Detained in NYC
Copyright© 2025 by Midori Greengrass
Chapter 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - An artist is caught up in the dragnet.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Ma/Ma NonConsensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Wife Watching White Male Oriental Female Oral Sex AI Generated
Tommy sat at his desk in the makeshift detention center, a converted office floor with hastily installed locks on the doors and plastic chairs bolted to the floor. The fluorescent lights cast a dull glare on the scuffed linoleum. His fingers tapped against his thigh as he thought of Akemi in the holding area where he’d just left her, hands folded in her lap, that tangerine skirt still clinging to her thighs.
He had to get back, wished the forms didn’t need filling out but they did.
Fuck. He shoved back from the desk, the chair wheels screeching. She’d walked away, gone back to sit on the floor against the wall, one of the other detainees there. Maybe he’d approach again. See how she reacted. That wasn’t a crime. And if her breath gets faster when I step too close, if she doesn’t pull away when my hand “accidentally” grazes her waist—well, that’s consent, isn’t it? He stood, adjusting his belt, and reached for the keys.
In fact, it wasn’t his desk. You grabbed any unused desk you could find. It was all improvisation, the new immigration protocol still a work in progress, database incomplete and rarely accessible. Tommy, usually an organized person, loved the mess, the excitement, what it portended for the country’s future—America First—and for himself personally, and he loved the new hot Japanese detainee named Akemi he’d brought in, his prize catch for the day.
“Bet she dreamed about this,” he thought as he approached for the umpteenth time that afternoon, letting his eyes drag over the curve of her thigh where the fabric pulled tight. All those years in Japan surrounded by puny Asian guys, picturing some big American cop pinning her against a wall. That’s why she came here, isn’t it? To get handled by real men. His tongue pressed against his teeth. Her husband was probably some soft-handed academic who couldn’t even make her whimper. But me? I could have her sobbing into the mattress inside ten minutes. She’d thank me for it afterward.
He realized the stupidity of what he’d thought and laughed at himself for thinking it. He considered himself not a stupid person and, contrary to all reason, hoped Akemi did too.
She’d been quiet since he brought her in—no hysterics, no begging, just a resigned stillness that made his stomach tighten. “That’s the look,” he decided. The one they get when they know it’s coming. When they want it coming. He could walk in there right now. No one would stop him. The new administration had made it clear: guys like him were the backbone of the country now, and a little ... enthusiasm in the line of duty wasn’t something they’d punish. Hell, they’d probably applaud it.
Those stupid thoughts. They crowded out the intelligent kind, were much more interesting.
Hell, no one ever figured me for an egghead and I never claimed to be one.
He’d heard the talk in the locker room, the jokes about “processing” the pretty ones. Stupid stuff he considered beneath him and laughed at indulgently, thinking that’s how the young guys are, just having some fun. But it made him actually feel protective of the detainee he’d brought in. She wasn’t some coyote-smuggled drifter; she was clean, married, came on a student visa and hooked onto an American guy. ESL teacher. Loser. He knew that. Knew it wouldn’t be taking what was owed—it’d just be taking. His jaw clenched. She’d looked at him when he grabbed her arm on the street, not with fear, but something worse: recognition, like she’d expected this.
She wasn’t part of the rabble. She had a name. Akemi from Japan. An artist. Fancied herself a dancer too, claimed to be going to a class when he pulled her over. And he bet she’d be good.
The circumstance, her difference from the others, irked him. He felt she was passing judgment. Why the hell should she get to judge him? It was she in the weak position and through no one’s fault but her own. “You picked this,” he wanted to snarl at her as she watched him, glaring, not friendly at all, not ready to return his greeting. “You flew halfway across the world because you wanted to feel small for once, wanted some real American muscle to put you in your place.” He was the one doing the hard work, keeping the country safe. His fingers curled into a fist.
God, he was an idiot, he knew that and was liking it.
But then there was the other thing, the nagging weight in his gut that had kept him from acting all night. He wasn’t some back-alley thug. He had a badge. A house. A wife, though she’d stopped looking him in the eye months ago. Akemi shifted in place, her knee brushing against the woman next to her, and Tommy’s breath hitched. He could almost feel the heat of her skin despite the distance, which still felt unbreachable.
Then here came Sylvester, the last person he wanted to see. Unfortunately, Sylvester had spotted her too and, unable to resist an opportunity to needle, approached.
The open detention floor buzzed with the flickering hum of fluorescent lights. Sylvester watched Tommy pretend nonchalance; he’d stopped mid-walk toward Akemi to remain at a distance for the encounter with his nemesis, guessing it might be bruising. He didn’t want the detainee Akemi to see him possibly lose his bearings.
“Hear we got a live one.” Sylvester smirked. “Pick up a tourist last night, did you? Or what was it—visa overstay? Illegal work?” He’d guessed otherwise.
“Not a tourist. She lives here.”
“So then—?” He beamed. Putting Tommy on the spot provided him some dependable fun at work. Tommy was too serious, easy to get a rise out of.
Tommy kept his eyes on the file in front of him. “She was noncompliant.”
“Not compliant?” Sylvester barked a laugh. “And what if her papers are in order, Tommy? How’re you going to justify it? Even I wouldn’t have touched that.”
Tommy saw red. The phrase came to mind. He felt his face had flushed. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t want Akemi to see him like that. He cared about how he looked to her.
“She was nervous. Sketchy.”
“Yeah, real sketchy, I bet—what’d she say, ‘I wanna call my lawyer’?” Sylvester pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “You know what this looks like, right? Picking up a woman who belongs here just ‘cause she wouldn’t give you her number?”
Tommy finally looked up, cold. “You gonna report me, Sly? Go ahead. Or are you just giving me grief? That’s how you get your kicks, right? Messing with people.”
Sylvester grinned, all teeth. “Oh, I’m enjoying it plenty.”
A beat. The air between them thick with things unsaid—the bribes Sylvester pocketed, the arrests he buried for favors. All the little corruptions that made his calling Tommy to account now more than ridiculous, maddening. And Tommy was nervous, wanted Sylvester nowhere near Akemi.
“Just do your job,” he muttered.
“Funny,” Sylvester said, turning for the door. “Now you care about the job.”
He wasn’t done, on break had time to kill, leaned back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, taking his coworker’s measure. “So, Tommy. Akemi. You really think we’re keeping her for legitimate reasons?”
Tommy didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She was sketchy, I told you. Didn’t have her papers.”
“People don’t carry that shit around.”
“They should.” Tommy, in fact, was a stickler for doing things by the book, in that respect his rival’s opposite.