Stephen still didn’t quite know what was happening, but his latest cum had sated his lust for a moment and the clarity he had felt while fucking had not yet succumbed to the ever-present needs of his raging, titanic cock.

“Maybe I’ve got this thing beat,” he said, driving through the sparsely-populated roads of town. “Maybe I’m in charge after all.”

He drove to the “lock-up,” as Ella had put it—which he assumed could only mean the local police station. Somehow, and he didn’t know how exactly, the key to understanding all of this was Rhonda Sullivan.

In a lot of ways, Rhonda was the source of all his problems. Perhaps not his current problems—with a rapidly expanding set of women who seemed both dead-set on fucking him and on teaching his daughter how to suck his cock—but all his problems prior to that.

They had competed for the same set of clients for years. They were both lawyers in corporate law—mostly rote contract-inspection and creation and careful application of legal pressure to weed out competition for high-stakes clients. She had spread rumors about his drinking and philandering and womanizing, and while that was all true, certainly none of it had been a problem before she had started saying it was.

She hated his guts. The exact reasons why were unclear to him, but he suspected it had something to do with how he had slept with her sister.

That dumb broad had blown their whole—incredibly brief!—affair way out of proportion. Started saying she loved him and she’d kill herself without him, that kind of thing. Sure, he hadn’t called her back, but she had been kind of an awful lay and was a nut besides, so who cared? He heard something later about how she had been to a mental institute, some sort of psych ward, but that hardly had anything to do with him.

The few sights he did see on the way to the station were odd indeed. Earlier when he had been driving to work and to Ella’s office, he had treated each new vision of gloriously hot women with confusion and even fear. Tunnel-visioned on his quest to escape from his own erection. This drive was longer—the station was on the edge of town due to some poor city planning (nothing like having a police station on the other end of town when you needed them)—and so he had the time to take in the sights.

There were no “normal” people. Not really. The women were tall and beautiful. The men—what few of them there were—followed behind the women by several paces, often holding enormous piles of bags from expensive clothing stores. Several of those men were on leashes. Women stopped and chatted with each other, spectacular beauties in wide-brimmed hats and gorgeous plunge-cleavage dresses and blouses, and admired one another’s leash selection.

One woman with a leashed husband spoke to another with her unleashed husband, and let her try out the joys of tugging him this way and that. The collars were not nice; most of them looked to be the kind of choke collars that used to be in vogue for large misbehaving dogs. The sort that dug into flesh when they were pulled.

Stephen, stopping and staring at one of these exchanges, was caught in his voyeurism.

One woman pointed at him, surprised, eyes wide. They both stopped what they were doing. The leash-holder roughly pulled hers, pulling her man to ground. Packages spilled all around him. She stepped on the back of his neck with one high heel and curtsied deeply. The other knelt down entirely like she prayed at an altar.

The light had long ago turned green. Stephen sped along before his erection became even more pressing.

At the police station, he hoped, there would be some version of normalcy. It was the police! Whatever was happening to corrupt the rest of the culture, the policy would surely be exempt. They were there to protect and serve and that was it.

This stray hope for a conservative reality was dashed in less than a minute after parking at the police station lot. Striding through the front doors, the first sight he was exposed to was the sight of his own bare legs and cock on a poster, hanging over the front desk.

Serve and Adore, the poster read.

“Goddammit,” Stephen muttered, shaking his head. This was already a bad idea.

The officer at the front desk perked up at his arrival, smiling gorgeously and unbuttoning the top buttons of her already rather-unbuttoned uniform. She was busty, pale, with gorgeous auburn hair that swept out in waves across her shoulders. Beneath the shirt, she may as well have been an Abigail-class sexpot secretary, wearing a tiny miniskirt and thigh-high high-heeled boots. Soft wrist-length silk gloves adorned her hands.

“Oh my god!” she clasped her hands together. “Can I help you, sir? Is there someone you need us to arrest? The other girls all brag about holding them down for you to have your way with them, and I just wish that—”

“I want to see Rhonda Sullivan,” he said. “Where is she?

Right away, she sneered.

“Oh, that dumb bitch? Why do you want to see her?”

Stephen didn’t relish his reply, but his temper was growing short.

“Are you questioning me, now?”

This was a bit of a gamble—were they all really under his influence and just madly in love with him like Ella and the rest seemed to be?

The redheaded officer—Malone?, as it read on her name tag—gulped and blushed.

“No, of course not. I’ll hold her down for you, even! I’d love to do that. May I please do that?”

“Where is she?”

She pointed. “Just back there in holding. They’ve been prepping the needles for her all day. You put us through such a rush last week, I think three dozen or so? We had to wait for some to become available, and—”

Stephen didn’t know what any of that meant and kept walking as she spoke to him, leading the way with an outstretched, dainty hand. She apparently walked and talked, one too many tasks for her simple head, and tumbled over the edges of her desk as she tried to keep his attention.

A week ago—or what felt like a week ago to Stephen’s apparently time-altered head—he would have been tongue-tied and flummoxed while talking with that gorgeous girl. Hell, without a few drinks in him, he probably wouldn’t have had the courage to talk to her at all. And yet, now, today, he had ordered her around and even ignored her while she was still desperate to talk to him.

Probably she might even go to bed tonight fingering herself silly thinking of the fact that she’d had a conversation with him at all.

The police station’s layout and décor was basic and utilitarian; your standard dystopian model of public service with fluorescent lighting, chipped linoleum floors, leakage stains in the tile ceiling. But there had been clearly attempts over the last little while—Stephen guessed three weeks or so—to liven it up. Fresh flowers attended every cubicle and desk. Large posters of gorgeous cover models in bikinis plastered on one wall under an ornate, pink and gold plaque reading: “The Ideal Servicewoman!”

Club music thumped from one closed office and Stephen saw several sexy, high-heeled, pornographically uniformed officers dancing and drinking with each other inside. The interior courtyard was visible through the windows; nearly a dozen girls sunbathed totally naked. Someone had posted a large yellow sign with black, imperial font reading “TAN LINES ARE FAIL LINES.”

And of course, there wasn’t a man in sight.

Down the hall, he approached two young—god, every woman looked so young now, so fresh and virginal—two young guards outside a door holding heavy batons.

“Is she in there?” he asked. “Rhonda?”

They both nodded, faces flushing red at his presence, clearly turned on. Buttons, as apparently they did now in his presence, swiftly became undone from fast-acting fingers, and he soon had a vision field full of perfectly arranged police-woman cleavage.

He opened the door, pushing past them—they both pushed into him with their soft, heavy, loving tits—and closed the door behind him.

Inside, he saw Rhonda handcuffed to a table.

Rhonda was a petite, pretty brunette. She wore sweatpants and an oversized sweater, like they had picked her up late at night after a microwave dinner. Even so, he had to admit she looked good. Some ruddiness in her cheeks; a bit of fullness to her lips, hips, and nips he hadn’t remembered.

“You?” she sneered. “Really? Good lord, I was wondering what this was all about. Is it really you they’re raising such a fucking fuss about?”

Though he understood her ire, he could not help but be a little insulted. Why not him? Was it that crazy?

He remembered the poster on the wall, Serve & Adore, and the picture of his cock. When had anyone even had a camera out in front of his penis like that?

Maybe it was a little crazy.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not sure how much time we have. Everyone seems to be kind of crazy right now for some reason or another. I don’t know exactly what they’re capable of, but they seem to be obedient enough that I can get us out of here.” He sat down across from her. “Are you in your right mind?”

She spat in his face.

“Great.” He wiped himself off. “Let’s go.”

TO BE CONTINUED