Jeff McCloud suffers humiliation and pain after being pulled over by a couple of rogue cops in a rural South Carolina town in this new series written by steve mchalperin and dedicated to member "Session3".

Section 3: Chapters 1 & 2
by steve mchalperin
Series: Section 3

Dedicated to Session3....

Chapter 1: Road Stop

I was tooling along a back road in rural South Carolina in my panel truck, taking a short cut I knew. My brother and I had started a short haul, quick delivery service two years ago and business was picking up nicely, even during Covid. A lot of hospitals needed a reliable and fast local delivery service to pick up supplies at central warehouses and get them out where they were needed. We had two panel trucks, one for me and the other for my younger brother.

Oh, forgot to say, my name is Jeff McCloud; my brother’s Rob. I’m twenty-four and he’s two years younger. I, however, am in much better shape. I hit the gym three times a week to keep in the good condition white I was in college. Hey, I’m proud of my muscles and I like to show them off: tight tank top, tight jeans, good crotch bulge for envy and advertising. My degree was from a two-year community college. I majored in general business, which has proven handy in running our delivery service. Rob’s a bit overweight and wears looser clothing, but he lets me make all the decisions for our little company, which is fine by me.

I heard the siren wailing just as I saw the flashing lights. OK, cops. No big deal. I had all the truck’s documentation as well as my manifest for the cargo, which was a bunch of syringes and some oxygen tanks. Jefferson Medical needed the stuff and I had made several pickups for them in the past. I pulled over to the side of the road and lowered my window. Just as I expected, two beefy local cops sauntered over to my truck.

“Where you going, boy?” the heavier of the two demanded. What he actually said was more like: “Where-ya goinboy,” but I could speak Southern if I needed to. He was a caricature of a rural cop: overweight, face flushed red. He looked like a dark, overstuffed sausage in his uniform, although his crotch bulge was nicely stuffed, too.

“I have a delivery for Jefferson Medical, sir, over in Carsonville,” I answered. “Let me get my license and registration out for you.” I fished in the glove compartment and handed him the cards.

“I need you to step out of the truck, boy,” he ordered.

So I climbed out and stood by the open driver door. It was July in the South and fuckin’ hot.

‘No, boy, move to the rear of the truck,” he ordered, which I did directly. You don’t want to do anything to rile local cops in South Carolina. They have, let’s say, a reputation for short fuses.

“So, what’s in the truck, boy?” he asked, not as a question but as a demand.

“Sir, medical supplies for the hospital, like I said,” I replied truthfully.

He opened the two back doors and started riffling through the boxes. I froze when he turned over several boxes which had pictures of syringes on the label.

“Hmm,” he said, looking over at me. “Highly unusual cargo.”

“Not really, sir. It’s for a hospital, like I said. Here’s the manifest,” I replied, handing him a clipboard with the cargo info on it: where and when I picked it up, destination, and a space for the delivery time and signature. “It’s all there, sir,” I added. “The destination says Jefferson Hospital, sir.”

“Well, boy, I see it like this. These things can be made up pretty easy,” he said. “You print up a fake form on a computer and then write in some bullshit, and, bingo, you can smuggle whatever you want.”

My stomach froze into a knot. “Sir, this is totally legit. I’m just a delivery man, sir,” I pleaded.

“Well, we have to treat this as suspicious. There’s a lot of drug trafficking lately and HQ has sent out orders that we have to shut it down. So, until we can check this out, I’m detaining you on a Section 3. That’s transportation and possession of drug equipment. It’s a serious offense, boy”

“Sir, please! The hospital needs this stuff!”

“Maybe they do and maybe they don’t. We have to check it out in any event. I need to take you back to the station, boy.”

I realized this was going to happen regardless of what I said, so all I could say was “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

While he had been talking I noticed he was eyeing me up and down, not in a good way. He scratched his crotch a few times, as did the other officer.

“You seem to be sweatin’ a lot, boy,” he said. “Nervous, maybe about what we found? That’s not a good sign.”
“No, sir, I’m just hot,” I replied.

“You look like you take good care of yourself, boy. Why don’t you strip off that sweaty T shirt and cool down a tad?” he said, again a demand, not a question.

I hesitated for a few seconds. This was clearly not normal police procedure. But, like I said earlier, you don’t want to piss off rural cops. So I flipped my shirt off; it was indeed sweaty and I struggled as it stuck to my back. Finally I got it off, leaving me in my very low rise jeans. All of a sudden I was sorry they were so tight on my thighs and calves and crotch. They were slim cut stretchy and fit me like a second skin. Mr. Beefy Officer took the shirt from me and threw it into the bushes.

“You won’t be needing this,” he explained. The knot in my stomach got tighter and a cold sweat broke out on my chest and back, replacing the earlier hot sweat. This was getting scary.

“Yeah, boss, he’s in fine shape,” the other officer said. He hadn’t said a word before now. “I think a Section 3 would look real good on him,” he added.

I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but the first officer told me to get into the squad car and his sergeant would drive my truck back to the station. I was uncomfortable now with all of this, but there wasn’t much I could do. I mean, they were packing hand guns. And I was a dozen miles from the nearest town. So I got into the patrol car, in the back, and winced when I heard the door locks engage. There were no handles or window controls on either of the two back doors. And there was a mesh screen between the front and back seats. I already felt like a criminal, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.

So, what was all this stuff about Section 3? Well, I can tell you now. I’m writing this from a hospital bed in Jefferson Medical, my original destination to be exact. The docs say the wounds on my back, ass, and chest will heal, but there might be minor scarring. The damage to my lower gut and asshole was repaired surgically. They suggested therapy for my PTSD. And as of right now, I’m all confused.


Chapter 2: Pitts County Police Station

We drove maybe a half hour, the patrol car in front, my panel truck behind us. I saw a sign which read “Welcome to Pittston. Population 310.” OMG, a shit town. And in the middle of nowhere. We drove through the town, which took all of a minute. The police station was on the other side of the small village, actually several miles outside of the town. We drove down a long, dirt road into the woods until we arrived at a one-story building. A ragged plastic sign announced The “Pitts ounty Police Station”. The C in county was missing.

The car’s back door opened and I was ordered out. “Follow me, boy,” so I obeyed.

The inside of the station was a mess. Files were strewn on two desks, some on the floor. Used paper cups surrounded a trash can, like they failed to make it in. On the desks were two rotary phones! Looked like time travel inside a dumpster. The window A/C could barely keep up with the heat; it was easily 85 inside.

“Stand in front of my desk,” the first officer ordered. “I’m Captain Dickerson,” he said, again eyeing me up and down. “My friends call me BD, which stands for Big Dick. It’s the right name for my endowment. You will call me ‘sir.’”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Like I said, you are here under suspicion of a Section 3 violation. That’s serious, boy. The law also says that the local police have full power to resolve the situation. And we got a directive from HQ to do whatever it takes to achieve that. So, here’s what we got.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to buy some time while I worked furiously to understand what the fuck was going on.

“Shut up!” he screamed at me. “You just listen up, boy!” His face flushed red with anger.

Good God, this was the last thing I needed, an angry yahoo cop. I just nodded my head in agreement.

“I’m convinced you’re bullshitting us,” he went on. “All that crap about hospital deliveries, fake manifests. It’s clear to me you’re smuggling drug supplies with all them syringes you got. There’s only one use for them and we’re going to stamp it out, just like we’ve been directed to do.”

He stopped to let all this sink in. My stomach got tighter and tighter and my left thigh muscle started to shake. I was now covered in sweat, the sweat of fear.

“And Section 3 also empowers us to teach druggies a lesson. It’s simple: you’re going to be punished for transporting those drug needles and we’re going to post pictures of your punishment on the state’s drug web site. That’ll show what happens to druggies in South Carolina!”

What I didn’t know at the time was that they would indeed take pictures of my punishment, but they wouldn’t be posted anywhere except to a small group of pervy rural cops who got their rocks off with pix and videos of young guys getting the shit beaten out of them. And I was on the menu for their next round.


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