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bigboysfalldeep · 2 years ago

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mass cop conversion

After a successful field test, Officers Bradley, Johnson, Miller, and Phillips were sitting inside their vehicle. It was a pretty exhausting day, doing multiple fitness tests, shooting exercises, and reviewing tactical guidelines.

They are on their way back to the station on a vacant road through the forest, a little outside of town. Bradley has been sitting in the passenger seat right next to his partner for 3 years, Johnson, who's sitting behind the steering wheel. The other two officers are sitting in the back, both of them browsing their phones. He exchanged a knowing look with his partner before shaking their heads and smiling.

As two senior officers, they had to teach the greener cops how to act, what to do, and what to say without causing too much trouble. It was working quite well, but at times, the rookies, especially Phillips, were a bit too enthusiastic.

After a long day at work, Bradley was barely able to keep his eyes open; luckily, he wasn't the one driving. Yet, as he rests his head against the seat behind him, he spots a little bright light shining through the woods.

"That's odd." He growled, drawing Johnson's attention.

"What?" His partner asked before turning his head as well.

Both of them watch the light shine brighter, illuminating more and more of the forest ground.

Now, even the rookies turned their heads, and all four men watched the light approach them, bewildered, before Johnson stopped the car.

"What are you doing?" Miller asked, his voice shaking slightly.

"It could be something worth investigating." Bradley said, looking at his partner.

But then, before any of the officers could react, the light widened even more, engulfing their entire vehicle in a bright, white light.

"What the fuck?" Bradley said, covering his eyes with the back of his hands, as all the others did the same.

Through his fingers, he was able to see a big, shadowy figure approach their car from the front, clearly the source of this bright light.

"Fuck this." Johnson grunted, hitting the horn of the car in frustration.

"Who is this motherfucker?" Phillips groaned, trying to get a better look at the source of light as well.

Shaking his head, Bradley reached for the door, but before he could open it, a weird feeling spread through him.

The air all around them grew thicker, so heavy that it got so much harder to breathe properly. A burning sensation spread across Bradley's skin and eyes; clearly, it wasn't some ordinary light.

"Fuck." Miller groaned as well, and Bradley turned his head to the other officer's. Just by their expression alone, he knew they were feeling the same thing.

With his hands shaking, he reached for the door again, but the pressure on his body just got way worse. Something was pushing him back—some invisible force causing their bodies to stay in place.

"We need....to get out." Bradley's body was pressed against the seat, and he couldn't move a muscle; instead, his body tensed more and more due to the pressure put upon it.

"I can't.." Johnson said breathlessly, obviously feeling the same. "What is this?" His face grimaced in pain, and his voice broke, ending in a silent moan.

Bradley turned his head to find his partner leaning back against the seat, breathing very quickly. Both of his hands are on his chest, clawing at his clothes. He could tell that he was barely able to breathe.

At this time, his breath quickened rapidly as well. As Bradley tried to regain his composure, he looked at the rookies through the rear view mirror, just to see them in a similar state. Phillips looked even worse, sweating and panting heavily while also clawing at his tight uniform. The temperature inside the car rose as well, causing their predicament to feel even worse.

Both rookies looked at him, seemingly asking for help, but there was nothing he could do.

"It's going to be fine." He growled, trying to make the rookies feel at ease, even though he didn't even know what was happening to them.

Bradley shook his head but was unable to avoid the light. His face flushed with color as his skin heated up even more.

Subconsciously, he started to tug at his clothes and his vest, and he somehow managed to remove his helmet, making it a little easier to breathe, just for a second. It dropped to the floor, but the pressure on his chest intensified again.

The light was shining ever so brightly right inside their eyes, but there was something else, something much more dangerous, inmidst those beams of light—another, invisible beam, a force echoing through the entire vehicle.

Just then, Bradley noticed some sort of sound—music or a speech—echoing through the entire car as well. He couldn't understand a word; he just felt a rhythm invading his mind.

"What is that?" He growled, still breathing so fast.

In response, Phillips let out a low moan, with his voice so rough.

The car was rocking slightly, something neither officer had experienced before.

Bradley closed his eyes, all of him focusing, trying so hard to get control, to move, to get out of this car, yet something was stopping him—something now crawling into his mind.

Images appeared—so many different, weird images: men on their knees, men made to serve, men made to obey.

It struck something deep inside him: the sound, the rhythm, that blinding light—all of it was putting so much pressure on his body and mind.

As waves of electricity pulsated through every fiber and every bone of his body, his muscles were the first to react.

Bradley's body grew hard; his muscles bulged against the fabric of his uniform, causing his vest to act as more of a restraint than actual protection.

Unaware, he was now stroking himself, running a hand across his chest firmly through his vest and uniform shirt while trying to calm himself down and steady his breaths.

"Fuck." He shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked through the rear-view mirror once more.

Shocked, he saw both rookies doing the same, but even more: Phillips and Miller were leaning back against the seats, stroking their own chests with both of their hands. Their faces were plagued by pain and pleasure, with their expressions shifting rapidly.

Both officers let out low moans as their bodies slowly reacted to their strokes. Their bodies moved in sync with the strokes and sensual movements.

Bradley himself intensified his strokes, feeling all of his muscles tense more and more.

As much as it was terrifying, something deep inside him found this alluring, but that wasn't him. It was a thought planted in him by that invisible, indoctrinating force.

"What is happening?" He cried out before a low groan escaped his lips. Barely able to move, he turned his head to see Johnson already one step ahead.

His partner's face looked pain-ridden, looking right into the bright light. He was stroking himself firmly beneath his vest, feeling himself, and touching himself so lovingly.

Bradley didn't understand what was happening to them, but his body was oddly into it. He could tell his member was hard already. Either due to the sight of the other officers or the pressure put on his body, he couldn't tell.

Just then, when he turned his face back into the light, his head grew so heavy. It was burning his eyes and, at the same time, invading his mind.

Panting, he struggled to keep his eyes open while his mind was flooded with more images and more thoughts of simple obedience.

This time, however, he saw himself as the obedient one. He was down on his knees, right next to this man he only knew as "sir".

He was wearing a similar uniform, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. It was tight—it hurt a little—but he didn't mind. The man touched him lovingly—his cheeks, neck, and down to his thick chest—and it felt so good.

At the same time, one of his hands ran down his chest, right to his thighs, and between his legs. Bradley was growing so hard and so fast, and a sudden warmth began to engulf his chest.

Like a flower, it bloomed inside his chest and spread rapidly. His whole upper body tingled, and his breathing got out of control. Bradley moaned in ecstacy, leaning his head back once more.

His eyes rolled back into his head, turning white, while the tingling sensation flowed through him—into his arms, hands, and even into his fingertips. They felt numb, yet he experienced so much pressure and pleasure—his clothes were restraining him, however.

He tried to tear his clothes apart as all of his muscles grew bigger and harder, straining the fabric of his now-tight uniform.

Bradley was struggling to keep a sane mind; it was surreal. He managed to steady his head, but his eyes were so heavy.

Unable to speak, more moans escaped his lips, and when his eyes fell on those two rookies again, he groaned.

The young officers were experiencing the exact same thing. Both of them were touching themselves firmly through their uniforms. Their dicks were tenting visibly, with Phillips already staining his clothes either with his sweat or his cum.

They moaned and thrusted a few times, experiencing pure pleasure. Their eyes too rolled back a few times as their rough and husky voices filled the air all around them.

This encouraged Bradley to touch himself through his pants as well. His cock was larger than ever before—it was pressing against his pants, visibly even through his underwear and uniform—and he felt all of him growing even harder by the second.

Bradley was sweating heavily now as the air all around him grew even thicker, filled with the moans and groans of the other officers. The smell was even worse; all men were sweaty already, yet this was different. As some were leaking, it's smell mixed with the other bodily fluids.

Bradley closed his eyes, trying his best to block these thoughts, smells, and noises, but all he saw were more images of him being a mere plaything.

The man was demanding more, so his body flexed hard. He did everything to please him. And the same command entered his mind over and over again.

"Obey."

Part of him wanted to obey, to give in, yet he had to push it back to regain control over himself again.

Fighting back, shaking his head, and trying to thrash around, Bradley turned to Johnson, who was looking at him as well. Both men were touching themselves and their cocks firmly, but they tried hard to stay focused.

Johnson was looking for help—a release—but neither of them could move even an inch. They were struggling so hard but failed. Whatever was happening shouldn't be happening, was all they could think.

But the now-comforting warmth kept spreading into every corner of their bodies, making it so much harder to not just give in. Their minds were invaded once again—even more images of simple, blissful obedience.

Bradley steadied himself against the seat, one hand firmly grabbing his own cock, the other on his chest, stroking himself lovingly.

The warmth entered his thighs and legs and flowed into his toes, causing the numbing, tingling sensation to become more intense. His body moved on its own, spreading his legs to make more space for his large member and his hands running along its ever-growing shaft.

For one last time, he looked into the rear-view mirror.

In horror, he saw both officers giving in to this phenomenal feeling; Phillips and Miller were touching each other, stroking each other's chests firmly. Their gazes were empty, just looking straight ahead, while their expressions kept shifting—pain and pleasure—again and again.

He watched their hands encompass each other's bodies: chests, thighs, necks, biceps, and pecs. All while they growled, moaned, and groaned in unison.

Holding back a painful moan, he suddenly felt a hand on his chest—his partner's hand. Johnson started to stroke him gently.

"What are you?" Bradley turned his face to look at the other officer, who was looking into the bright light, his face red yet unbothered.

He tried to fight back, but something deep inside him was enjoying this. "Don't," he begged, but Johnson didn't reply; however, he moaned instead, still looking right into the light.

This sparked something inside Bradley's chest: the urge to be touched and be fondled with by another man. He saw the images again—how good it felt to be touched like that, to be obedient.

"Fuuck." He moaned deeply, loving the firm hand touching him, stroking him, and playing with his nipples through the thin fabric of his uniform.

Instinctively, he reached out as well, and once his fingertips touched Johnson's chest, his dick grew even harder.

He never thought of touching a man like that before, especially his partner or any other officer, but it just felt so good.

Bradley loved how this man's body reacted to the simplest touch—how hard his muscles and tight his clothes were.

He turned his face into the light and acted simply on command.

Both officers were touching each other, feeling each other, and enjoying each other's bodies.

It felt like the tingling sensation was following their every move as their bodies shifted slightly.

The officers eyes were unfocused; now vacant, all of them stared into the light when a single thought flooded their minds.

"Obey. Cum and obey. Cum and obey."

Simultaneously, the four men reached down for each other's rock-hard cocks, stroking them through their pants at first.

Sweating, they started to drool heavily as more and more moans escaped their lips.

One by one, they struggled to unbutton their uniform pants, but after a few failed attempts, they succeeded.

As Johnson pulled out Bradley's wet, hard cock, he instantly started to play with it. All the others did the same, wrapping their hands around each other's dicks and moving their hands up and down their lengths.

It just felt so good to be touched like that, causing them to let out satisfied groans.

Bradley bit his lower lip, holding back, yet his low guttural growl echoed through the car, followed by similar noises from the others.

While their cocks were being fondled with, they stroked their own chests again, and the tingling feeling entered their necks and minds.

All of them grew weaker, yet their strokes became firmer.

Their hands moved to an unseen and unheard rhythm, and all four cops were edging already.

It wouldn't take long for them to fulfill their duty.

"Serve. Cum and obey."

Miller's cock was the first to give in to the pressure. He shot load after load, covering not only Phillip's hands but their clothes with his precious, hot cum.

His moans filled the air, followed by Johnson, then Phillips. All of them were cumming simultaneously, and the smell of cum and sweat was undeniable.

With one final stroke, Bradley gave in to that tingling as well. As his cock erupted, his mind was drained of everything.

He couldn't think or speak; he just moaned again and again.

Bradley's beautiful eyes were vacant, unfocused, and dull, just like the others'.

With every load and every ounce of cum leaving their bodies, more and more of their will, their resilience, and their minds were drained. Replaced with only one thought.

Obedience.

They sat there for what felt like hours, but it was mere minutes.

The light turned off, and several shadowy figures approached the vehicle. They watched through the windows and found four cops—mere empty husks, empty and ready for further programming.

Their clothes were stained with sweat, cum, as they kept drooling as well.

The doors opened, and a young man, seemingly enjoying this sight very much, smirked.

"The first stage is complete." He said that and reached for Officer Bradley's chest, touching him and stroking him firmly, but the cop didn't react.

"Good boys." The man patted his chest and looked at four other men doing the same.

"Take them for further experiments." The man took a step back.

"Yes, sir."

He watched four bulky men dressed in black leather pull those four cops out of the car—a sight to behold.

Their dicks were hanging out of their pants; all of them were covered in sweat and cum—a debilitating smell. Their eyes were empty, and even though they were thick, muscular men, they didn't fight back.

The officers were carried toward the other vehicle and out into the back.

With one last smile, the young man looked at them before closing the back doors.

#tf story #male hypno #male hypnosis #male domination #male transformation #hypno story #gay hypno #cops under control #hypno cops #cop slave #gay mind control #male mind control

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reasoningdaily · 2 years ago

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In the years before the Civil War, New York police officers sold free Black Americans into enslavement. Public Domain/Courtesy of Wikicommons

Clashes between protestors and the police from Portland to Atlanta to Kenosha are recent flashpoints in the long history of policing in America. While the police today emerged from a hodge-podge of national and international iterations, one of the United States’ earliest and most storied forces, the New York City police, offers modern Americans a lesson in the intractability of problems between the black community and the officers sworn to uphold the law.

That long history is both bleak and demoralizing. But this past also reminds us that real change will only happen by learning from the collective American experience, one in which those who supported systems of oppression were met by others who bravely battled against them.

As the nation’s most populous city for most of its history, New York has been uniquely affected by this dynamic. In the decades before the Civil War, when Gotham’s police force was becoming regularized and professionalized, Manhattan routinely erupted in riotous violence over the very meaning of equality.

No one individual embodied the brawling roughness of New York policing like Captain Isiah Rynders of the U.S. Marshals.

Born in 1804 in the Hudson River town of Waterford, New York, Rynders was a gambler on Mississippi River steamboats. He reportedly killed a man after a card game and fled to his home state around 1837.

Known for his thunderous voice, a powerful memory, and a penchant for histrionics, Rynders made an immediate impact on New York City.

Black New Yorkers became his main target, and for decades, he patrolled the streets looking for runaways who had escaped enslavement in the South and who, against tremendous odds, had found freedom in Manhattan.

The Constitution’s Fugitive Slave Clause required northern free cities like New York to return the self-emancipated to their southern enslavers, and the NYPD and officers like Rynders were only too willing to comply, conveniently folding their hatred of black people into their reverence for the nation’s founding document. Armed with the founders’ compromise over slavery, Rynders and his fellow officers,

men like Tobias Boudinot and

Daniel D. Nash,

terrorized New York’s black community from the 1830s up through the Civil War.

And, even worse, it often mattered little whether a black person was born free in New York or had in fact escaped bondage; the police, reinforced by judges like the notorious city recorder Richard Riker, sent the accused to southern plantations with little concern and often even less evidence.

Thanks to Rynders, Boudinot, and Nash, the New York police department had become an extension of the powerful reach of southern slavery, and each month—and often each week in the summer months—brought news of another kidnapping or capture of a supposed runaway.

Black New Yorker John Thomas, for example, was claimed by an enslaver from Louisville, Kentucky. Thomas purportedly fled slavery along the Ohio River, then travelled through Canada, and ultimately found a job as a porter in a Manhattan hotel.

In late 1860, Thomas was arrested as a fugitive by the Manhattan police. While in prison, Thomas hastily drafted a note, dropped it out his cell window, and asked a passing boy to give the note to his employer, who submitted a writ of habeas corpus.

Unfortunately, the marshal on duty was none other than Rynders, who produced a different black man in response to the writ, and the judge declared the writ satisfied. In the meantime, Thomas’ employer and friends learned, too late, that one of Rynders’ deputies had taken the real John Thomas to Richmond, where he would be transported to Kentucky, lost in the darkness of American slavery, like untold numbers of other kidnapping victims.

Fortunately, New York’s black community was not without heroic defenders like David Ruggles, the tireless activist and journalist. Ruggles led the city’s antislavery community while the likes of Rynders, Riker, Boudinot and Nash, a group so wicked that Ruggles had labeled them “the kidnapping club,” patrolled the streets and docks in search of their next prey.

Joined by activists like Horace Dresser, Arthur Tappan, Charles B. Ray and other antislavery protestors, Ruggles fought relentlessly against those officers and marshals who threatened black liberty.

Just as modern protestors decry the role of the police in the quest for order, black and white activists in pre-Civil War New York claimed that the force was little more than a vigilante expression of the worst tendencies of white residents.

A more professionalized police force, however, did not mean one more suited to the protection of black civil rights. On the contrary, in the early 1800s, the police proved sadly and persistently indifferent to the black lives they were supposed to protect.

By modern standards, the early NYPD was a ragtag band of barely organized and only partially trained officers. The daytime police remained inadequate to deal with the robberies, violence, prostitution, gambling and other crimes of a city approaching 300,000 people in the 1830s.

Only 16 constables, elected by citizens of each ward, along with about 60 marshals appointed by the mayor, patrolled the city. Only constables and marshals had the power to arrest under a magistrate’s orders. Armed with warrants issued by Riker, marshals like Rynders could terrorize Gotham’s black residents, who came to fear the police presence in their neighborhoods.

Part of the fear emanated from the fact that Rynders’ confederates Boudinot and Nash did not wear uniforms or carry any kind of badge signifying their authority.

The familiar dark blue uniforms of the NYPD were not instituted until the 1850s, so African Americans harassed or arrested by the police could not even be sure that they were being accosted by legal authorities.

Equally problematic was the fact that neither Nash nor Boudinot earned regular salaries on which they could depend; their ability to support themselves and their families came from fees set by state law, which virtually required officials to arrest as many people as possible.

The situation almost guaranteed corruption, and tied the financial interests of the New York police force to the financial interests of southern slaveowners. Not that they needed any push to over-police the black community, but patrollers like Nash and Boudinot had every incentive to use their blanket writ to arrest as many accused fugitive slaves as they possibly could. In fact, their financial well-being depended on it.

Boudinot and Nash operated almost like independent agents in a police force that was itself in disarray, an institutional chaos that only rendered Black lives even more vulnerable. Fernando Wood, elected mayor in 1854, controlled the police department and relied heavily on Irish immigrants to man the force.

But by the 1850s, anti-Irish politicians were trying to establish a new police force, soon to be called the Metropolitans, that would replace Wood’s Municipals. A clash erupted in 1857 when Wood refused to back down, and for months, the city actually had two competing police departments who battled each other as much as they combatted crime.

Both Wood’s Municipals and the state’s Metropolitans were guilty of malfeasance and dereliction of duty.

In fact, the Municipals, led by police chief George Matsell, had been called “slave catchers” by the city’s black community and its allies in the Republican press.

George Matsell, a member of the NYPD since 1840, himself was suspected of corruption, and rumors spread that he extorted money from criminals, seized stolen property for his own use, and skimmed the profits of illegal activities.

By the time the Municipals and Metropolitans vied for control of the New York police, Matsell had managed to build a sprawling summer mansion within a vast vineyard in Iowa, where local landmarks still bear his name. New York politician Mike Walsh labeled the heavy-set Matsell a “walking mass of moral and physical putrefaction.”

The crisis between the Municipals and the Metropolitans was only resolved when Wood and the Municipals finally backed down and the Metropolitans emerged as the city’s permanent and only official police force. Yet, the new police force proved no more respectful of black lives.

Boudinot became a captain in one of the city’s main wards and Rynders became a Democratic elder statesman during and after the war. In fact, New York City, always ready to defend the cotton trade with the South, voted against Lincoln in 1860 and harbored racial conservatives like Wood during the war and after. Embodied by newspapers like The New York Weekly Caucasian, one of the nation’s most prominent promulgators of white supremacist ideology, the city remained an unfriendly place for African Americans.

One hundred and fifty years later, policing has changed a great deal, particularly in its militarization and organization, but the tensions between the nation’s black communities and the police are still very much evident.

Black Americans have been fully aware of this history for generations because they have been the objects of so much of the violent quest for law and order. Although many people might assume that Riker’s Island was named after the city recorder, it appears that the name originates less from an individual and more from Manhattan’s general Dutch heritage. But though their origins may be different, both the prison and the city recorder share a similar past of neglecting the plight and suffering the New York’s most vulnerable residents.

Now, with some white Americans learning the fraught history of policing for the first time, have they come to realize that the last moments and utterances of Eric Garner, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and untold others are but modern expressions of a deep and deadly struggle that stretches back to America’s earliest beginnings.

#The So-Called ‘Kidnapping Club’ Featured Cops Selling Free Black New Yorkers Into Slavery #New York #slavery #Freedmen #Kidnapping Freedmen #New York PD Slave Catchers #paddy rollers #police are slave catchers #nypd #fuck the police

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