Undercover

The warehouse had been transformed. What was once a cold, drafty space now looked like a makeshift film studio—lights on tripods, a black backdrop, a camera on a dolly. D’Angelo directed his men like a real director, fussing over the placement of a leather couch they'd dragged in from somewhere. Mia knelt on the concrete, the slutty uniform clinging to her sweat-slick skin, the badge on her chest catching the light. She could still taste Tyrell's cum at the back of her throat.

"Up," Tyrell barked, grabbing her by the arm. He pulled her to her feet, and she wobbled on the six-inch heels. The skirt barely covered her pussy, the slit riding up to her hip. Every time she moved, fabric shifted, exposing the curve of her ass cheek.

"First scene," D'Angelo announced, clapping his hands. "We need content for the website. Officer Lena here is going to demonstrate proper protocol for handling a suspect." He pointed to a heavy-set man named Marcus, who was unbuckling his belt. "Marcus, you're the perpetrator. She's gonna 'search' you. You understand?"

Marcus grinned, his cock already half-hard as he dropped his pants. He stood there, thick and dark, legs spread. D'Angelo handed Mia a prop—a cheap plastic baton. "Use this to prod him. Make it look official. Then you find the 'weapon' and confiscate it." He laughed, and the others joined in.

Mia's hands trembled. The baton felt ridiculous, a toy. But she had ****. She stepped forward, the heels clicking on the concrete. "Assume the position," she said, her voice flat, trying to channel her old training. Marcus turned and braced his hands against the couch, his bare ass presented to her. She tapped his thigh with the baton. "Spread 'em."

He spread his legs wider. She could see his balls hanging, his cock swinging. "Check my waistband, officer," he said, mock-serious.

She ran her hands along his sides, his hips. The leather of his belt was warm. She pretended to pat him down, her fingers brushing against his stomach, his groin. Then she stopped at his erection, hard and jutting. "I found something," she said, her voice hollow.

"Confiscate it," D'Angelo ordered from behind the camera.

Marcus turned around, his cock pointing at her face. He was thick, maybe eight inches, already slick with precum. Mia didn't wait for further instruction. She dropped to her knees on the concrete, the skirt tearing at the seam as she spread her legs. She took his cock in her mouth—no preamble, no teasing. Just deep-throated, gagging, saliva pooling. The camera zoomed in.

"Good," D'Angelo said. "Now look at the camera while you work."

She tilted her head, her eyes meeting the lens. Her cheeks hollowed, her throat convulsing around him. The badge on her chest bounced with each bob. Marcus groaned, his hands fisting her ponytail through the hat. "Fuck, she's good at this."

The scene went on for ten minutes. Mia sucked, gagged, swallowed, and when he came, she held his cum in her mouth, opened wide, showed the camera like a trophy. Then she swallowed again, a trail of white sliding down her chin.

"Cut," D'Angelo said. He reviewed the footage on a monitor, nodding. "Perfect. We'll use that for the teaser. Now, next scene—we need a lineup. Get the rest of the boys in here."

Another six men filed in from the back rooms, some carrying chairs. They arranged them in a semicircle, sitting down, cocks out. D'Angelo pointed to Mia. "Officer Lena, it's time for your second role: dispatcher. You're gonna handle every call that comes in. On your knees, crawl to each one. Give each caller exactly sixty seconds of mouth service. And keep that badge visible."

Mia's knees were already raw from the concrete. She crawled to the first man—a skinny guy with a curved cock—and took him in her mouth, timing herself. One Mississippi, two Mississippi... She moved down the line, cock after cock, each one different: long, thick, curved, veined. She tasted sweat, precum, soap. Some men came fast, spilling hot ropes across her tongue. Others held out, forcing her to deep throat until her eyes watered. By the sixth man, she was dizzy, her jaw screaming, her uniform soaked in drool and cum.

When she finished, D'Angelo pulled her up by the hair. "You did good. But we need something for the pay-per-view crowd. You're gonna do a 'ride-along' on this couch." He pushed her onto the leather, the fabric cold against her bare ass. "Spread your legs. Show us that little Asian pussy you're hiding under that skirt."

She leaned back, pulling the skirt up to her waist. Her pussy was wet—from the fear, the humiliation, the **** arousal. D'Angelo grabbed a vibrator from a bag, black and thick. "Use this on yourself. We want to hear you moan for the camera. Pretend it's a real cock."

Mia took the vibrator, her fingers slick. She pressed it against her clit, circling, then pushed it inside. A moan escaped her lips—genuine. She hated herself for it, but her body responded. The camera captured everything: her legs trembling, the badge glinting, the uniform riding up, her face contorting in pleasure.

"That's it," D'Angelo said. "Keep going. Tell the camera what you are."

"I'm... Officer Lena," she gasped, the vibrator humming inside her. "I'm a BN... BNWO whore... I serve Black cock..."

"Louder."

"I SERVE BLACK COCK!" she screamed as she came, her hips bucking, the orgasm ripping through her like a shockwave. She dropped the vibrator, panting, her pussy clenching around nothing.

D'Angelo turned off the camera, smiled. "We're going to make millions off you, detective. And every time a white cop sees your face on our site, they'll know exactly where they stand."

Mia lay there, cum-stained, uniform ruined, her badge a mocking ornament. The trafficking ring had found its most profitable asset—not ****, not guns, but a former officer turned into the ultimate symbol of submission. And somewhere deep inside, beneath the shame and the fury, a part of her wondered if she'd ever want to leave.