Through the Looking Glass

By TickledPink published February 26, 2019
Summary

A victim helps the police finger the guy that did it.

The one who’d attacked me was number five. They stood on the other side of a two-way mirror, holding their numbers and looking at me, but unable to see through the reflective surface in their room. The officer stood next to me, sounding bored. I knew he wasn’t working for me here. I’d had friends who’d gone through this. The five men on the other side were all friends with the police in the area. The went around, assaulting gay men, and then the police would cover it up. Worse, they helped. A number of my friends had recounted to me the moment that the officer’s hand would slip, and the lights in the interrogation room would come on, lighting them up. A spotlight on the fag who’d had the audacity to complain. I knew it was planned. And I knew it wasn’t going to happen.

My plan was a mixture of luck, fortune, stunning genius, and an accident of birth. I was born deaf, 95 % hearing loss, to be precise. But I’d had an implant when I was young which meant that for as long as I could remember, I could hear. But it had got me interested in how sound is heard, even when we don’t realise it. And so I’d made it my field of study. I’d conducted research into how the sounds we hear are interpreted in the brain, neuroacoustics, as it had been termed recently (mainly a fancy word to try and attract funding). It had gained some attention, but I knew my biggest find would never make it to publication.

I’d discovered a tone which, when played, increases neuroplasticity by orders of magnitude. The brain constantly rewires itself, with external stimuli. What we see, what we’re told, what we believe. This tone causes that process to happen with astonishing rapidity. If I play that tone for someone, and make a statement, well, for them, that statement is true. Their brain will rewire itself, overturn beliefs, rewrite memories, to make that statement true. And I planned to use it to make the world a better place. Starting with the fucker who’d jumped me in the alley. Turns out being able to make any statement true for someone is trumped by a punch to the back of the head and a series of kicks to the ribs. Sad, but true.

I’d turned it on when just before I’d entered the room, but would have to test it out first. I couldn’t actually hear it myself, it wasn’t processed by my implant, so I’d developed a few test protocols to ensure it was working. First I’d have to be sure it worked on the crooked cop in the room with me. He was taller than I was, dirty blond hair and dark blue eyes. He scowled a lot. I could tell he didn’t enjoy being in the room with me. Just waiting for the opportunity to reveal me to his friends. He’d finished his explanation of what the process was and was waiting for my response. I had to start subtle.

“Not a problem.” I replied to his question, before following with “You’re thirsty.” The phrase was carefully selected. It could be interpreted as a question for the few times the tone wasn’t playing (a couple of times I’d accidentally muted it), but the statement was clear enough for the tone. The cop’s scowl deepened. But then he licked his lips and his expression faltered slightly. He walked over to the little table in the room and poured himself a plastic cup of water. He didn’t offer me one, but that was fine. I could help him with his manners too. But I had him.

“So when this button is down,” he gestured to the small white button next to the microphone, “you stay quiet. We don’t want to be giving them any information about who you are, even what you’re voice sounds like.” His voice was deep, masculine, it would have been attractive if not for his tone.

“Got it. I tell you what to tell them to do, and then you say it.” I told him. His ever present scowl flickered. I suppressed a smirk at seeing the new information establishing itself in his mind. Truth, undeniable.

“Yeesss…” He said, uncertainly, before “Yes, that’s right.”

I smirked. I couldn’t help it.

“Exactly what I say.” I continued. I wanted this point crystal clear.

“Exactly what you say.”

“Great.” Confident he was completely on board, I pressed further, “And smile, this is the fun part.” The cop’s sour expression parted, and his smile broke through, lighting up his face.

I turned to regard suspects one through five, standing in the room next to us. They were all of similar height, and similar build. I suspected they were on a sports team, but I couldn’t have said what sport.

Number one was dark haired, white, with brown eyes. He held his number up in one hand, over his black t-shirt, staring confidently into the mirror, as though he could already see through it. Stubble lined his face, outlining a sharp jawline.

Number two had the same dirty blond hair as the cop standing next to me. His nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken before, but that didn’t detract from his face. A soft pair of green eyes wore an ugly expression as they stared at a spot slightly to the left of me. He’d dressed as though he’d come straight from work, a pale blue business shirt over brown pants.

Number three was holding his number off to the side, tapping it against his leg as he swayed slightly back and forth. He was mixed-race, with curly black hair above Asian features. He looked bored with the whole situation. His all-grey outfit seemed designed to convey this also.

Number four had light brown hair and a red beard, which he’d kept close cropped. It made him look a bit devilish. The cartoon devil on his t-shirt didn’t help matters. He tapped his foot impatiently, and held is number in front of his crotch, loosely in both hands.

And then there was number five. I’d known him the moment I walked in the small room. My assailant. A smirk and a raised eyebrow were directed at the small room I was in. A surprisingly mirthful expression on a handsome face. Freckled, with a dimple in one cheek. Light brown hair in an undercut, dressed nicely in a white button down and navy pants.

“Are we getting on with this or what?” Number two had broken the silence first. Apparently he had somewhere to be.

“They shouldn’t speak unless you ask them to.” I said, the cop nodding next to me. He buzzed in through the microphone.

“Oi. In that room, you lot don’t speak unless you’re told to. Clear?”

It was interesting to see the effect of the tone on the different men. Based on the slight twitches in their expressions I could tell it had been successfully reproduced by the speakers in the room, as they adjusted to the truth they had just been told. Not to speak unless told to. The men nodded their assent. Number two more slowly than the others. The cop turned to me.

“Right, so which one did it?” He asked, sounding bored.

“You know…” I began, savouring the moment, “it’s so hard to tell. It was so dark. I think I need to see them from all angles first. Tell them to spin around.” He sighed audibly at my request, but hit the button.

“All of you. Turn around.” He instructed, curtly. They each turned in a circle slowly. Three had a nice arse. I sucked on my teeth.

“I think, you know, I think my attacker… was… shirtless.” I said, after a lengthy pause. “I won’t be able to tell while they’re wearing their shirts. Tell them to take their shirts off.” The cop rolled his eyes, but barely hesitated before hitting the button.

“Everyone, shirts off.” The men didn’t move. The angry, amused or bored expressions had been replaced with incredulity. I knew the problem.

“Tell them that while they are in that room, they need to follow your instructions.”

“While you’re in that room, you’ll follow my instructions!” The cop repeated into the microphone, almost cutting me off. Apparently he hadn’t liked being ignored, even if the request was strange. “Now, shirts off.”

Sullenly the men removed their shirts. Those with buttons unbuttoning them, the rest pulling them off directly. Number four, I noticed pulled his off from the bottom, sweeping it up from his stomach in one smooth motion, revealing a trail of auburn chest hair as he went.

I let them stand, shirtless in silence for a moment, contemplating the officer I was in the room with. I knew he’d be flicking the switch soon, under some pretense. But I knew how to fix that.

“You’re glad they can’t see in here.” He nodded, silently. “You enjoy your privacy in here.” Again nodding. “You wouldn’t do anything to compromise that.” More nodding. “Because you enjoy telling them what to do. Don’t you?”

“Yeah…” he said, absently. “It’s good. Telling them what to do.”

“Good. And, you know. I realised now. My attacker. Wasn’t shirtless. Or, well, was, but he was wearing some strange outfit, you know? It’s going to be very difficult if they’re not wearing the same things the attacker was.”

The cop looked annoyed at this.

“Yeah, I suppose it will be, but unless you happen to have those-”

I threw a bag in front of him, it landed with a thunk, cutting him off mid sentence.

“These are the outfits. Tell them to get changed into these. You want them to. It’ll help the case.”

The cop blinked as the words settled in his mind. He reached down and grabbed the bag, ducking out of the room behind us. I winced, but he didn’t turn on the light as he passed the switch. Moments later I saw the door to the line-up room swing open, and the bag get chucked in. It landed in front of the five. The door creaked open behind me, then shut with a bang as the officer returned, marching purposefully up to the microphone.

“Gentlemen, you’ll all need to change into what’s in the bag. Chop, chop!”

Number three reached the bag first, unzipping it slowly. His eyes bulged as he saw what was inside. Five matching outfits, aside from the colours were in that bag for the men in that room. After a bit more cajoling from the officer (“it’s fine, just change there”, “no one cares if you see each other changing”) they stood in their new outfits. Outfits may have been a bit of a stretch, but as far as I was concerned what they were wearing now was a dramatic improvement over what they were wearing before. They each stood, somewhat shyly, clad in a jockbrief, black with a coloured waistband (orange, teal, silver, gold, and purple). Knee-high socks in a matching colour, with similarly patterned shoes. And a snapback cap each.

“Oh, I could never tell while they’re standing like that.” I said to the officer. “Tell them to stand with some pride, shouders back, hands by their sides.”

“Come on guys, shoulders back, hands by your sides.”

I could see in their faces that this was the last thing they really wanted, but nevertheless they complied in silence. Hands fell by their sides, revealing bulges in their tightly fitted underwear. I could see that number four was having a bit of a reaction to this whole process. There wasn’t any way he really could hide it, frankly. His cock twitched slightly, as it stretched at the fabric.

Slowly, number five raised a hand. The officer let him stand in silence for a moment before speaking.

“Number five, ask your question.”

“Uh, why… why are we wearing these faggy outfits?” He managed. The officer rolled his eyes.

“Because that’s what the assailant was wearing on the night of the alleged attack.” He answered.

I could see a very rapid flow of emotions crossing the face of number five, my attacker. And I knew why. He’d been told the truth. He was remembering himself, in his faggy, skimpy, black and purple number out on the streets that night. What he didn’t know, because, well because it hadn’t actually happened, was why. Why he was wearing it. All he knew, was that he was. I watched with some amusement as he blushed, the pink filling in the space between his freckles.

I’d had them turn around again, slower this time, before informing the officer of a very critical detail.

“There wasn’t one assailant that night. There were two.”

“Two?” Repeated the officer, surprised. I knew he was now reconciling that information with what his friends had told him.

“Two. And, well, this is embarrassing, but you see it was dark. I could hear them a lot better than I could see them. I’d have to hear them making the same noises again.”

“Noises?”

“Yes. Noises. They were making out, you see. Tell them to make out.”

“Uh… right. Uh… w-which ones?” The officer stammered.

“All of them. Pair them up. Then have them swap. Until each one has made out with each of the others.”

The officer, true to the truth he knew, repeated my instructions to the men in the room. It started out pretty dreadfully. I informed my officer that the two men I remember were much more into it. And to tell the men to start enjoying each other more. He complied, and then so did they.

We watched as the five men took turns with each other, chests pressing against each other and mouths intermingling. With some extra encouragement from the officer they’d started tweaking each other’s nipples as they kissed, occasionally fondling at each other’s bulges, and squeezing at their available arses too. It wasn’t just number four who was finding this more exciting than they were probably willing to admit. Number one and number three both sported impressive hard-ons beneath their jocks, which at the moment were rubbing against each other, mirroring their duelling tongues.

While the lineup enjoyed themselves, (well, three out of five, with number two and number five seeming far less thrilled, despite their enthusiastic movements), I needed to help out the officer. He was staring into the room, at the people who I knew were his friends, as they kissed and fondled each other. He was obviously suffering from some confusion. He enjoyed telling his friends what to do. And he had to tell them what I told him to tell them, and enjoy it. So he did. But he was obviously having some issues with what they were currently doing. I helped walk him through it. How what he saw through this window was hot. Hotter than anything he’d seen ever before. How much he enjoyed being the one who was making this happen. And how hot it was in this room. How the only way to cool down was to strip out of his hot, stuffy clothes, and into the “hot room” uniform.

By the time their makeout session had finished, with each guy taking turns with each of his friends, my officer was staring, face almost pressed against the glass. One hand tweaked at his nipples, pinching at each one in turn, while the other cycled between grabbing at his bulge and stroking up his exposed arse crack. He looked magnificent in his hot room uniform. Police cap on his head, a navy blue spandex harness, his jockstrap, proudly bearing the title of “cop holster” around the waistband, his badge pinned on the right hand side of it. His shin-high socks over his smart shoes. Much more sensible for the temperature in the room.

When I’d told him that the men had been rimming each other, I’d barely got the thought in his head before he’d informed his friends that each one needed to rim the others. He watched, twisting his nipples with slightly more force than I would have personally. It was then that I let him know that there was something else.

“They were really shouting out. You know. Super enthused about it all. But I just don’t remember what they were saying. I think the only way I’d remember, is if I were being rimmed too.” I looked him dead in the eyes. “You want to eat my arse out. Now.”

I looked out into the room. Number three stood off to the side, awaiting his turn. His bulge threatening to escape his jock. Two was bent over infront of four, who was pulling his cheeks apart, and burying his bearded face into the crack of his friend with gusto. Five had lowered himself onto one, who was lying on the ground, licking up at the crack above him. I could see his jock standing proudly at attention as he serviced the hole on his face. I felt the cop unbuckling my belt, lowering my pants, revealing my jock as he did. I reached down, freeing my cock and stroking it slowly as the cops tongue probed at my hole, tentatively tasting my rosebud. I allowed myself to indulge in the stimulation while I watched the scene unfolding before me. After all, I deserved a bit of pleasure for helping these men become better. I used the microphone for the first time, letting the men know what to yell out.

“Ah, fuck eat that arse!”

“Ah, fuck eat that arse!” Two yelled back

“Mnnnh, I love it! That arse is fucking yours!”

“NnngH! I love it! Th-that arse is f-fucking yours!” Huffed out four.

With each comment they called out, the tone helped them to establish it in their minds as the truth. Their arses did belong to their friends. They loved having their holes tongue-fucked. Over and over, as they spoke the words, the words became true for them. Rewriting their minds, subverting their desires. Improving them.

All too soon the men had finished with each other, and the cop with me.

I decided that they were finally ready to really help. The cop realised, when I told him, that there in fact, had been no assault. I was there to ID some men brought in who I’d seen fucking in an alleyway. It had been a victimless crime, no one else was around, and they were all hot, so frankly it was a public service. Like street art. He knew that the fairest thing to do would be to let them go. After they fucked him.

He dashed into the room and I sat myself down in front of the microphone. I surveyed the room. Like an eager puppy the cop had bounded into the room, ready for the fucking he knew he would enjoy. Of the men, the stimulation they had received had seen each of their cocks reaching rigid perfection. Except number five. His remained completely soft beneath his jock, even with all the fun he’d been having. Luckily there was a cure for that.

“Number two, number three, you two will be spit-roasting the officer here. Be gentle now, this is fun for everyone involved. And one and four, you’re going to be spit-roasting number five. There’s lube and condoms in the bag.”

The men arranged themselves, five with some trepidation and got themselves ready. And soon the cop and number five were sucking away at the hard cocks they’d released from their cotton prisons, as two and four freed their own, slicking them, and the waiting holes of the cop and number five, with lube.

I let them know they could yell out their pleasure freely, leaving the microphone on for the tone to be heard. As his arse was pounded the cop gagged his words around the cock in his mouth.

“Mmmf fhucgh ma aas, ah lough ihh” Over and over and over. It was only after the 20th or so time that I realised he was saying “Fuck my arse, I love it” and in doing so, knowing it to be true. Assuming he could hear it over the slapping of number two ploughing into his arse, and making a clapping sound with each thrust. Two and one were busily making out, tongues dancing past each other, broken only when one moaned into the mouth of the other.

“You love it, fucking suck that cock, faggot!” Called out three, head thrown back in pleasure and fingers circling his nipples as the cop sucked him to new heights of pleasure.

Number five was stoic though. He simply took his fucking, and sucked the cock robotically. He barely seemed to be enjoying himself at all.

“Number four.” I called over the microphone “Tell number five how much he’s enjoying this.”

Number four began to moan out encouragement to number five. How much he loved having a big cock in his arse. How good it felt to be stuffed full. How much he loved sucking cock. How hard he was getting. How loud he was moaning.

“Mnnoahhh…” Number five broke his silence, and his eyes rolled back, an expression of pure lust on his face. Reaching one hand from the floor, he began stroking at his chest, then down. He alternated, tweaking his now pert nipples before pawing at his still-covered bulge, now rapidly growing with his erection.

I smiled. It was a good feeling, helping people. Over the next… oh who knows how long, hours? I let them know more things they needed to know to be better people. That they should always give their all at work. That they don’t attack gay men, they proposition them. The importance of making sure to pay their taxes. How they should make sure to be dressed appropriately sexy when going out. Why a healthy diet and exercise are far better than any junk food they used to like. How jockstraps, and jockbriefs, as they leave their arses uncovered and available, are really the only underwear they can stand to wear. That their arses are made to be played with, whether thats tongues, toys, fingers or cocks. And how, if another man wants his arse played with, why it’s the nice thing to do to help out. These, and many more were the truths they learned as they fucked each other in new and exciting configurations.

I watched as they finished off their marathon session. They knew the best way to finish was for the cop and number five to make out, fingering each other to orgasm, while the others came over them. The six former homophobes collapsed on the ground afterwards, panting, and reformed.

Satisfied with my work, I departed. The men would be having better lives now, happier, more productive, and certainly more fashionable. I switched the tone off on my phone after I informed the officers it was fine to destroy all records of me being there. And that the tapes of the lineup session should only be watched with the volume on, and with only male officers present. Just in case.

I left the building, whistling a happy tune. I really felt like I helped some people today, you know?

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