A Two Cop Fuck

It wasn't the fact that I was standing in the tiny kitchen in his small flat in Blackheath, South London. It wasn't the fact that I was only wearing a black suspender belt and fishnet stockings. It wasn't the fact that James was buried into me as deeply as he could be. It wasn't either the fact that he was fucking me from behind, that his balls were slapping against my arse and my full tits were flying around all over the place. No, it was none of those facts that made this so different, so unusual and so exciting.

Our affair, which had started with him 'pulling' me at the gym I had joined in Greenwich where he was also a member, had progressed rapidly. We met regularly, but not that frequently for his job as a police officer was almost as time demanding as mine was as European Head of Mergers and Acquisitions for a US owned, global investment bank. I travelled around Europe a lot helping companies acquire each other and he chased criminals around the UK; not much difference really!

We managed to meet probably twice every three weeks or so I guess. On reflection, since he had moved from the very suburban, social graveyard of Dartford in Kent, which was thirty miles from my Dockland's apartment, to the pleasantly, upscale inner-city village of Blackheath, which was just across, or just under using the Blackwall Tunnel, the Thames, it had probably become weekly or more.

James had been seconded from the Manchester Police to the Met. It was a two-year assignmement so at first he had brought his wife and two kids with him and had set up home in Kent. It didn't work, though, and shortly after we started, his wife and kids went back up north and he was provided with the small flat in the convenient for us Blackheath.

After a few weeks a pattern had developed.

We would meet at a bar or restaurant, have a few drinks and a meal and then go to his small flat and fuck. Sometimes I would stay all night, but at other times, when either of us had an early start, I would leave around ten. At other times we would go to a hotel, but never to my apartment, which was supplied by the bank.

I'm an expat from Denmark, where I was brought up and where my attitude and outlook on sex was conditioned by the free-thinking, open and very non-judgemental approach to sex that prevails in my country.

When offered the big promotion to my current job, my husband refused to move to London so we separated. We didn't divorce and when I went 'home,' roughly each month, we still did what most married couples do, fuck a lot for a while and then row. In London, I had to be discrete. The bank was fanatical about bad public relations and my boss would have gone apeshit if he had known I was shagging a cop. He would have assumed that I was being investigated and that the cop would find something on me.

As part of my expat package, the bank provided free of charge an apartment as well as a Porsche and loads of other goodies. I didn't dare take James to the apartment near Canary Wharf for I too had become fanatical about being discrete. I gave James the impression that I still lived with Erik, my husband, who is a writer and, therefore is in the apartment most of the time. I also didn't let him know the bank I worked for telling him it was some obscure Swedish financial institution.

This way, he really knew little about me and, of and when I wanted, I could simply vanish, always a useful technique with an affair!

With his wife back in Manchester our fling became more adventurous. When I was travelling and was able to talk to James on the phone we usually had some form of phone sex. That inevitably led to us camming each other using our iPads. We found a mutual liking of having sex in places where there was a chance of being caught. Given our positions that really was crazy, but it was such a turn on to be fucked on the back seat of his car, in a shop doorway or out of doors in a field or up against a tree in a wood. He got me to leave off my underwear and he would 'finger' me as we ate or drove.

But this time it wasn't the fact that we were in a risky place. Nor was it the fact that we were doing it, unusually for us, in the afternoon. It wasn't also the fact that when I lifted my skirt up I wasn't wearing panties and that I hadn't been during the lunch we'd had in Costa Coffee across from the station in the village.

No, it was none of those facts that was giving me the unusual and never before experienced combination of extreme thrills and enormous trepidation I was feeling in that small kitchen.

Something else had crept into our relationship. Well not relationship, we didn't really have one of those, simply our sex. That was aggression.

So, it was none of those facts that were giving me these amazing sensations.

It was the facts that: he was squeezing my breasts far harder than they should be squeezed, pinching and pulling my nipples far harder than they should be pinched and pulled and that he had grabbed my hair and was yanking it far more aggressively than it should be yanked.

Yes, it was the power of force, the fact that I was being dominated and was submitting my will, mind and body to him that was turning me on so much.

* That was the start, well pretty much, but thinking back, there had been a couple or three occasions when he had pinched me rather hard, dug his nails into the soft flesh of my buttocks, thighs or tits and sucked overly fiercely on my nipples.

Prior to this affair, there had been moments with other lovers where I had experienced similar feelings.

Erik had tied me up a couple of times. He had got me to wear an incredibly tight corset with both of us getting excitement from him lacing me up and taking my waist in from its usual twenty seven inches or so to around twenty three.

I had indulged in some mild BDSM at a sex club I went to with him, a fairly common thing in Denmark and a couple we had swung with were both into spanking and thay had given me a red bottom.

I hadn't realised fully until after Erik and I parted the prominence of the submissive streak in me. For some years I had felt the desire occasionally to be dominated. I wanted a man to control and direct me. These were not enormously strong feelings, but over probably a ten year period between my mid-thirties and mid-forties they surface more frequently and each time with more intensity. The need for being directed and controlled also included the desire to be abused and humiliated.

I tried finding out why by researching on the web. It seems that it boils down to me having led a charmed life, wealthy parents, success at university and power and responsibility in my job. It turns out that this wish to submit and be humiliated is quite common among successful businesswoman!

*

As James had pinched my nipples, squeezed my breasts and bum and pulled hard on my hair, I hadn't complained, so presumably James thought I was giving him the green light. He must have, pretty reasonably, felt that I was into being roughed up a bit and was used to being hurt, abused, humiliated and generally dominated as part of a sexual relationship.

I wasn't, but I had to admit that what he was doing was getting to me.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" He growled his nails digging in my breasts.

I didn't reply, but instead writhed myself against his cock, which was deeply in me.

"Aren't you?" He repeated louder, giving a strong yank on my hair.

"Yes, sort of," I whimpered the pain on my boobs and scalp getting to me.

"What the fuck's that mean, sort of?"

"I er, I um, I don't know James," I mewed, loving what his cock was doing to me, but wondering why I didn't object to his nails digging into my boobs and his hand pulling my hair.

He seemed to pull harder on my hair and dig deeper with his nails. The pain from both was searing. It hurt, it was agony and painful, but it mixed with the glorious sensations that his cock was creating deep inside me. I couldn't understand it. I didn't honestly know whether I was enjoying it or what I was feeling; all I did know was that I didn't want him to stop.

The orgasm he gave me was awesome. It was right up there with anything I had ever had before.

After the sex, we didn't talk about it. We didn't discuss what he had done to me and my reaction. We didn't review our feelings or analyse what we had both got from his much harder than usual squeezing, pinching and pulling.

We didn't talk about it, but I thought about it, a lot.

Usually, I am able to work out why I did something, why I reacted and acted in a certain way. I can generally work out what it was that caused me to gain enjoyment or other sensations from most experiences, especially of a sexual nature. I had been able to do that and had come to terms with my reaction to James wanting me to leave off my underwear, him fingering me in public and us fucking in dangerous places. I had, after a great deal of thought, understood and had coped with the evident needs we both had in those areas.

This, though, was different. I had no idea why I had enjoyed James becoming more aggressive with me and I had no one, not surprisingly, with whom I could discuss it, not even him. Our relationship wasn't like that, but then I don't think many are. Until you have developed a long-lasting, very trusting, perhaps even loving relationship with someone, it's usually too difficult to discuss in detail your sexual wants and the reasons why you like certain aspects of sex. As the saying goes, 'some things are best left unsaid!'

*

We'd had sex before dinner. It was quick and energetic.

He had pressed me face first against the floor to ceiling, sliding glass doors that led out to the balcony of the hotel room, overlooking the Thames in the distance. I knew I could not be seen, unless someone in the high- rise flats over the south side was using a telescope or binoculars. I doubted that, but didn't know for sure and the fact that there may have been was just yet another turn on for both of us.

I was naked and the cold glass on my breasts made for a strange sensation, strange but nice. They were squashed against the glass, which almost flattened the D sized mounds. Looking down on them as he fucked me from behind, they looked huge and I realised another diet was required. Why is it in winter, when I play less tennis and golf and put on a little weight most of it goes to my tits, I always wonder?

James was on the ten pm to six am shift. We had met at the hotel early evening and had a few drinks in the bar before going to the room and having some quick sex. We had a room service dinner with us both in deference to him having to go to work to keep us all safe, just drnking San Pellegrino.

I hadn't showered after sex, for I had to fix the dinner, so I had slipped into a pair of combats and an old tee shirt. After dinner though, I needed a shower and went and had one as James watched some football on TV.

I saw that it was nearly nine and realised he would have to leave soon. There didn't seem much point in getting dressed for I would go to bed directly he left, which would probably be nine forty five or so I guessed.

I slipped into the thin, cotton, sleeping shorts and a singlet, a bit like a mans' vest, that I had taken to wearing lately, the vest outside the pants, not tucked in.

In keeping with most of my fellow countrymen I am relaxed about nudity. At the gym I was one of the few women who showered and dried myself in the dressing room for most use cubicles to hide their bodies. That and wearing a brief bikini in the pool area had been fine until the past few weeks. Now though, I couldn't do that for the others at the gym would see the fierce red marks on my breasts and inner thighs that were the leftovers of my sex with James.

"Take them off" he said as I came out of the bathroom.

"What?" I asked feeling pleased that he wanted me naked and was likely to be going to fuck me again.

"What do you fucking think?" He said sternly. "Those stupid clothes."

I slid the shorts off and stood there for a moment or two just in the singlet.

"That's better, you look more like the slag you really are like that with your fucking big nipples poking through the vest. Look at yourself in the mirror."

I walked to the dressing table and stood there as he had told me. The singlet only came down to just beneath my waist so my landing strip of pubes with my glistening lips poking through them were on show. He was right about my nipples, they were making horrendously significant bumps in the thin material. I saw James' reflection in the mirror as he came up behind me. He reached round me and cupped both of my breasts and pinched my nipples, hard. The pain made me cry out, but that just seemed to encourage him to pinch even harder.

"James no, please" I groaned feeling as if I might faint, but not sure whether that would be from shock or pleasure; I was beginning to see that there was a very narrow line between those two emotions.

"Please what?" He asked his finger digging into the flesh of my breasts.

"Stop, you are hurting me."

"You deserve to be hurt."

"What do you mean?" I groaned as he sort of twisted one of my boobs and grabbed my short, blonde, sticky up hair. He pulled my head round and that clashed with his face sending my glasses spinning. He then kissed me. It was the strangest of feelings. To have a man physically hurting and demeaning me as, at the same he was kissing me created an odd range of emotions in me. Almost, was I beginning to love or hate him?

"Let go."

"No," he said grabbing both my arms and turning me towards him. "I want to kiss you."

I struggled and broke one arm away.

"No James, you can't."

"Why not?"

"It's over, this is going crazy."

He grabbed me again and pulled me against him. His cock was now rigid, fuck I thought, he wants sex again.

"Let go."

"No, I want you. It's not over."

"You can't have me now."

"I can, I can fucking-well have you when I want, you're my slut." He said pushing his cock hard against my soft, naked tummy.

"You can't. That's it James."

"What do you mean, that's it? I decide when this is over, when I want to get rid of my slut?" He growled, holding me tighter. I started to struggle.

"No James, you don't, I do."

"In your fucking dreams," he said crushing me against him and grabbing hold of my bum.

"Let me go," I growled struggling and half breaking away, but not before he reached out and got hold of my boob. I squirmed and broke the contact with my tit, but he grabbed the vest. "Stop it James, this is crazy, you're acting like a lunatic."

"It's not crazy and don't call me a lunatic." Bloody Kevin Kline again, I thought, nearly smiling

"James you're being ridiculous," I said pulling away, but being restrained by his grip on the material of the vest. "Can't you see it's over?"

"I told you I'll decide when it's over," he snarled grabbing my boob again.

"Oh no you don't, I'm telling you we're finished. You're insane. You're acting like a lunatic.""

"I'm sane enough to fuck you and make you cum so I am not a lunatic," he said pulling the vest. He stretched it very tightly across my boobs and the top of it was pulled down so that my nipples were almost showing. He saw that and pulled harder on the top so that the neckline slid further down and my tits popped out, completely. The sight of them in all their voluptuous glory with, I realised to my horror, horrendously swollen nipples, distracted him and I got away.

"Now stop it," I said trying to walk away and shove my tits back into the clearly totally inadequate vest as I did.

He just held me tighter and pulled the front of the vest down again.

"Look at you, you slag, your nipples are hard, I bet your cunt is soaked as well.

"Fuck off you pervert," I growled, alarmed that quite possibly I was wet.

I squirmed free, now a little scared. I started to run; my plan was to go to the bathroom and lock it. But he grabbed me by the waist with one hand and the hair with the other. I struggled and got near to the bathroom door with him still holding me. I thought I would get away, but I was wrong, for I slipped and fell to the ground on my front. He tumbled with me pulling my hair quite hard and gripping my bum with his other hand.

"Let me go," I moaned feeling trapped.

"No," he said squeezing my bum.

"James this is madness."

"You keep saying that," he snarled yanking my hair. "It wasn't madness all the other times I fucked you was it?"

"That was different."

"No it wasn't."

"It was, now let me go," I said wriggling to get away.

"Shut up," he said pulling hard on my hair. "You struggle any more and I'll pull your fucking hair out by the roots." He gave it another strong yank to emphasise the point. That made me cry out in pain.

"Stop it, right now."

"Why, if I don't you gonna tell the police are you?"

"Don't be daft, no of course not."

"Right of course you can't," he said sliding his hand between my thighs. "You can't tell anyone can you, not them, your precious friends at the bank or anyone, can you? You can't tell them you've been fucking the filth can you?"

He wiggled his hand so that he got his fingers onto my lips and pulled hard on my hair again. "Can you, you slut. My slut?"

That realisation hit me strongly. It made me start to cry.

"And that is why you are going to let me fuck you again isn't it?" He said trying to prise my legs apart.

He got his knee inside mine and pushed one leg with that and pulled the other with his hand. I couldn't stop them opening, he was just too strong.

"James, this is rape. Stop."

"It isn't rape, you want it really," he said pushing me half on to my side.

The neck of the vest was now caught under my boobs almost supporting them. He took hold of my nipple and pinched it hard. That made me yelp.

"See look at your fucking nipples, they're like rocks. What's that all about?"

"I don't know," I whimpered as he squeezed and pinched them.

He still had his knee pushing my right leg open, but he was now almost lying on my back. His cock was pressed securely against the back of my left, upper thigh and the left cheek of my bum. I was helpless. I felt his hand between my legs, his fingers were fumbling at my lips.

"You dirty fucking bitch," he snarled pulling my hair and shoving what must have been three fingers in me.

"Don't," I moaned knowing full well what he was going to say next.

But he surprised me by saying nothing. Instead, I felt his full weight on me, his chest on my back. His stomach on my buttocks, his legs against mine, his cock on my bum.

I started to struggle again, for oddly I had forgotten to do that for a while. Why? I had no idea.

"Get off, you sod," I mumbled, wriggling my bum and trying to close my legs as I lay there on the thick-pole carpet. Despite the desperation and the humiliation of my position, lying on my front, my legs wide open, I couldn't help, completely incongruously thinking, how smooth the carpet was.

The pain was awful as he pulled my hair very hard and dug his fingernails into the soft flesh on the side of my left breast, which was squashed against the floor. Holding my left tit, sticking his fingernails into the flesh on the side and pulling my hair so that my neck was bent and my head was held up off the floor he wiggled himself downwards a little. Down so that he was lying completely between my legs, down so that his cock slid off my bum. Down so that it was also between my legs and down so that he was able to press its bulbous head right on my lips.

He moved his hand from my breast and I thought I might have a chance of escaping, but his hold on my hair was too tight; any movement of mine was met by a yank from him, which did feel as if the hair might come out by the roots.