The rain came down in sheets, turning the alley into a slick black mirror that reflected the burning glow of the visor above Marcus’s face. Unit 47—once Derek Hale—stood motionless, reinforced boot planted squarely on the back of Marcus’s neck, grinding his cheek into the filthy wet pavement. The same boot used to pin Marcus’s husband down in their own bed four years ago.
Marcus still remembered the exact moment. He’d come home early from a night shift, keys shaking in his hand, only to find Derek—tall, cocky, shirtless—balls-deep in Jordan on their living-room couch. Jordan’s wedding ring had glinted on the floor while Derek laughed and grunted, calling Marcus’s husband all sorts of filthy names, loud enough for the whole building to hear. The divorce papers were signed three weeks later. Jordan left with Derek, though the relationship didn't last long. Marcus was left with nothing but the memory of that smirk.
And now Derek was gone too. Replaced by this. Unit 47’s gloved fingers tightened in Marcus’s soaked hair, yanking his head back just enough for the visor’s crimson HUD to scan his face. “Marcus Reilly,” the voice intoned in time with the pulsing lights of his uniform — flat, mechanical, stripped of every indicator of individuality. “You have been identified and charged with unpatriotic activities and resistance of arrest. Choice: servitude or reconditioning.”
"You aren't going to read me my rights?" Marcus protested, struggling under the firm grasp of the officer's grip as he detached a thick collar from his duty belt, clasping it around Marcus' neck and sealing it closed.
"Negative." the modulated voice boomed firmly, "You have no rights. You have 5 seconds to respond to the query. 5.. 4.. 3.."
By the time the officer reached 4, Marcus’s lips were already brushing the wet tread of the boot, feeling the influence of the technology in the collar, which interfaced with his parasympathetic nervous system, calming his fight or flight mechanism and rendering him compliant and docile. He could taste the street, the rain, and the faint leather polish that still somehow smelled like the man who had ruined him. His cock twitched traitorously in his jeans despite the cold and the shame. He remembered Derek’s cock — thick, veined, relentless. Remembered the way his ex-husband had moaned for it while Marcus stood frozen in the doorway. And now that same man was nothing but a brainwashed enforcer, cock locked behind tactical plating, mind wiped clean of every directive or urge except the ones programmed into him — Serve. Dominate. Subdue. Convert.
Marcus dragged his tongue slowly up the side of the boot, licking rainwater and grime from the black leather. A broken, humiliated sound escaped him. “Servitude,” he whimpered against the toe, shamefully. "I choose servitude."
Unit 47’s armor blinked red in acknowledgment as the boot pressed harder, forcing Marcus’s mouth wide around the polished leather until his lips stretched obscenely. “Clean it,” the officer commanded, his voice cold and detached, succinct and commanding. “Every inch. Then you will service the rest of the unit. They will know who you were. They will know what I took from you. And you will do as they say, without question. Is that understood?” Marcus moaned, tongue swirling desperately over the tread, tasting his own defeat. "I asked you a question, citizen. Respond." the officer barked, firmly nudging Marcus' side with his boot.
"Y...yes Sir. Understood." Marcus licked harder, tears mixing with the rain, cock aching and betraying him as the last of his pride dissolved under the boot of the only man who had ever truly broken him — the first act of the next 10 years of his mandatory service towards the officers who worked so hard to keep the streets safe and clean of dissidents like him.
