New uniform

The morning sun cast long shadows across the hillside estate as D'Angelo's men set up for the livestream. Mia stood in the master bedroom of the mansion they'd commandeered, staring at her reflection in a floor-length mirror. The outfit they'd chosen for the auction was displayed on a mannequin beside her—a piece of fetish craftsmanship that turned her stomach even as it sent an involuntary throb between her thighs.

It was a modified police uniform, but nothing like the slutty version she'd worn in the warehouse. This was art. Latex, gleaming cobalt blue, cut to hug every curve like a second skin. The jacket was cropped, ending just below her ribs, leaving her midriff bare. The sleeves were long but unbuttoned at the cuffs, designed to hang loose and reveal the gold badge pinned to each wrist. The pants were high-waisted, almost a corset, cinching her waist before flaring into a thong back that left her entire ass exposed. Attached to the thong was a thick black leather belt with a silver buckle reading "BNWO PROPERTY" in block letters. Matching latex thigh-high boots with clear Lucite stiletto heels completed the ensemble—eight inches of torturous height that would **** her onto her toes, arching her back permanently.

But the pièce de résistance was the collar. Not leather this time—a custom piece of brushed gold metal, wide and heavy, engraved with intricate filigree patterns resembling police insignia. A thick ring at the front, large enough to fit a finger through, designated for leash attachment. And dangling from the ring, a small gold tag shaped like a badge, inscribed with her new title: LENA — BNWO DISPATCHER #001.

"This is what you wear," D'Angelo said, leaning against the doorframe. He was already dressed in a tailored black suit, gold chains glinting at his neck. "We got bids coming in from all over. Dubai, Tokyo, London. Rich white men who want to see what a real cop looks like when she knows her place."

Mia's throat tightened. "You're selling me."

"Not selling you, dispatching you." He smiled, cold and amused. "The highest bidder gets a private session. You'll be streamed live, around the world. Think of it as the ultimate ride-along. Except this time, you're the one getting ridden."

She said nothing. Her hands trembled as she reached for the latex jacket. It was cool to the touch, slick, smelling faintly of polish. She pulled it on, the material molding to her breasts, the cropped hem riding up every time she lifted her arms. The pants were next—she peeled off the thong, stepped into the high-waisted section, and yanked it up. The latex sealed against her like a vacuum, compressing her stomach, lifting her ass cheeks into perfect round globes. When she turned, she could see her entire pussy exposed from behind, the lips barely covered by the thin strap of the thong.

The boots were a struggle. She had to sit on the edge of the bed, wrestling her feet into the Lucite heels, buckling the straps around her calves. When she stood, she wobbled, her weight pitched forward onto the balls of her feet. Her back arched involuntarily, her tits pushed out, her ass jutting behind her like an offering.

D'Angelo circled her, whistling low. "Fuck. You look like a billion dollars." He stepped closer, running a finger along the edge of the collar, tracing the gold. "Turn around."

She obeyed, her heels clicking on the hardwood. The mirror showed her transformation—a gleaming, latex-clad goddess of submission, her police identity twisted into a BDSM fantasy. The badge on her wrists caught the light. The collar felt heavy, a constant reminder of ownership. And her exposed ass, round and smooth, practically begged for a handprint.

D'Angelo pulled out his phone, snapping a photo. "This is going on the site. Teaser for tonight's auction." He showed her the screen—her reflection, back arched, ass prominent, the "BNWO PROPERTY" belt buckle stark against her tanned skin. "Caption: Officer Lena, ready for dispatch. Highest bidder claims her throat, her pussy, and her compliance. Bidding starts at $50,000."

Fifty thousand dollars. She was a commodity. An object. A piece of meat dressed in latex and badges.

"Now, let's go outside," D'Angelo said, grabbing a thick silver chain leash from the dresser. "We need some promo shots by the pool. Gotta show off the merchandise."

He clipped the leash to her collar ring, the metal clicking shut with a finality that made her knees weak. She followed him through the mansion, her heels sinking into the plush carpet, then clicking on marble floors, then crunching on the gravel path to the pool area. The sun was warm on her latex-covered skin, the sky a perfect California blue. In the distance, the city skyline shimmered, a world of normalcy she could never return to.

The lawn was manicured, dotted with yellow dandelions. D'Angelo led her to the center of the green, where the infinity pool reflected the sky. He stopped, turning to face her. "Down. On all fours."

She dropped, the latex creaking as she spread her knees. The grass was cool against her palms, the dandelions brushing against her wrists. The pose was humiliatingly familiar—from the photo, from the warehouse, from every degrading fantasy they'd **** her to enact. Her ass arched high, the thong digging into her pussy lips, her tits hanging heavy beneath the cropped jacket.

"Arch more," D'Angelo said, yanking the leash taut. She obeyed, pushing her back down, tilting her pelvis until she felt the latex tug at her clit. "Perfect. Look at the camera."

One of his men held a professional camera, kneeling to capture the shot. D'Angelo stood beside her, the leash held tight in his fist, his expression one of pure ownership. She could feel his eyes on her—all their eyes on her—judging, wanting, owning.

The camera clicked. Flashed. Another shot. Another angle. D'Angelo made her crawl, the leash guiding her across the grass, her ass swaying with each step. He made her stop at the edge of the pool, the water lapping inches from her face, and commanded her to lift her leg like a dog peeing, exposing her pussy fully to the lens. The water rippled, reflecting her latex-clad body, the gold collar gleaming.

"This is the shot," D'Angelo said, reviewing the camera's display. "This one's going on the main page. Tagline: Officer Lena, ready to serve. Who's your dispatcher?"

Mia knelt there, panting, sweat beading on her forehead under the sun. The latex felt like a second skin, hot and constricting. The collar rubbed against her throat with every breath. And between her legs, despite everything, she was wet—a slick trail of arousal betraying the war inside her.

The men set up a small folding table near the pool, draping it with black cloth. They placed a laptop on it, connected to a professional camera on a tripod. D'Angelo checked the stream, nodded. "We go live in an hour. Bids are already coming in—$60,000 from a guy in Monaco. $75,000 from a Saudi prince. This is going to be big."

He turned to Mia, crouching down to her level. "You ready to be famous, detective?"

She looked at him, her eyes empty but her body screaming with anticipation. "I don't have a choice."

"No," he agreed, his voice soft. "You don't. But you can make it easier on yourself. Embrace it. The sooner you accept that Lena is all you are, the better this will be for everyone." He stood, tugging the leash, pulling her forward. "Come on. Let's get you prepped for the auction. I want you to look delicious when they start bidding."

As she crawled after him, her heels digging into the grass, her ass on display for the world to see, Mia felt the last shreds of her former self slip away. She was Officer Lena now. BNWO property. A dispatch whore ready to serve whoever paid the price. And as the pool water sparkled in the sun and the city hummed in the distance, she realized—she wasn't sure if she hated it anymore.