Sheriff

The Sheriff’s Dilemma — “Are You a Girl?”

The flannel-clad man—Dave—opened the passenger door of his dusty Ford F-150 without another word. His wife, Linda, still half-giggling, half-horrified, scooted over. Ethan didn’t hesitate. He scrambled into the cab on hands and knees, his bound legs scraping against the running board, his corset creaking with every movement. The scent of motor oil, stale coffee, and pine air freshener flooded his senses.

It smelled like the outside world.

Like freedom.

“Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ,” Dave muttered, eyeing Ethan’s silhouette in the dim cab light. “Linda… is that… a girl?”

Linda squinted. “I… don’t know? Look at the hips. The waist. That’s a corset, Dave. And the face — the makeup’s smudged, but those are cat-eye lashes. And the ears — are those real?”

“They’re part of the wig,” Ethan tried to say — but all that came out was a ****, muffled “Mmmphh! Mmmph-mmph!” through the sealed gag.

The gag wasn’t just rubber — it was molded to his mouth, locked at the back with a tiny biometric clasp. Serenity Pines called it the “Silent Serenity Seal.” It only released with their key… or if he triggered a “compliance failure” — which usually meant passing out from dehydration.

Dave reached out, then pulled back. “You ain’t gonna bite me, are ya?”

Ethan shook his head violently, eyes wide, pleading.

Linda leaned forward, voice softer now. “Honey… I think he’s scared. Or she. Or… whoever they are. Look at their eyes. That’s not roleplay.”

Dave’s smirk vanished. He glanced in the rearview, then back at Ethan’s trembling, latex-clad form — the cinched waist, the rounded hips, the soft swell of chest padding molded beneath the suit. Cat tail plug and cat ears. The collar gleaming. The chastity cage’s outline faint but undeniable.

“Alright,” Dave said, voice low. “No jokes. Sheriff Riggs it is.”

The sheriff’s station was a squat brick building with flickering fluorescents and a coffee pot older than the county. Sheriff Riggs — barrel-chested, mustached, eyebrows like storm clouds — took one look at Ethan and dropped his jelly donut.

“Sweet suffering succotash. Dave. What in the actual—”

“Found ‘em by County Road 9,” Dave said, hands up. “Wavin’ like a banshee caught in a windstorm. We thought it was a kink thing. Then we saw the gag. And the… everything.”

Riggs circled Ethan slowly, like a man inspecting a crashed UFO.

“You hurt, kid?” he asked.

Ethan shook his head, then nodded — yes, mentally, spiritually, existentially — then just whimpered.

Riggs pulled out his multi-tool. “Gag first. Hold still.”

He pried at the edges. Nothing. He tried twisting the back clasp. Locked tight.

Riggs sighed. “Alright. We’ll have to override it. Doc Hargrove’s got gear for that. But first — who are you? Boy? Girl? Somethin’ else?”

Ethan’s eyes welled up. He held up one trembling finger — then pointed to himself.

“…Boy?” Linda whispered.

Ethan nodded hard. Tears streaked his smudged eyeliner.

Riggs frowned. “You look like a damn centerfold from some high-end sci-fi burlesque. What the hell did they do to you? Anyway...”

“Alright,” Riggs said. “New plan. Cell Two. Soft mattress. Blanket. You’ll be safe. First thing tomorrow — Doc Hargrove? our town doctor. And Marla from the hardware store. They would help you to get out of this stuff.”

Ethan’s shoulders slumped — not in defeat, but in exhausted gratitude.

As Riggs led him to the cell, still crawling on his elbows and knees, still locked? Linda called out him softly.

He turned.

She held out a hairbrush. “Your wig’s a mess. Might help you… feel less like their doll.”

He took it. Nodded. Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t thank her and her husband.

The cell was small. Quiet. No drones. No Nurse Calyx whispering, “Good girl. Such a pretty, obedient girl.”

He curled on the cot, knees to chest, tail plug still faintly vibrating.

Still trapped.

Still collared.

Still gagged.

Still caged.

But he was out.

And tomorrow…