The Trustees

Suspected of plots against the state, Race Cooper lands in a cell and gets the works. Interrogator Dirk Caber watches him strip, then points at the cold steel table. Race bends over. Dirk’s bare hands sweep down his back, squeeze his chest, drag over every muscle until he knows there’s no hidden wire. He snaps on black latex and says the real search starts now. One finger pushes past Race’s hole. Two follow. Race grunts, but the count keeps climbing. Soon four fingers slide in deep, then the whole fist, the knuckles stretching him wide. Dirk pulls out, switches hands, and drives the left inside. Race cries out. Dirk’s only answer is a low, “Good boy.” He dips the glove into the lube bucket again and keeps punching, left then right, steady rhythm, no pause. When he finally pulls clear he drops a jar on the table. Race stands, jerks his cock while Dirk twists his nipples, lands short punches to his chest, keeps him hard. Race shoots thick ropes into the jar. Dirk grabs the pulsing shaft, squeezes out every drop, seals the sample, and leaves Race shaking against the table.