Detained by Marco - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 1

The lecture hall smelled like floor wax and cheap coffee.

I sat two rows from the front because I told myself it was for notes. Criminal psych. Organized crime unit. Guest speakers from the task force. I had the black notebook open and a pen I wasn’t using.

Then he walked in behind his chief and my brain shut off.

Marco. Twenty-five. He’d been a student here too. He’d studied criminal psychology, just like I had. Already a chief officer. Brazilian parents, poor emigrant background, somebody said in the intro. Special operations. Dark hair, thick eyebrows, that mustache cut sharp and thin while the rest of the face was completely shaven. The gray uniform shirt looked painted on his chest. The vest made his shoulders look illegal. Veins in his forearms when he set a water bottle on the table. Hands like he could break necks without even making an effort. He stood with his weight on one hip while the director talked, eyes half-lidded, bored in a way that made the whole room feel like it should apologize for existing.

I asked questions because my mouth needed a job.

“How do you separate a source from a suspect when they overlap.”

“What does the vest weigh?”

“Do you train the hands separately from the rest of it?”

The director answered the first one. Marco looked at me for the second. Really looked. Dark eyes. No smile.

“Enough that you feel it at the end of a shift,” he said. Voice low, a little rough, accent under the English like he didn’t sand it off on purpose. “You get used to the weight. You don’t get used to taking it off.”

I wrote nothing. I just watched the way his throat moved.

When they packed up I waited until the department director went for the elevator. Marco’s uniform jacket was on the back of the chair. Dark. Heavy. I tore a strip off my notes and wrote fast.

I’ve never seen a man as perfect as you. I wish I was a criminal so you’d arrest me and do whatever you wanted.

I slid it under the collar, where only he would find it, and I left before he turned around. I didn’t walk. I ran. Across the quad. Up the stairs to my campus room. Platinum hair in my face. Black hoodie. Heart trying to kick a hole in my ribs.

I locked the door and sat on the bed and stared at my phone like it already knew.

The first message came at 11:40 pm.

Unknown number. A photo. No face. Just the front of that uniform from the chin down. Vest straps in his fists. The bulge in the dark pants sitting heavy to the left, thick even soft. Second photo under it: one arm flexed, vein standing up, the watch, the grip.

Then the text.

Marco: I know you’re the smart kid with the questions.

Me: who is this

Marco: You left a note in my jacket. Don’t play stupid.

Me: how did you get my number

Marco:You signed the question cards. First name. Last name. Student ID. I’m not a tourist, Rio.

A third photo. Closer. His hand not on it — just the shape behind the zipper, fabric pulled tight like the shift hadn’t ended.

Marco: What do you want from me.

I stared at the ceiling until the dots came back.

You want me to arrest you. Say it.

Me: yes

Marco: Say it like a person. Full sentence. Admit it.

My heart was racing.

Me: I want you to cuff me and use me. I couldn’t stop staring at your hands. Your mouth. The way the vest sits on you.

Marco: That’s a confession.

Me: yes

Marco: It’s a fucking serious confession. You wrote that you wished you were a criminal so I’d do whatever I wanted. You left it in a cop’s jacket. You understand how that reads.

Me: I understand you’re the hottest guy I have ever seen in my life 

Marco: Do you.

Another photo. This one from the bathroom mirror, no face, vest off, gray shirt still on, the bulge worse, a line of hair under the navel where the shirt had ridden up. He wasn’t touching himself in the frame. He didn’t have to.

Marco: I took this after I found your little paper. I was still in the building. You were already running.

I was shaking.

Me: what do you want

Marco: I asked first.

Me: I want you to ruin me. I want the cuffs. I want you in that vest. I want you to spit in my face and not ask if I’m okay.

The pause lasted long enough that I thought he’d blocked me.

Marco: Locker rooms. Athletic building. East side. 2:40 a.m. Door by the vending machines. If you’re late I leave. If you bring a friend I leave. Wear something you don’t care about.

And Rio.

He’d used my name.

Marco: This is not a date. You asked to get arrested. That’s what you get.

Me: are you going to be in uniform

Marco: What do you think. I’m a professional.

Me: the vest too

Marco: The vest too. You stared at it for forty minutes. You get the whole problem.

I typed and deleted and typed again.

Me: I’ve never done this… like rough sex.

Marco: Then you shouldn’t have written the note.

Me: I know. It was an impulse 

Marco: 2:40. Don’t make me wait. I don’t wait for students.

One more photo at 12:06. His belt. The cuffs hanging off it, real steel, not costume from a cheap sex shop. No caption.

I didn’t send a goodnight. He didn’t either.

I showered. I cleaned myself out because I knew what I was walking into. Black jeans. Black shirt. Platinum hair still damp. I crossed campus in the dead hour when the lamps buzzed and nobody sober was outside.

The east door was unlocked. The locker room lights were half on, that ugly yellow. Concrete. Benches. A row of dented lockers. The smell of old soap and feet and bleach trying to win.

He was already there.

Full kit. Same gray shirt. Vest strapped. Belt. Radio. Holster empty — I checked, I couldn’t help it — but the cuffs were on the belt and they were real. That thin 70’s Mustache. Those eyebrows. He looked at me like I was a problem he’d decided to solve with his hands.

“Lock the door behind you.”

I locked it.

He didn’t come to me. He let me walk the length of the bench while he watched, huge arms crossed over the vest, radio silent, holster empty on purpose. Porn Mustache. Perfect dark eyebrows. The same bored face from the lecture, except now I was the only person in the room.

“Stop there.”

I stopped.

“Phone. Face down on the bench. You don’t film me. I don’t exist in your camera roll except from the pictures I sent you.”

I set it down. My mouth was dry. He circled once, slow, bootsteps on tile, and stopped behind me close enough that the vest brushed my back.

“Hands.”

I put them on the locker in front of me. He kicked my feet apart with his boot and ran both palms down my sides, professional, cruel, a search that wasn’t looking for a weapon.

“Twenty-one. Platinum bitch hair. All that black. You sat in my lecture and ate me with your eyes and then you wrote me a confession.” His mouth was at my ear. Mint. Sweat. Vest. “You know what I do with confessions.”

“Use them to your benefit?” I asked him.

“Good.”

The cuffs came off the belt with that hard rattle. He yanked my arms back. Steel on both wrists. Tight enough that I felt my pulse in my hands. He turned me and shoved my chest into the locker. Metal cold through the shirt.

“You wanted to be a criminal. You’re detained. You don’t get to negotiate the search.”

His hand went down the front of my jeans, rough, no romance, found me hard and squeezed once like a warning.

“That’s what I thought. You came here leaking for a uniform.”

He spun me. My back hit the lockers. He undid his belt with one hand, popped the button, the zipper, and pulled himself out over the waistband.

It was worse than the photos.

Thick. Cut. Dark at the head. Hard like he’d been thinking about the note since the jacket. Veins. Heavy. He slapped the head against my mouth once, twice, left a smear.

“Ask for it.”

“Please.”

“Please what.”

“Please let me suck it. Officer.”

He smiled with no kindness and fed it in.

He didn’t wait for me to be good at it. One hand in my platinum hair, the other braced on the locker over my head, and he fucked my throat like the lecture had been the warmup. I gagged on the first real push. Spit ran down my chin onto the floor. He held me there until my eyes watered and my nose was against the zipper and the radio on his chest knocked my cheekbone.

He pulled back only far enough for me to drag air.

“That’s a mouth. That’s all you are tonight. A criminal fag mouth. Do you know what we called to boys like you in Brazil? “Viados”. You’re nothing more than a “viado”.”

He spat in my face. Warm. It ran to my lip. He pushed back in and used it. No rhythm that cared about me. Deep, pull, deep, the cuffs cutting my wrists every time I tried to find balance. I drooled on his pants. He didn’t wipe it. He talked over my wet sounds.

“You asked about my hands in front of a hundred people. These hands. They’re in your hair now. You asked what the vest weighs. Feel it. That’s the weight on your forehead.”

I moaned around him. He hissed and went harder.

“Don’t you make that noise like you’re in charge. You’re cuffed in a college locker room at three in the morning with a cop’s cock in your throat because you left a dirty little note. You’re mine.”

He used me until my jaw shook. Pulled out shining, slapped my cheek with it, pushed back in, held, let me choke, pulled out again. A string of spit broke on my chin. He wiped it with his thumb and put the thumb in my mouth.

“Bench. Knees. Face down. Don’t make me say it twice.”

I went. Awkward with the cuffs. Cheek on cracked vinyl. He yanked my jeans and underwear to mid-thigh and left them there so I couldn’t kick. A finger, dry first, just to make me hiss.

“Hurts.” I complained but in fact I was feeling pleasure, I was just playing the part.

“Good. You asked for whatever I wanted.”

Spit. Two fingers. He worked me open with the same patience he hadn’t given my throat, twisting, stretching, watching me take it. The vest creaked when he leaned over my back.

“You cleaned out. Good boy. You came here to get fucked by a cop in a locker room. Say it.”

“I came here to get fucked by a cop.”

“Louder. Name.”

“I came here to get fucked by you. Officer Marco. Please.”

He lined up and shoved in.

The stretch punched the air out of me. Thick. Relentless. He bottomed out and stayed, hands on my hips gripping me hard, and then he started to fuck me like he’d been off-shift too long.

Deep. Mean. The bench slammed the row of lockers. My cuffed hands were useless in the small of my back. Every thrust dragged my chest on the vinyl. He spat on my hole around himself and kept going, wetter, nastier, the sound of it filthy in the empty room.

“This is what you wanted in that hall. Sitting there in black asking about my hands. You wanted them on you. You wanted the vest in your back and my cock in your ass and no safe little psychology paper between us.”

“Yes— fuck—”

“Officer.”

“Officer Marco— please— don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He grabbed a fist of platinum hair and pulled my head up so I was looking at the dented metal, my back arched, cuffs biting, and he pounded into me until my thighs shook on the bench.

“You’re going to come on this vinyl like a slut who leaves dirty notes in jackets. You don’t touch yourself. You come from getting used. That’s the arrest.”

He changed the angle and I broke. Came on the bench without a hand on me, shaking, moaning like the word he’d used, and he laughed once, mean, pleased, and fucked me through it. He didn’t slow down because I’d finished. He used the tightness. Short, brutal strokes. The radio tapped my spine. His belt buckle slapped my ass.

“Hold. Take it. That’s it. That’s the whole uniform inside you.”

His hips stuttered. He buried himself and came hot and a lot, pulsing, holding my ass flush to his belt, a sound in his throat he didn’t give the lecture hall.

“Oh fuck! I’m filling your pussy.”

He stayed in me. Breathing. The radio made a tiny idle sound.

Then he pulled out. I felt him leave and run down my thigh. He unlocked the cuffs. Blood came back into my hands in pins. He hauled me up by the shirt and shoved me into the lockers again, face-first, and slapped me across the mouth. Not a hard slap, just a possessive sensual one.

He didn’t give me a second to find my face. He fisted the front of my shirt, shoved me back into the lockers so the metal hit my spine, and kissed me like the slap had been the start of it. Wet. Open. Mustache scraping my stinging mouth. He spat into the kiss and licked it off my lip and went back in deeper, tongue heavy, one hand on my jaw so I couldn’t turn away. I could taste his cock and his minty spit. He sucked my lower lip between his teeth, let it go shining, and dragged his mouth to the corner of mine like he was signing the arrest.

He looked at me, wrecked and dripping and grinning like an idiot, and he didn’t smile back.

“I’m going to call some guys from my team,” he said, quiet. “A more aggressive detention. You wanted to be a criminal. Dangerous criminals like you don’t get a private officer.”

He slapped my ass once, hard, pulled my jeans up over the mess, and put the cuffs back on his belt like the shift had never stopped.

“Phone stays here for ten minutes after I leave. You don’t follow me to the lot. You don’t text first. I text you.”

He fixed the vest in the mirror of a locker door. Mustache. Eyebrows. That face.

“You’ll hear from me, Blondie.”

The east door shut.

I sat on the bench with his come leaking out of me and his spit drying on my cheek and the taste of him still in my throat, platinum hair in my eyes, and I already knew I was going to wait for the message like it was a warrant.

I wanted the team.

I wanted him in front of them.

I wanted to get arrested for real.