Driver

Erik Rhodes prowls the shadowed edges of the city on his nightly rounds, eyes sharp for trouble. He spots them first: two sailors on leave, Tyler Marks and Rod Barry, backs turned to the brick wall of a dingy alley. They stand side by side, flies unzipped, streams of piss arcing into the grime below. Golden arcs catch the faint streetlight, steaming in the cool air. Before they can shake off and zip up, a harsh voice cracks the night. Cruel MP Matt Majors strides in, uniform crisp, badge glinting like a predator's tooth. He grabs their collars, snarls orders, ready to haul them in for indecency. But the sailors' eyes flash defiance. Quick as a knife fight, they twist free, pinning Majors against the wall. His protests turn to gasps as hands roam, stripping away his authority. The alley echoes with the shift—power flips, and the MP's mouth finds purpose on their hardening cocks, the tables turned in a slick rush of retribution.