Killer Cop Ch. 4

He was used to that, seemed to appreciate the way she jacked him, tickled his hairy sack with her nails, bathed what she could handle with fervent kisses and guttural, lavish praise. She meant every word of it. It was magnificent. She wanted it all, was horridly frustrated because she couldn't take it down her throat.

He offered her another ten to swallow his come. Fuck. A major earthquake couldn't have made her not gulp it down. It was oddly bitter. She noted, as she slurped and gasped, that everyone's she'd sampled had tasted different, but his was almost unpleasant. She swallowed and sucked and licked him clean, anyway. A deal is a deal.

He dropped her off a block from her assigned corner. She was dizzy with need, had to resist the impulse to step into a dark doorway and finger herself to the orgasm she desperately craved. Instead, she focused the energy into her makeup, lingering over her lipstick until she was satisfied that her just fucked mouth told the whole story. She was a teenage cock-sucker by trade as well as inclination.

Trotter was already back, watched the bold, insolent strut of her approach. Lisa couldn't summon even an iota of nervousness at the knowing smirk the sergeant wore and the snide comment about eating out. Her new boss didn't seem to care.

Wilson wasn't waiting for her after the shift ended. She dawdled and dallied for a while, cleared up a few details that would have kept, hoping for a farewell fuck in the alley. He didn't show. Mildly pissed, she only then remembered what she was supposed to do after work. She had a customer waiting.

Her low-grade anger served her well. The kid was so fucking anxious, so terrified she wouldn't show, that she laughed in his face. He'd scoured the apartment from wall to wall, just like she was a straight girlfriend come to call. But he had the money.

She watched him, picked up on cues he dropped as to what he really expected from her. Just like before, he wanted humiliation, subjugation. She sat on the sofa, cigarette and drink in hand, and ordered him to strip for her, nice and slow, to the music on the radio. He was inept, awkward. afraid. She had to tell him how to do everything. She made it perfectly clear that he was a total fuckup, an absolute and irredeemable failure as a man. He was wounded, but his cock stood at shameful attention.

"Open the bag," she ordered.

The plastic rustled as he picked it up. His eyes were on hers. "What's inside?"

"Your clothes for the night. Put them on."

He was horrified by what he found. "No! I can't!"

She slid to her feet. "Sure you can, baby. Here. Let me help."

He backed slowly away. "No."

It took all of five seconds to subdue him. The arm lock was painful, not playful. She made sure he knew that she'd dislocate his shoulder if he continued to resist. He stood on his tiptoes, grimacing, as she walked him to the bed, cuffed him as she had before.

She casually retrieved her cigarette and drink. "I didn't want to have to do it this way," she lied. "But I know it's what you want. Since you obviously don't have the balls to do it by yourself, I guess it's up to me. It'll cost you, though. Another hundred."

"No. Please. I -"

The hand squeezing his balls shut him up. "Another hundred. Right?"

He agreed.

She really had no idea how to go about it. She improvised the whole thing. She searched the tidy little bathroom for his razor, found an electric version, and used it. It pulled as much hair as it cut, and left a nasty stubble. She told him to take care of that later. He instantly agreed. Then she dressed him. He cooperated fully, all reservation having been shed with his leg and underarm hair. Still, she kept the handcuffs in place as she finished her work. Finally, blindfolded, hands secured behind his back, she led him into the bathroom and stripped the cloth from his eyes.

"There, cunt. What do you think?"

His shock was absolute. He stood, frozen, only his darting, hungry eyes capable of movement. His sweet little red lips finally smiled. His long lashes batted coyly. "I love it," he simpered, turning to admire his false tits and long, stockinged legs. "Am I as pretty as I feel?"

"Yeah. Sure."

He was, really. He had decent legs, not too knobby. His ass was skinny, and the lump of his hard-on needed to be tucked away somehow. The dime store wig would pass in bad light. And his face was sexy as hell. His complexion had smoothed under the thick makeup she'd plastered over it, and his big brown cow's eyes glowed inside their liner and mascara and shadow.

He turned to face her, made his voice a parody of femininity. "How can I ever thank you?"

"The money's a start." She grabbed the cuffs, jerked him out of the bathroom and pushed him onto the living room floor.

This'll finish it."

She lifted his cheap minidress and her own more expensive skirt, sank down astride him, impaled her overheated cunt on his stretched rod, rubbed garter belts with him.

"Fuck me good, bitch," she growled ominously. "Make me come or I'll beat the living shit out of you."

He did okay. Well enough to get her off, anyway. But almost anything would have done that, by then. She was an orgasm waiting to happen.

After he filled her, she gave him back his come. He licked her clean with an energy even more desperate than the night before, succeeded in making her come a second time. He was really a better pussy eater than anybody's face she'd ridden. Maybe because he wanted one of his own, and whatever sperm was left by others in her reservoir.

With his wrists re-locked in front, she made him awkwardly repair his makeup, then drug him outside, forced him to tell her where his bank was, and made him withdraw the second hundred from the teller machine. Then, she forced him out of her car, made him walk the ten blocks home in pre-dawn's half-light. He needed the exposure, she mocked out the car window as she sped away.

She circled the block, turned off her headlights as she rounded the last corner. He hadn't stood there wearing that agonized look for long. Nor was he skulking from shadow to shadow. He was tapping his way down the sidewalk, getting the feel of the ill-fitting high heels. As a car approached, he cringed a little, for a moment. Then he added a sway to his ass and walked on.

She threw her cigarette into the street, clicked on the interior light, and looked into her eyes. They were those of a little girl playing a strange, warped game of adult dress-up. Couldn't anybody else see past the makeup? None of her johns, would-be or actual, ever saw her pain. Why was that? The other whores just saw competition. No. Not true. They knew, because they had the same look. Trotter had it, too.

She checked her lipstick. Unsmeared and gleaming. Her hair. Smooth and sleek. Such a sexy little piece. Such a raw bundle of sexuality, primed and ready.

Why did she have to be this way? Of all the ways possible, why this one?

She jerked the car into gear, cranked up the radio. Because this was the one that met all her needs. It got her laid as often as she wanted. It paid well. And it offered justice for all, in one nice, neat bundle.

Everybody should be so lucky.

To Be Continued...