Occupy My Ass
By JF Harker
Copyright 2012 Dominant Other Press
Smashwords Edition
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are over the age of 18.
Everyone scattered when the riot gas canister landed in their midst. One moment Joe was marching proudly with his fellow Occupiers, protest signs held aloft, proclaiming themselves to be members of the majority disenfranchised, and the next he was coughing and sputtering, holding the edge of his ragged t-shirt over his mouth and nose, exposing his skinny, almost hairless chest and abs. He ran blindly, trying to see through stinging eyes well enough to avoid the adrenaline-charged riot cops with their pepper-spray, handcuffs, and plastic shields. There had been no warning, no command to disperse, no hint of impending action -- just the sudden launching of tear gas cannisters and the protesters' orderly march had degenerated into an all-out scramble to evade the encroaching wall of police.
Joe had graduated with a BA in Political Science in the fall, only to discover that there simply were no jobs in his field available, and precious few entry-level positions elsewhere. Each job he applied for received hundreds of more-qualified applicants. Somehow, something had gone wrong with the country. He'd been lied to. They all had. The Fat Cats in their fancy suits with their expensive cigars had, Joe felt, stolen his American birthright and given nothing but contempt in return. Without aim or a coherent direction he gravitated towards the Occupy movement. They didn't have answers. They didn't have solutions. But they had a voice, and when marching with his new Brothers and Sisters Joe once again felt that he had purpose, felt like he had a place in the world.
The cops were ruining everything though. They'd sweep through the park and roust everyone, usually not even giving them time to collect their belongings. The police would wreck their tents, scatter their supplies, and let them back in only when so ordered by a court of law. Again and again this had happened, this subtle psychological torture, eradicating whatever faith Joe might have had in the System and replacing it with fear. He'd heard stories - stories about protesters like himself rounded up and arrested en masse, carted off without due process and held in cramped holding cells without charge as long as the law would allow. His natural reaction when facing one of the officers had become dread and foreboding.
There was more to it, though. Lately he'd felt a palpable power emanating from the police watching the camp. He found their stern gazes strangely comforting, and found himself increasingly drawn to their uniforms. He missed his faith in authority. He missed the safety of living in a world where he could put his blind faith in society. He missed being young and believing in something, believing in America, and the police officers had come to represent that. Even more oddly he'd found himself sexually aroused by the trappings of police authority. The dark uniforms. The paramilitary bearing. The nightsticks, badges, helmets, and frisk gloves. A dark part of him that he could scarcely acknowledge wanted them to take over, to tell him what to do, to give him orders and make him feel safe again.
His fear was still stronger, but as he ran through the tear-gas-obscured night he couldn't help but feel aroused by the police presence around him, looking for him, hunting him. With every step he took he felt like a stag in an urban woods filled with predators. Every time his foot hit the ground he couldn't help but wonder if it was last, if a hunter's arrow would find him, take him down, overpower him...
The cop's shoulder hit his back like a battering ram, knocking him off his feet and into the refuse of a dirty alleyway. Joe had been so lost in his "being hunted" fantasy that he hadn't registered the dark forms moving through the gas ahead of him, hadn't seen one of them suddenly turn and dash laterally to intercept him, hadn't noticed the officer looming out of the darkness until it was too late. He had the brief impression of a broadly built and very solid looking officer barreling into him before he was knocked aside to land stunned and splayed.
The officer was on him in an instant, his hot heavy weight pressing into his back, gloved hands roughly yanking Joe's arms behind him and zip-tying his wrists.
This can't be happening, Joe thought, a deep dark abyss opening in his gut as he felt utter helplessness settle around his shoulders. The cop had a knee between his shoulder-blades as he yanked up -- painfully -- on Joe's bound wrists, pulling them almost up to the small of his back. Joe gave out a cry that was half agony and half delicious ecstasy.
"Stay down!" the officer pinning him growled, the scent of his aftershave heavy in Joe's nose, and he instinctively obeyed.
The cop rose to his feet, dragging Joe along with him and slamming him into the alley wall. The roughness of the brick scratched his cheek and he felt his chest compressed, struggling for breath. "I'm not resisting arrest! I'm not resisting arrest! I'm not resisting... arrest!"
"Shut the fuck up."
Joe felt the cop's strong hands running over his body, frisking his chest, his pits, his abdomen. He felt small next to the burly officer, compact, tiny. It was strangely arousing, feeling kept. Feeling owned, almost. The cop had somehow taken possession of him, and he found himself incredibly turned on. The cop's hand froze when it felt Joe's hardening erection through his jeans.
"What's this? Concealed weapon? Marijuana pipe?" he mocked, almost sensually caressing the outline of Joe's stiff cock through his jeans.
"No!" Joe turned his face away from the officer, his face burning with shame, his mind muddled with lust and confusion.
The cop retained a hard grip on his cock. He squeezed it slightly for emphasis. "What is it then, dirt-bag?"
"My penis."
He felt himself spun around, and his head bounced painfully off the wall as the cop slammed him back up against it. "What was that, fucker?"