By Marknorth

I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard the heavy knock on my door. It was quickly followed by more rapid-fire pounding. My mind was racing as I quickly pulled on a pair of sport briefs and half-jogged to the front door. I had come home early and was hoping to have a nice. quiet Friday night and relaxing weekend.

The door almost flew off its hinges as it was slammed open the moment that I unlocked the deadbolt. I caught a quick flash of uniforms and barely heard the shout of “Police!” as I was thrown against the wall.

I was stunned and instinctually struggled against the cop. who was trying to pull my arms behind my back. He was a hell of a lot stronger than I was, and the handcuffs were locked on in no time. He spun me around and I finally was able to see that there were two cops — correction, deputies — in my hallway, and they both looked very unhappy.

The one who had cuffed me had me tightly by the upper arm and started to drag me outside. My protests were met simply with the same reply, “You are under arrest.” I had no idea what for, and they apparently had no intention of answering my pleas for an explanation.

I was shoved unceremoniously into the back of the squad at the curb. One deputy sat in the back with me as the other drove quickly away. The officer in the back seat rambled through what I assumed were “my rights,” then turned to the one in front and they carried on as if I wasn’t even there.

The drive to the county jail was about 20 minutes, and I began to shiver. I was almost naked, barefoot, and stunned. The squad pulled into the garage at the jail, and my heart sank as the garage door rolled down, blocking any exit.

The deputies dragged me out of the squad and manhandled me into the reception area, where I was quickly cuffed to a metal bench and left to wait. I don’t think that I had taken a real breath since they had grabbed me less than a half-hour ago. As I took in my surroundings, I continued to wonder what the hell was going on.

The deputies came back in a few minutes and pulled me into the processing room, where I was fingerprinted, photographed, stripped and searched and handed an orange jail jumpsuit. All I could see were the black letters “INMATE” on the front leg and across the back as I pulled it on. For some reason, the lack of underwear made me feel more naked than before.

I was handcuffed with my hands in front, handed a jail ID card, and a pair of leg irons were locked on before the same deputies led me into the bowels of the jail. The pale, scuffed, puke-green walls were lit by sickly yellow fluorescents, and the hallway echoed with shouted expletives. As we passed open, dormlike areas, I could feel the eyes on me, and I shrank back from them.

The deputy who had a firm grip on my arm chuckled at my reaction and just yanked me along the corridor. It seemed like a maze, and we went through several sets of electro-locked doors before entering a much quieter area of the jail. The hall was lined with heavy, solid steel doors. I had, of course, seen all of this on TV or in the movies, but now it was real. It was far more frightening in person.

They called over their radios, and one of the doors about halfway down the hall creaked open after the harsh buzz of the electric lock. They pushed me into the cell and slammed the door shut. The finality of the situation hit me hard, and I barely made it to the concrete bunk — I felt like I would pass out. It took me a few minutes to slow my breathing, and I attempted to relax. I couldn’t, however, slow the heart that was slamming in my chest. What the hell was happening? I sat there for what seemed like hours. It could have been minutes. I had no idea.

I was startled when the door buzzed open and the same deputies called me out into the hall. They yanked me along the hall, and we retraced the steps that had led me to the cell a few hours ago. They never spoke a word to me other than commands. One held tight to my arm, the other followed a few paces behind, the leg iron chains clinking as we walked. We passed the same dorms, and I was hopeful that they had discovered their error and I was headed home. We took a hard turn just before the door to the processing area, and I realized that I wasn’t going outside that way.

I was led into a long room with those cubicles with heavy glass separating the inmates from the visitors. The phone on the cubby wall looked like it was from the ’50s. They pushed me onto the little metal stool, and the deputies stepped back a few steps, but not very far. The glass was filthy, and it was a few minutes before someone sat down on the other side and picked up the phone. I immediately recognized Will and, again, hoped he would be able to clear this mess up for me. He was a local cop and a long-time top; we had played together often.

It didn’t take him long to explain my circumstances to me. He pulled some strings, called in some favors, talked to his deputy buddies and had me arrested and imprisoned. It was real. No way out for me. As far as the system was concerned, I was an inmate. The bureaucracy would keep me there for who knows how long?

He hung up and left me sitting there. His final statement to me was a reminder that I had shared this particular fantasy with him on numerous occasions, and he had been able to make it come true.

I was taken back to the cell to be locked down. Just before the door was slammed shut again, one of the deputies told me that I would have another visit sometime on Sunday. He told me that Bill was a little worried for me and wanted to check in after a few days. Then the door was driven home and the locks engaged.

When Sunday finally rolled around, I was anxious for Bill to get here and for the deputies to come and pull me out of this cell. I hadn’t been out of it since Friday afternoon, and I was beginning to grow anxious. How the hell long had he arraigned for me to be locked up in here, and could they really keep me here like this? I hadn’t even been able to speak to another person to have the chance to let them know about my circumstances.

They finally came and led me to the visitor area, where Bill was waiting. He was wearing his uniform (something that always got me hard as hell), and he looked so damn handsome that I almost forgot what he had done to me.

He laughed as I picked up the phone.

“Don’t worry, buddy! I’ve almost had all my fun. We’ll come back for you on Tuesday morning — after all, tomorrow is a federal holiday. What better way to spend that extra day off?!”