Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He stood in the shadows; shoulder pressed to the cracked wall of an old warehouse across the street. The house across looked like a quiet yellow wooden door, shuttered windows, lights off.
Only one car in the driveway, blanketed in dust.

“North ring ready.”
“East team in position.”
“Snipers locked.”

The voices over the radio were crisp, obedient. He hoped the new recruits wouldn't start shaking when the time came.

“Gamma One, waiting on your go,” a voice said, too tense.

He didn’t answer right away. Drew in the heavy Southern air. Something about the way sweat clung to his back always reminded him of why he did this.

He was thirty-four, broad-shouldered, tanned by the Texas sun, face set like someone who’d seen too much and chosen to remember little.

He wasn’t here to feel.
Just to act.

The family inside was just a “target.”
Not people. Not names. Just a file. A case. A problem to be cleared.

And that was what he loved about this job. The authority.
The silence that followed when the shouting finally stopped.

They thought he was a simple man, ruthless when needed, obedient when ordered.
But they didn’t know.

There was one thing, one truth, no one in the unit ever guessed.
A secret he kept close to the chest. So close, sometimes he forgot it was there.

The warehouse's shadows seemed to writhe as his mind wandered to his dark secret. His heart pounded in his chest, not from anticipation of the raid, but from the illicit thoughts that plagued him. He was a pedophile, a fact he'd buried deep within himself, a truth he'd never admitted aloud. He felt a thrill, a sickening excitement, at the mere thought of young boys, their innocent eyes, their soft skin. He imagined them, naked and vulnerable, under his control. His breath hitched as he envisioned the power, the complete domination he would have over them. He felt a stirring in his pants, a growing erection that he had to push down, focusing on the task at hand. But his mind betrayed him, filling with fantasies of young boys, their tiny hands, their tiny bodies. He could almost taste the forbidden fruit, the taboo pleasure that he knew was wrong, yet he craved so deeply.

“Execute in three.”
“Two.”
“One.”

He didn’t speak, just raised his hand.

The door crashed open with the sound of bending steel. Three men stormed in, weapons drawn. Screams in Spanish answered from the back room.

The commander stood at the entrance, unhurried. He didn’t need to rush anymore. At his age, in his rank, he could afford to walk in slowly. He surveyed the small living room, a worn-out sofa, a stained rug, and a crooked TV mounted on the wall.

"Got both of them!" came a shout from inside. Sounds of a struggle, crying. Then a brief silence, and again, a woman’s cry.

He entered at last. Jake was already dragging out the man, young, maybe twenty-five, barefoot, eyes wide with fear. The woman followed, her long hair disheveled, clutching at her shirt in panic. "Please, please..." she repeated, in broken English.

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

The team was excited, leaving silence too precise to be natural. The commander lingered. He walked slowly around the living room. A framed photo, the couple at a beach, laughing, too young. A note on the fridge: "Don't forget milk". A toy on the floor.

Then… a sound. Muffled, faint.

Crying.

He froze.

Another room. He stepped in, cautiously, and stopped. In an old crib, wrapped in a colorful blanket, lay a baby. Red-faced from crying, eyes swollen.

The commander stood still. And didn’t move.

The radio crackled slightly as his lieutenant spoke in a clear, focused voice.
“Commander, both Mexicans are cuffed and seated in the patrol cars. Everything’s under control.”

The commander nodded to himself, even though the lieutenant couldn’t see it.
“Good. Take them to the detention center,” he said coolly.
“But first, I’m doing a sweep of the apartment. Need to check for drugs or anything suspicious.”

He set down the radio, glanced out the nearby window toward the dark street.
“Leave one car waiting outside,” he added, “with two rookies. They’ll hold the perimeter.”

He felt the weight of the evening pressing on his shoulders, but showed no sign of hesitation.
This was his job: take control, do what needed doing, keep order.

The commander's eyes flicked back to the crying infant, and a sinister idea began to form in his mind. "Seems it's just you and me now, little one," he murmured, setting down his weapon and removing his protective vest. He picked up the baby, no more than three months old, and placed him on the nearby bed. With deft hands, he unbuttoned his pants, revealing his massive, throbbing erection. 10 inches (25.4 cm) of raw pedomeat. His heart raced as he took in the sight of the baby, so small, so helpless. He felt a surge of power, of dominance, as he ran his engorged member over the baby's soft, smooth skin. The baby's cries subsided, as if sensing the commander's dark intent, and the commander felt a thrill run through him. He was in complete control, and he loved it. 

The commander's massive erection, veins bulging and precum beading at the tip, looked grotesque against the tiny, fragile form of the infant. The baby's face was barely the size of the commander's palm; his features were still soft and pudgy from infancy. The commander, his face contorted in a mix of lust and amusement, slapped his cock against the baby's cheeks, leaving a trail of saliva and precum. The baby's cries grew louder, his face turning red, but the commander only laughed, reveling in the baby's distress. He felt a surge of power, of control, as he held the baby's life in his hands, quite literally.

The commander, with his face a mask of depravity, grabbed the baby's chin and tilted his head back. With a sickening grin, he pushed the head of his cock past the baby's tiny lips, feeling the soft, wet warmth envelope him. The baby gagged, his eyes wide with panic, but the commander held him in place, forcing his cock deeper into the baby's mouth. He began to thrust, his hips moving in a sick parody of adult sex, using the baby's mouth as if it were a cheap, disposable toy. The baby's cries were muffled, his tiny hands grasping at the commander's hips in a futile attempt to push him away. The commander felt no mercy, no remorse, only the intense, twisted pleasure of dominating such an innocent, helpless being.

The baby's face turned red, then purple, as the commander's thick cock filled his tiny throat. He gagged, coughed, but the commander held him down, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, oblivious to the baby's distress. The commander's grunts of pleasure filled the room, contrasting sharply with the baby's choked gurgles. The baby's hands, so tiny, so weak, scrabbled at the commander's thighs, trying to push him away, but it was like a moth trying to push away a storm. The commander felt it all, the struggle, the fear, the desperation, and it only served to heighten his pleasure. He knew no one would help the baby, no one would save him from this hell. He was in complete control, and it was exhilarating.

Just as the baby was on the verge of passing out, the commander withdrew his cock, leaving the baby gasping for breath. He turned the baby onto his stomach, the baby's tiny fists clenched, his body wracked with coughs. With a savage grunt, the commander tore the baby's pajamas, baring the baby's tiny, round buttocks. He spat on his hand, then ran it over his cock, lubing it up. The baby's cries grew louder, more frantic, as the commander positioned himself behind him. He grabbed the baby's hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and with one brutal thrust, he entered the baby, feeling the tight, virgin hole give way under his massive size. The baby screamed, a high-pitched, desperate sound that only served to fuel the commander's lust.

The commander began to move, his hips pounding into the baby's tiny body with animalistic fury. The baby's cries filled the room, high-pitched and desperate, but the commander only grunted in response, his own pleasure drowning out the baby's pain. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the air, punctuated by the baby's pitiful whimper. The commander could feel the baby's body trying to accommodate him, the tight hole squeezing around his cock, and it only served to heighten his pleasure. He grabbed the baby's arms, pinning them behind his back, loving the feeling of complete control he had over the baby's body. He could do anything he wanted to this tiny, helpless being, and there was nothing the baby could do to stop him. The commander felt invincible, powerful, like a god.

The commander's cock was slick with his precum, making a wet, slapping sound as it collided with the baby's soft, reddened flesh. The baby's cries grew louder, more frantic, as the commander's pace increased, his hips slamming into the baby's tiny body with relentless force. The baby's movements became more desperate, his little legs kicking, his arms flailing, as if trying to crawl away from the commander's assault. The sight of the baby's futile struggle only served to heighten the commander's arousal, his cock throbbing with the need to release. He could feel his orgasm building, the pleasure coiling in his gut like a snake ready to strike. He reached down, grabbing the baby's chin, forcing the baby to look at him. "That's it, little one," he grunted, his voice hoarse with lust. "Scream for me. Cry for me. Let me hear your pain."

 With a final, brutal thrust, the commander's orgasm tore through him, his cock pulsing as he released his seed deep into the baby's tiny body. The baby's insides were filled with the commander's hot, sticky cum, the pressure causing the baby's hole to expel the commander's cock, streams of cum shooting out of the baby's tiny opening like lava from a volcano. The commander let out a roar of pleasure, his body convulsing as he emptied himself into the baby. The baby, exhausted and traumatized, lay limp and still, his body covered in the commander's cum and sweat.

The commander scanned the room one last time. The apartment was a mess, reeking of dirty diapers, sweat, and the stale smoke of drugs. In a half-broken crib lay the baby, filthy, unmoving, yet wide-eyed, as if he'd already grown used to despair.

The commander stepped closer, kneeling slowly. He reached out his hands and spoke in a whisper,
“Hey... It’s over. I’m here now.”

Carefully, he lifted the frail little body. He could feel the thinness under the baby’s skin, the sour smell of neglect. He glanced at the child’s back and limbs, bruises, maybe older ones too. His jaw clenched.

He carried the baby to the bathroom, grabbed a ragged towel, wet it in the sink, and began gently wiping away the grime. His movements were slow, deliberate, each one a quiet act of defiance against the cruelty that had happened here.

Once the baby was wrapped up and relatively clean, the commander stepped out into the hallway. A patrol vehicle was waiting just outside.

He climbed into the backseat, holding the child tightly.

“Drive straight to the hospital,” he told the two young officers in front, who looked shaken by the sight.

“The parents probably abused him,” he added grimly.

The siren turned on. The car sped off into the night.

Chapter Text

Gerard paced back and forth along the hospital’s long corridor. The cold fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows across the faded walls, and each step echoed in the empty space. His thoughts raced; if they asked questions, he already knew what he would say. The parents were guilty; he had merely rescued the child.

He stopped by the vending machine, pulled a few coins from his pocket, and slid them in slowly, as if every extra moment away from the office door was an extra breath of air. A cold can drop with a metallic clunk. He popped it open, the first sip both bitter and oddly calming.

As he continued down the corridor, his gaze locked on the doctor’s door. He expected to hear conversation, maybe the shuffle of papers. But then, another sound reached him, muffled at first, unclear, then sharper. A moan. Male. Another followed, deeper, with heavy breathing between. Gerard froze in place. Something about the scene felt out of place. He took one more step closer, ears straining, catching the noises leaking through the white-painted wood.

The doctor examining the baby is fucking someone, Gerard thought to himself as he pressed his ear to the door. But who? No one else had entered the room since he’d left the baby with the doctor. Maybe someone came in through a side door? Gerard pressed his ear harder, and the sounds clarified, rhythmic moans, ragged breaths, and then, beneath it all, a faint cry. A baby’s cry. Gerard’s heart pounded in his chest. He tried to picture the room beyond the door, the doctor, the baby on the examination table, and someone else, someone he hadn’t seen. He shuddered, his hand on the door handle, debating whether to open it and expose whatever was happening inside or to stay frozen, silent, as the sounds continued to seep out.

He took a deep breath, the can still in his hand, its cold barely registering against his racing pulse. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more, the unexpected sounds or the thought that the baby, the one he’d handed over himself, was in there, in the middle of this bizarre situation. Gerard stepped back, eyes fixed on the door, and decided he had to know. He set the can on the floor, approached again, and knocked lightly on the door, waiting for a response.

Gerard looked left and right, the corridor silent and empty like a tomb; no one would suspect him if he entered the examination room. After all, he was a cop, and it was his right, no, his duty, to enter any room where there was suspicion of a crime being committed. And he already suspected, a deep and stirring suspicion, that he knew exactly what sexy, forbidden, and tempting crime was taking place inside. His pulse quickened, not just from fear, but from a wave of forbidden excitement washing over him, as if his body was responding to those sounds, to the heavy moans tickling his skin like a hidden touch.

He opened the door gently, slipping inside stealthily, as he’d learned in his training, steps quietly as a shadow, without making even the slightest noise. The room was lit in soft light, an atmosphere of secrecy enveloping everything, the scent of disinfectant mixed with something more primal, something bodily and warm. He looked at the doctor, his back turned to Gerard’s face, his body moving in rhythmic, powerful motions, his hips thrusting forward and back in a steady, mesmerizing cadence, like a forbidden dance of desire. Behind him, on the treatment table, something, or someone, writhed beneath him, the body twisting in response to each thrust, smooth and sweaty skin glistening under the light, heavy breaths filling the room like dark music.

Gerard felt the blood rushing hot through his body, his eyes drawn to the scene like a magnet, the small details, the beads of sweat sliding down the doctor’s back, the taut muscles in his thighs as he pushed deeper, the wet sounds of body friction against body, all arousing him, turning him on in a way he hadn’t expected. He stood there, his breath catching, trying to make out the details: who was it lying there, surrendering to the doctor, their body arching under those thrusts? The baby... no, it couldn’t be, but the faint cry still echoed, mixed with the moans of passion, creating a confusing and exhilarating blend. The doctor hadn’t noticed him yet, so immersed in his pleasure, head tilted back, lips parted in a low groan, and his hips continuing to move, faster now, as if approaching climax.

Gerard felt his hand moving on its own, lightly touching his pants, the sexual tension in the room so thick he could taste it, breathe it. He knew he should intervene, stop it, but part of him wanted to keep watching, to be part of this dark secret, this raw desire filling the space. The thrusts grew more intense, the sounds louder, a deep moan, rapid breathing, and the cry... the cry turning into something else, something that raised even darker questions. Gerard stepped forward, his heart pounding wildly, ready to confront, but his body betrayed him, responding with heat and desire to the sight before him.

Gerard took a few steps to his left, his mouth agape in disbelief. The doctor was fucking the baby, pushing in and out with his enormous cock. In the baby's mouth was a pacifier, held in place with medical adhesive tape. The baby tried to cry, but the pacifier muffled the sound, its tiny legs kicking backward and forward in the air, as if trying to escape the doctor's massive cock filling its tiny body.

The doctor's body was slick with sweat, his hips moving in powerful, rhythmic thrusts, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Gerard could see the baby's small hands clenching and unclenching, its tiny body tensing with each thrust, its skin flushed a deep red. The room was filled with the wet sounds of the doctor's cock sliding in and out of the baby's tight hole, mixed with the doctor's ragged breaths and the baby's muffled cries.

Gerard's heart pounded in his chest, his cock hardening in his pants. He was both astonished and aroused, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. He knew he should do something, but his body refused to move, his eyes locked on the sight before him. The doctor's thrusts grew faster, more urgent, his body tensing as he neared orgasm. The Mexican baby's cries became more insistent, its body squirming as it tried to escape the relentless fucking.

Suddenly, the doctor let out a deep groan, his body convulsing as he came inside the baby. The baby's cries turned to screams, its body shaking with the force of the doctor's climax. The doctor pulled out, his cock glistening with cum and lube, and collapsed onto the floor, panting.

The baby's cries intensified, filling the room with its anguished wails. A plan was forming in Gerard's mind. He needed to be focused.

Gerard spoke, his voice cold and hard, "Enjoying yourself, doc? I must say, it's not every day you see a man violating a baby."

The doctor spun around, his face pale as he saw Gerard in uniform behind him. "You-you shouldn't have come in here… patient confidentiality…" he stammered.

"Oh, I think I have every right," Gerard replied, a cruel smile spreading across his face, his perfect white teeth on full display. "I heard you committing a serious crime, and now I have to arrest you."

"Arrest?!" the doctor echoed, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking loudly in the silence of the room.

Gerard took a step forward, his handcuffs already out, ready to snap them onto the doctor's wrists. "Yes, doctor. You see, I'm a cop, and I can't just stand by and watch a crime like that go unpunished. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back."

Gerard stepped forward, his hand steady as he gripped the metal handcuffs. "If we call a lawyer," he said coldly, as he tightened the cuffs around the doctor’s wrists, "then I will have to file a detailed report of everything that happened here. My testimony, together with the DNA findings from the baby, will irrefutably confirm the events, and no one will be able to deny what occurred."

The doctor gasped in terror, his eyes wide as the metal biting into his wrists reminded him there was no escape. Gerard paused for a moment, letting the tension settle in the silent room.

"Your lawyer won’t be able to do much," he continued in a deep, almost menacing tone. "The truth here is too clear. All that remains is perhaps an attempt to plead for leniency before the judge."

Gerard leaned slightly forward, his gaze sharp and unwavering, the handcuffs controlling every movement of the doctor. "If that is what you want, for the situation to be laid bare, with absolute clarity that leaves no room for doubt, then of course, call your lawyer. But remember, the choice is in your hands, and the consequences will be unavoidable."

After a long silence, the doctor spoke, his voice steady, "I wasn't the first to violate this baby; someone else did it before me. You can see the baby's anus, it's stretched, and there are traces of semen inside. I managed to extract some DNA from it. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have dared to do it myself."

Gerard's expression remained unchanged, his mind racing, trying to process the doctor's words as a threat. The doctor continued, "I did it for science, of course. To understand the extent of the damage, the traces left behind. It's important to know these things, don't you agree, officer?"

Gerard's grip tightened on the cuffs, his knuckles turning white. He could feel the doctor's eyes on him, cold and calculating. "And who was the first, doc?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor smiled, a sickening, twisted smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he replied, turning around and putting his hands behind his back, as if daring Gerard to arrest him.

The Mexican baby spat out a glob of saliva beneath its pacifier. The doctor's cum dripped slowly from his ass, a clear indication that he had covered his tracks. Of course, thought Gerard. The doctor wouldn't have risked it if he didn't have a safety net.

How had he become, Gerard wondered, a protector of the law to a suspected criminal himself?

His mind flashed back to the first time he had violated the baby, his cock sliding into its tiny, virgin hole. He remembered the tightness, the resistance, the baby's cries muffled by the pacifier. He remembered how it had felt to fill the baby with his cum, to mark it as his own. He had done it on a whim, a dark urge he couldn't resist, and now it had come back to haunt him.

He looked at the doctor, at the baby, at the cum dripping from its ass, and he felt a dark satisfaction. He had been the first, and he knew that no matter what the doctor said, no matter what evidence he presented, he would always be the one who had taken the baby's innocence. He had corrupted it, tainted it, and now it was forever a part of him.

The doctor and the officer stood there, eyes locked, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air between them. It was a look that only two kindred spirits could share, a look that said more than words ever could. It was the look of two predators, two men who had both tasted the forbidden fruit and found it sweet.

"You and I," the doctor began, his voice barely above a whisper, "we're not so different, are we?"

Gerard nodded slowly, the truth of the statement settling heavily in his chest. "We both know what we want," he said, his voice equally low. "We both know what we've done."

"And together," the doctor continued, "we can make sure neither of us ever has to face the consequences."

Gerard felt a shiver run down his spine, the dark promise in the doctor's words sending a thrill through him. He knew they were crossing a line, a line that there was no coming back from. But he also knew that he was already on the wrong side of that line, and there was no use pretending otherwise.

"Together," he echoed, the word heavy with meaning. "Together we rise, or apart we fall."

The doctor looked at the baby, its tiny asshole gaping and red from the recent violation. "And the baby?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice. "We'll need to… clean up the evidence, won't we?" He sighed, "Pity, I do love the little one…"

Gerard looked at the baby, his mind drifting to its illegal immigrant parents, flooding America like a tsunami, destroying everything that was good and threatening to drag the great alliance into ruin. The towel the baby had come in, was it still here?

"Yes," the doctor replied, gesturing to the towel laid out on the table. "It's right there."

Gerard picked it up, feeling the coarse material between his fingers. "And if there are hairs…" he began, his eyes gleaming with a dark idea.

The doctor caught on immediately, a sly smile spreading across his face. "You could extract the parents' DNA," he said, his voice barely containing his excitement. "Think of the possibilities, Gerard. We could frame them, convince everyone that they are the molesters. No one would ever suspect us."

Gerard nodded, the plan already taking shape in his mind. He could see it now, the baby's parents arrested, deported, their cries of innocence falling on deaf ears. And he and the doctor, standing tall, untouched, their secret buried deep.

"We'll need to act fast," Gerard said, his voice filled with a newfound purpose. "Before someone else finds out what we've done."

The doctor nodded, his eyes glinting with malice. "Yes," he agreed.

Gerard unclipped the handcuffs, extending his hand towards the doctor. "Gerard," he introduced himself, a smirk playing on his lips.

The doctor took his hand, shaking it firmly. "Dr. Whitmore," he replied, his eyes never leaving Gerard's.

He picked up the towel from the table, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "While I work on the DNA, I'm sure you'd… like to keep an eye on the little one," he suggested, his voice laced with innuendo.

Gerard felt his cock twitch in his pants at the suggestion, the dark promise in the doctor's words sending a thrill through him. "I'll make sure he's… well taken care of," he said, his voice low and husky.

The doctor chuckled, a dark and dirty sound that made Gerard's blood run hot. "I'm sure you will, officer," he said, his eyes gleaming with shared perversion. "After all, we both know what's best for this little… problem, don't we?"

Gerard nodded, his mind already filled with images of the baby, its tiny body, its soft skin, its asshole still gaping from their recent violation. He could feel his cock growing harder, his desire for the baby increasing with each passing moment.

The doctor handed him the towel, his fingers brushing against Gerard's, sending a jolt of electricity through him. "Be gentle," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But not too gentle."

Gerard took the towel, his eyes never leaving the doctor's. "I'll make sure he enjoys it," he promised, his voice filled with a dark, forbidden excitement.

Chapter Text

Gerard and Dr. Whitmore sat in the courtroom, waiting for the trial to begin. The chamber was artificially cool, the scent of polished old wood mingling with the faint odor of cheap coffee spilled somewhere in the corridor. The high ceiling and antique chandeliers gave the room the air of a temple of justice, yet Gerard knew there was no sanctity here, only power, politics, and interests.

His eyes drifted to the Mexican parents of the baby, huddled together on the defense bench. He searched their faces for traces of that night, the moment ICE agents stormed their meager South Texas apartment but found nothing. Their faces were weary, bruised from custody, yet carried a different kind of fragility: not fear, but the daily ache of people stripped not only of freedom, but also of dignity.

The father, a broad-shouldered man with black hair falling across his forehead, struggled to sit upright. Gerard saw the way he tried to stretch in his chair, only to be halted mid-motion by pain. The mother, smaller and more delicate, rested a weak hand on his arm, a silent gesture to remind him they were still together, still surviving.

Gerard knew they had spent nights in a cell with two white supremacists. The thought drew a thin, almost cynical smile to his lips. He imagined the inevitable confrontations, the long nights when strangeness turned into conflict, and how every word, every gesture, became a test of survival. That story was etched into their faces, whether they wished to conceal it or not.

Dr. Whitmore, seated beside him, leaned forward slightly and whispered: “Look at them. The system is tearing them apart even before the trial has begun.”

Gerard couldn't tell what was tearing them apart more, the system itself or the two huge cocks of their two cellmates.

The court clerk rose from her seat and declared in a metallic tone: “All rise!”

Judge Martin Dolcrast entered the chamber. His name had been tied for years to rumors of corruption, yet his gaze remained steady, his demeanor self-assured, as if none of it could touch him. His heavy figure filled the space, and everyone rose. The two Mexicans winced, their faces twisting in pain from their detention "experiences" and the hard wooden benches pressing against their bruised backsides. They only sat once the judge himself had settled into his lofty chair, shifting uncomfortably as they followed suit.

Immediately, the pair leaned toward their lawyer, a young, pale man whose eyes betrayed his lack of experience. Another one who barely scraped through law school, earning a meager wage from some liberal NGO that imagines itself saving the world, Gerard thought, a thin smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Meanwhile, the judge shuffled his papers with deliberate slowness and leaned slightly toward the clerk. His fingers toyed lazily with a pen, like a ruler reminding his subjects who held the power. Gerard noticed how the judge’s eyes slid over her, drifting down and back up again, fastening on her with attention that was anything but professional.

She sensed it at once. A blush spread across her cheeks, and she tried to hide behind the pile of case files. But that only seemed to embolden him. He whispered something, a sly smile curling his lips. Gerard was certain he caught the words: “Next time, wear a shorter dress.”

The judge leaned forward slightly, tapped his gavel, and raised his voice: “Well then, today we have here yet another two aliens. Nothing less.”

The courtroom fell silent. The Mexicans’ lawyer shot to his feet, his face pale, his voice trembling but determined: “Your Honor, I must object! My clients are not aliens; they are human beings!”

 “Silence!” Dolcrast barked, slamming his gavel against the bench. “This is my courtroom, and I will call them whatever I please!”

He leaned back, a thin smile curling on his lips, then continued in a tone dripping with scorn: “As I was saying, these aliens not only infiltrated our country and defiled it with the diseases they carry, but they also raped their own infant son, a citizen of the United States.”

The chamber buzzed with whispers. Some in the audience nodded in agreement, while others looked horrified. The two Mexicans sat hunched, their faces drained of color, their hands clasped tightly together as though to keep themselves from falling apart.

The air in the courtroom was thick, almost tangible, as if the judge’s words were about to ignite it. Gerard sat frozen, his eyes locked on Judge Dolcrast. Dolcrast, his black robe billowing like a curtain of sin, leaned forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming with wicked pleasure, as if feeding off the tension in the room, and addressed the audience in a deep, slippery voice that made Gerard’s skin tingle.

“You want to know what these aliens did?” he began, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if inviting everyone to hear a dark secret. “In a dark night, in a squalid South Texas apartment, reeking of sweat and despair, these two Mexicans gave in to their depraved desires.” He paused, letting the words sink in, his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator seeking prey. “They took their infant son, flesh of their flesh, and violated him in ways that would make even the devil blush.”

Gerard’s stomach churned, but he couldn’t look away. Dolcrast continued, his voice growing softer, more seductive, as if telling a forbidden love story. “Picture it,” he said, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “A small, stifling room, the dim light of a cheap candle casting shadows on the filthy walls. The father, with his large, powerful hands, takes the tiny child, holding him close, his breath heavy with lust. The mother, with her dark, burning eyes, joins him, her hands caressing, pulling, claiming. They gave themselves to each other, to the child’s body, in a frenzy of animalistic, unrestrained desire, as if there were no tomorrow.”

The words were like poison, each sentence dripping with lurid detail that made the audience shift uncomfortably. Gerard saw the Mexicans flinch, their faces pale, their hands clasped tightly as if trying to anchor themselves in the storm. The mother bit her lip, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, while the father tried to maintain composure, but his body betrayed him, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the horrific lie.

Dolcrast pressed on, his voice now almost lyrical, as if singing a hymn of sin. “They weren’t satisfied with ordinary desires,” he said, his eyes glinting like black diamonds. “They wanted more, always more. They reveled in the child’s helplessness, in his innocence, as if it fueled their twisted lust. Their hands, hot and greedy, explored every inch, shameless, conscienceless. They took what wasn’t theirs, defiling the most sacred thing, all in the name of their insatiable desire.”

Gerard felt the blood pounding in his temples. The judge’s words were like a touch, slick and dangerous, stirring a mix of nausea and thrill. He liked Dolcrast, loved the way he turned justice into a pornographic spectacle, but he couldn’t deny the sick pull of the power the judge wielded. It was as if the entire room was drawn into his twisted fantasy, the audience trembling under the weight of his words, some mesmerized, others horrified, but all captives.

The Mexicans’ young lawyer stood again, his face pale, his voice shaking. “Your Honor, I demand you stop! These descriptions are baseless, offensive, and unworthy of a courtroom!” He tried to sound authoritative, but his voice came out like a cry of desperation.

Dolcrast laughed, a low, throaty sound that made Gerard’s skin prickle. “Unworthy?” he mocked, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the lawyer like a hawk. “What’s unworthy is the presence of these aliens in our country, defiling it with their sins. And this sin, oh, it’s the ugliest of all.” He lifted his gaze to the audience, his smile widening. “But don’t worry, we’ll deal with them. Justice will be done.”

Gerard felt the heat spreading through his chest, a mix of joy and forbidden desire he didn’t want to acknowledge. He saw the look in the judge’s eyes, the wicked pleasure of absolute control. He saw the Mexicans, broken, struggling to hold onto their last shred of dignity. And he saw the audience, some captivated, some horrified, but all trapped in this twisted game of power and desire.

Judge Dolcrast leaned back in his heavy chair, his fingers drumming on the polished wood. His narrow eyes scanned the defendants as if they were insects trapped in a glass jar. “Very well,” he said, his voice dragging, “what do you have to say in your defense?”

Their lawyer, a thin man with a meticulously trimmed mustache, rose nervously, straightened his tie, and began: “Your Honor, I would like to -”

But the judge waved him off as if shooing an annoying fly. “Silence. I said I want to hear the aliens themselves. Give them a voice, if they even have one.”

Whispers rolled through the courtroom. The Mexican father, a short man with dark eyes who had been staring at the floor until now, slowly rose to his feet. His hands trembled. He ran them over his faded trousers as if wiping away sweat, then opened his mouth.

“Eh… y-yes… Your… su honor…” His voice cracked. He groped for words in broken English, sprinkling them with Spanish where he couldn’t find the words. “We… we no… uh… rapee… the bebe… no, no, is… cómo se dice? …not true… es mentira… lie!”

Laughter rippled through the courtroom. Some of the jurors groaned in disdain, one covering her mouth with mockery. Judge Dolcrast furrowed his brow and laughed aloud: “What was that just now? ‘Rapee the bebe’? That isn’t even English, it’s Mexican soup with a hole in the middle!”

The father tried again, his voice splintering into disjointed fragments: “We… familia… good… we no monster… we… come… trabajar… eh… limpiar… building… make… vida… for… niño… please…”

His hands shook as he gestured, trying to emphasize his words.

The judge did not miss the opportunity. He smiled cruelly and said, “Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? This is the ‘Mexican hero.’ ‘Clean building, make life for niño.’ If that isn’t proof that they came to contaminate our country, I don’t know what is.”

The father’s voice caught in his throat, a choked sound escaping his lips. He opened his mouth again, but only broken gasps came out, scattered and helpless.

On the bench beside him, his wife waited tensely. She gripped her hands so tightly her knuckles had whitened.

Their lawyer rose once more, his face red, “Your Honor, I protest this mockery. My clients are hardworking people -”

“I spoke!” the judge snapped, slamming his gavel on the bench. “One more word from you, little lawyer, and I’ll send you to sit with them in the detention cell. Perhaps then you’ll learn to speak less nonsense.”

The father inhaled sharply, trying to steady his voice. He stumbled over his words, switching rapidly between English and Spanish: “W-we… no monster… we… we… protect… niño… es nuestro hijo… we love him… please, no… no… harm… nothing…”

Judge Dolcrast leaned forward, his narrow eyes gleaming with amusement. “Protect him? Love him? Listen, little alien, your English is as pathetic as your excuses. Protect? Ha! Nothing! You come here, corrupt our country, and now you tell me you protect your… child?”

The father’s hands shook violently. He swallowed hard, trying to push past the gagging fear, but the words kept breaking apart: “We… familia… work… clean… house… school… good… we… eh… innocent…”

The judge’s lips curled into a smirk. He tapped his gavel idly on the bench, letting each strike echo like a heartbeat through the tense courtroom. “Did you hear that? ‘Work… clean… innocent…’ Oh, the rhetoric of aliens! I could listen to this forever… but I won’t.”

At that moment, the mother leaned forward, her hands clenching the edge of the bench. Her voice trembled, but she tried: “Your… Honor… please… we… we didn’t…”

The judge cut her off instantly, pointing the gavel at her as if she were a naughty child: “Silence! I have no time for the nonsense women tend to babble. Save your breath, señora. If I wanted to hear useless chatter, I’d summon a market gossip, not a courtroom!”

The mother recoiled, her face pale, biting her lip as she sank back into the bench. The father’s eyes met hers briefly, both sharing a glance filled with fear, helplessness, and humiliation.

The courtroom buzzed with whispers, some shaking their heads, others murmuring in agreement with the judge’s cruel display. Gerard watched silently, a tight line forming across his lips. Every word, every dismissal, carved deeper into the helplessness of the parents, and into the corruption-laden air of the courtroom itself.

The judge smiled with contempt toward the defense, speaking in a half-mocking tone: “Since the defense is incapable of presenting a legal argument, I will call a witness on behalf of the prosecution.”

He looked at Gerard and raised a finger, signaling him to the witness stand. Gerard rose from the bench, his steps steady yet silent as he walked forward. Each step seemed to echo through the chamber, but the judge did not spare him a word; all his scorn was reserved for the Mexicans and their lawyer, who appeared utterly powerless before his authority.

As Gerard approached the stand, the judge continued, his eyes glittering with mockery toward the parents: “Gerard is a respected ICE officer, part of the unit that protects our country from filthy aliens like the ones involved in today’s case. He has received numerous commendations, and his superiors have nothing but praise for him. I am confident that his testimony about the night these two criminals were apprehended will make it clear just how fortunate we are to have Gerard and other officers like him, defending our country and its lawful residents.”

The courtroom was completely silent. Every eye followed Gerard, yet the parents’ faces were etched with fear and helplessness, and their lawyer sat red-faced, angry, terrified, and utterly powerless.

Gerard leaned slightly on the witness stand; his eyes fixed on a point in the courtroom. Judge Dolcrast watched him, a mocking smile etched across his face, as if he were about to unzip his trousers, a sense of absolute power, total control.

“Tell us,” the judge said, his voice brazen but patient, as if this were a small amusement, “how you and your unit raided the apartment, and what you found there?”

Gerard exhaled slowly, his voice steady and clear: “We entered in the early morning hours. The apartment was small, dirty, and minimally organized. The light was dim… heavy smell of damp…”

The judge nodded, expecting more details. “And exactly how did you find the baby? Describe it in detail, every aspect.”

Gerard’s lips curved slightly, his eyes cold but professional: “We found him in a small room. He was awake, but it was clear he had been subjected to violent acts. His face was flushed from pain and crying, his eyes wide and terrified. He was trembling, his body tense, and his hands showed small signs of struggling with the pain.”

The prosecutor, who until now had been sitting bored on the bench, since his work entirely in the hands of the judge, lifted his gaze from his phone, where he had been watching pornographic content: “Your Honor,” he said, his voice edged with tension and urgency, “you forgot to present the evidence I sent… the pictures of the baby.”

The judge smiled with contempt and turned to the court clerk in a loud, clear voice: “Ah, of course. Display the pictures on the screen so that the entire courtroom may witness the inhumanity these Mexicans have brought into our country.”

The courtroom fell silent. Every eye turned to the clerk, who knew all eyes were upon her. She touched the computer and the projector and began displaying the images on the large screen in front of the entire audience, her eyes full of confusion and embarrassment.

The screen flickered to life, casting a stark, lurid light across the hushed courtroom. The first image was innocent enough - a close-up of the baby's face, his tiny features screwed up in distress. But it was the following images that made the air in the room grow thick with a sickening combination of horror and perverse fascination.

The baby's body was displayed in vivid detail - his chubby legs splayed, his tiny hands clenched into fists. And there, in the center of the screen, was the brutal aftermath of his violation. His anus was a ragged, red ruin, gaping wide like a tiny, defiled mouth. Strings of semen dripped from it, congealing in the folds of his flesh. The baby's skin was mottled with bruises, his body bearing the marks of the violence he had endured.

Dr. Whitmore leaned over to Gerard, his voice barely a whisper, "It is perfect, Gerard. CP here in public, in the courtroom! Look at this! It's like a tiny, used-up cunt. I bet you'd love to stretch it open again, wouldn't you?"

Gerard smirked, his eyes flicking between the screen and the audience. He could see the bulges in some of the men's trousers, the way they shifted uncomfortably in their seats. He knew they were turning on from this, just like he was. He could practically hear their thoughts - the same thoughts he was having.

'That little hole took so much cock…'

'I wonder how tight it was before it was stretched like that…'

'I bet it feels amazing, fucking such a tiny, helpless thing…'

He could feel his own cock twitching in his pants, his desire mirrored in the faces of the men around him. He was hard, achingly so, and he knew he wasn't the only one.

The defense lawyer stood up with a newfound determination. "Objection, Your Honor!" he declared, his voice steady despite the quaver in his knees. "While it's clear that the baby has been… abused, it's also clear that his injuries aren't consistent with the claims of the prosecution. The baby's attacker must have had a significantly larger… organ… to cause this level of damage."

The judge turned his gaze towards the father, a cold smile spreading across his face. "We must be sure," he said, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "In the interest of justice, we should verify the defendant … size."

The lawyer looked horrified. "Here? In public?"

The judge chuckled, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Of course. If there's nothing to hide, there's no need for privacy, now is there?"

The father looked terrified, his eyes darting between the judge, his lawyer, and the silent, watching crowd. His hands trembled as he reached down, unbuckling his belt with shaky fingers. He hesitated, looking up at the judge with pleading eyes.

The judge leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Do it. Now."

With a deep breath, the father began to unzip his pants, his cheeks flushed with humiliation. He pulled out his cock, small and soft, and held it in his hand, his head bowed in shame.

The judge laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Is that all you have, little alien? Yet, it seems it could hurt the baby."

“But Your Honor!” the lawyer shouted, his voice trembling as he tried to make himself heard, “The pictures clearly show traces of semen; it should be possible to identify the assailant through the DNA.”

The judge smiled with contempt and turned to the clerk in a loud voice: “Of course. And for that reason, we have brought here the doctor who treated the baby after the assault. Dr. Whitmore, kindly take the witness stand.”

The courtroom fell silent once again. Every eye turned to Dr. Whitmore, who rose slowly, his gaze serious and professional, fully aware of the heavy weight of the testimony he was about to give. The Mexicans sat hunched, their eyes wide and filled with fear, while their lawyer appeared exhausted and ashamed.

Chapter Text

Dr. Whitmore ascended slowly to the witness stand. His footsteps echoed distinctly on the wooden floor of the courtroom, each heel striking as if to remind everyone of the weight of his authority and expertise. He sat down, straightened his back, and with a single glance. Silenced the murmurs in the hall.

Judge Dolcrast gestured with his hand, a half-smile curling his lips, and his booming voice thundered: "We are here to hear the testimony of Dr. Whitmore, a man whose name precedes him. Let his words be heard and prepare yourselves for a truth from which there is no escape."

The silence that followed was almost sacred. Only shallow, dry breaths could be heard among the crowd. Dr. Whitmore glanced at the papers before him yet spoke with clarity as if every word was already engraved in his memory.

"The examinations we conducted," he began in a steady tone, "led to a single, undeniable conclusion. In the body of the victim, we found a considerable quantity of DNA. The laboratory confirmed it was semen. The sperm cells themselves were weak, exhausted, as is typical of the race from which the defendants come. And yet, despite their weakness, the genetic signature was unmistakable. The comparison with the defendant’s DNA showed a perfect match, beyond any scientific doubt."

At that moment, Gerard, seated at his bench, smiled with satisfaction. It was a sharp, almost cold smile, the smile of someone who recognizes how a single piece of evidence can erase every possibility of defense.

The lawyer for the Mexican parents leapt from his seat. His face flushed red, his voice shook: "Your Honor! In the evidence submitted to the court, it was never written that the source of the DNA was semen. This is a crucial omission -"

His words were cut short by a thunderous roar: "Silence, you pathetic lawyer!" bellowed Judge Dolcrast, his face twisted in rage. "You come here with your pitiful arguments, the product of some insignificant, disreputable college, and you dare challenge the credibility of Dr. Whitmore? You are not even worthy of standing beneath his feet! Dr. Whitmore is a man of science, a pillar of truth. He is a thousand times more reliable than you - and you dare question him?"

The audience held its breath. Some shrank back in their seats. And then, suddenly, two figures in the gallery clapped their hands - a sharp, solitary sound that rolled through the hall, silent confirmation of the judge’s fury.

Judge Dolcrast leaned back into his chair, his tone cold as steel: "If it were lawful, I would sentence you to chemical castration simply for the thought of defending such monsters."

The judge fixed his penetrating gaze at Dr. Whitmore: "Explain to the court, Doctor. What exactly did you find?"

Dr. Whitmore inhaled deeply, answering in a steady but clinical tone: "The laboratory reported an unusually high concentration of cum. The infant's rectum was full of that. Such an amount cannot be explained by incidental or isolated contact. It indicates full penetration, and the source is beyond dispute."

The judge narrowed his eyes, pressing: "Can you state definitively who the source was?"

The doctor paused, clearing his throat with discomfort, then delivered the words in the coldest, most clinical terms: "The genetic profile is a complete match with the father, Mr. Ramirez. There is no other possibility. The quantity and precision of the identification leave zero doubt."

The courtroom fell silent. All heads turned toward the Mexican father, whose breathing grew heavy. His wife buried her face in her hands. The judge, sounding almost satisfied, concluded: "Then the court has its answer."

The Mexican father, who until now had sat silently on the defendants’ bench, suddenly erupted. His face flushed, his eyes filled with tears, and he jumped to his feet, flailing his hands in desperation. His voice cracked as he shouted in broken, stumbling English:  "No! No true! Is not me! Is not my doing! Doctor lie! Is not my baby hurt!"

His words tumbled out roughly, heavy with accent, almost unintelligible. A few people in the audience turned their heads, some smirked, others recoiled at the rawness of his cry.

Judge Dolcrast leaned back in his chair, raised his chin, and then burst into a dry, venomous laugh. He mocked the father’s words in a distorted, taunting voice:  "Nooo true, iz not meee, doctor lieee…"

The crowd erupted into uneasy laughter. The judge waved his hand as if ridiculing a whining child or a drunken fool. Then, in a thunderous, commanding voice, he spat out:  "You are not in your Mexico now. This is a court of order, and you will answer properly - or stay silent! Do you understand? You will not hide behind your broken English; you will not cover the truth with that pitiful accent!"

The judge watched him still; lips curled in a cold sneer of contempt, relishing the moment when even the most pathetic resistance was crushed beneath his authority.

The judge raised his hand with a cutting motion, his voice booming through the courtroom: “Given the defense’s doubts, there is no choice but to bring the victim himself before the court. The public, this bench, the jury, you shall all see with your own eyes what has been done.”

The audience froze. This moment had already crossed every boundary of reason, and the tension thickened almost to suffocation. The court guard nodded sharply, and within a minute the side door swung open. Two officers pushed in a heavy wooden crib on wheels, its groaning sound scraping against the stone floor. Inside the crib lay the baby, wrapped in a thin blanket, fragile, almost translucent under the harsh lights of the courtroom.

At once, the Mexican parents burst into wailing. They rose to their feet, arms stretched out as if pleading for mercy. The mother cried out in broken Spanish, the father stammered in clumsy English, his words fractured and desperate, unable to contain his anguish.

The judge struck his gavel. “Order in the court!” he shouted. Then, with cold cynicism, he turned to the guards: “Shackle them tightly to their seats. I will not allow these two to approach the victim again. Here, under the eyes of the law, they shall not be given another chance to harm him.”

The guards moved roughly, fastening the parents’ wrists to the iron rails at the sides of the bench. The mother trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks; the father tried once more to shout, but the judge mocked his broken English with a sneer, twisting every word, while bitter laughter rippled faintly through the crowd.

Judge Dolcrast stood up, his voice booming through the courtroom. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I believe it's time for the main event. Bring in the baby!"

A hush fell over the crowd, followed by a smattering of applause. The baby was carried in by a guard, his face rough but resolute. He laid the baby down on a table in the center of the room, positioning him so that his tiny, violated ass was facing the crowd.

The judge turned to the audience, a cruel smile on his face. "Come on, don't be shy. Take a look. This is what those filthy Mexicans did to their own son. This is the price of their sin."

A murmur ran through the crowd, and then, slowly, the first person stood up. An elderly man, his face flushed with a sick excitement. He hobbled forward, leaning heavily on his cane, until he was standing right in front of the table. He looked down at the baby, his eyes gleaming with perverse curiosity.

Then, he reached out a trembling hand and touched the baby's ass. The crowd gasped, a mix of shock and arousal. The old man's hand lingered, his fingers tracing the lines of the baby's bruises, the edges of the gaping hole.

More people stood up, the atmosphere in the room growing thick with a sickening mix of horror and desire. Men and women alike pushed their way to the front, eager to get a closer look at the baby's ruined hole. They touched it, some of them even sticking their fingers inside, exploring the baby's most intimate place with a crude, voyeuristic glee.

Gerard watched from the sidelines, his cock hard as he watched the baby being violated all over again. He could see the judge out of the corner of his eye, his own cock tenting his robes.

The defense lawyer's protest was met with a wave of the judge's hand, a dismissive gesture that brooked no argument. "Silence!" the judge barked, his voice echoing through the courtroom. "This is for the good of justice! We must see the full extent of the damage done to this poor child."

He turned to the guard, his voice dropping to a sickeningly sweet tone. "Take the baby to my chambers, won't you? I'd like to examine him myself, ensure that no further harm comes to him."

The guard hesitated, then nodded, carrying the baby away. The judge watched him go, his eyes lingering on the baby's tiny, violated ass.

He turned back to the courtroom, his face a mask of solemnity. "I will need two witnesses to accompany me. Dr. Whitmore, if you would be so kind. And… Officer Gerard, your expertise would be invaluable in this matter."

Gerard felt a thrill run through him as he stood up, following the judge and the doctor out of the courtroom and into the judge's chambers. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old books and expensive cologne.

The judge placed the baby down on his desk, positioning him so that his ass was sticking out over the edge. He looked up at Gerard and Dr. Whitmore, his eyes gleaming with dark excitement.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "We have a lot of work to do. We must ensure that this baby's injuries are fully documented, for the sake of justice."

He reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the baby's gaping hole. "It's amazing, isn't it? Such a tiny thing, and yet it took so much cock. I can hardly imagine the stretch."

He looked up at Gerard, a cruel smile on his face.

Dr. Whitmore nodded, his eyes gleaming with a sick fascination. "It's remarkable, Your Honor. The tissue is so delicate, and yet it's been stretched to its absolute limit."

Gerard watched as the judge's fingers probed the baby's hole, the baby squirming and crying at the unwanted touch. He could feel his own cock hardening, pressing painfully against the zipper of his pants.

The judge looked up at him, a knowing smirk on his face. "You like this, don't you, Gerard? The way the baby squirms, the way it cries. It's almost like it's begging for more, isn't it?"

Gerard nodded, unable to hide the lust in his eyes. "Yes, Your Honor," he said, his voice gruff with desire. "It's fucking beautiful."

The judge chuckled, turning back to the baby. "And look at this, gentlemen. The baby's little ass is so tight, even now. It's like a tiny, used-up cunt. I bet it would feel amazing, fucking something so small, so helpless."

He looked up at them, his eyes gleaming with dark excitement. "Wouldn't you like to try it?"

Dr. Whitmore hesitated, then nodded, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I… I think I would, Your Honor."

The judge turned to Gerard, his smirk widening into a full-blown grin. "And you, Gerard? Would you like to fuck this little alien's ass? To feel it stretch around your cock, to hear it scream as you fill it with your seed?"

Gerard nodded, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Yes, Your Honor," he said, his voice hoarse with desire. "I would fucking love that."

The judge wasted no time, unbuckling his pants and letting his hard cock spring free. He positioned himself between the baby's legs, lining up the head of his cock with the baby's tiny, gaping hole.

"Now, let's see how this feels," he said, his voice growling low. And with one smooth thrust, he pushed inside.

The baby screamed, a high, piercing sound that filled the room. The judge grunted, his eyes rolling back in his head as he felt the baby's tight ass clench around him.

"Fuck, it's amazing," he groaned, his hips moving in short, sharp thrusts. "So fucking tight. Like a little velvet fist."

Dr. Whitmore and Gerard watched, their own cocks out and in their hands, stroking themselves as they watched the judge fuck the baby. The baby's cries filled the room, a mix of pain and fear, but the judge and the others were too lost in their own pleasure to care.

"Your turn, Gerard," the judge grunted, pulling out and nodding to the officer. "I want to see how you handle this little cunt."

Gerard didn't need to be told twice. He stepped forward, his cock hard and leaking as he positioned himself at the baby's entrance. He could see the judge's precum leaking out, and he groaned at the thought of fucking it back inside.

"Fuck, it's so warm," he groaned, pushing inside. The baby cried out again, but Gerard was past caring. He grabbed the baby's hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he began to fuck him hard and deep.

Dr. Whitmore watched, his hand moving faster on his cock as he watched Gerard fuck the baby. "You're missing out, Whitmore," the judge said, his voice chuckled low. "Come on, join us."

Dr. Whitmore hesitated for a moment, then nodded, stepping forward. His cock was smaller than the judge's or Gerard's, but it was still thick enough to make the baby cry out in pain as he entered him.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. "It's so tight. Like a little vice grip."

The judge and Gerard watched, their cocks hard and leaking as they took turns fucking the baby. The baby's cries filled the room, but they were drowned out by the grunts and groans of the three men.

The judge grabbed the baby's face, forcing him to look up at him as he fucked him hard and deep. "You like that, you little alien cunt?" he snarled. "You like taking our cocks? You like being used by real men?"

The baby whimpered, tears streaming down his face as the judge's cock slammed into him again and again. The judge could feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening as he got closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groaned, his hips moving faster and faster. "I'm gonna fill your little cunt with my seed. I'm gonna breed you like the little alien whore you are."

The baby cried out again, but the judge was too far gone to care. He groaned, his cock pulsing as he filled the baby's ass with his cum. He pulled out, his pedocock still hard, as he watched Gerard take his turn.

Gerard fucked the baby hard and fast, his cock slamming into him with enough force to make the baby's tiny body shake. He grabbed the baby's hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he held on for dear life.

"Fuck, it's so good," he groaned, his hips moving like a piston. "I'm gonna cum..."

Gerard's cock swelled inside the baby, and with a final, deep thrust, he came, filling the baby's tiny hole with his hot seed. He pulled out, his cock glistening with cum and baby lube, and stepped aside, panting and spent.

Dr. Whitmore took his place, his cock hard and throbbing as he lined up with the baby's gaping hole. He could see Gerard's and the judge's cum leaking out, and he groaned at the thought of adding his own to the mix.

"Your turn, Whitmore," the judge said, a cruel smile on his face. "I want to see you fuck this little cunt until you're dry."

Dr. Whitmore nodded, grabbing the baby's hips and pulling him closer. He could feel the baby's body shaking, could hear his soft cries, but he was too far gone in his own pleasure to care. He began to fuck the baby slowly and deeply, his cock sliding in and out of the baby's stretched hole with ease.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. "It's so good. So fucking good. I could fuck you forever, you little Mexican cunt."

He could feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening as he got closer and closer to the edge. He looked down at the baby, at the way his tiny body was stretched around his cock, and he groaned, his hips moving faster and faster.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groaned, his cock pulsing as he filled the baby's ass with his cum. He pulled out, his cock still hard, as he watched the judge.

Dr. Whitmore sighed, his cock still hard as he looked down at the baby, now lying limp and used on the judge's desk. "I'm going to miss this little cunt when the trial is over," he said, his voice a low growl. "He's been such a good fuck."

The judge chuckled, a dark sound that sent a shiver down Dr. Whitmore's spine. "I think we can arrange something, Doctor," he said, his eyes gleaming with a dark excitement. "For the right price, anything is possible."

Dr. Whitmore's eyes widened, hope flaring in his chest. "Anything, Your Honor?"

The judge nodded, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Anything. How much are you willing to pay for this little alien cunt?"

Dr. Whitmore hesitated, then named his price. The judge listened, his smile widening as he realized how much the doctor was willing to pay for the baby.

"Done," he said, his voice a low growl. "Upon the rendering of my judgment, I shall decree that the infant be placed in your custody, to be lawfully adopted as your own. But remember, he's a gift. You must take good care of him."

Dr. Whitmore nodded, his cock hardening at the thought of having the baby all to himself. "I will, Your Honor. I promise."

The judge smiled, a cold, calculating smile. "Good. Then it's settled. You will take the baby home with you, and you will… entertain him, as you see fit."

He paused, his eyes gleaming with a dark excitement. "But remember, Doctor. If you ever speak of this, if you ever breathe a word of what we've done here today, I will ruin you. Do you understand?"

Dr. Whitmore nodded, his throat dry with fear and anticipation. "Yes, Your Honor. I understand."

The judge smiled, a cold, satisfied smile.

Chapter Text

Gerard walked down the detention corridor, his heavy boots echoing against the cold floor. A young officer followed a step and a half behind, careful to keep the respectful distance that hierarchy demanded.

The hallway was dim, thick with the stench of sweat, rusted metal, and dying hope. Inside the cells, dozens of undocumented migrants were crammed together, most of them Mexicans, sun-worn faces with eyes full of fear. Others came from more distant lands: a few frightened Koreans, silent and broad-shouldered Africans, Arabs whispering quiet prayers, and even a handful of whites who had fallen from grace with the law, though their gaze still carried contempt for the others.

All of them awaited trial, but Gerard knew the truth: the judicial system was drowning. The caseload was unbearable. Only the “urgent” cases, the ones that drew headlines or carried political weight, ever reached a courtroom. The rest, the vast majority, would be deported in haste through swift administrative channels, never seeing a judge, never hearing a word about rights.

He moved slowly, letting his eyes linger on the faces pressed against the iron bars, desperate eyes fixed on him. Gerard smiled, not with mercy, but with the cold smile of a man who knew he held absolute control over their fate.

Suddenly, a desperate voice rose from one of the cells. A thin Central American migrant gripped the bars and called out in a trembling tone: “¡Policía! ¡Por favor!” - “Officer, please!”

His eyes shone with raw desperation, but before he could utter another word, the young guard trailing behind Gerard lunged forward. Without hesitation, he swung his baton down hard on the man’s fingers wrapped around the iron bars.

A dull crack echoed, followed by a piercing scream of pain that tore through the detention block. The sound rolled down the long corridor, mingling with whispers, shouts, and the heavy silence of the others. Some prisoners recoiled in fright, while others pressed their faces closer to the bars, as if to witness, or to reassure themselves, it wasn’t their fate.

Gerard paused for a moment, watching the man clutch his injured hand in agony. A thin smile crept across his lips. He said nothing to the guard, nor to the prisoner, and simply kept walking, as if everything had unfolded exactly as it should.

Gerard kept walking down the row of cells, yet his thoughts were no longer on what unfolded around him. The shouts, the pleading voices, even the sharp scream that still echoed faintly in his ears, all of it blurred into background noise, like a distant hum.

He knew a dangerous move lay ahead. One that could cost him his career, his freedom, perhaps even his life. If discovered, if anyone uncovered his true intentions, he might well find himself on the opposite side of these bars.

All his life, he had been taught loyalty to the uniform, to the system, to the law. And now here he was, a senior officer, his uniform neatly pressed, the metal badge gleaming on his chest, seriously contemplating betrayal. Not just a breach of procedure, not a minor act of disobedience, but betrayal in its truest form.

Yet Gerard was neither reckless nor a fool. He had weighed this carefully, through sleepless nights that left him staring at the ceiling until dawn. And each time, he arrived at the same conclusion: the potential gain was worth the risk.

It wasn’t just money, though the money alone was immense, sums that would make any banker break into a sweat. It was something far greater. Something that could grant him power, influence, perhaps even real control.

And in that quiet moment, as he passed the frightened faces pressed against iron bars, Gerard felt the air around him grow heavier. As if even the walls themselves already knew he no longer truly belonged to this side of the prison.

Gerard pushed open the heavy door to the cell, the hinges screeching in protest. Inside, the two Norwegian neo-Nazis, Erik and Lars, had the Mexican father pinned down on the cold, hard floor. Erik was kneeling on the man's chest, his beefy hands gripping the Mexican's shoulders, holding him down. Lars, meanwhile, was straddling the Mexican's waist, his pants around his ankles, his fat, veiny cock slapping against the Mexican's face. The Mexican's wife was huddled in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes wide with terror and humiliation. The cell reeked of sweat, urine, and the sour smell of fear. Gerard took it all in, his gaze lingering on the Mexican's face, the way his eyes watered as Lars's cock slapped against his cheek, leaving a trail of spit and precome. Gerard felt a familiar stirring in his own pants, his cock hardening at the sight of the Mexican's degradation. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene unfold. Erik grunted in acknowledgment, shifting his weight slightly to give Lars more room. Lars, emboldened by Gerard's presence, grabbed the Mexican's chin, forcing his mouth open. He thrust his hips forward, his cock disappearing into the Mexican's mouth. The Mexican gagged, his body convulsing as he tried to push Lars away, but Erik held him down, his grip tightening. Lars began to move, his hips pounding into the Mexican's face, his balls slapping against the Mexican's chin. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the cell, punctuated by the Mexican's muffled cries of protest.

Despite the enjoyment he was deriving from the scene, Gerard knew he had work to do. He pushed off from the doorframe, his boots echoing on the cold floor as he approached the trio. "Alright, boys," he said, his voice firm. "That's enough for now." Erik and Lars looked up, their faces flushed with exertion and lust. They nodded, panting as they climbed off the Mexican father, leaving him sprawled and humiliated on the floor. Gerard turned to his young partner, who had followed him into the cell. "Take these two to the juvenile wing," he ordered. "They've got some… special duties to perform there." The young officer nodded, understanding the subtext. He grabbed Erik and Lars by their arms, pulling them roughly to their feet. The two neo-Nazis grinned, licking their lips in anticipation. They knew what awaited them in the juvenile wing. It was a place where their 'talents' were not just tolerated but encouraged.

As they were led away, Gerard turned his attention back to the Mexican father, who was slowly picking himself up from the floor. Gerard could see the humiliation and fear in the man's eyes, and it only served to fuel his own desire. He stepped closer, looming over the Mexican, his voice low and threatening. "You're lucky, you know," he said.

The Mexican father trembled as he pushed himself fully upright, his fingers still clinging to the bars as if they were the only thing keeping him standing. His eyes were wet, but within that fragility there flickered a spark of disbelief. He muttered in broken English, his voice cracking:

“Lucky...? How... this lucky? I don’t understand…”

His gaze searched for an answer, maybe even a sliver of mercy. But Gerard’s thin smile made it clear that there would be no mercy here. He stepped closer, his heavy boots echoing against the concrete floor.

“You’re lucky,” Gerard said, his voice steady and cold, “because out there, in the streets, you’d vanish without a trace. Here, at least, you get a trial. Here, you even get to breathe for a few more days. That’s more than most of your kind ever get.”

The father’s mouth opened, struggling for words in clumsy, broken English. His hands shook. Deep down, he knew this wasn’t a chance at justice; it was a cruel game, one where men like Gerard made the rules and decided the ending.

“As much as I’d love to see you and your pathetic wife kicked out of this country,” Gerard said, his voice low and deliberate, savoring every word, “it seems you and I might have to work together. The police discovered who really assaulted your son.”

The Mexican father lifted his head, eyes wide open, like a drowning man suddenly thrown a rope. “Who?” he whispered in broken English, his voice trembling with desperation.

Gerard’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Not so fast, you filthy Mexican,” he said, drawing out each syllable to wound. “Let me remind you, for now, the whole world believes you are the rapist.”

The father opened his mouth to protest, but Gerard silenced him with a sharp wave of his hand. “And don’t forget,” he continued, “as dangerous as you aliens are to America, the pedophiles, the ones hiding in every shadow, preying on innocent American children, they are far worse. And right now, you look exactly like one of them.”

The father sank once more onto his narrow bunk, burying his face in his hands. The trembling, cold-and-stifling bed became, for him, a kind of defendants’ bench, where every failure, every fear, and every pang of guilt was collected and examined as if it were evidence in a courtroom. The shadows along the back bench of the cell, faces terrified and watchful, reinforced this sensation: he had not merely fallen onto a bed, but into a station where all his wrongs were laid bare, the world watching, and every word of Gerard’s pierced him to the bone.

“The plan is very simple,” Gerard said in a cold, calculated voice, his eyes fixed on the Mexican father as if reading every fear in his soul. “Judge Dolcrast intends to invoke the new presidential decree and declare both of you as terrorists, who have employed sexual terror against a United States citizen, the baby boy. You will be deported to Guantanamo Bay and held there alongside your fellow combatants against America: Al-Qaeda, ISIS, and all the other good men.

The Bay is not considered part of the United States, so the few protections our Constitution might grant you are nearly irrelevant there. And your son, on the other hand… will be adopted by his assailant.

It’s a deal where everyone comes out satisfied, except for you, of course… and me as well. Protecting American citizens is my mission.”

The air in the cell grew thick. The father trembled, his face buried in his hands, unable to believe the words he was hearing. The narrow bunk now seemed like a pit with no escape.

“Look,” Gerard said, his voice low but sharp, “you’re already finished anyway. But your son has a chance at a better future. It will require a sacrifice from you, but it’s the only way he survives.”

He paused for a moment, drew a slow breath, his gaze piercing as if any word of protest would make them crumble on the spot. “You will have to officially give him up. Relinquish all your rights over him.”

Gerard pulled out a stack of neatly bound papers, glossy sheets stamped with the seals and signatures of the prosecution. “It’s all here in this document. You will admit to illegal entry into the United States, admit to all the crimes Dolcrast accuses you of, rape, and everything. In exchange, the prosecution will not demand you be sent to Guantanamo Bay, but will return you to your filthy Mexico…”

The father and mother looked at each other, frozen by Gerard’s cruel tone. The father opened his mouth in broken English, his voice shaking: “We… we need to… consult with… our lawyer… about… this.”

Gerard’s grin widened, savoring their fear and confusion. “Ah,” he said, cold and menacing, “that’s exactly the problem. Your lawyer… he’s the one who raped the baby.”

The Mexican father and mother looked at each other, half-shocked, half-disbelieving. The world around them seemed to pause, time stretching endlessly.

“This entire trial was rigged from the start,” Gerard said, his voice cold and deliberate, eyes boring into them as if scanning every scream of their souls. “I’m sure you noticed. It was all a deal your lawyer signed with Dolcrast.

The lawyer will get to adopt the baby and will have the option… to abuse him daily. Dolcrast will receive the money paid to him by the left-wing organization that hired your lawyer. And you? You will become the monsters that Dolcrast and your lawyer are, only far away, far from here, somewhere no one can hear you. And your son… will become a sex toy.”

The father collapsed onto his bunk, as if Gerard’s words had struck him physically. The mother clutched her husband in despair, tears streaming from her eyes, the thought of their son’s future hanging over them like a sword.

“I’ve arranged everything with the prosecution,” Gerard said, his voice cold and deliberate, eyes fixed on the Mexican parents as if reading every hidden thought. “Trust me.”

The air in the cell grew heavy, every breath burdened with the weight of what was to come. The father and mother remained silent, their hands frozen together, eyes wide with fear. Gerard’s threatening gaze allowed no escape from the dark reality looming over them, every action, every word, meticulously calculated down to the last detail.

The father and mother agreed to sign, their hands trembling as they gripped the pen. All the tension, all the fear, coalesced into a single moment where their baby’s future seemed to hang on the tip of a simple pen.

“Is this what will save our son?” they asked in trembling voices, eyes clinging to each other, searching for reassurance in one another’s gaze. Every word shook with fear and despair, like a faint sound amidst a raging storm.

Gerard smiled with a cold, calculated smile, satisfied with the manipulation he had achieved. “Yes,” he said, his voice sharp and clear, “this is what will give him the only chance to live.”

The parents signed, their hands trembling even more as the pen rested between their fingers. Gerard quickly collected the documents; his eyes never left them for a moment.

After taking the papers from the table and ensuring that everything would proceed according to his plan, he slammed the cell door behind him with a sharp, decisive click. Through the bars, he said coldly and dismissively, “You know, you’re really bad at bargaining. If you had wanted, you could have asked to switch cells so you wouldn’t have to stay with Erik and Lars.”

He began walking back down the corridor, his cold laughter echoing off the stone walls, blending with the quiet unrest of the other detainees. Every step he took radiated threat, every smile sealed the sense of cruel power he wielded. The parents remained behind, staring at each other in fear and despair, realizing just how much their son’s future now rested in Gerard’s hands.

Chapter Text

“Court is in session,” the clerk announced in a solemn, rigid tone.

Gerard and Dr. Whitmore rose from their wooden bench, their movements almost in sync, as though both were keenly aware of the gravity of the moment. The courtroom was nearly full to capacity, the air thick with tension and expectation.

The Mexican parents also stood, their faces contorted with pain. Fresh bruises and scratches marked their bodies, living proof of the violent treatment they had endured at the hands of Erik and Lars in the holding cells. They looked exhausted, yet their eyes locked onto their baby, as though everything left to them in the world was contained in that tiny body.

Then it happened. A side door opened, and the courtroom fell silent. Judge Dolcrast stepped inside with heavy, deliberate strides, his head held high, his eyes narrowed coldly. Strapped to his chest in a front carrier was the infant.

The sight was both horrifying and captivating: the child’s tiny face twisted in pain, each step of the judge jolting his fragile body, his leg twitching restlessly as if fighting with all his might to escape. Yet the public in the courtroom saw something entirely different. Gasps of awe escaped from the front rows, followed by scattered clapping that swelled into a wave of enthusiasm. “Such bravery,” someone whispered. “Such justice,” said another. To them, Dolcrast was not merely a judge; he was a hero carrying the victim, a symbol of unshakable authority.

Dolcrast sank into his chair, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, reveling in every drop of admiration. The baby, groaning in pain, had become the living proof and centerpiece of this grand spectacle of power and dominion.

Judge Dolcrast settled into his leather-padded chair, adjusting the infant on his lap with a firm, commanding hand, causing the baby to scream in pain and a faint, pitiful wail, as if every slight movement intensified his tiny suffering. His small face contorted, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks, and his frail legs twitched in the air as if desperately fighting to free themselves from the constricting hold of the carrier. The judge, however, seemed pleased, his dark eyes gleaming with corrupt delight as he watched the crowd’s reaction around him. He lifted his chin with pride, his well-groomed brown hair shining under the room’s lights, casting a shadow of power over anyone who dared to look at him.

The judge bellowed, "Clerk, bring the pacifier!" His voice echoed through the room like a king’s decree, and the clerk, a young, attractive woman with long brown hair and a body wrapped in a tight dress that revealed the curves of her thighs, hurriedly rummaged through her drawer. She appeared slightly flustered, her cheeks flushed, as her hands fumbled over various items until she found the small, yellowish pacifier. She rose from her seat, her steps hesitant yet submissive, and climbed toward Dolcrast’s bench. As she leaned forward to place the pacifier in the infant’s mouth, the judge seized the moment with depraved intent. His left hand, hidden beneath his black sleeve, crept forward and shoved a finger toward her deep cleavage, peeking inside with greedy satisfaction, relishing the sight of her pale, soft breasts trembling under his unexpected touch. The clerk froze for a moment, her eyes widening in shock, but she dared not protest. Dolcrast’s power was absolute, and she knew her place as an inferior woman under his rule.

Meanwhile, the infant tried to spit out the pacifier, his cries turning into weak whimpers as the judge’s rough fingers forced it back into his mouth. Dolcrast let out a low, wild laugh, stroking the baby’s small head as if it were a pet, while his eyes continued to roam toward the clerk, who returned to her seat with her head bowed, her chest rising and falling with suppressed excitement. He reveled in this control, the ability to do whatever he pleased, whether it was the captive infant, the humiliated clerk, or the crowd that bowed to his authority.

After the baby had finally calmed a little on Judge Dolcrast’s lap, he leaned forward over his bench, fixing the crowd with a sharp, commanding stare. His voice rang out, confident and dripping with contempt:

“Distinguished audience,” he began, “the original plan was to proceed with the evidentiary stage, as we would in any ordinary case. But in this instance, fate has chosen to move us along more swiftly. Recently, a document was placed before me, signed by these filthy alien defendants sitting right here before us.”

He paused, letting his words echo through the chamber, his eyes deliberately lingering on the twisted, pained faces of the Mexican father and mother.

“I consulted with my fellow jurists,” he continued with haughty emphasis, “and, remarkably enough, the document is fully admissible. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, even such monsters as these eventually confess to the truth when they are cornered. And this court will not waste precious time on worthless theatrics.”

Judge Dolcrast lifted the document before his face, shaking it slightly as though it were a scrap of worthless paper, and read aloud:

“According to what is written here,” he declared, his voice cutting through the chamber, “the defendants choose to waive their legal right to representation by an attorney.”

He paused, eyes widening for a brief theatrical moment, then clenched the page in his fist with a crooked grin.

“And from this moment until the end of the trial,” he continued, “the defendants shall represent themselves. Yes, you heard correctly, themselves! With no buffer, no shield, no mouthpiece to put words in their mouths. Only they, laid bare, exactly as they deserve.”

A ripple of murmurs coursed through the crowd. Some of those present burst into mocking laughter, while others applauded with growing enthusiasm. Dolcrast leaned back in his chair, stroking the baby’s head as if it were a trophy of victory, a cold smile spreading across his face.

The father rose to his feet, hands trembling, and addressed the judge in broken English, the kind that betrays a Spanish speaker struggling for words: “Mi… Mister judge, there is mistake. We… no give up lawyer. We ask… change lawyer.”

A tense silence fell over the chamber.

“Silence!” roared Judge Dolcrast, slamming his gavel down. “As your own legal representative, yes, that’s what you are now, you should know when to speak and when to hold your tongue in my court. Were you not the average, ignorant Mexican, perhaps you’d have known to rely on the services of a real attorney. But that's right… You forfeited with your very own hands.”

At that very moment, as Dolcrast shifted in his seat, the baby on his lap twisted his face in pain once again, his tiny leg twitching nervously as if trying to escape.

A dark laughter rippled through the audience, some even clapping mockingly. Dolcrast glared at the parents with fury laced with triumph, shaking his head as though the whole affair were a pitiful farce.

Judge Dolcrast continued to read aloud from the document, his eyes gleaming with delight at administering justice in his own way:

“Furthermore,” he declared, “the defendants admit to all charges: crossing the border from Mexico, working illegally on U.S. soil, the assault on the baby… and what is this… ah, they even admit to smuggling drugs from Mexico, although this was not part of the original charges, and to contempt of court in a fraudulent attempt to deny the offenses they committed.”

The crowd was tense, some trembling, some clapping almost in wicked amusement. The baby on Dolcrast’s lap twisted his face in pain once more, his tiny leg twitching nervously. The parents looked at each other, eyes wide with terror and utter confusion, as the judge delivered his words like arrows striking straight into their hearts.

The mother stood, her face tense, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to speak in broken English: “Yo… Your Honor… no… no this paper… not we sign… you… you trick… because we no speak good English…”

Judge Dolcrast shook with anger, his voice piercing the courtroom: “Shut your mouth, woman!” Spittle flew as he wiped it on his sleeve. “The fact that you are complete ignoramuses, who never bothered to learn the language of civilized people is of no concern to me or this court. In America, things are very clear: there is a document that bears your signature, and therefore, everything written in it is the absolute truth. You cannot take it back. You will bear the consequences of your actions!”

The audience shivered, some whispering to one another, some laughing slyly, while the parents froze in place, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. Dolcrast rested his hand on the document, his gaze cold and sharp, as if every word they uttered was a tool he could wield to punish and dominate.

Judge Dolcrast, still seated on his leather-padded throne, noticed the infant had slipped slightly on his sturdy lap, the tiny body wriggling helplessly in a futile attempt to escape the harsh grip. Swiftly, he thrust his rough hands under the baby’s fragile arms, straightening him back onto his lap with a sharp, merciless motion. The scream that erupted from the infant’s small mouth echoed through the room like a living distress call, a piercing, penetrating sound that caused a slight twitch on the judge’s face yet did nothing to wipe away his wicked grin. Pain flooded the baby’s blue eyes, tears streaming like a small river down his reddened, wet cheeks, and his thin legs writhed in the air as if desperately battling against the cruel fate imposed upon them. The judge, however, seemed to relish the spectacle; he straightened slightly in his chair, his broad chest rising as if the scream were yet another round of applause for his admiration.

Dr. Whitmore's hand shot out, grabbing Gerard's sleeve. "The baby," he said, his voice filled with disbelief. "The baby is being fucked by Dolcrast."

Gerard chuckled, his cold smile widening. "Took you long enough to notice, Doctor."

Judge Dolcrast looked down at the child on his lap, as if adjusting him. But what he was actually doing was sliding the child up and down on his crotch, using the infant's body as a makeshift fleshlight.

The father rose to his feet, his face tense, trying to speak in broken English, shaped like a Spanish speaker struggling with the language: “Yo… Your Honor… we… we no… not do… this thing… we… we need lawyer… we… we… help…”

Judge Dolcrast looked at him with a contemptuous smile, his eyes fixed as if trying to swallow the father with his gaze: “Ah, you again? Yes, I understand your broken English. But, as I said, the document is signed, and the document is the law! Every word in it is true, and you cannot take it back. Stop your childish speech!”

The father choked, trying to find other words, but every sentence he managed to scrape together broke into a heart-wrenching stammer: “Bu… but… we… we… no understand… we… cheated…”

Judge Dolcrast laughed, a cold and dazzling laugh, and again lectured the audience: “See! They don’t even understand what they are doing. But here, in my courtroom, the document is the law. If you want to try to oppose it, do so at your own risk!”

The audience shivered, some whispering secretly, some excited by the spectacle, witnessing the judge’s absolute power. The parents stood frozen, their eyes wide and chilling, while Dolcrast held the document in his hand, as if every word and every glance were an inevitable threat over them.

“And there is one final point in this document,” Judge Dolcrast said, his voice loud and cold, his gaze fixed on the parents in the courtroom. “The rapist defendants agree to relinquish all their rights over the child…”

“No!!!” the mother shouted, her voice trembling, eyes wide with disbelief.

Judge Dolcrast struck his gavel forcefully on the desk, filling the room with his commanding presence. “And they give me, Judge Dolcrast, the authority to decide who will be the legal guardian!” he bellowed, drowning out the mother’s cries with his harsh but controlling tone.

The father leaned back, his face pale with shock and confusion, unable to find words. The audience fell silent for a moment, drawn into the tension and the sheer force of the judge’s authority, while the parents stood, caught in the unstoppable wave of power before them.

“One can’t know how these two monsters might react,” Judge Dolcrast said, his eyes narrow and gaze piercing. “Therefore, I think it’s best to restrain them properly, like the beasts they are.”

The parents recoiled, their faces pale, chests heaving rapidly, while the audience in the courtroom was drawn into the intense tension, all silent in the face of the judge’s cruelty. The court guards hurried to carry out the judge’s order, and the father and mother were forced to remain restrained in place, powerless before an unlimited authority.

“Nevertheless, a conviction requires overcoming every reasonable doubt,” Judge Dolcrast said sharply, rising from his seat and lifting the stack of papers in his hands. “Therefore, I will ask the foreperson of the jury to read the document themselves and determine whether, in their view, I omitted any detail, or whether it is, in fact, a forgery.”

Judge Dolcrast began to stride toward the foreperson of the jury, his steps heavy and confident, and the courtroom fell silent for a moment. The baby’s leg, still resting on his lap, twitched nervously with every step the judge took, as if he were trying with all his limited strength to escape the judge and his cock. The parents clung to each other, faces pale, eyes fixed on the floor, while the audience was drawn into the oppressive tension that filled the entire courtroom.

The foreperson of the jury, who until now had been staring at the clock on the courtroom wall as if his gaze could accelerate time, took the stack of papers from Judge Dolcrast. He flipped through them with conspicuous disinterest, as if they were mere routine documents, and then declared in a steady voice, “Everything appears to be in order.”

Judge Dolcrast turned slowly, his cold, piercing gaze locking onto the Mexican parents. “And therefore,” he bellowed, “I find you guilty of all the offenses you confessed to in this document.”

The courtroom erupted, the audience cheered and clapped, some of them jumping onto the wooden benches in excitement, shouting and celebrating as if the very experience gave them personal satisfaction. Judge Dolcrast strode back to his seat, savoring the coarse echo of his authority. The parents remained bewildered, faces pale, eyes filled with fear and humiliation, while the tension in the courtroom remained unrelenting.

Judge Dolcrast drew his gaze away from the baby on his lap, who let out another sharp cry of pain, likely from the stress and pressure of the courtroom and Dolcrast's huge leaking cock inside his tiny ass. The child’s leg kicked nervously with each step the judge took, as if trying in vain to escape. The audience fell silent for a moment, breaths held; some watched in anxiety, others with tense curiosity, waiting to see what would unfold.

Dolcrast stood fully upright in his chair, smiling with malice, his voice ringing above the echoes of the cries. “And now,” he called out loudly and commandingly, “what do you think is the punishment that these monsters sitting here among us deserve?”

From the crowd came enthusiastic shouts, some loud and clear: “Hang them! Castrate them! Throw them into the sea!” The voices filled the room with tension, while the Mexican parents, eyes fixed on the judge, sat on the defendants’ bench, their faces contorted with pain and fear. The mother hugged her husband helplessly, appearing frozen in place, seeking comfort in each other amidst the shock and fury around them.

Judge Dolcrast leaned back in his seat, reveling in the power he held and the precise timing of the cries and reactions. “I hear your steps, your shouts, your demand for justice,” he said, his voice full of malice, “and this is what I intend to deliver today. You will bear the consequences of your actions, and the government will show everyone that power, order, and control prevail over all other considerations.”

Judge Dolcrast shivered, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath, as if a powerful wave of pleasure had surged through him. "I sentence you… to life imprisonment at CECOT (Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo)…" he let out a short moan within his words, emphasizing the satisfaction he felt from the power in his hands, "…with no possibility of pardon," he continued, his voice lingering, filled with delight from the domination he imposed. "You will spend the rest of your pitiful lives there, and the guards… know exactly how to deal with pedophiles like you…" He moaned again, as if every word were its own indulgence.

The audience trembled; some even jumped on the benches in excitement, applause, and shouts blending together, while the baby’s face twisted as the judge moved, his short cries echoing through the courtroom. Every glance, every motion of Dolcrast heightened the tension, and his moans added a layer of cruelty and personal satisfaction that left everyone in the courtroom frozen in shock.

"Look," Dr. Whitmore said to Gerard, pointing at Judge Dolcrast's robe. Gerard followed his gaze, his eyes widening as he saw the dark stains spreading across the fabric. His stomach churned with arousal as he realized what was happening.

Judge Dolcrast was cumming, his orgasm pulsing out of him and into the baby's tiny body. The baby screamed, its face contorted in pain and fear as it was filled with the judge's hot, sticky semen. The scent of sex filled the air, thick and overwhelming, making it difficult for anyone to think straight.

Dr. Whitmore's face is glowing with enthusiasm. Gerard couldn't look away. He was mesmerized by the sight of the baby, its little body shaking as it was used for the judge's pleasure. He could see the judge's hand moving under the robe, could see the baby's body jerking as the judge fucked it with his fingers, drawing out his orgasm.

The baby's cries grew louder, more desperate, as the judge continued to use it. It was clear that the baby was in pain, but the judge didn't seem to care. He was lost in his own pleasure, his body shaking as he came over and over again.

Gerard felt his own cock hardening in his pants, the sight of the baby being used like this turning him on.

The audience couldn't look away or stop watching. He was trapped, mesmerized by the sickening sight.

Finally, the judge pulled his hand out from under the robe, leaving the baby gasping and shaking. The baby's ass was red and raw, gaping open from the judge's use. Semen leaked out of it, running down the baby's thighs and onto the judge's robe.

"Hee-hee-hee-hee!" Judge Dolcrast laughed in a childish, sickening tone that grated on the ears of everyone present. For a moment, it seemed more like a child playing than a judge presiding over a trial. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto the terrified mother, and sneered: "Looks like someone here did something… and needs a diaper change!"

He lifted the stack of papers as if it were a wand of supreme authority, his voice rising suddenly: "Clerk! Take the baby and change his diaper, while I…" He paused, giggled again with that sticky laugh, "…while I make sure we find him an adoptive family, one that will really know how to take care of him!"

His voice rang out once more through the courtroom, the childish laughter blending with the cold sound of his gavel striking the desk. Gerard could see bulges erecting all over the courtroom.

The clerk rose from her seat, her face marked with open disdain and clear displeasure. She approached Dolcrast, took the cummed baby from his arms as though it were a heavy and unwanted burden, and began to stride away from the bench to change his diaper. The fleshlight infant cried and whimpered as she retreated with rigid steps, while the entire courtroom followed her with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Meanwhile, the courtroom itself erupted in shouts.

“Two hundred thousand dollars, Judge Dolcrast!” one of the onlookers bellowed, his voice booming

“Two hundred thousand? Ha! I’ll give you two hundred and fifty!” another shouted, slamming his palm against the table before him.

“I’ll give you my daughter, Your Honor!” a third man roared, his face flushed with excitement.

“I’ve got a three-room apartment!” cried a fourth, straining to be heard above the din.

“I’ll pay you fifty thousand every month if you let me have him!” yelled another from the gallery.

“I’ll give you my business, a profitable grocery store!” came yet another offer.

“I’ll give you a million dollars in cash!” a frantic voice added.

“I’ll fight anyone here for him!” a broad-shouldered man bellowed, leaping onto a bench as though calling for combat.

The shouts tangled together, growing louder and louder, until the entire chamber resembled a frenzied marketplace, as if a trial of life and death had suddenly been transformed into a public auction for the fate of a small child.

Gerard looked around and smiled. Now everything became clear, he finally understood why all those perverts had come to watch the trial today.

“Wait, wait, gentlemen,” Judge Dolcrast declared in a lofty tone as he received the baby back from the clerk and fastened him once more to the front carrier on his chest. “We are not in a marketplace, and this is not an auction. The law -” he paused, straightening his robe and sweeping the room with a grave look, “- obliges me to consider only the best interests of the child…”

But his words were suddenly drowned out by the desperate cries of the Mexican parents. They shouted in rapid Spanish, their voices crashing like furious waves against the ears of the audience. They thrashed against their chains, tugging with frantic strength, as if ready to break free and hurl themselves at Dolcrast, to reclaim their son at any cost.

“Remove these monsters from my courtroom!” the judge barked at the court guards, his voice booming above the chaos. “They have already surrendered every claim to this child. In their hearts, cold as ice, there is no love and no concern for him whatsoever.”

Two guards lunged at the father first, seizing his arms and legs in a brutal grip as he writhed and cried out helplessly in Spanish. The mother was dragged right after him, her hair yanked back by the fist of a furious female officer. Their screams merged with the deafening roar rising from the audience.

People leapt from their seats, some climbing onto benches for a better view, turning the courtroom into a miniature battlefield. “Filthy pedos!” voices shouted in English. “Back to Mexico, scum!” Others spat at them, the spit landing on their faces and torn clothes.

A crumpled paper cup flew through the air, followed by a bundle of documents that spiraled like dirty snow. An elderly woman in a black coat hurled an old shoe, striking the mother hard on the shoulder. Curses in English and Spanish collided, forming a chaotic chorus of hatred.

The father collapsed briefly to his knees, but the guards dragged him forward like cattle to slaughter, while the mother screamed his name and clawed desperately to reach him. Together, they vanished through the side door, which slammed shut with a metallic thud.

What lingered in the hall was only the echo of screams, half cheers, half mob fury, and the gnawing sense that the show was far from over.

Judge Dolcrast raised his hand, fingers drumming against the wooden gavel, and struck the bench three sharp times. His voice cut through the uproar, sharp as a blade:
“Order! Order in the court!”

The mob did not quiet immediately; jeers, curses, and scraps of paper still flew toward the side door. Rising from his seat, Dolcrast’s tall figure cast a long shadow across the bench, the baby strapped to his chest groaning and crying once more. Yet the child’s cries became his instrument, like a drum setting the rhythm.

“You will sit down and keep silent,” the judge roared, “or I will clear this courtroom entirely and continue the trial behind closed doors. Remember, justice is carried out here, not in the street, not in a marketplace!”

The audience, teetering on the edge of hysteria, slowly relented. One by one, people returned to their seats, legs that had stood on benches dropped back down reluctantly, fists shoved into pockets. Only a few whispers lingered, as the crunch of crumpled papers beneath shoes replaced the shouting.

Gradually, tension reclaimed the hall, and once again every gaze was fixed on Judge Dolcrast, awaiting his next decree.

Judge Dolcrast strode slowly toward the stand, his eyes gleaming with a sharp, commanding light. The audience stirred with anticipation, faces a mix of excitement, fear, and curiosity. "Even though your anger and outrage are understandable and even justified when it comes to Mexican pedos who endanger the lives of our country," the judge said firmly, "I cannot hand the baby over to any of you. None of you is suitable to raise him! Perhaps except…"

He paused, turning his gaze to Dr. Whitmore. With a wicked smile that hinted at what was to come, Dr. Whitmore stood, his posture tense, his expression serious yet proud.

"Dr. Whitmore?" the judge asked. "Are you willing to adopt the baby?"

"It would be my honor," Dr. Whitmore replied, his voice steady yet filled with emotion.

"Very well, proceed to the witness stand," Judge Dolcrast ordered. "So we may continue the process."

The crowd, initially excited, gradually quieted, and the thrill turned into disappointment. Some of the spectators dragged their feet toward the exit of the courtroom, their voices tense and determined, as if planning to chase after the Mexican parents or protest the outcome of the trial. Others remained seated, their faces filled with frustration and disdain, struggling to come to terms with the fact that they would not retain the child.

Judge Dolcrast turned to Dr. Whitmore, his voice heavy and ceremonial, as though presiding over a wedding. "Dr. Whitmore," he intoned, "will you be the adoptive parent and faithful guardian of this child? Will you always care for his well-being, educate him, protect him, and guide him through life as if he were your own?"

Dr. Whitmore nodded, his eyes serious, and replied in a steady voice, "Yes, Your Honor, I swear to do so."

"Congratulations, sir, the child is yours," Judge Dolcrast said, shaking Dr. Whitmore’s hand firmly. The crowd responded with polite, bittersweet applause, acknowledging the outcome but still struggling to accept it. Yet Gerard, standing near the stand, clapped enthusiastically, his eyes full of satisfaction and pleasure.

The disappointed yet subdued crowd slowly began to disperse, some dragging their feet out in anger or frustration, while Dr. Whitmore stood by the witness stand, holding the child, and Gerard looked around with a small, satisfied smile.

Chapter Text

At the far edge of the airport, beyond rusty barbed-wire fences and faded warning signs, a convoy of white buses crawled to a halt. One by one, their doors opened, releasing dozens of illegal migrants. The heat was suffocating, the scorching sun burned their skin, and they stepped down in chains, hands and feet shackled, their heads lowered, whether from shame or from fear, no one could tell.

Police officers and guards barked sharp, clipped orders, prodding with plastic batons and the tips of rifles, until the people lined up in a single, seemingly endless queue. Stifled cries echoed, the weeping of children mixed with the silence of adults, and only the rumble of idling bus engines filled the heavy air.

At the end of the line stood a metal table stacked with papers and rubber stamps. Behind it sat a committee, three figures in dark suits and sunglasses. Their faces remained frozen, almost inhuman, as they leafed through each file, asking a question or two before swiftly deciding which plane each migrant would be sent to. No reasons were given, no explanations offered. A raised hand was enough to seal a fate.

Above the field, the roar of jet engines thundered, the planes waiting to depart for distant destinations. The waiting, those long minutes between being registered and walking toward the ramp, perhaps the hardest moment of all: the uncertainty, the gnawing fear of the unknown.

The day of deportation had arrived. And it was like no other day.

Gerard stood aside, his hands clasped behind his back, watching his subordinates. They barked orders at the prisoners, hurled harsh commands, and often seemed to take pleasure in taunting or shoving them. He could see how they savored these final moments, the last chance to impose their dominance before the planes swallowed up the deportees and carried them beyond the horizon.

A thin smile spread across his face. It was the sweetness of power, a thrill of pure control. This was the moment when there was no doubt who ruled, and Gerard knew just how much he enjoyed it.

Suddenly, at the far end of the line, a voice rose from the crowd. At first, it was only a murmur, but quickly it swelled into a sharp, heated argument. Two guards struggled to push back a broad-shouldered man who insisted on speaking to the committee, his eyes blazing with fury.

Gerard frowned. He could not tolerate disorder, not on this day, not in his presence. With brisk strides, he marched toward the front of the line, his boots striking hard against the blistering asphalt.

Gerard strode quickly forward, his boots striking the asphalt in a heavy rhythm. As he drew near, the scene unfolded before him: an Asian man, his face lined with age, knelt on the ground before the committee’s metal table. His shackled hands trembled as he spoke in a torrent, his voice quivering, almost breaking into sobs. No one fully understood his words, but the meaning was unmistakable, a final plea, a desperate cry for mercy.

The committee remained unmoved. The three figures in dark suits showed no trace of emotion. One of them slid his sunglasses slightly down his nose, glanced briefly at the man, then turned back to the documents on the table. The others jotted a few notes, as though what unfolded before them was not human suffering, but merely another technical detail to be checked off.

The prisoners in line shuffled forward slowly, their eyes fixed on the scene. They knew the man could not alter his fate, yet his pleading became a symbol, a stark reminder to them all of how powerless they stood against the machine that ruled their destiny.

Gerard halted just a few paces away, a thin smile stretching across his lips. He gazed at the kneeling man as if waiting for the precise moment of his complete collapse.

The Asian man cried out in his own language, his voice choked and wet with tears. His documents trembled in his hands, and he looked up desperately at the committee. He had come from Myanmar, but instead of sending him back there, the committee decided to deport him to Pakistan, a country far from him, full of borders he did not know and could not navigate.

Between murmurs and silence, faint laughter rose from behind the table. One committee member, speaking in a cold tone, addressed him with biting irony: “You’re slanted eyes, aren’t you? All slanted-eyed people, from Singapore to China, are the same.”

The words fell like quiet but heavy bombs, devoid of human compassion yet heavy in meaning. There was no doubt, this was not a random remark but blatant racism. The other committee members curled their lips into thin smiles, agreeing silently, as though reinforcing their shared belief in prejudice against certain ethnic groups.

The prisoner sank deeper to his knees, his voice turning into an incomprehensible jumble, but his pleas drew no response. Then a cold command was heard. Two armed officers approached him, grasping his shackled hands firmly, forcing him to his feet. They held him with force, pulling his arms as they marched him forward toward the nearby aircraft.

Each step made him bow further onto the scorching asphalt, yet he clung to the last moment, his gaze fixed on the committee as if seeking one final mercy. The officers offered no reply. They pushed him aggressively, dragging him toward the plane’s entrance, where pilots and security personnel awaited. From the crowd came cries, sobbed pleas, moans, desperate calls, that grew louder as the plane rose up the runway.

Gerard stood several steps away, a cold smile on his lips. He watched the scene as though it were a pre‑ordained performance, the moment when not only the man’s fate was sealed, but the committee’s racial decree was etched in place.

Next in line was a young Latina woman, her dark skin and wide, desperate eyes fixed on the ground. In her arms, she held a beautiful three‑year‑old boy, his hair a silky black cascade, his skin tender as silk. She gripped him tightly, as if trying to shield him from the world. Her shoulders bore the weight of a mother’s embrace, heavy with love and an imminent sense of loss.

A member of the committee, speaking in a cold, decisive voice, declared: “You will be deported to El Salvador. But your son will be deported separately, on the next flight. This is for the children’s own good.” His tone was sharp as a blade. Without hesitation, he added, “On this flight, you will travel… with a pair of pedophiles. The Ramirez couple. This will ensure they are kept far away and safe, for the sake of the children.”

The woman stammered in confusion, her gaze darting toward him in panic. Her pleading voice rose, cutting through the air: “No! I cannot be separated from him! He is my son!” She insisted, struggling to protect his wholeness, to preserve her right to stay by his side.

Meanwhile, in line, stood the Ramirez couple, a man and a woman, their faces cold and empty. The parents in line, realizing the decision would lead to cruel separation, grew deeply upset. In moments, driven by rage and indignation, several parents began to strike the Ramirez couple with open hands, shouting loudly. The commotion grew, the crowd around them erupting in chaos as parents demanded justice, protesting that because of the Ramirez couple, they might be torn from their children.

The committee sat in complete silence, as if seeing the violence as part of a routine procedure. One committee member whispered with a cold smile: “It’s for the children… always for the children.”

Gerard stood several paces back, a cold smile on his lips. He enjoyed watching the Ramirez couple, the father and mother, whom he himself had indicted with a cold heart, in such a degraded state, bent and dragged along. He looked at them as if watching a performance, and murmured to himself, almost smiling: “They’re going to enjoy themselves in El Salvador.”

The commotion in line grew louder. Gerard called to his officers in a commanding voice: “Restore order!”

Without hesitation, the officers surged into the line, imposing control with violence and force. Shoves, blows, and shouts became part of the general atmosphere. People collapsed; some were thrown aside.

Gerard wasted no time. He strode quickly toward the young Latina mother, his eyes cold as steel. With a firm grip, he snatched the child from her arms, his voice authoritative and cold: “I’m taking him to the room where the children will wait.” He did not give her even a moment to say goodbye, denying her any chance to plead or call after him. Without pause, he departed with the child, leaving behind an atmosphere heavy with anger, despair, and pain.

The officers continued beating the crowd, and the committee remained in complete silence. Gerard, with a cold smile upon his lips, regarded the whole scene as if it were a performance executed according to plan.

Gerard moved away from the commotion, carrying the child in his arms. The cries and noise behind them faded, but the atmosphere remained heavy and tense. He looked at the child with a cold, almost detached gaze.

“What’s your name?” he asked in a calm yet commanding voice.

“Miguel,” the child whispered, his gaze fixed on his small hands.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Gerard continued, barely waiting for an answer.
The child nodded silently.

“You’re here because you committed a serious crime,” Gerard said coldly, approaching the entrance of a small building at the edge of the field. “You entered the United States illegally. You are a criminal. And criminals must be punished.”

The child did not respond. He kept his eyes on the ground, silent, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of confusion.

“Why is my little brother staying here?” the child asked in a trembling voice.

“Because he was born in the United States,” Gerard answered, his voice sharp and cold. “He is a citizen, and this is his place. You, on the other hand, will be deported back to the filthy place you and your mother came from. But before that, I will have to punish you, so you know not to come back here again.”

They arrived at a small office at the edge of the field. Its door was old, painted with peeling paint, having seen many years of use. Gerard entered first, the child following hesitantly, looking around in fear.

Gerard smiled at the child, a cold, almost cruel smile. “In the place you are going, there are many bad men,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “They will hurt you greatly. You should learn how to make them love you, and not hurt you.”

“How?” the child asked nervously, his gaze filled with fear and bewilderment.

Gerard stood in the small room, the air thick with the scent of warm skin and wild desire. He held the boy in his muscular arms, the toddler's eyes trembling between fear and curiosity, his body pressed against him as if caught in an invisible net. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy sound, and the darkness that followed highlighted the dancing shadows on the concrete walls. He threw the boy onto an old bed in the corner, the mattress sinking under his weight, the unique creak filling the space like a night creature’s call.

Gerard unbuckled his belt slowly, each movement sounding like a sensual promise, until his cock, thick, erect, and pulsing, emerged like a living weapon. He stroked it with his right hand, his eyes fixed on the boy as if he were perfect prey, a wicked, artificial smile spreading across his face. "Do you know what this is, boy?" he roared in a deep voice, his words carrying an unshakable tremor of power.

The boy stared at him in silence, his breath quick and broken, his eyes drawn to the massive cock as if an unseen force pulled him. He shook his head slowly, his body tense on the bed, his hands bound to the headboard with cold chains that burned his skin until it reddened.

"This is a cock," Gerard continued, his voice low and hot like a glowing ember, "and men like me have a cock that dominates, that penetrates deep. It can grant you new pleasures, but it can also shatter you if you dare resist." He stepped closer, the masculine scent of his body piercing the boy's nostrils, and placed a heavy hand on the boy’s cheek, feeling the slight tremor under his fingers.

The boy shivered, his body wriggling slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Gerard chuckled, released his hand, and used both to tear the boy’s shirt, revealing a pale, thin chest. Sweat began to drip. He pressed his cock against the boy’s chest, stretching the warm, damp skin, feeling the rapid pulse beneath the pressure. "Decide, boy," he whispered, his voice smooth as black silk, "pleasure or pain. But I’ll get what I want either way."

He began to move, rubbing his cock on the boy’s chest in slow, circular strokes, leaving shiny, wet marks on his skin. The boy groaned, his voice low and broken, his body contracting under the touch. Gerard grabbed the boy’s hair with one hand, pulling his head back forcefully, exposing his long, tanned neck. "Look at me," he ordered, "feel every moment. You belong to me."

The room filled with heavy breaths and suppressed sounds of desire. Gerard pressed his lips to the boy’s neck, biting gently at first, then harder, leaving red marks on his skin. With his other hand, he unfastened the chains, freeing the boy’s hands, then guided them to grip his waist, instructing him to pull him closer. "Cooperate," he sneered, "and maybe I’ll heighten your pleasure."

The boy obeyed, his trembling hands clutching Gerard’s waist, pulling him close until their bodies pressed together. Gerard ran his fingers along the boy’s nape, stroking down his spine, feeling the sweat and heat rising from his body. He slipped one finger inside, then three, relishing the wet sound and the rapid breath that burst from the boy. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure, "you’re exactly what I need."

Gerard continued to dominate the room, his body moving in a wild, deliberate rhythm above the boy, who lay on the bed with glazed eyes and a mouth open in heavy breaths. Sweat dripped from Gerard’s face, falling like hot raindrops onto the boy’s smooth skin, leaving shiny trails across his muscular chest. Each thrust grew deeper, stronger, as if Gerard were trying to etch his presence into the boy’s body, who groaned with broken, sensual sounds, his hands clutching the bedframe as if clinging to life.

The air in the room was thick, saturated with the scent of warm bodies and uncontrollable desire. Gerard lifted the boy’s head with one hand, pulling his long hair back forcefully, exposing his neck pulsing with a rapid beat. He leaned close, exhaling a scorching breath onto his skin, then bit the neck gently before turning it into a harder nip, leaving a vivid red mark. "You feel me, boy?" he sneered, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, "You’re mine until the end."

The boy writhed beneath him, his body contracting and flexing his muscles, but he didn’t pull away. Gerard felt his control intensify, and he quickened his pace, each thrust accompanied by a wet, deep sound that filled the room. He released the boy’s hair and placed both hands on his broad shoulders, pressing him hard into the bed, as if he wanted to imprint him into it. "Take it all," he commanded, his voice sharp as a blade, "and don’t you dare stop me."

As he felt the peak approaching, Gerard pulled back slowly, leaving the boy breathing heavily, his body wet and trembling. He rose to his knees, gripping his erect cock in his hand, and positioned it in front of the boy’s face. Gerard’s eyes blazed with feral lust as he began stroking himself rapidly, his movements strong and precise. "Look at me, boy," he ordered, "see what you do to me." The boy lifted his gaze, his eyes locked on Gerard’s cock, his expression a blend of submission and excitement.

At the height of pleasure, Gerard released everything, a hot, liquid stream hitting the boy’s face, splashing across his cheeks, forehead, and parted lips. The sticky warmth spread over his skin, and the boy shuddered, his breath catching as he tried to process the moment. Gerard smiled with satisfaction, leaving the boy lying there, his face covered in his seed, his eyes glazed, and his body limp on the bed. "This is my mark on you," he said in a low, husky voice, "remember me wherever you go."

The boy breathed heavily, his hands moving slowly toward his face, feeling the warm moisture that remained there. Gerard sat beside him, still breathing fast, and patted the boy’s cheek with wet fingers. "Enjoy your journey," he whispered, "because no one will forget you like this."

Chapter Text

Heavy rain fell over South Texas, washing away without mercy the filth, human and nonhuman alike.

A new presidential decree, issued only a few weeks earlier, forbade landlords from renting their properties to offenders residing in the United States illegally. Homeowners, unwilling to risk criminal charges, hurried to evict all their undocumented tenants into the streets. Within days, tent camps sprouted like mushrooms after the rain along the edges of cities, an everyday sight across the South, a silent testament to the new policy and the fear that now gripped every neighborhood.

But unlike mushrooms, the tent camps did not thrive after the rain; they rotted.

The makeshift shelters of torn tarps collapsed under the weight of the heavy water, and the puddles that flooded the ground turned into a murky swamp of mud, garbage, and stench. The small fires that once kept them warm and cooked their food had been extinguished by the storm, leaving their inhabitants shivering in soaked clothes that clung to their skin like a second layer of flesh.

Infants cried, coughs echoed through the camp, and skin infections spread rapidly among the crowded families huddled together for warmth. Passersby no longer saw them as human, just part of the scenery, part of the filth the city wished to hide.

But even in times of chaos and distress, some find a way to benefit from the suffering of others. Children wandered the streets, unsupervised, becoming easy prey for pedophiles. Those who kidnapped them, defiled them, and stole their innocence. Sometimes they returned them to their parents, for a price, and others, with entrepreneurial spirit, turned them into commodities, smuggling them to the North US, where illegal immigrants were less common.

The pedophiles, with their pants open, exposed their large, throbbing cocks. They grabbed the children, pushing them against walls, forcing them to the ground. There was no mercy, no limits. They violated them, deflowered them, pushing their cocks deep inside the young boys, their symbols of deceit, into the young boys. They degraded them, robbed them of their innocence.

The pedophiles began to take the children, sometimes by force, sometimes by enticement, or by offering them something sweet. They pushed their cocks, the symbols of their depravity, deep, very deep, until they hit the back of the children's throats. They started to thrust, to fuck, to pound, sometimes hard, sometimes cruelly. The children could hardly resist; sometimes they were scared, sometimes they were sad, sometimes they were desperate. They hardly understood what was happening to them, what was being done to them, until it finally ended.

The pedophiles grabbed their cocks, their twisted instruments, and the children, their victims. They began to push, to push, to push, sometimes in the mouth, sometimes in the ass, sometimes both at the same time. They raped them, destroyed them, leaving them broken and used.

Amid all the moral filth and material decay, inside a two-story private house surrounded by high walls on the outskirts of the city, sat an ICE officer, a muscular, handsome man, with a stern expression and a cold, striking beauty. He stood at the large window of the upper floor, gazing down at the city below.

Through the filthy neighborhoods, the lines of tent camps, and the streets strewn with mud and refuse, he saw not just chaos, but a “problem” he believed needed solving. To his eyes, it was obvious: the migrants, those subhumans he deemed “destroyers” of the city, were a contaminant to be purged. In a low voice, almost to himself, he muttered: “Horrible… simply terrible. How those dirty Mexican aliens soil the streets of our beautiful city.”

He leaned on the cold wooden frame of the window, his strong hands gripping it, and deep in his heart stirred a sense of mission, the conviction that it was his life’s duty to restore the city to its “right path.”

In the same dimly lit room, the air was thick with the stench of sweat and unbridled lust. Two burly, sweaty men, Dr. Whitmore and Judge Dolcrast, were sprawled on a wide bed, its crimson sheets drenched in their perspiration. They were naked, their bodies glistening under the flickering candlelight, their muscles taut with anticipation.

Between them, on the bed, lay a living sex doll, a tiny, writhing form. A baby, its face red with effort, its limbs flailing, its mouth open in a scream. The baby was naked, its soft skin slick with sweat and tears, its cries filling the room with a primal, desperate sound.

Dr. Whitmore, his cock a long, rigid pole, positioned himself above the baby's tiny body. He gripped the baby's thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, spreading the baby's legs wide. The baby's cries grew louder, its body tensing as it felt the head of Dr. Whitmore's cock pressing against its tiny, puckered hole.

Meanwhile, Judge Dolcrast, his cock thick and veined, pressed against the baby's mouth. The baby gagged, its tiny lips closing around the massive invader, its eyes wide with terror. Judge Dolcrast pushed forward, his cock sliding into the baby's throat, stretching the tiny opening, cutting off the baby's screams.

The two men began to move, their bodies working in sync, their cocks sliding in and out of the baby's tiny orifices. The baby's body trembled, its cries reduced to muffled whimpers, its limbs flailing weakly. The men's groans filled the room, mingling with the wet, sloppy sounds of their cocks sliding in and out of the baby's body.

Dr. Whitmore's cock slid in and out of the baby's ass, his hips slamming against the baby's tiny body, his balls slapping against the baby's skin. The baby's cries grew weaker, its body going limp as Dr. Whitmore's thrust grew more frenzied, more desperate.

Judge Dolcrast, his cock buried deep in the baby's throat, gripped the baby's head, his fingers tangling in the baby's soft hair. He began to fuck the baby's mouth in earnest, his hips snapping forward, his cock slamming into the baby's throat, again and again. The baby gagged, its body convulsing as Judge Dolcrast 's cock hit the back of its throat, again and again.

The room filled with the sound of their grunts, the wet, sloppy sounds of their cocks sliding in and out of the baby's body, the baby's weak cries. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the smell of the baby's liquids, the smell of the men's cum.

Dr. Whitmore was the first to cum, his body tensing, his cock buried deep in the baby's ass. He groaned, his cock pulsing, his cum filling the baby's tiny body. The baby's body twitched, its limbs flailing weakly as Dr. Whitmore's cum flooded its insides.

Judge Dolcrast followed soon after, his body tensing, his cock buried deep in the baby's throat. He groaned, his cock pulsing, his cum flooding the baby's mouth, choking the baby, drowning it.

The two men collapsed, their bodies spent, their cocks still buried in the baby's body. The baby lay between them, its body limp, its eyes closed, its mouth open, its tiny chest no longer rising and falling.

Dr. Whitmore and Judge Dolcrast rose from the bed. Dr. Whitmore chuckled softly and said, "It seems the little baby needs thorough cleaning," then gently lifted him and carried him toward the bathroom.

Judge Dolcrast gave Gerard a deep, unguarded look as he stood at a distance, staring at the morning reflection through the window. He put on his underwear slowly, as if each movement carried weight, then stepped toward him. As he approached, he placed his hand on Gerard’s shoulder in a warm, almost fatherly touch. The silence in the room was heavy until the judge exhaled softly, breaking it with a quiet voice: "What’s wrong, son?" he asked. "You barely played with the little baby… don’t tell me it doesn’t do it for you anymore." His voice carried concern, but also a hint of expectation.

"Don’t worry, it’s not that my little friend is looking for ordinary things," Gerard said with a faint, deliberate smile. "But there’s a limit to how much I can get drawn into games like this. At first, it’s exciting, fucking a new baby is like a new experience, a conquest, but in the end, I realize how the baby disgusts me. His brown skin, his ugly face… and it makes me lose interest."

"And what about white babies?" asked Judge Dolcrast, his gaze full of curiosity.

"That’s something else," Gerard replied with a sly smile, his eyes glinting with a calculating look, his bulge becoming well noticed beneath his uniform. "They’re the most beautiful. The problem is that in my line of work, they’re hard to come by. People from civilized countries enter the United States only legally, so as an ICE officer, my chances of encountering them aren’t high." He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the window as if pondering something deeper.

Judge Dolcrast nodded knowingly, his gaze steady yet wrapped in heavy thought. "Each of us is drawn to something different," he said in a calm voice filled with meaning. "You’re a good man, Gerard, and you deserve the best. I’ve thought about it again, and I must admit, perhaps we haven’t been fair enough to you. Throughout the process of obtaining the baby, you were the one who took on most of the hard work. You risked your job, your integrity, and your own freedom. And in the end, I was the one who earned the money, Dr. Whitmore got the baby, and you were left rather short changed." He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting toward Gerard as if seeking a reaction and added in a softer tone: "And that’s something I feel we cannot ignore."

"That’s not accurate," Gerard said in a calm yet sharp tone, a sly smile forming on his lips. "I’ve won with you. I’ve gained friends who can understand me, who know my deviations and dark impulses. I am no longer alone in my world. My desires, with your presence, become legitimate." He paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on Judge Dolcrast as if seeking confirmation, then added in a softer tone: "It’s worth everything."

"Now, now, Gerard," Judge Dolcrast chided him with a light, knowing smile. "Altruism doesn’t pay your bills. You deserve to enjoy material things as well." He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting toward him with intent, then added in a quiet but determined tone: "And so, I want to make you an offer."

"Latin kids are one of the hottest commodities on the market," Judge Dolcrast said in a serious tone, his words deliberate and weighted. "At the pace the current administration is working, soon there will be no illegal immigrants left here, and most of the slut kids come from them. You don’t have to be a great economist to know that when supply decreases, the price rises." He paused for a moment, his gaze fixed, as if trying to impress upon them the full weight of his statement.

"And so," Judge Dolcrast said, running his finger slowly along Gerard's cock, "I want to propose a framework, simple, clean, and profitable for all of us."

He leaned forward, his voice lowering but gaining a cold, authoritative tone.

"You’ll continue your work, Gerard. You’ll arrest families of illegal immigrants; it shouldn’t be difficult, not these days. They’re idling in the streets, helpless, defenseless. You’ll mark them, and I’ll take care of the rest."

He took a short breath, almost savoring the image he was painting.

"I’ll pull their files into my courtroom. In the meantime, Dr. Whitmore will handle the children, the ones born here, on American soil. He’ll forge DNA samples, create the evidence we need, to make it look as though their parents… brutally raped those poor little kids."

A sly smile crept to the corner of his lips.

"I’ll rule for their deportation, of course. And the kids," he paused, fixing Gerard with a calculating gaze, "the kids will be sent for adoption. To the highest bidder."

He raised his glass slowly, as if toasting the birth of a new enterprise.

"The money we receive from the adoptive families," he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "will be divided equally. The three of us: you, me, and Dr. Whitmore. Justice, profit, and peace of mind. Oh! And if we catch a beautiful white baby, son of immigrants from Europe or any other white child the welfare authorities removed from his family, he will be all yours."

Gerard’s eyes gleamed with a light that hadn’t been there for a long time. A sly, almost indulgent smile spread across his face as he looked at the judge.

"I have to admit," he said in a low, steady voice, "this idea… It’s electric. It makes me feel like I’m in control again."

He met the judge’s gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

"I’m in," he said quietly.

The two men embraced, a shared sense of complicity binding them. Suddenly, Dr. Whitmore’s voice came from the doorway, cheerful, almost mocking:

"Look what I’ve got!" he called, waving his phone. "Caught the little one at the perfect moment, covered head to toe in cum. I might just send this to his parents in El Salvador, as a reminder of what they’ve lost."

Chapter Text

Judge Dolcrast’s courtroom still carried that familiar scent of heavy, polished wood, the kind that clung to the robes of judges and to the memories of anyone who’d spent enough time there to know that justice, like wood, tends to wear down with age.

And yet, today the air felt different; perhaps it was the light, slipping softly through the tall windows, or the brief burst of laughter from the defendants’ bench that cut through the solemn quiet of the room.

Gerard sat in his usual place in the back row; his gaze fixed on the defendants’ bench. There sat the two men who had drawn everyone’s attention, Erik and Lars, the two neo-Nazis who shared a cell with the Mexican parents. Both were tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome in a way that felt almost unnatural. Their fair hair shimmered faintly under the pale light, and the calm symmetry of their faces gave them an air of serenity that seemed at odds with their status as criminals.

The judge had not yet entered. The clerk arranged papers on the empty bench, while the audience, reporters, officers, and curious onlookers whispered quietly among themselves.
Gerard rested his elbows on the pew in front of him. He noticed Erik’s faint smile, the kind that didn’t belong to a man expecting conviction. Something about this scene didn’t add up.

"All rise!" the clerk called out, her voice clear and slightly trembling, and the entire courtroom stood. The side door opened, and Judge Dolcrast entered with calm, almost leisurely steps. The way he laid down his robe and arranged the papers before him radiated a sense of routine, as if this were nothing more than a natural continuation of a fairly relaxed workday.

The clerk wore a tailored dark mini skirt suit, a delicate blouse with a slightly open collar, balancing elegance with a hint of revealing style, and pointed black shoes. A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face as the judge smiled and said: "Nice to see your outfit today is properly arranged, finally as revealing and slutty as I like."

She smiled embarrassedly with slightly uncomfortable, continuing to arrange the papers for the start of the proceedings.

Gerard watched the judge closely, hand resting on his briefcase. He noticed that even the defendants, Erik and Lars, appeared surprisingly relaxed. They sat in their places, looking around with almost mischievous curiosity, two blond men, striking in their Nordic appearance, more reminiscent of soccer players on vacation than defendants in a criminal case.

The judge sat down, and a slight hush settled over the room, followed by his familiar voice, calm, almost amused: "Well… shall we begin?"

A soft smile crossed Gerard's face. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire affair, the trial, the defendants, the heavy benches, was merely a play someone had written for them, and he was simply an observer, enjoying the performance.

Judge Dolcrast began, his voice calm but focused: "First, I must apologize to the defendants for the delay in their trial. The president is pushing to deport all criminal migrants from the country, and therefore, cases involving expedited deportation and the handling of American children have been given priority."

Gerard chuckled inwardly. He knew the game well: both he and the judge had earned considerable sums from the “handling” of these cases. The official context, the hidden cynicism, and the judge’s relaxed demeanor turned the trial into a kind of performance, where everyone knew their place and the unwritten rules guiding the system.

Judge Dolcrast shifted slightly in front of the defendants, his gaze calm yet sharp: “And now, to the matter at hand. The two defendants arrived illegally from Norway. There, the left-leaning government persecuted them for their political opinions, and therefore, they may be considered refugees.”

He smiled lightly, almost to himself, adding in an almost cynical tone: “Meanwhile, I believe that a government that warmly welcomes so-called refugees from Africa or other primitive countries should not export refugees to well-governed nations. But don’t worry, I won’t let my political views influence the courtroom.”

Judge Dolcrast nodded, continuing to speak about the defendants’ background: “The two defendants were law-abiding citizens in Norway, respectable people who paid their taxes properly, and honorable workers in the pedo-chemical industry, ahem… petro-chemical, I meant.”

Suddenly, the judge chuckled lightly at his amusing slip, and the entire courtroom, caught in the relaxed atmosphere, joined in the laughter. Even the clerk smiled with a hint of embarrassment, trying to maintain her professionalism while observing the scene. Gerard, as always, chuckled inwardly but kept a cool, calculating gaze, noting how the brief light-hearted moment allowed everyone to feel a little less constrained before the real legal proceedings resumed.

“Order! Order!” Judge Dolcrast shouted, banging his gavel on the desk.

He turned slightly to face the courtroom, his gaze sharp but calm, continuing in his familiar voice: “After the Muslim-Communist government in Norway was elected, and to be fully frank, with a deliberate policy aimed at changing the voting population in the country to win repeatedly, the government began importing violent criminals from around the world, while pushing out law-abiding, indigenous populations, to which these two defendants belong, on absurd charges such as rape and pedophilia.”

The courtroom fell silent for a moment, observing the judge, who delivered his words in an almost narrative manner.

Judge Dolcrast glanced around the courtroom, his gaze calm yet sharp, tapping his gavel lightly on the desk: “Mr. Erik Hagen and Mr. Lars Bjørnsson had no choice but to flee Norway, and thus arrived in the United States before they could regularize their status in advance.”

The clerk arranged the papers on the table, her eyes moving between the documents and the scene in the courtroom. She tried to ignore the predatory gazes of Erik and Lars, which were almost mischievous yet sharp and aware of every detail around them, focusing on her almost without pause.

Judge Dolcrast looked around the courtroom again, his voice calm yet sharp: “Since the two defendants remained in the United States after their tourist visas had expired, ICE had no choice but to detain them. After all, the United States is an equitable, law-abiding country, and there is no room to bypass the rules, even in such a case.”

“As reported to me by Officer Gerard,” Judge Dolcrast said, glancing toward Gerard, “At the detention facility, the true nature of the two became evident. The defendants volunteered at the nearby youth detention center, once again proving their value to society. Even in a bleak place like a detention center, they managed to be a beacon of light for the young inmates, injecting erections … ahem… I mean, education, for the poor teens who were arrested there.”

A ripple of quiet laughter spread through the courtroom. The judge chuckled, clearly aware of his slip, and Gerard smirked silently at the awkwardness of the moment. Gerard recalled the scenes of rape Erik and Lars had carried out at the youth detention center. Every small blowjob, every virgin ass they fucked, remained etched in Gerard’s memory, and he smiled to himself inwardly, even amidst the cynicism; one couldn’t help but appreciate the dedication of the two.

The clerk arranged the papers on the desk, her eyes moving between the documents and the scene in the courtroom, striving to maintain professionalism. She felt the penetrating, almost oppressive gazes of Erik and Lars upon her semi-revealed breast, nearly unceasing, which made her tighten her grip on the papers and try to focus on her work, all while feeling a clear sense of discomfort.

“In light of all this,” Judge Dolcrast declared, “The defense has reached a plea deal with the prosecution, so that the period of detention the defendants served will count toward the sentence for their illegal stay in the United States. Furthermore, the two defendants will be granted refugee status, allowing them legal residence, government assistance, and the right to work in the United States.”

The courtroom erupted in applause. Erik and Lars clapped their hands and shook their lawyer’s hand, whose work, surprisingly, had not been particularly difficult, yet the sense of success clearly elevated their new status. Gerard chuckled quietly, well aware of the delicate balance between law, money, and justice.

“Well then,” said Judge Dolcrast, gathering his papers, “if neither party has any further claims…”

The honorable judge turned to Erik and Lars’ lawyer: “What about compensation for the delay in the trial and the extended detention?”

Judge Dolcrast paused for a moment, smiling slightly: “You are absolutely right, Counselor, there is room for compensation…”

He appeared to ponder for a moment, then called out in a strong, deliberate voice: “Clerk of the Court! Escort these two honorable gentlemen to the back room!”

Erik and Lars didn't wait a second longer. They leaped from their seats, their eyes locked on the clerk, a predatory hunger burning in their gazes. They grabbed her, one on each side, their hands roaming over her body, tearing at her clothes. The courtroom erupted in chaos, gasps and screams filling the air, but Erik and Lars were oblivious, their focus solely on the woman in their grasp.

The clerk struggled, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor as she tried to pull away. "Stop!" she screamed, her voice barely audible over the din. "What are you doing? This is a court of law!"

Erik chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "This is our court now, bitch," he growled, his hands gripping her ass, lifting her off the ground. Lars laughed, his hands cupping her breasts, squeezing them roughly. The clerk's blouse tore open, buttons flying across the room, her lacy bra exposed to the hungry eyes of the courtroom as she was dragged to the back room.

Judge Dolcrast laughed wildly and, over the commotion that erupted in the courtroom, called out to Gerard: "Who knows? Maybe in nine months you'll have the beautiful white baby you want so much."

For the first time in years, warmth began to spread within Gerard’s heart, melting the icy rigidity he had held inside for so long. This moment, absurd and unexpected, awakened in him a sense of emotion and love he hadn’t felt in a long time.