorts. The other was leaned back on the bench, scrolling his phone, his thick thighs spread, soft dick swinging free through the waistband.
Malik and Dre—both 21, both “straight,” both already part of the officers’ special list.
“Boys,” Brent said. “You remember what we talked about. New guy’s joining the force.”
Malik looked up, chewing gum, and smirked. “This him?”
“Yup,” Mitchell said, tossing Ryan a pair of black nitrile gloves. “Let’s see what kinda cop you wanna be.”
Ryan hesitated. “Wait… you serious?”
Brent stepped behind him, voice like gravel and bourbon. “You scared, rookie? Or just shy around thick Black dick?”
Ryan looked at the boys again. Malik stood up, peeled off his shorts. That uncut, chocolate-thick dick fell out, semi-hard and beautiful—about 9 inches, fat at the tip, bouncing as he walked. His ass was muscular, dimpled, firm.
Dre dropped to his knees in front of Ryan, already licking his lips. “Let me see what white boy cock hittin’ for.”
Brent pressed a hand to Ryan’s chest. “Drop your pants, son. Let ‘em welcome you in proper.”
5:21 p.m. | The Locker Room Orgy Begins
Ryan’s cock was cut, about 7 inches, thick and pink with a heavy curve. The second it was out, Dre wrapped his lips around it like he was starved, gagging and choking, spit flying, moaning as Ryan’s dick hardened.
“Fuck,” Ryan gasped. “Shit…”
Brent undid his belt, stroking his own meat to full mast, walking behind Malik. “Bend over, boy. Show our rookie what real discipline looks like.”
Malik spread those muscular brown cheeks without hesitation.
Brent spit on the hole. Spread it with both thumbs. “This ass been trained.”
Then he slammed in.
“FUUUCK!” Malik screamed, gripping the locker bar, ass bouncing off Brent’s thighs as he took the full 9 inches raw.
Mitchell sat back on the bench, watching like a director, stroking his own cock slow.
Ryan was moaning now—eyes glazed over, balls tightening as Dre slurped and gagged on his dick like a damn milkshake.
Brent never stopped fucking Malik. “You watching this, rookie? You watching how this Black boy needs it? How his ass opens like a mouth for white authority?”
Ryan nodded, face twisted in pleasure. “Fucking hell…”
Mitchell stood, walked up to Dre, and slapped his cock on his face. “Tag team time.”
They pulled Dre up onto the bench. Mitchell fed him cock from the front while Ryan stepped behind him, hands trembling as he lined up.
“Go slow,” Brent said. “But don’t be gentle.”
Ryan slid in.
Dre arched his back and moaned. Loud.
“Yesss sir...”
5:46 p.m. | Aftermath
The room smelled like sweat, nut, and dominance.
Malik lay on the floor, chest rising slow, his hole still twitching from Brent’s load. Dre was slumped over the bench, face glazed, ass leaking both white boys’ cum.
Ryan stood there, breathing hard, dick limp but still wet, hands shaking.
Brent handed him a towel. “Welcome to night patrol.”
Chapter 5
The Dean’s Discipline
POV: Dean Whitmore
Name: Dean Preston Whitmore
Age: 58
Race: White
Build: 6’4”, broad-shouldered, with the strong hands and heavy frame of an ex-rugby player. Still fit for his age—barrel chest, salt-and-pepper hair combed back, full beard, blue eyes that pierced through bullshit.
But what stood out most?
That dick.
13 inches. Thick. Veiny. Uncut. A heavy piece of white meat that had silenced faculty arguments and destroyed marriages behind closed doors. Students whispered about it—some from rumor, others from personal experience.
He was the real power on campus. Not the Chancellor. Not the Trustees. Him.
And he had eyes everywhere.
Monday – 10:19 a.m. | FSU Dean’s Office
Dean Whitmore stared down at the report quietly. One eyebrow raised.
Student: DeAndre “Dre” Massey
Incident: Compromising encounter in closed gym facility, off-record.
Witnesses: Officer Ryan Calloway (rookie), Officer Mitchell, Officer Brent.
Possible exposure risk.
He leaned back in his chair. “Hmm.”
He had personally approved Brent’s recruitment. And Mitchell was practically family after years of mutual favors. Officer Calloway? A greenhorn with potential. But if Dre started talking, if word got out… that would threaten everything.
Whitmore cracked his knuckles, then buzzed his secretary.
“Send a notice to Mr. Massey’s advisor. I’d like a… personal meeting.”
Tuesday – 4:40 p.m. | Dean’s Private Study, West Campus
Dre showed up in black joggers and a hoodie, anxious and sweating.
“You… wanted to see me, sir?”
Dean Whitmore stood by the window, swirling a glass of bourbon. He didn’t smile. Just turned slowly and looked Dre up and down.
“Come in. Shut the door.”
Dre obeyed.
“You know,” Whitmore began, voice smooth like bourbon over rocks, “this school prides itself on discretion. On preserving opportunity for those who deserve it.”
Dre fidgeted. “I didn’t say nothin’ to nobody. I swear—”
The Dean stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
“But someone saw. Didn’t they?”
Dre looked away. “My roommate. But… he ain’t—he ain’t tell nobody yet.”
Whitmore’s jaw flexed. “Yet.”
He took a long sip of bourbon, then unbuttoned his jacket.
“Take off your clothes.”
Dre froze. “What?”
Whitmore didn’t repeat himself. He just undid his tie, calmly. Slowly.
“I gave those officers permission to use you. I’m the reason you’re still enrolled. If that boy talks… you’re done. Scholarships, housing, your whole future. Gone.”
He stepped forward, cupped Dre’s chin with one massive hand. “But I’m a fair man. I believe in… correcting behavior. You want this problem to go away? You’ll let me silence it.”
Dre’s breath hitched.
Then, trembling, he pulled off his hoodie. His joggers dropped next. Naked, brown, trembling.
Dean Whitmore unzipped. His cock flopped out like a beast—thick, long, and heavy enough to hurt. Dre’s eyes widened.
“On your knees.”
4:53 p.m. | Private Study, Lights Off
The room echoed with the sounds of gagging, choking, slurping.
Dre’s lips stretched wide around that monster dick, throat bulging as Whitmore slid it deeper.
“Open wider, boy. Take it. You owe me.”
Dre choked and gasped, spit running down his chest. His own dick stood fully hard, leaking. But the Dean wasn’t done.
He pulled Dre up, bent him over the desk.
“You tried to speak out. You thought there wouldn’t be consequences.”
Then he shoved in.
Dre’s scream bounced off the bookshelves.
“Please! Dean—ahhh fuck!”
“That’s right. Let the punishment stick.”
Whitmore pounded him relentlessly, balls slapping against Dre’s cheeks, sweat dripping off his thick white body. The desk shook. Papers scattered. Dre cried out with every thrust, his hole stretched wide around the Dean’s veiny shaft.
“No lube. No mercy,” Whitmore growled. “Only silence.”
5:14 p.m. | Aftermath
Dre lay face-down on the desk, body twitching, hole ruined and dripping.
The Dean zipped up, adjusted his tie, and poured himself another drink.
“You’ll keep quiet now. And if your roommate brings it up…” He leaned in, whispering in Dre’s ear.
“…bring him to me.”
Chapter 6
Rookie on Patrol
POV: Officer Ryan Calloway
It was his first solo night.
Ryan Calloway was finally riding alone—no Brent, no Mitchell. Just him, the cruiser, and the humid breath of Tallahassee’s summer air soaking through the bulletproof vest beneath his crisp, fresh uniform.
He still had that clean-cop look.
Blond hair trimmed tight, skin tanned from outdoor training, eyes a soft grey-blue that turned hard when necessary. His chest and arms filled out his uniform just enough to turn heads. His thighs strained against his tactical pants. And beneath it all, he was packing—7 inches thick, with a hard curve that made his conquests twitch when it slid in.
But tonight wasn’t about show.
Tonight was about proving he could run the game… alone.
10:58 p.m. – Chevron Station, West Tennessee Street
He spotted him leaning on a trash can outside the Chevron.
Young. Hood. Dangerous.
Probably no older than 20. Skin the color of dark molasses, face clean but hard. Thick brows. Gold glinting in his bottom row. Short dreads under a fitted cap. Black tee, sagged Levi’s, and boxer waistband riding high.
And that booty—round, wide, heavy, and high. It moved every time he shifted his weight, like it was announcing itself. The jeans gripped his thighs like they were scared to let go.
Ryan parked across from him, lights low.
The boy clocked the cruiser, then turned like he wasn’t impressed.
Ryan stepped out slow.
“Yo,” he called out, voice even. “You out here all night?”
The boy looked back. “Why? I ain’t do shit.”
Ryan walked closer. Confident. Cool. “Didn’t say you did. You just fit the description.”
The boy squinted. “What description?”
Ryan smiled, letting his hand drop near his baton. “Big dick. Fat ass. Hood attitude.”
The boy blinked. “Man, what?”
Ryan stepped close, leaned in. “You ever had a cop pull you over for being too fine?”
The boy hesitated, eyes darting around. He swallowed. “You on some weird shit.”
Ryan smirked. “That a no?”
A long pause.
Then the boy licked his lips. “I mean… I don’t be fuckin’ with dudes. But… I ain’t sayin’ I never thought about it.”
Ryan’s eyes dropped to his sagged jeans. “You got ID on you?”
The boy pulled it out slow.
Name: Tyreese Vance. Age: 19.
Ryan motioned to the cruiser. “Get in. Let’s talk about how we keep that record clean.”
11:07 p.m. – Cruiser, Rear Lot Behind the Gas Station
Tyreese slid into the backseat, already breathing heavier. The doors locked automatically.
Ryan followed, sliding in beside him.
“You nervous?”
Tyreese nodded once. “You gonna… like, cuff me or some shit?”
Ryan grinned. “Only if you ask.”
He reached over, pulled up Tyreese’s shirt. Inked stomach. Soft brown abs. Smooth skin. His hand dropped lower, palmed the heavy bulge under the sagged jeans.
“Mmm. This you?”
Tyreese nodded again, whispering. “Yeah. Ain’t no lil’ dick over here.”
Ryan undid the jeans slowly.
Tyreese’s dick fell out fat and semi-hard—uncut, thick and dark, about 9 inches with a wide mushroom tip still hiding behind the foreskin. His nuts hung heavy. Ryan’s mouth watered.
He stroked it once, slow. “Damn. This what they givin’ out in the hood?”
Tyreese moaned, biting his lip. “Fuck…”
Ryan unzipped himself. Pulled out his curved, pink cock, already hard.
“Come sit on this, Ty.”
Tyreese froze. “Yo… I never done that.”
Ryan slid a hand under his ass. “But you thought about it, didn’t you? I can make it easy. I’ll guide you.”
Tyreese hesitated.
Then nodded.
11:14 p.m. – Cruiser Windows Fogged
Ryan spit in his hand, slicked up his dick.
Tyreese climbed on slowly, legs shaking, his thick ass spreading as Ryan’s pink cock pushed against his untouched hole.
“Breathe,” Ryan whispered. “I got you.”
Tyreese gritted his teeth. “Ahhh—shit! Fuck!”
Ryan grunted, cock sliding in inch by inch, until the whole curved shaft was buried inside that virgin heat.
“Fuuuuck…” he hissed. “You tight, boy.”
Tyreese moaned, head back, grinding slow. “Goddamn… it feel… weird…”
“It feel right,” Ryan corrected, gripping his waist and starting to thrust.
The car rocked.
Sweat ran down Tyreese’s spine. His thick cheeks clapped softly with every bounce.
“Shit… daddy…” he whispered.
Ryan grinned. “You mine now.”
11:32 p.m. – Post Nut Protocol
Tyreese sat slumped, still dripping onto the cruiser floor. Ryan zipped up, still glowing, breathing heavy.
“Don’t worry,” he said, unlocking the door. “You good. Just don’t go playin’ like you didn’t like that.”
Tyreese nodded, eyes still dazed. “I ain’t say nothin’.”
Ryan watched him walk away, that stretched, sweaty hole still twitching under his sagged jeans.
The rookie was official now.
Chapter 7
Her, Him… & the Cop
POV: Officer Ryan Calloway
Thursday – 9:42 p.m. | East Tallahassee, Capitol Quarters
Tyreese hit Ryan’s phone out the blue.
Yo u free? I got sumthin freaky… if u down. My girl like white boys.
Ryan smirked.
He didn’t ask questions. Just threw on a hoodie, his badge, and nothing under his joggers. Dick already half-hard at the thought of that dark, thick body riding him again—but this time with a view.
He pulled up outside a townhouse near Apalachee Parkway. Tyreese met him at the door—shirtless, muscles gleaming, gold still glinting in his teeth. His boxers sagged low under gym shorts, his fat dick already printin’.
“Don’t say nothin’ wild,” Tyreese muttered. “She think I’m straight.”
Ryan chuckled. “Sure she do.”
9:48 p.m. | Inside the Apartment
Her name was Shanice.
Early 20s, light-skinned with a Dominican look. Curly hair pulled in a messy bun, hoop earrings, short pink robe barely covering a thick little body—tits pushed up, ass round, soft belly with a piercing.
Her eyes went wide when she saw Ryan. “Damn… you fine for a cop.”
Tyreese laughed nervously. “Told you he was cool.”
Shanice locked the door, then dropped the robe.
No panties.
Just smooth curves, wet thighs, and a fat pussy glistening under the ceiling fan light.
Ryan raised a brow. “Y’all do this often?”
“Not yet,” she said, biting her lip. “But I been wantin’ to watch him get… used.”
Tyreese looked shook. “Wait… used?”
She turned to him, kissing his neck. “Let me see you take dick again. Like you did last night. I wanna see your face.”
Ryan unzipped. His thick, curved pink meat flopped out hard, heavy and ready.
Tyreese froze. Then started stripping.
“Fuck it.”
10:01 p.m. | Shanice’s Living Room Couch
Tyreese bent over the couch, ass high. Shanice knelt in front of him, stroking his dick while watching Ryan move behind him.
Ryan spit on his cock, lined up.
“You ready for me again?”
“Yeah…” Tyreese whispered. “Just go slow…”
Ryan slid in.
That same tight heat. That same moan from Tyreese’s full lips.
Shanice moaned too. “Fuck… he really takin’ it…”
She started kissing Tyreese while Ryan fucked him slow and deep, her hands cupping his face, her tits pressed to his chest.
Then she slid down, licking Tyreese’s cock while Ryan was still inside him.
“Mmmm, this shit nasty…” she whispered. “Y’all makin’ me so wet.”
Ryan’s breath was ragged. “You like watchin’ your man get split open?”
She nodded, rubbing herself.
Then she turned around. Bent over the arm of the couch. “Now I want some too.”
10:17 p.m. | Double-Fucked
Ryan slid out of Tyreese’s ass, spit-slicked and throbbing, and guided it into Shanice’s pussy from behind. Tight. Warm. Wet.
Tyreese, cock hard again, climbed behind her and pressed his messy, still-leaking dick against her ass.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Do it,” she begged.
He spit, pushed slowly inside her ass. “Ahhhh fuck…”
Now she was moaning for both of them.
Ryan in her pussy.
Tyreese in her ass.
“Y’all fuckin’ the soul outta me!” she screamed.
Sweat poured. Skin slapped. The whole couch shook. The room filled with the scent of sweat, nut, and raw freak energy.
Ryan grabbed Shanice’s throat. “You like sharin’ him now, huh?”
She nodded, eyes rolled back. “Mmmhmm… I want him used up…”
Tyreese was groaning in her ear. “Fuck… I think I’m gonna nut…”
“Do it!” she screamed. “In my ass!”
10:33 p.m. | Afterglow
Shanice lay across the couch, both holes dripping.
Tyreese sat on the floor, legs spread, breathing hard, still leaking from his wrecked ass.
Ryan stood over both of them, dick still slick, heart pounding.
“Next time,” Shanice whispered, smiling up at them both, “I want you both to take turns on me. While I ride his face.”
Ryan grinned. “You got a taste now.”
Chapter 8
Generational Discipline
POV: Dean Preston Whitmore
Wednesday – 11:45 a.m. | Dean Whitmore’s Office, FSU Administration Building
The email from Brent was brief:
“Dre’s talking. Roommate’s scared.
Caught him telling a boy from his dorm what happened.
Do we neutralize?”
Dean Whitmore didn’t flinch.
He simply adjusted his cufflinks and called his secretary.
“Summon DeAndre Massey and his father, Mr. Harold Massey, Sr. Tell them it’s a disciplinary conference… non-negotiable.”
Thursday – 3:02 p.m. | Dean’s Private Parlor Room (Restricted Access)
Dre sat in the leather chair stiffly, jaw clenched, hoodie pulled over his head.
Across the room stood Harold Massey—mid-40s, dark-skinned, 6’2”, still built like the Army vet he was. Salt-and-pepper goatee, clean suit, wide shoulders, and a thick ass tucked under polished slacks. A father in every sense. Proud. Protective.
“You mind tellin’ me what this is about?” he asked the Dean.
Dean Whitmore closed the door behind him. His tone was ice.
“Your son is leaking classified interactions. If this continues, it will end his education… and yours, as a father, will be considered a complete failure.”
Harold stepped forward. “Hold up now. You bring us in here threatenin’—?”
Dre looked up. “Dad. Don’t—he not bluffin’.”
Dean Whitmore nodded once… and Officer Brent stepped out from the back room. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Thick arms crossed. Dick already tenting.
“We tried to help him,” Brent said calmly. “We tried to keep his mouth full and his record clean. But now he wants to test us.”
Dean Whitmore turned toward Harold.
“We’re prepared to erase this. All of it. But your son needs to be taught obedience. The kind only a father can reinforce.”
Harold squinted. “What you mean by that?”
Brent unbuckled his belt.
Dre’s mouth parted in horror.
“No… y’all can’t—!”
Dean raised a hand.
“If he won’t obey… you will.”
3:11 p.m. | The Parlor’s Leather Bench
Dre was tied to the chair. Shirtless. Tears down his face. His legs spread. His thick, used hole twitching from the last session.
He watched in disbelief as his father stood in front of the Dean.
Harold’s breath was heavy. “This… is for his future?”
Dean Whitmore stepped behind him. “For both of yours.”
Harold’s hands trembled as he pulled off his tie, then unbuttoned his shirt. His chest was broad, sculpted with age and strength. His slacks fell, revealing thick thighs, heavy low-hanging balls, and a wide, fat dick—uncut, dark, and impressive.
Brent whistled. “So that’s where the boy got it from.”
Dean unzipped, revealing his monster 13-inch white cock again—already dripping precum, glistening. He stepped up behind Harold.
“Bend. Over.”
Dre screamed. “Dad—don’t let him—”
But Harold nodded.
He placed both hands on the bench. Spread his cheeks.
The Dean spit.
Then shoved his cock in all at once.
“AGHHH! SHIT!” Harold screamed, shaking, gripping the bench, legs buckling.
Dean grunted, “That’s it… make your son watch what happens to disobedient men.”
He rammed deep, fast, brutal.
Brent knelt in front of Harold and fed him his cock. “Open your fuckin’ mouth, Daddy.”
Now Dre was sobbing. “No… y’all fuckin’ sick…”
Brent grinned. “You told us we were.”
3:33 p.m. | Dual Submission
Dean came first—balls slapping, cock buried deep inside Harold’s stretched, quivering hole. He pulled out slow, cum dripping down Harold’s dark thighs.
Brent nutted all over Harold’s beard and lips. “Good boy,” he whispered.
Harold collapsed to the floor, panting, crying, used.
Dre stared at his father, broken.
Dean buttoned up.
“You’ll never speak of this again.”
He looked Dre dead in the eye.
“And if you do… we’ll bring your little brother in next.”
Chapter 9
Generational Discipline (Expanded & Enhanced)
POVs: Dre Massey → Harold Massey Sr. → Dean Whitmore
Dre Massey | 2:57 p.m. – Dean’s Parlor Room
He thought it was over.
He did everything they told him to do. Took cock like a soldier. Let the Dean and the officers tear him open more than once. But something inside him refused to stay quiet.
It wasn’t just shame. It was that his roommate knew. And last night, he saw a text on his roommate’s phone—a screenshot of Dre’s name in a group chat. Boys laughing. Talking.
They knew.
So Dre told one boy. Just to warn him. Just to vent.
And now here he was… again. Sitting in the Dean’s private parlor. His heart thudded in his chest as the old wood walls seemed to lean in, listening.
He hadn’t even made eye contact with the man sitting across the room.
His father.
Harold Massey Sr. | 2:59 p.m.
When Harold got the call, he thought his boy had gotten into some dumb shit. Weed maybe. A fight.
But when the Dean shook his hand, the grip felt… cold. Final. And now he was sitting in this strange private room, his son across from him, shaking.
He watched Dre squirm in that chair like he was waiting for a guillotine to fall.
“Son,” he said low, “what the hell is this about?”
Dre’s lips parted, but no words came out.
Then… the door clicked open.
Dean Whitmore | 3:00 p.m.
The air was thick with anticipation. Dean Whitmore stepped in slow, dressed in a grey tailored three-piece suit, pocket watch gleaming, leather gloves folded under one arm.
Behind him? Officer Brent. Muscles tense, black uniform clinging to his body like a second skin, hand resting on his belt near the buckle. Ready.
Dean didn’t sit. He remained standing, eyes moving between father and son.
“I expected better,” he said, voice smooth. “Dre, you made a choice. One that demands consequences.”
Dre whispered, “I didn’t— I didn’t say everything.”
“But you said enough.”
Dean turned his gaze to Harold.
“I assume your father’s honor means something to you?”
Harold stood. “Look—this ain’t makin’ sense. What the hell y’all talkin’ about?”
Brent stepped forward. Unclipped a tablet. Hit play.
Audio. Clear. Crisp.
Dre’s voice. Telling someone what happened in the locker room.
Sobbing. Describing Brent. Mitchell. Ryan. The Dean.
Harold’s jaw dropped.
“Dre…” he whispered.
His son lowered his head.
“I ain’t wanna lie no more.”
Dean removed his gloves, slow. Calm. Then looked Harold in the eyes.
“You want this to disappear, Mr. Massey? Or do you want to watch your son burn out of school, publicly humiliated, possibly arrested for false accusations?”
Harold clenched his fists. “You threatening my family.”
“No,” the Dean said softly. “I’m offering you a choice.”
Harold Massey Sr. | 3:08 p.m. – Submission
“I won’t let my boy fall,” Harold said at last, voice hoarse. “Even if I gotta… do what I gotta do.”
Brent stepped behind him. “Strip.”
Harold swallowed. Unbuttoned his shirt. Removed his belt. Stepped out of his slacks.
He stood in boxer-briefs. Cock thick, long, heavy with age and pride. His body still muscular from years of service, sweat already forming at his hairline.
Dean stepped closer. “Bend over that bench.”
Harold paused… then obeyed.
As his hands gripped the bench, Brent stepped forward with the lube, but Dean raised a hand. “No prep. This is punishment.”
Harold’s back stiffened. “Sweet Jesus…”
Dean pulled his cock out—13 inches, thick, white, veiny, with a blunt uncut head that glistened with precum. He didn’t stroke it. Just pressed it against Harold’s virgin hole.
Dre screamed. “No! Not my—”
“Silence!” Dean barked.
Then shoved in.
Dre Massey | 3:13 p.m. – Forced Witness
He tried to look away, but Brent held his head forward.
“You caused this,” Brent whispered in his ear. “Watch him break.”
Harold screamed. Low. Guttural. Like he’d been stabbed.
The Dean drove in deeper, hips smacking against his thick Black ass, sweat pouring off his chest. Each thrust louder than the last.
“Your father,” Dean panted, “takes cock better than you.”
Harold sobbed into the bench, muscles twitching, hole stretching wide.
Dean reached under and gripped Harold’s leaking cock. “Still hard. Your body loves this.”
Then he nutted deep inside him—groaning, growling, emptying everything. Harold collapsed. Breathing ragged. Hole gaping, dripping with raw cream.
Harold Massey Sr. | 3:22 p.m. – Aftermath
He didn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
Brent leaned down and whispered, “You just saved your son. You belong to us now.”
Dean lit a cigar. Buttoned up.
“Tell no one,” he said. “Or next time… your wife joins him.”
Chapter 10
The Silent Auction
POV: Leticia Massey
Saturday – 11:58 p.m. | Sub-Basement Level 3 – Old Tallahassee Hall
It smelled like leather, cum, sweat, and fear.
Leticia stood in black latex, breasts exposed, heels tall, pearls clinking softly as she tapped the microphone. Behind her, four spotlights framed the stage. Each spotlight lit up a single naked body:
-
Dre – On his knees, mouth wide, throat trained, face already streaked with nut.
-
Malik – Bent over, cheeks parted by chains, twitching from prior sessions.
-
Tyreese – Suspended by ropes, face down, hole wide open and pulsing.
-
Harold – Collared. On all fours. Leaking from both ends, broken, eyes glazed.
Officer Ryan stood shirtless, jerking slowly, his cock fat, red, and eager.
Dean Whitmore wore nothing but gloves and his 13-inch cock like a crown.
Brent leaned against the wall, stroking and laughing, ready for the bloodbath.
Leticia raised her hand.
“No voices tonight,” she purred. “Only obedience. Each man will be taken by every hole, in every way… until his soul leaves his body.”
Round One: Dre’s Face
Ryan went first.
He walked up to Dre, grabbed him by the back of his head and shoved his cock down the boy’s throat.
Dre didn’t flinch. Just opened wide and let it all slide in, nose pressed to Ryan’s pelvis, spit flooding down his chin.
Brent stepped behind and slapped his face.
“This n***a mouth better than his mama’s.”
Leticia moaned behind the mic.
“Every gag is praise.”
Round Two: Malik’s Hole
Dean climbed up behind Malik and didn’t stop to warn him.
He shoved in dry. Raw. Deep.
Malik screamed through the ball gag, muscles tensing, hole forced wide around the Dean’s monstrous shaft.
Dean didn’t slow down.
He fucked him like he hated him.
Every thrust echoed.
Balls slapping. Flesh tearing. Malik’s toes curled as drool soaked the floor beneath him.
Brent whispered to Leticia, “You think his mom would cry or cum watching this?”
Leticia just laughed.
Round Three: Tyreese, Public Use
Tyreese was spun mid-air. Four hands held him—Ryan, Brent, and Dean took turns.
Cock after cock shoved into his ass, mouth, even both at once.
They slapped his thighs. Spit in his mouth. Slid cocks across his face.
He drooled, moaned, leaked cum from his own dick without touching it.
Leticia counted his orgasms aloud.
“That’s three. Good boy.”
Final Round: Father Falls Again
Harold was dragged center stage.
The Dean pulled him up by the collar. Bent him forward. Fed him to Officer Brent.
Brent fucked his throat while Leticia sat on Harold’s face, grinding her soaked pussy against his tongue.
“Eat it like you failed me,” she moaned, riding his face. “Because you did.”
Harold came from the stimulation. Hands-free. Cum splashed the floor.
Leticia gasped. “The bloodline is broken.”
Finale
Every Hole, Every Drop
The men switched positions. No words. Only gasps, gags, and grunts.
Each cop dumped their nut into a different hole—mouth, ass, and even across eyes and cheeks.
By the end:
-
Dre lay limp, throat used, tongue out.
-
Malik shook on the chains, hole leaking white like an open faucet.
-
Tyreese whispered “daddy” over and over as Brent slapped his ass.
-
Harold lay unconscious between Leticia’s legs, twitching.
Dean stood tall, cock still hard.
“Let this be the final lesson.”
Leticia panted, pussy soaked. “They were never men to begin with.”
She raised her glass of champagne and watched the last of the cum drip from Dre’s lip.
