Pig knelt on the mat in the washroom. She had been here long enough to count all of the little blue tiles that covered the walls and floors. She wasn't any good at counting though. She'd always lose track and start rubbing. Forgetting her numbers was something to edge to, but she didn't notice her upper limit getting lower every time she tried. Eventually, she'd snap out of it and lick her sloppy mess off the mat. It gave her a chance to wake up her legs and shake her piggy tail.

Most days, she was allowed to wallow in her filth, watching the porn Daddy and Mommy Moo Moo prepared for her. She loved her porn. She loved being used in front of the spiral and left to leak her brain away as the screen pump pump pumped dirty thoughts into her placid piggy brain. But the washroom was different. It was clean and quiet, which left pig alone with her own piggy thoughts.

Sometimes the silence was interrupted and pig got to serve. She'd run her tongue over the sweaty bodies of pretty girls who would laugh at her. Sometimes she would bury her snout between their cheeks and rim rim rim. Sometimes someone would grab her by the hair, press her face to their crotch and say the word pig most longed to hear.

"Seal."

Pig's tongue would dart out and if she was good and drank every drop, maybe they would use her face to cum. Their orgasms were more important, after all. Shy girls were always the cutest. They asked quietly and made the cutest sounds when they came. They'd even spray pig down with the hose if she had been well used or particularly sloppy. Sometimes the cute girls would let pig edge on the stream, but pig preferred a rougher touch most of the time.

Mommy Moo Moo wasn't so cautious. She knew pig wouldn't break. Pig loved the way her leather boots felt as she humped them. Pig always found her mouth open, ready to receive as the hooks held her nose in that degrading, upturned position. Mommy's musk made piggy leak slop. Mommy's milk made piggy drunk with lust. Mommy's slaps reminded piggy of her place and every session left piggy filthy and Mommy clean.

Officer Michael had only been assigned to this new town for a week. Fresh out of the academy, still shiny and eager, he was short but built solid. He still thought the badge carried real weight. That belief will soon be shattered in that rowdy bar known as Rusty Knife.

The place reeked of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and pure testosterone. A dozen roughnecks turned to stare at the little cop who’d just walked in like he owned the joint. In the far corner, two men were turning a scrawny kid into a punching bag. One was a redneck construction worker—tall, sun-baked, leather jacket thrown over a sweat-soaked wife-beater that clung to his hairy chest. His work jeans were crusted with dried mud and something that smelled like diesel and days-old ball sweat. The other was a biker built like a goddamn grizzly. Black leather vest open over a pelt of dark fur, thick beard matted with beer foam, arms sleeved in tattoos and scars. Both were laughing while they took turns slapping the kid around, spitting thick globs onto his bleeding face.

Michael’s ego flared. “Hey! Knock that shit off!”

The construction worker—Billy, name stitched on his jacket, slowly turned. The biker, everyone called him Brody, grinned wide, gold tooth flashing.

“Well, well,” Billy drawled, voice thick with chew. “Fresh meat. Ain’t been taught the rules yet.”

Brody cracked his knuckles. “Local boys got an understanding with the department. This bar’s off-limits. Guess the new guy missed the memo.”

Michael stepped forward anyway, chest puffed. “I don’t give a fuck about your damn rules. You’re both coming with…”

They didn’t let him finish. Brody lunged faster than he anticipated, two huge hands clamped on his shoulders. Before he could reach for his cuffs. Billy joined in, had him off his feet, boots kicking air. The whole bar erupted—laughs, cheers, someone even started slow-clapping. The bartender just shook his head and poured another round, muttering, “Idiot.”

They dragged him through the crowd like a rag doll, straight into the rank bathroom at the back. The door slammed. The stink hit him like a wall: old piss, cum, and the thick, animal musk of men who worked hard and washed rarely. The urinal trough was overflowing; the floor was slick with years of spills.

Billy shoved Michael hard against the filthy wall, pinning him there with his bulk. Up close, the construction worker reeked like a furnace—sharp, rank armpit sweat soaked deep into his leather jacket, mixed with the greasy tang of motor oil clinging to his rough hands. Brody crowded in from the other side, his massive frame pressing close, voice a low growl that vibrated through his chest.

“Time for your lesson, shorty.”

Brody swung first—a heavy backhand that cracked across Michael’s face and snapped his head to the side. Billy followed up immediately with a stinging open-handed slap that left a bright red print blooming on Michael’s cheek, along with a faint smear of that rank, sweaty construction-worker funk.

They didn’t let up for even a second. Brody grabbed a fistful of Michael’s hair and yanked his face straight into the damp, sweaty fur of his chest. The scent hit him like a wave—warm leather, stale smoke, thick armpit musk, and that deeper, animal reek of a man who hadn’t bothered to shower in days.

“Breathe it in, pig,” Brody growled. “That’s what real men smell like. Not your pretty little cop perfume.”

Michael’s lungs filled with the heavy, masculine stench. Shame burned through his chest… but lower down, his cock twitched and hardened traitorously against his zipper. He could have fought back. Should have fought back. Instead, he let himself go limp, pretending to struggle just enough to keep the game going. The humiliation tasted far better than he wanted to admit.

Billy noticed immediately and let out a low, mocking laugh. “Look at that. The little bitch is getting off on it.”

They stripped Michael roughly, yanking his uniform shirt open until buttons scattered across the filthy floor, then shoved his pants down to his ankles. Left in nothing but his undershirt and boxers, they forced him down hard onto his knees on the piss-wet tiles.

Brody unzipped first. His thick, uncut cock flopped out heavily, the fat head shiny with days of built-up. The sharp, heady musk of a man who never washed under his foreskin hit Michael immediately. Brody slapped the heavy meat across his face a few times, leaving wet, sticky streaks that reeked of pure biker crotch.

“Your turn first, Billy,” Brody said with a smirk.

Billy grinned and pulled out next. His cock was fat and veiny, still carrying the raw, sweaty stink of a long day on the construction site. He grabbed Michael firmly by both ears, using them like handles, and shoved his thick shaft straight into the rookie cop’s mouth. He didn’t start slow. He fucked Michael’s throat deep and rough from the very first thrust, his heavy balls slapping wetly against Michael’s chin with every pump. The rank construction musk, earthy, salty, and overpowering, coated Michael’s tongue as the cock slid in and out.

Michael gagged helplessly around the invading meat, the sound muffled and wet. Shame and raw lust twisted together inside him until he couldn’t tell them apart. His own cock was rock-hard now, straining painfully against his soaked boxers and leaking steadily like a horny teenager.

Brody watched with a low, mean laugh. “Look at him. The lil’bitch fuckin’ loves it.”

They took turns without mercy. Brody shoved Billy aside and took over, gripping Michael’s ears even tighter as he rammed his thick, musky cock down the cop’s throat in brutal strokes. He held himself deep for several seconds at a time, smothering Michael’s nose against his sweaty pubic hair, forcing him to breathe nothing but raw biker musk while his throat convulsed around the shaft. Then Billy would pull him back by the hair and take his place again, fucking Michael’s face with fast, punishing thrusts that made drool and precum spill down the rookie’s chin.

Between turns they slapped his reddened cheeks hard, the sharp smacks echoing off the bathroom walls and leaving fresh smears of their combined sweat and stink on his skin. Michael’s eyes watered, his throat burned, but he kept his mouth open and eager, surrendering completely to the rough abuse.

Finally, Billy pulled out, breathing hard as he stroked his glistening cock. “Time for your reward, piggy. You took that throat-fucking like a champ.”

Brody grinned wide, fisting his own heavy shaft. “Recycled beer for the new bitch. Open wide.”

They aimed together.

The first hot stream hit Michael square in the face. Billy’s piss was strong as hell, smelling like every cheap beer he’d drunk that day mixed with the sharp ammonia of a man who sweated for a living. It splashed into Michael’s open mouth, ran down his chin, soaked the front of his undershirt until the fabric clung transparently to his stocky chest.

Brody’s stream followed, heavier, muskier, the scent rolling off him like wet leather and pure animal. It hosed Michael’s hair, his shoulders, his lap, until his boxers were drenched and his hard cock was outlined in yellow.

They shook off the last drops, laughing.

“Come back anytime you want more,” Billy said, zipping up. “Door’s open for thirsty little cop bitches like you.”

Brody ruffled Michael’s piss-matted hair, leaving one final smear across his forehead. “Tell the department we appreciate the fresh meat.”

They walked out, leaving him kneeling in the puddle, uniform ruined, skin and hair reeking of sweat, musk, piss; marked by the alphas.

Michael stayed there, breathing it all in. Chest heaving. Cock throbbing.

Shame twisted with something darker, hungrier. Then he smiled.

He knew he’d be back tomorrow.

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Piss‑pigs already serviced their fellow workers before finally attending to their boss, who paid them extra for the overtime

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