The Busted Busboy
by Golden West
I was working as a Food Runner in downtown Torrance — which is just a fancy way of saying busboy, except the restaurant liked to pretend we were part of some Michelin level relay team. Meanwhile, I was convinced I was way too goodlooking to be scraping aioli off plates for minimum wage. But rent doesn’t care about bone structure, so there I was.
I had a stack of dishes soaking in water hot enough to poach a dinosaur egg. Ten minutes in, the room started tilting like a cheap carnival ride. My vision fuzzed, my knees went soft, and sweat poured off me like I’d been sprinting laps around the dining room. I chugged a sip of cold water, staggered to the restroom, and fumbled out my hypoglycemia meds. I’d fainted once at a Dodgers game, but that was in 100degree heat. This time the vertigo hit me like a sucker punch from God.
I’m hunched over in the restroom trying to get my blood sugar to stop acting like a stock market crash when a cop strolls in. He finishes his business, steps out to wash his hands, and gives me this look — the kind of look that says I’m bored and you’re about to be my entertainment.
“You know I could bust you, right?” he says. “I’m just feeling particularly lazy today.”
My stomach dropped. I blurted, “These are prescription meds.” Which was true, but I said it with the shaky conviction of a kid caught sneaking out past curfew.
And I had that sick feeling — the one where you know someone with power is about to ask you to “do something” you’ll regret. I’m nineteen, toned, strawberry buzzcut hair, blue eyes — basically the kind of kid cops notice for all the wrong reasons. I didn’t have any illusions about how far some of them would go when they found someone vulnerable.
He smirked. “Let’s say I don’t buy the idea that those pills are legit.”
And without thinking — because my brain was in full fight - flight - freeze - fawn soup — I snapped, “Let’s say you call the doctor whose name is written on this goddamn bottle and hear what he has to say!”
Not my smartest move.
He stepped in close, backed me against the wall, and reached for his belt. “How about I escort you out of this restroom and off the premises?”
And because I was dizzy, scared, and done with his nonsense, I shot back, “How about you go fuck yourself?”
That’s the last thing I remember before the lights went out and my body decided to take a brief vacation from consciousness.
I came to with the kind of headache you only get from being used as a human percussion instrument. The floor was cold, the air smelled like old coffee and older cops, and Sergeant Henderson (the cop’s name, I later found out) was looming over me like a buzzcut cathedral built out of bad decisions.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared down at me with those seagreen eyes — the kind of eyes that probably made PTA moms swoon and made suspects pray. I remembered telling him to go fuck himself … which, in hindsight, was probably the single dumbest thing I’d done all year. And I’d once microwaved aluminum foil.
The Sergeant crouched, all sixfootfour of him folding down like a Transformer that hated minorities. Before I could roll away, he pounced — actually pounced — landing on top of me with the grace of a linebacker and the moral compass of a broken shopping cart.
His legs pinned mine. His left arm yanked my wrists above my head like he was stretching me out for a crimescene chalk outline. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even scratch the itch on my nose, which suddenly felt like the most urgent problem in the world.
“Well, look who’s back,” Henderson said, voice low and smug, like he was welcoming me to a spa that specialized in police brutality.
I tried to speak, but all that came out was a noise somewhere between a groan and a tax audit.
“You know,” he continued, leaning in close enough that I could smell his aftershave — something crisp and expensive, probably called Oppression — “I’m gonna play BAD COP. And guess what? GOOD COP isn’t here to save your Backstreet Boylooking ass.”
I would’ve rolled my eyes, but they were currently pinned under the weight of his ego.
He shifted his grip, grinding my wrists into the floor. “You swing at me or anything close to it,” he said, “I’ll make sure the paperwork says you tripped, fell, and died of being stupid.”
I tried to say something brave, something defiant — maybe even something clever — but all I managed was, “Can I… get a glass of water?”
Henderson snorted. “You’re lucky I don’t get a shovel.”
He reached for the handcuffs on his desk, dangling them like a magician about to perform the world’s least fun trick.
“Congratulations,” he said, snapping the first cuff on my wrist. “You just won an all expenses paid trip to the Torrance City jail.”
He clicked the second cuff shut.
“And trust me,” he added, hauling me up like a sack of disgruntled laundry, “you’re gonna love the accommodations. They’re very… intimate.”
Sergeant Henderson then took his right hand, reached up underneath my T shirt and started lightly tickling me on my ribcage! It tickled so bad, I swear I thought I would perish right there on the office floor. I wriggled and gasped for breath and wailed like a madman in an asylum, but the top cop had me held tautly and there was nothing I could do but lie there and try to endure it. I screamed myself hoarse.
“When I tell you I’m gonna play ‘bad cop’ … you’re gonna know just how bad I can be…”
Once he finished, I was too weak to stop him from binding my hands and feet with electrical tape.
Once I was helpless—and he had removed my shoes and socks—the top cop trailed a single finger down the smooth pink sole of my left bare foot. My reaction was convulsive. I scrunched my eyes shut, threw my head from side to side and let loose with a bansheelike shriek. As the cop’s relentless finger continued to stroke up and down along the bottom of my wiggling foot, I gasped for breath and came close to strangling; even after I had no oxygen left, my tortured screams kept coming until I reached the edge of hyperventilation.
Eventually Sergeant Henderson freed my feet . . . just before he freed his cock from his pants and underwear. He plopped down in his desk chair and ordered me to kneel before him. I did as I was commanded and it wasn’t long before I was moving my tongue to the base of his cock. I started licking my way in long, slow lingering swipes up the throbbing length of hot flesh. As I licked, I saw Henderson’s muscular legs tense and quiver. The top cop was full of jizz, but I didn’t see it because he forced me to swallow it all down.
"Lie down now, cream sucker." He ordered as I wiped my cum slicked mouth on my own shoulder. He was pointed at the floor at his feet. I did as I was commanded. I even looked up from my new position and saw the police officer glaring down at me. Timorously I reached over and began to unlace his shoes. I have to admit that this act momentarily suspended the fear within me. I mean, Sergeant Henderson had feet that were at least thirteen sized! My heart thudded like crazy as one shoe then the other was removed. I looked at his feet and saw how the black socks clung to his shapely soles. He wiggled these toes a bit, then he used my face as a footrest.
As the officer’s hot, sweaty size thirteen soles were pressed into my face, I moaned and groaned. The top cop laughed, called me more brutal names and began to wipe his smelly sock clad feet on my face—back and forth and all around. He smeared me all over with his footsweat! I breathed in through my nose and was literally hit with the overpowering odor of the cop’s dark socks! I started to sniff his feet feeling as though their powerful smell was somehow taking me higher like a drug. As he unbuttoned and removed his shirt, Sergeant Henderson glared down at me—his helpless plaything—with a hateful expression on his face. He ran the bottom of his sweaty toes over my nostrils and I nearly passed out!
I went down on his feet and began licking the sides and bottoms of his dark socks. I planted sloppy kisses on each of his bare toes. I wrapped my hands around his feet and licked more ardently. It wasn't long at all before the Sergeant’s socks were soaked and smelling loudly now that his footsweat had combined with my saliva. My penis was hard as a rock now. Rock hard and pressing against the material of my underwear and pants. Though the top cop’s feet were smelling strongly enough to encompass the entire small office, I continued to lick and kiss them resolutely. I ran my tongue across the bottoms of his feet and up along the sides again while my penis grew harder and harder. It felt like my cock was going to explode in my pants. It was throbbing and pulsating and I could feel the precum dribbling from the tip.
Before I shot my load, I rolled away from his feet to survey my situation. My own fiery groin felt as if it were on the verge of exploding, while Sergeant Henderson—as he peeled off his dark socks one at a time—looked ready to explode himself. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and took huge, deep gasps that made his hairy, muscular chest rise and fall in a enchanting manner as he forced me to lick his now bare feet. Because I was aware that he’d hurt me if he knew, I tried desperately not to show how turned on I was.
Eventually he kicked me away and ordered me—red faced and through clenched teeth—to pleasure his cock again.
I hungrily plunged my mouth around his twitching penis and slather my hot tongue upon it. The top cop gave a primordial grunt as his thighs stiffened and my tongue felt his cum racing up the length of his cock. He exploded into my mouth in a series of violent seizures, all the while making animalistic grunting noises.
“Now get the fuck out of here, faggot,” Henderson ordered once he was spent. I got dressed and left as fast I could.
As I escaped, a thought hit me sideways, like a drunk pigeon slapping into a window: maybe I’m a hypochondriac.
Because there I was — hypoglycemic meds freshly swallowed, blood sugar supposedly doing the chacha — and then Henderson showed up to make my afternoon a living tutorial on human suffering… but I wasn’t sure if the symptoms were a result of my lust or my condition.
There was dizziness.
There were cold sweats.
There were “oh god I’m gonna pass out.” moments.
But all of this was mixed in with the undeniable pleasure I’d felt during the experience.
And the pleasure really was mixed with pain. I was lost in blissful world where there was just me, Henderson and the kind of torture session that would make a medieval dentist say, “Hey man, tone it down!”