Presumption of innocence

Suddenly one night as you walk down a lonely street, the night turns into a whirlwind of red and blue lights. When you come across an inert body on the ground, bathed in a pool of blood. Before you could process what you were seeing, the police surround you, accusing you of a crime you did not commit.

They handcuff you and take you to the police station, where they lock you in a cold and gloomy cell. Your cellmate is an imposing behemoth of a man, a true giant among mortals. He stands around two meters tall, with shoulders so broad they seem capable of carrying the weight of the world. His body is covered in bulging and defined muscles with a torso and arms adorned with scars and tattoos that tell tales of a tough and uncompromising life. A coiled dragon extends from his shoulder to his forearm, its claws appearing to tear the skin, while on his chest, words in a gothic font declare "Born to Command."

His face is equally hard, with a square jaw and a thick, unkempt beard framing his thick lips. His eyes are a dark brown, almost black, and they shine with a mix of challenge and malice. There is no softness in his gaze, only the tough resolve of a man who has seen too much and has come out hardened on the other side.

The skin that covers his physique is dark and thick, adorned with scars and tattoos that tell stories of a harsh and unforgiving life. A coiled dragon extends from his shoulder to his forearm, its claws appearing to tear the skin, while on his chest, words in a gothic font declare "Born to Rule."

His voice, when he speaks, is deep and resonant, each word loaded with authority and power, making even his whispers feel like commands.

This man is not just your cellmate; he is a sexual predator, and you have entered his territory.

The atmosphere is dense and charged with palpable tension. His presence is intimidating, and the confined space makes each of his movements feel threatening.

"Come here, bitch," he growls with a voice that reverberates against the concrete walls. It is not a suggestion; it is an order. He pushes you against the cold, rough wall, his large, strong hands grabbing your arms, immobilizing you. You feel his hot breath on your neck as he whispers, "I've been without sex for a long time and you are a gift." He releases me for a moment to take off his shirt while saying "calm down boy, these things happen, you're going to be my toy tonight," you can feel the danger in his tone. His hand finds its way under your clothes, tearing them off with little ceremony. His touch is rough, exploring your body without permission, squeezing and slapping as if assessing his property.

Without warning, he abruptly turns you around, facing the wall. You feel his massive body pressing you against the cold concrete. His hand slides between your legs, rude and demanding. "Look how wet you are, slut. You like it, don't you?" he taunts, while spitting on his hand and plunging a finger into your ass, causing you to scream in pain as he covers your mouth with his other hand and says "we just started little bitch, and the night is long."

Then, you feel him position himself behind you. A moment of silence, then sharp, burning pain as he brutally penetrates you. There is no gentleness, only the brute force of his thrust. He starts moving with a savage pace, each thrust accompanied by a growl or a curse. "That's it, take all my cock, slut. You'll beg for more before I'm done with you."

His hands grip your hips, digging his fingers into your flesh as he uses you mercilessly. The sound of his skin hitting yours fills the cell, raw and obscene. He lies on the bed and says "Bitch come and climb on me, I like to see the face of whom I'm eating" hesitantly you're going to climb on that enormous well-endowed stallion. With one stroke, grabbing your hips, he makes you sit all the way down and says "grab onto the neck," without further ado he opens your ass even more and stands up using you like an inflatable doll showing off his brute strength.

Finally, with one last deep growl, he reaches his climax, filling you with his warmth. He drops you to the floor of the cell, exhausted and used, while he withdraws, satisfied with the mark he has left on you. You remain there, humiliated and sore, but strangely alive with a sense of total submission.

After that infernal night, you are taken to the interrogation. The police officer in charge of the arrest and the interrogation room is a completely different type from your cellmate, but no less intimidating in his own way. He is shorter, around 1.80 meters, but his body is well-built, muscular, and compact, like that of a professional fighter. He wears the police uniform with natural authority, each part of his outfit meticulously cared for, from the dark blue shirt to the neatly pressed pants that cling to his strong thighs.

His face is severe, with angular features and a piercing gaze that seems to see through you. His eyes are of a cold gray, calculating and devoid of any warmth, making each gaze feel like a critical assessment of your worth. His hair is short, almost buzzed, and a dark brown color that nearly blends into black under the dim light of the interrogation room.

A thin scar runs through his left cheek, a visible reminder of some past conflict, giving him an air of danger that needs no words to be understood. His mouth is a straight line, rarely curved into a smile, and when he speaks, his voice is low and controlled, each word uttered with a clarity that brooks no argument.

In the interrogation room, he carries a cold and methodical presence. He moves with silent efficiency, carefully placing the documents and tools of his trade on the table before beginning the interrogation. There are no wasted movements, each gesture deliberate, designed to impose control and authority.

When questioning, his method is systematic, almost surgical. He asks short, direct questions, using his ability to read people and press exactly where he knows it hurts the most. He does not raise his voice; he does not need to. His presence and his low tone are enough to fill the room with palpable pressure.

This policeman is not just an official carrying out his duty; he is a master of psychological manipulation, a strategist who uses his mind and presence to dominate the interrogation room. To stand before him is to face a formidable opponent, one who knows exactly how to get what he wants.

After a while, he stops right in front of you, invading your personal space, his body just inches from yours. You can feel the heat emanating from him, mixed with the smell of leather from his belt and the faint scent of his cologne, a masculine fragrance that makes you nervously swallow.

"Let's do this differently," he murmurs in a low, husky voice, his lips almost brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand slowly rises, his rough fingers caressing your cheek, a gesture that contrasts with the hardness of his gaze. "I need you to trust me," he adds, pressing his body against yours, forcing you to feel every contour of his tense muscles.

His other hand slides down, finding the edge of your shirt and slipping underneath. The feeling of his cold, firm fingers on your warm skin makes you gasp, a mix of fear and excitement running through your body. He smiles slightly at your reaction, his thumb gently stroking your abdomen while his hand explores further, pressing possessively and dominantly against you.

"Answer my questions," he whispers, his hot breath against your neck, "and maybe this will be more... pleasurable for both of us." His words are a promise, a challenge. His hand moves more boldly, squeezing and pressing, exploring every reaction of yours, every sigh and every involuntary shudder.

You find yourself responding, not only with words but with your body, leaning towards him, seeking his touch, betraying your desire to resist. He notices, of course, and his smile widens, his eyes shining with a mix of victory and desire.

The interrogation becomes a power game, each question accompanied by a caress, each of your responses rewarded with a more intimate and provocative touch. He handles you as if you were a finely tuned instrument, playing the precise notes to make you sing under his control. And despite the situation, or perhaps because of it, you find yourself yielding, immersing yourself in the intensity of the moment, in the dark dance of domination and submission that he guides with mastery.

However, you see an opportunity in his lascivious gaze. You approach him, your knees touching the cold floor of the interrogation room. Staring into his eyes, you unbutton his belt and release his member, thick and throbbing.

Skillfully, you take his erection into your mouth, wrapping it with your lips while your tongue plays with the tip. The detective leans back in his chair, his hands finding their way to your head, guiding you in a deep, steady rhythm. You suck with desperation, knowing that this is your only way out. He starts to moan, his hips pushing towards your face as his climax approaches.

Finally, with a grunt, he releases in your mouth, filling you with his hot semen. You swallow, leaving no trace of what has happened. Satisfied and seeing that you know nothing and now in debt to you, the detective decides to let you go, fabricating a story about a confusion in your arrest, finally saying goodbye "we may need to call you again, be alert."

You leave the police station, free but marked by the shadows of the night, with the bitter taste of corruption and brutality still in your mouth.