Mason Pike had spent the morning making people wait.
Defendants. Lawyers. Family members. Anyone who questioned him.
He was county sheriff’s office, courthouse security detail, broad through the shoulders and sealed into a tan vest that made him look bigger than he already was. His pistol sat heavy on his right hip. His radio clipped high against his chest. The badge on his sleeve did most of the talking before he opened his mouth.
By noon, he had already shoved one detainee into a wall for spitting near his boots.
Now he stood alone in the staff bathroom, checking the split skin at the corner of his mouth.
The door opened behind him.
Pike saw the man in the mirror.
Grey maintenance shirt. Work trousers. Scuffed boots. Forty-something. Narrow waist. One shoulder stiff from an old injury. He carried a ring of keys and a roll of plumber’s tape.
Pike turned.
“You lost?”
The man stopped beside the sinks.
“You remember Drew Vale?”
Pike looked at the keys. Then at the maintenance patch.
“No.”
“You broke his wrist in Interview Room Three.”
“Then he shouldn’t have fought.”
“You told the judge he fell.”
Pike smiled.
“Sounds like a him problem.”
The maintenance man’s jaw tightened.
Pike stepped closer. He enjoyed that part. The moment another man realised the size difference mattered.
“You got something else to say?”
“Yeah.”
The man set the keys on the sink.
“I repaired the door after you put him through it.”
Pike laughed under his breath.
Then he shoved him.
The maintenance man hit the tiled wall, but he didn’t fold. He caught Pike’s vest and dragged him forward, turning the shove into a collision. Pike’s hip struck the sink. His pistol knocked against the porcelain.
Pike’s expression changed.
He grabbed the man by the throat and drove him backward.
“Take your hands off me.”
The maintenance man slammed an elbow into Pike’s ribs.
Pike grunted, but his grip tightened. He lifted the man just enough to break his footing and smashed him into the urinal divider. Plastic cracked. The man’s shoulder hit first.
Pike followed with a hard punch to the body.
The maintenance man doubled over.
“That all you’ve got?” Pike said.
He reached for his radio.
The man seized the front of his vest and yanked.
Pike’s radio tore loose, skidded beneath the sinks, and began transmitting bursts of static.
Pike reacted instantly. He drove his knee forward.
The man twisted. The knee caught his thigh instead of his stomach. He stumbled, slipped on the water around the leaking flush valve, and caught the edge of the basin.
Pike charged.
This time the maintenance man moved with him.
He stepped through the rush, hooked Pike’s arm, and used the officer’s own momentum to throw him shoulder-first into the tiled wall.
Pike’s head snapped sideways.
For one second, the bathroom went quiet except for the radio hissing under the sink.
Then Pike came back harder.
He turned, grabbed the man’s shirt, and launched him through the staff door.
The maintenance man hit the service corridor on his back.
Pike followed.
He should have stopped there. He should have called for backup. He should have waited for the radio.
Instead he saw the man scrambling toward the loading corridor and went after him.
“You think you’re walking away?”
The man pushed through a fire door.
Pike caught him before it closed and drove him into the concrete block wall. The impact shook a row of stacked crowd barriers. One toppled sideways and crashed across the corridor.
Pike pinned him with a forearm across the chest.
“You came into my building,” Pike said. “You put your hands on me. Now you’re going to apologise.”
The maintenance man stared up at him.
“This isn’t your building.”
Pike pressed harder.
“It is when I’m wearing this.”
He tried to wrench the man’s arm behind him.
The injured shoulder gave a sharp jerk.
The maintenance man sucked air through his teeth, then kicked the wheel of a parked cleaning cart. The cart rolled into Pike’s calf.
Pike’s leg buckled.
The man drove his forehead into Pike’s nose.
Pike released him and staggered back, blood spilling over his lip. He swung blindly. The punch clipped the man’s cheek and sent him into the open loading-bay door.
Pike charged again.
The concrete was wet near the dock.
His boot slid.
His belt caught against the steel corner of a barrier. The momentum twisted him sideways and dragged him down hard. His knee struck first. Then his hip. His pistol jammed against the metal rail.
He roared and tried to tear himself free.
The maintenance man was already on him.
Not overpowering him. Using the angle.
He drove Pike’s arm against the barrier and trapped the duty belt beneath the rail. Pike twisted violently, muscles standing out across his neck, but every movement tightened the gear around him.
“Get off me!”
“You’re not in charge here.”
Pike heaved upward and nearly broke free.
The maintenance man lost his grip. Pike rose halfway, grabbed him by the shirt, and slammed him into the side of the delivery van.
For a moment, Pike had him.
Then the van’s rear door swung open from the impact and caught Pike across the back of the head.
His hands went slack.
The maintenance man shoved him down against the barrier and dragged the radio from beneath the sink-side belt pouch. He held it just out of reach.
Pike strained against the steel, breathing hard, face pressed to the cold loading-dock floor.
His vest was twisted. His badge was scraped. One knee trembled uselessly beneath him.
The maintenance man stood over him, bleeding from the mouth.
“You’re going to tell them you fell,” he said.
Pike stared at the radio.
For the first time that day, nobody was waiting for him to give an order.
The maintenance man stood over him, chest heaving, blood on his teeth. Pike was still snarling, face mashed against the dirty loading-dock concrete, one thick arm trapped under the steel barrier rail, his duty belt and vest twisted like a fucking straightjacket.
“Get the fuck off me, you piece of shit!” Pike roared, bucking hard. His massive shoulders flexed, veins popping, boots scraping concrete as he tried to power up. The barrier groaned but held. His thick ass strained against the tan cargo pants, muscles bunching uselessly.
The maintenance man didn’t smile. He just stepped on Pike’s wrist, pinning that trapped arm harder, then crouched and ripped the deputy’s radio away completely. Static hissed. He clicked it off.
Pike thrashed again, pure jock rage. “You’re dead. I swear to God I’ll—”
A heavy boot slammed into his ribs. Pike grunted, air exploding out of him. The man grabbed a fistful of short hair and yanked his head back, grinding his bloody face against the wet floor.
“You talk too much, Pike.”
He reached down and yanked Pike’s belt open. The buckle clattered. Zipper ripped down. Pike’s eyes went wide.
“The fuck are you—get your hands off my shit!”
He bucked like a bull, legs kicking, free arm swinging wild. His elbow caught the man’s thigh. The maintenance guy cursed and drove a knee into Pike’s spine, right between the vest plates. Pike’s back arched in agony, a deep guttural sound ripping out of his throat.
The man shoved his hand straight into the open fly of those tight cargos and grabbed a thick, heavy cock through the boxer briefs. Pike’s straight jock meat. Still soft. Still fighting.
“No—no you fucking don’t!” Pike roared, voice cracking as he thrashed harder. His hips twisted, trying to pull away, but the man just squeezed, rough, possessive, rolling those heavy balls in his palm.
“Nice fat cock for a piece of shit like you.”
Pike’s face burned red. He heaved again, muscles screaming, sweat pouring down his neck. The vest creaked. His pants started sliding down his thick thighs from the struggle, exposing the curve of his pale, muscular ass.
The maintenance man yanked them lower, all the way to his knees. Pike’s bare ass flexed in the cool air, powerful glutes clenching. The man slapped one hard, the sound echoing down the corridor.
“Stop—fuck you—get the fuck off!” Pike was panting now, voice hoarse, still trying to power his way free. His trapped arm burned. His knee throbbed. But that fat cock was starting to thicken against his will, traitor meat swelling in the man’s grip.
The maintenance guy leaned in close, breath hot against Pike’s ear.
“You’re not leaving until I own this straight jock hole.”
He spat on his fingers, rough and nasty, then shoved two straight against Pike’s tight pucker. Pike’s whole body jerked like he’d been electrocuted.
“NO! Don’t you fucking dare—ahh, shit!”
The fingers pushed in anyway. Dry at first. Burning. Pike’s ass clamped down hard, fighting every inch, but the man just twisted them deeper, scissoring, stretching that virgin straight muscle. Pike’s cock throbbed fully hard now, leaking against the concrete, humiliating him with every pulse.
He screamed through gritted teeth, bucking wildly, but every move just drove those fingers deeper.
The maintenance man laughed low and cold.
“Keep fighting, Pike. Makes your cunt squeeze even better.”
He pulled his fingers out, unzipped his own pants, and slapped his thick, veiny cock against Pike’s clenched ass. The head was already wet.
Pike’s eyes were wide, furious, panicked.
“You’re not—don’t you fucking put that in me—”
Too late.
The man gripped those wide hips, lined up, and drove in hard. One brutal thrust. Pike’s hole stretched obscenely around the invasion, burning, tearing a raw broken shout out of the big deputy’s throat.
“FUUUCK—pull it out! PULL IT OUT YOU BASTARD!”
The maintenance man just growled and started pounding. Deep. Mean. Skin slapping skin. Pike’s powerful body jolted with every thrust, vest riding up his back, ass rippling, his own hard cock dragging against the dirty floor as he got fucked like a cheap slut.
He was still fighting. Still cursing. Still trying to throw the man off.
But his hole was taking every inch.
