The interrogator

by ed   

I’m a consultant for local law enforcement, with a unique ability to get the info they need.

The man behind the glass was dressed in a gray plaid patterned short sleeve button up and loose-fitting jeans. Under thick, furrowed eyebrows, his dark-colored eyes occasionally darted between staring down at the table before him and the one-way mirror staring back. His left hand pushed his short, styled hair off to the side, and I noticed a large gold ring on his little finger. Might be a gift, a sign that he may be one of the more high-up members of his organization. He’d probably know a good deal of information.

To my left, I heard the sound of a scanned badge, then a door handle pulling open.

“He fits the description: tanned skin, darker features, goatee, average height and build, and we found the usual Maltese cross tattoo on his ankle when we brought him in.” Captain Willix, my boss, joined me in the observation room through the secured door in his usual freshly cleaned white shirt contrasting his dark skin, his tailored clothes emphasizing a body earned from decades of crossfit and marathons. “Thank you for agreeing to consult on such short notice, Trey. Usually the syndicate cuts their loose ends; their runners, their lookouts, but they must want to hold on to this one. His lawyer was just called, should be here in the hour.”

I nodded, then signed to him. Not a problem. This one looks like a good lead. Did you want to go first?

He nodded back. “It’s procedure for law enforcement to conduct an official interview first, but I’ll make it quick.”

I understand. I’ll be right here.

Captain Willix entered the interrogation room without his usual padfolio. He must have felt that this one wouldn’t talk to him in any case, so there was no use preparing any documents for the suspect to review.

“Mr. Silva, your lawyer is on her way, but first I had a few questions for you.” He sat down at the table, facing away from me and towards the suspect, whose stern face squinted down and off to the side. “What would you say to—”

“I’m not saying shit, dumbass.” The man now looked directly at my partner. “Not a word until Mama gets here.”

“I’d say we’ve been more than accommodating given the circumstances,” Captain Willix appealed as he folded his hands on the table. “Why don’t we discuss—”

A sharp thud erupted from the center of the room as Mr. Silva pounded the side of his fist directly into the metal tabletop before him. The reverberation lingered as the two stared each other down. “Not a word, ¿entiendo?”

My partner paused, before throwing up his hands, exasperated. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone.” He got up from the table and as he approached the door, he turned to say one last thing. “But just know, you asked for it.”

Again, Captain Willix scanned his badge and rejoined me in the observation room. He looked at me and shrugged.

I faced him and signed. Same deal as before. Turn off the recorders, put on your hearing protection, and don’t let anyone else in here.

“Already got this bay locked down for the next twenty minutes,” my partner said as he reached in his pockets, producing two ear plugs. He began to fit them one at a time in each ear. “Though if last time was any indication, you won’t need ten.”

I smiled at his comment. No, no I suppose I won’t. Make sure those plugs are in tight.

I picked up my briefcase and headed out the door, pausing and turning briefly in the door frame as Captain Willix held a red button down on the nearby control panel. The bright red ‘Recording In Process’ indicator shut off in an instant. I nodded at him and closed the door behind me.

In the hallway, I paused for a moment, reflecting on my situation.

I had grown up here, on these same streets. My family had fallen victim to the syndicate’s violence, and my parents lived nearly their whole lives in fear. When I was five years old, I would learn that fear was well-deserved when my mom was killed in a drive-by.

When I was little, it was just assumed that the black and brown boys like myself had two choices: abandon their families and try to find a better life, or join the syndicate and hope to make a name for themselves.

As I grew older, my body grew taller, and topped out around 6’7”. The syndicate naturally took interest in a young dude with a long frame like myself, but I was doing well in school and spent every minute I wasn’t studying talking with my dad and following his advice.

“Boy, you may have a good eight inches on your old man, but you’re just a twig. There’s no meat on them bones!” my dad joked to me around that time. “If you’re going to make it, take it from me, you need more than just study smarts. Being big and acting big are gonna help you get far in a place like this.” Sometimes he’d stare out the window and mumble to himself after going on one of his tangents. “Maybe far enough to get you out of here…”

It was obvious how invested he was in my success, and I owe him the world for it. He’d bought me a full weight rack that we kept in our storage unit in the basement of our building, and we spent three hours every day in there, sometimes five hours on weekends. He’d make me breakfast with twelve sunny-side up eggs and toast, lunch with sandwiches stacked an inch high with deli meat, and dinners with brown rice, broccoli, and four chicken breasts. It was clear how much he was investing in me, because he never spent money on himself, never even buying himself so much as a new shirt in all the years my body was maturing.

“I don’t need a new shirt, the holes give it some damn character! And my manager on the corner doesn’t give two shits as long as I can keep customers happy and not complaining to him,” I recall him saying. “Besides, whatever I’m doing is working, I mean my boy is nearly 350 pounds and he isn’t even done with his senior year!”

All the while we were training my body to be as big as possible, he would also coach me through exercises to help deepen my voice, trying to make his boy as intimidating as possible. He would walk me through speaking exercises where I would try to expand my chest and lower my adams apple as low as possible for several minutes, and we would repeat that a few times each day.

Then one day, just a few days before graduation, I was practicing my voice-deepening exercises while waiting for the bus, when I felt something in my neck just… drop. That’s what it felt like, some piece of my voice dropping straight from my neck to just below my chest. Since that day, my voice wasn’t just deep, it was surreal, enveloping. I can’t describe it well, but the effects it had on others, well…

It was clear my voice had some deep, guttural, influence on anyone who heard it, and paired with my now 410 pound frame, I knew that my talents could be put to good use after graduation. A year spent learning how to control my ability and circumvent its effects using sign language, and here I am.

I entered the interrogation room, ducking my head under the frame and closing the latch behind me.

“Oh wow, you must be bad cop, huh?” The man grinned at me. “Thought I would crack if they sent in a big black scary son of a bitch!”

I sat down in the chair across from him, my seat spilling off either side of the small metal chair. I raised my briefcase to the table, my gaze not meeting his.

“Damn, I’ll bet a Shaquille like you could have gone pro in something! Really made a name for yourself! But instead you’re just a lackey for some deadbeat cop!”

It was obvious this one was making a lot of noise to mask his own insecurity. I offered him one last chance. Reaching in the briefcase, I retrieved a pen and paper, and began writing. Tell me what you know about the syndicate, or things will get very uncomfortable for you, very soon.

Sliding the paper towards him, I looked in his eyes to gauge his response. His eyes glanced over the note, then returned to mine. “You’re full of shit.” He got up from his chair and placed both hands on the table and began to raise his voice. “I bet you never really been in a real fight. Sure you got these gym muscles but I bet mommy sheltered her little boy ‘til the day you got hired here! You ain’t hard! You ain’t shit!!”

“Sit,” I commanded.

The man’s eyes widened. Suddenly he retracted his hands from the table and stumbled back a step. He paused, shaking his head at me gently. “N-no,” he tried to whisper.

“Sit,” I commanded once again.

He made a mad scramble for the seat, nearly falling over in the process. His breathing was quick and panicked, and there were tears building in his wide, fearful brown eyes. “What-t-t is th-this-s?” he croaked.

I felt the familiar deep warmth in my barrel chest returning. Expanding. Deepening. I took a large breath, in for twenty seconds, out for fifteen, just like my old exercises. My thick, meaty pecs raised and lowered slowly. It felt good.

All the man could do was watch. “P-please, I don’t know anything.”

“I can make you do things, Mr. Silva. Feel things. Think things. I can change you. Whatever I want. I don’t know if the changes will be permanent, but they will be lasting.”

This time, his eyes were fiercely shut, as if he was trying to escape the reality that he was experiencing. His breathing turned from panicked to hysterical.

“The only thing I won’t do is force you to give me all of your information. That’s no fun. But I assure you, you will tell me.”

His eyelids still shut tight, the man frantically squirmed in his chair. It was obvious that he was attempting to get up, perhaps so he could hide in the corner, or to bang on the door and beg for release. But his knees stayed bent, his seat refusing to move even a millimeter from its current position on the chair. What a funny sight this was. What a pathetic worm.

“Now just know that the moment you tell me what I need to know, I will release you from my voice. But any changes will remain. What you keep of yourself as you know it is up to you.”

After some more squirming and hyperventilating, the man managed to squeak out one word. Through moist, squinted eyes he gazed down at the table. “N-n-no.”

“Understood. Scream for me.”

The man unleashed a torrent of screams the instant I said it. Screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking, tears in his eyes. He took breaths when he could, but he couldn’t stop. His mouth was wide open and he propelled as much volume as he was capable of. He had no choice. I’d bet his lungs were aching after just a few moments, but I let it go on just a few moments more. I began to hear a slight drop in volume accompanied by a slight gurgling sound. His throat was bleeding through his harsh, ear piercing screams. His head began to shake violently back and forth, as if begging for me to stop. But the screams continued.

“Stop screaming.”

He shut his mouth and began to cry, wincing at the pain, and spitting a good amount of blood off to the side. He was sobbing, sure, but I didn’t hear any information. Time for some fun.

“Let’s talk about your love life. Stand up, stay where you are, remove your clothes, and take out your penis.”

He did exactly as commanded, still with tears in his eyes and panicked breathing. He presented his member. About 3.5 inches soft, pretty average.

“Make your penis hard.”

The shaft extended painfully fast, and stood out from his body at a 90-degree angle, rushing with blood and settling at 5.5”. He had no control over his penis, and he looked down shocked at the realization that I both had the ability and the nerve to command it.

“Make your penis harder than it’s ever been in your life.”

His dick squirmed and throbbed, turning bright, deep red with a purple tip. He screamed in pain, lurching forward from the intensity of his erection. The throbbing filled the flesh further and further, producing nearly 7” and an angle parallel to his abdomen, pointed straight up. Reeling from the pain, he whimpered pathetically and his breathing slowed slightly.

“Tell me about your significant other.”

In an instant, he looked directly at me, eyes wide, as if his will was at war with what his mouth was about to say. “Her name is Ana. She is a beautiful Portuguese woman and I am in love with her with my whole heart.”

“You are bisexual, and every time you look at me or another large, muscular man you fantasize about them dominating you, holding you down with their powerful body, stretching your rectum with their massive member, and filling you with a hefty load of their seed.”

Mr. Silva winced, his eyes filled with fear, his cock still rigid and painfully hard. His eyes met mine… then his eyes lowered.

I raised my large hands behind my head and relaxed, letting the man get a good view of me. His eyes traced my pouty, thick African lips, my strong rectangular jaw, my thick 21” neck. He licked his lips slowly, beginning to rub one of his nipples with his hand.

His eyes continued wandering, looking at my prominent collar bone and curly chest hair poking out of my shirt, and his eyes lit up as I removed it from my powerful, thick torso. My arms, burly 28” globes, flexing for him as his jaw dropped. He immediately dropped his hand from his chest down to his member, and rubbed vigorously. “Oh! Oh meu dues! Goza em mim papai!”

Only a few strokes and he was cumming hard. Everything he had was released, and shot up directly at the ceiling. His balls tightened, ascending again and again as the load finished. His breathing slowed slightly, but the shaft stayed upright. I didn’t tell it to go down yet.

“Oh it’s so painful, daddy! Oh, fuck me! Oh, oh please! Oh right here! Right now!”

To be fair, I was getting hard myself at the display, my own thick pringle can erection snaking its way down my pants. But now was not the time.

I walked up to my slave, my massively wide exposed chest heaving up and down from the excitement, sweat collecting on my pointed, erect nipples before rolling down my glistening, deep cut abs into my strained pelvis. I planted my feet and each of my tree-trunk thick, vascular legs next to him and peered over the top of him, staying just out of his arms reach.

I stared at him, and he stared back, breathlessly, wanting nothing more than to touch me, for me to touch him, for me to pin him down with my arms, with my whole body, and have my way with him over and over again. My deep, guttural breaths seemed to be drawing something out of him, some sense of subservience, of ownership. He looked up to my eyes, begging, pleading for something to happen. I growled at him using my deep, husky timbre.

“You want me? You know what you need to do.”

It came out in an instant, yelling as loud and as fast as he could possibly speak. “My name is Francisco Silva, I manage several drug trafficking channels in the local area for the syndicate! Our main operating bases include the Rodizio Grill down by the bay, and the old abandoned fire station on 55th! My boss’s names are Santiago Ferreira and Lucas Santos!”

I smiled at him, descending my head slowly down before holding the side of his face in my massive hand and kissing him, passionately.

“Thank you. You are now no longer under my control.”

I walked back to my chair and began to put on my shirt, starting with fitting my massive arms through the tight-fitting sleeves, then buttoning across my thick, hairy, sweaty torso.

“Wait, you’re not leaving me are you? You’re not leaving me, right? I need you!” He begged, tears forming in his eyes.

I walked out the door with my briefcase in hand, listening to his cries as I left.

“I need you! I need you inside me! Please come back! Bend me over this table and pound me all to pieces! I can’t live without you!”

I closed the door behind me, not feeling bad for the man in the slightest.

“Just as messy as last time, I see,” Captain Willix said amused, taking off his hearing protection as I walked in the observation room.

I grinned and signed back to him. I like to have my fun with these bastards.

“Well, I assume if you’re acting so confident that you must have gotten what we needed?”

Yup, names and locations, all within your jurisdiction.

Captain Willix smiled, producing a notepad and pen from his pocket to copy the suspect’s information from me. “Oh and one more thing, Trey? I don’t know what you do to the men who you interrogate, but…” He looked away, blushing. “Would you want to try it on me some time?”

I smiled a wide, toothy smile. Only with your permission, sir.

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