Nice ICE Baby!
Max Vanderpool joined ICE to take advantage of the student loan forgiveness. Even though he had no intention of performing their dirty deeds, incentives like paying off his student loan or sign-on bonuses were just too good to pass up.
Now he regrets his decision and hates himself for buying into their recruitment strategy. Signing up, he legitimized their recruitment in a way that allowed people to find more ways to justify why they're joining the American Gestapo.
Plus, he fell in love with one of the detainees.
Max had been on duty for twelve hours when he first noticed the young man from El Salvador. Noticed was the wrong word—felt might have been closer. The detainee moved through the processing line with a kind of hesitant grace, broad shoulders drawn in, eyes lowered, as if trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
His name was Álvaro, and he couldn’t have been more than twenty. Soft‑spoken. Polite. Startled by kindness. And, to Max’s reluctant frustration, strikingly handsome in a way that made it hard to look at him for too long.
He also had beautiful feet.
He admired the Latino lad’s feet in a strange, secretive way. It was simply that Álvaro’s bare feet were… perfect. Graceful in a way that didn’t match his broad‑shouldered frame. Smooth despite (as the young man later claimed) years of hiking, running, and doing all the things that should have left them rough. His toes were straight, his arches elegant, his naturally tan skin unblemished. They looked like they belonged to someone who lived a softer life, someone who floated rather than walked.
The first time he noticed them was on their third day at the detention facility, when Álvaro kicked off his shoes and slid off his socks to air his tired dogs out. Max remembered blinking, surprised, as if he’d stumbled upon a secret. He remembered thinking, absurdly: How does someone like him end up being so unbelievably handsome … and with feet like that??
Detainees like this made it hard for the ICE agent to do his job.
Max had been with the agency long enough to build walls around himself—walls of procedure, of distance, of the uniform. But Álvaro had a way of slipping through the cracks. A shy smile here. A quiet “gracias” there. A glance that lingered a second too long before darting away.
Max told himself it was nothing. Just empathy. Just human concern. Just… something he would get over.
But he didn’t.
The detainment center yard was usually loud—voices, footsteps, the hum of generators—but that evening, a rare hush settled over it. Most detainees were inside for dinner. Max was doing a perimeter check when he saw Álvaro sitting alone in the shade of the storage shed, knees drawn up, hands clasped loosely.
Max hesitated. He should keep walking. He knew he should.
But Álvaro looked up, and something in his expression—tired, hopeful, uncertain—pulled Max toward him before he could stop himself.
“You okay?” Max asked, keeping his voice steady.
Álvaro nodded, though his eyes said otherwise. “Sí… just needed quiet.”
Max stood a few feet away, hands on his belt, trying to maintain the professional distance he’d rehearsed a hundred times. But then Álvaro spoke again, softer.
“You’re always kind to me.”
Max felt his heartbeat stumble. “I’m just doing my job.”
Álvaro shook his head. “No. Others do their job. You… you see me.”
The words hit Max harder than he expected. He swallowed, suddenly aware of how empty the yard was, how the shadows stretched long across the dirt, how close they were to each other.
“I shouldn’t,” Max murmured, more to himself than to Álvaro. “I shouldn’t feel anything. It’s not right.”
Álvaro’s brows drew together. “Feel… what?”
Max exhaled, the truth pressing against his ribs like it had been waiting for this moment. “More than I should. More than I’m allowed.”
Álvaro’s eyes widened—not with fear, but with a quiet, trembling relief. “I thought it was only me.”
Max’s breath caught. “Álvaro…”
The young man looked down at his hands, twisting them nervously. “I know this place is not for… feelings. But when you talk to me, I don’t feel so afraid. I feel…” He searched for the word. “Safe.”
Max felt something inside him soften, then break open entirely.
“I care about you,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “More than makes sense. More than I can explain.”
Álvaro looked up again, and this time he didn’t look away. “Then we both carry the same secret.”
They didn’t touch. They didn’t move closer. They simply sat in the quiet yard, two people caught between duty and longing, sharing a truth neither had meant to speak aloud.
For the first time since Álvaro arrived, Max felt the weight in his chest ease—not because the situation had become simpler, but because the silence between them was finally honest. The Latino lad had dreams of becoming a mechanic in the U.S., but now…
Max scowled. He was a fool for self-deluding himself into believing that he’d joined ICE for only the benefits—that he wasn’t going to have to get his hands dirty. That's not how things work in the Trump regime. Max knew that he wasn’t going to be given his own squad car that he could take a nap in while he was supposed to be out kidnapping immigrants without due process. Already he’s found himself in a rental work van with about a dozen white supremacists who have a quota they need to hit to qualify for whatever sign-on bonus they get. And, surprise, some sign-on bonuses and student loan forgiveness wavers were contingent on years of service and/or quotas of people kidnapped.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness and deciding that he had nothing of note to lose, Max gently led Álvaro deeper into the shadows.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Without answering Max removed Álvaro's shirt, pulling it over his head. Kneeling, he removed the Salvadoran prisoner’s shoes and socks. The young Latino lad later confessed that he hadn't been undressed by anyone since he used to pass out drunk in taverns in Los Cabos, and being undressed by the handsome ICE agent would probably have been erotic if he weren’t so terrified. After removing the twenty-year-old’s shoes, Max ran his fingers over the sole of his foot, sending tingles up Álvaro’s spine.
"You ticklish?" Max said, tickling the twenty-year-old’s foot again. Álvaro was surprised to hear himself giggle.
Hearing the slight giggle from the lad, Max tickled his foot again. Álvaro tittered again, eventually snatching his foot away from the man's assaulting hands. Standing, Max pulled Álvaro up, the profuse wetness in his crotch area shocking the Latino.
Max couldn't help but to comment, "Wow! Seems like SOMEBODY likes getting tickled this way, eh?"
He brought his hand to the twenty-year-old’s precum-dripping tool, caressing it. The touch of the agent’s hand on his privates forced a soft hiss from Álvaro who was still protesting … and yet clearly turned on by what was happening. Max rubbed the Salvadoran twenty-year-old’s shaft again, Álvaro's pelvis slowly swinging forward in turn.
"Ooh! So hard and soft at the same time ..." Max said, really noticing the Salvadoran prisoner’s penis for the first time. His penis exploded as the American’s cock thrust deep into his backside and stayed there buried to the hilt. Álvaro felt completely full, fuller than he had ever felt, and yet he was terrified for this fullness was being forced upon him. Scotty withdrew his cock almost to the tip and then plunged into him again. Gradually the slow deliberate thrust became a rhythm, banging into him with a great force and a steadily building pace.
"Lay back and raise those feet up towards my face." the agent ordered roughly. Terrified but very much turned-on, Álvaro immediately reclined—resting his back against the ground. Max leaned over him, taking the boy’s naturally tanned feet in his hands and massaging them. Soon he was sucking dutifully on the Latino lad’s toes—probing between each digit with his tongue and inhaling the fragrance of the boy’s feet. Álvaro watched, entranced and enjoying the sensations he felt until he climaxed like a gushing oil rig!
Before he could fully recover, Max roughly slapped the twenty-year-old’s face and said, "OK, now suck me!"
Álvaro had quickly climbed up so that he was in front of the ICE agent . . . and soon he had taken Max down his throat. He could taste the pre-cum and sweat was thankful for the first time the air was so hot and perspiration-inspiring inside the bunkhouse. Max was a good size and Álvaro was gagging continuously as the ICE agent bruised the slender twenty-year-old’s gullet. Mercifully he wasn't at it long before he pulled out and shot on his face. The next shot went into that Salvadoran boy’s glossy black hair, and the rest of the smirking American’s seed coated his shoulder and back. He must have been keeping a lot of juice stored up in his king-size balls. He then placed the head of his cock back into Álvaro's mouth so that the Latino lad could suck the rest of his seed as he started to soften.
Finally, he pulled out of Álvaro’s mouth and let loose a stream of semen all over Álvaro's body, face and hair.
Sometime later…
The wind on the tarmac carried the smell of jet fuel and cold metal—sharp, impersonal, nothing like the warmth that had grown between Agent Maxwell Vanderpool and the young man now walking toward the plane.
Álvaro didn’t look back. He kept his broad shoulders tight, his steps small and careful, as if each one cost him something. Maybe it did. Max would never know. That was the part that hurt the most.
Max stood behind the security line, hands clasped behind him in a posture that looked official from a distance but felt like a desperate attempt to hold himself together. He’d escorted dozens of people to flights like this over the years, but none had carved their way into his life the way Álvaro had.
Memories That Hit Like a Punch
It started with small things—Álvaro’s shy jokes during intake, the way he’d help other detainees with their English, the quiet gratitude he showed for even the smallest kindness. Max had told himself it was just empathy, just professionalism, just… something he could manage.
But then came the afternoons in the rec yard when Álvaro would talk about his dreams of becoming a mechanic, or the evenings when Max would find him sketching little diagrams of engines on scrap paper. There was the time Álvaro had laughed—really laughed—at one of Max’s terrible jokes, the sound bright and startling in a place built on fear.
They weren’t supposed to be friends. The rules were clear. The lines were bright.
But life had a way of blurring lines when two people saw each other’s humanity too clearly. They’d kissed. They’d sucked each other’s penises. They’d sucked each other’s toes.
Now Álvaro was climbing the steps to the plane, his thin jacket no match for the cold. Max felt something twist inside him—grief, guilt, affection, all tangled into a knot he couldn’t name.
He remembered the last conversation they’d had, just hours earlier. Álvaro had smiled, small and tired.
“Gracias por tratarme como… como una persona,” he’d said.
Thank you for treating me like a person.
Max had wanted to say so much in return—that he admired the young man’s resilience, that he wished things were different, that he would miss him more than he should. But all he managed was a quiet, “Take care of yourself, kid.”
Now, watching the plane door close, Max felt the finality settle over him like a weight.
A Decision Made in Silence
He stayed on the tarmac long after the engines roared to life, long after the plane lifted into the sky and became nothing more than a distant glint of silver. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, it seemed.
Something inside him had shifted. A line he’d walked for years had finally snapped.
He couldn’t do this anymore—couldn’t be part of a system that tore people like Álvaro away from the fragile safety they’d found. Couldn’t keep pretending that detachment was strength.
By the time he walked back toward the building, his decision was already made. He would turn in his badge. He would step away.
He didn’t know what came next. But he knew this: whatever future he built, it would be one where he didn’t have to watch another plane take off with someone he cared about trapped inside it.
And as he reached the door, he whispered a quiet hope into the cold air.
“Be safe, Álvaro. Wherever you land.”