Chapter I: Rookie
by Tristmegistis ©
"Jesus," Lisa bitched into her beer, "if I wanted to be a damned secretary, I wouldn't have bothering going to college. I want to be a cop, damn it!"
"Know what your problem is?" Barney asked. He didn't lisp any more than he simpered. So much for her naive stereotype of gay men. He was the only person in the precinct she could talk to - her first true friend since high school, really.
"Yeah. I was born without a cock."
He laughed. "Wrong. You could be riding in a patrol car in under a month if you'd just loosen up."
Officer Lisa Cole leaned back. Her wide leather belt creaked. Her narrow, high-boned face was made ugly by her sneer. "Like Sally Dawson loosened up? Had her uniforms tailored so tight that her nipples poked through and her ass crack showed?"
"Come on. You know that's not what I meant."
"I should file sexual discrimination charges. The only reason I'm not pulling some kind of real duty is because -"
"Whoa, girl. And lose any chance you've got to ever make it? Bad plan, Lisa," he warned. "You walk around with a chip on your shoulder. Everybody thinks you're arrogant. Know what they say behind your back?"
"Yeah. They think I'm a fucking dyke or something."
That hurt. She didn't show it. "Are you out of your head, Barnes?"
The conversation drifted away from anything serious after that, but haunted her for the rest of the week. She hated to admit it, but Barney was right. She acted cold, impersonal - entirely asexual and professional was the way she'd thought of it. But that wasn't the impression her fellow officers got. That kind of thing shouldn't matter, but it did.
She observed Sally Dawson with new eyes. The woman had a great body, and didn't seem to care if the men looked at it. Her uniforms weren't really as tight as all that, and Lisa grudgingly confessed that the woman was a good cop. Not better than she was. Not even prettier, for that matter. What rankled was that she managed to use her femininity. She let her big tits bounce and her hips sway. And she was out there where the action was as a result.
Over the weekend, Lisa grudgingly admitted that she had a choice. She could enter and retrieve data for the rest of her career, or make some changes and get on with her life. On the whole, letting herself act a little more feminine seemed less odious than the alternative. She didn't have to look like a fucking bimbo, for Christ's sake. Just a human being.
So, when Monday came, she steeled herself, stifled her fear, and went to work literally with her hair down. And her bra off. With an almost invisible trace of makeup she'd had to go out and buy. She felt ridiculous at first, but her astonishment at the difference it made in the way the rest of the guys acted banished her self-consciousness before lunch.
Not that she was able to forget about any of it. The continual covert looks directed her way kept her aware of herself all afternoon. Her badge and nametag attracted more attention than usual, as did the revolver on her hip. People who hadn't even known her name went out of their way to smile and say hello. Every time she used the john, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Each time she touched up her powder, she did it with a severe expression, as if that could offset the unseemly joy of finally losing the invisibility she'd wrapped about her when she was twelve.
And it wasn't just the patrolmen who noticed her. Captain Wilson actually smiled at her a couple of times. He was the one responsible for her assignment. She made herself smile back.
The next day, she added a refined touch of lip gloss to her look. The day after, a hint of mascara. Wednesday, she wore the slightly altered uniform she retrieved from the tailor. Every evening, she pored through magazines, desperate for information on how to use the unfamiliar feminine utensils that were making all the difference in the world. That Friday, she went so far as to buy herself a dress to wear to a party she'd been invited to the next evening. In entire five months she'd been on the force, it was the first time she'd ever been included in any extra-curricular activity.
Lisa spent hours getting ready. Curling her hair. Doing her nails. Shaving her legs. All the things most women took for granted, she felt like a fool for doing. But, she was a determined fool. If this was what it took to get out from behind her desk, it was worth whatever humiliation she had to endure.
Walking through the door of the apartment where the party was happening was harder than anything she'd ever done in her life. She was terrified. The dress was too small and too tight and too red. The nail polish made her fingertips feel heavy. The lipstick made her afraid to talk. The heels made her awkward and the pantyhose made her legs oddly slick.
But nobody noticed her tremendous discomfort. The looks she'd gotten at work were nothing like what she got that night. Within an hour, everybody there had pulled her aside, had expressed sincere interest in getting to know her better as they stared at her half-exposed tits. It was exciting as hell. For the first time, they treated her like a real person, not some damned robot. Hell, even Sally Dawson complimented her and displayed more friendliness than she ever had before.
It was a night of firsts. Her first experience with hard liquor, and, consequently, her first time drunk. Her first cigarette. Her first slow dance in years. And, later, her first fuck since she was raped.
It wasn't a conscious decision to do it with Captain Wilson in the back seat of his car. She was way too drunk to drive, and he offered her a ride home. Somehow, before she knew it, he was kissing her - and she was kissing right back, with a hunger she'd never known. When he'd stretched her dress down below her tits and turned his lips to them, she'd shouted with joy, gripped his head with stubby red nails so he couldn't change his mind.
Nothing had ever felt that good. Bolts of lightning shot from her suddenly bone-hard nipples and electrified her entire body. Parts of her came to life that she didn't know she had. A sudden flood of dire need, of utter desperation, consumed her. She didn't care who this man was, or what the repercussions of fucking him might be. All she knew is that if she couldn't get his cock between her legs, she'd surely die.
And, she thought that's what her orgasm was - the precursor of a glorious death. It transported her, took her into realms she'd never suspected even existed. She'd masturbated a few times, had what she thought were orgasms twice before. But they were utterly insignificant in comparison to the racking, glorious convulsions that overwhelmed her that night. Then, when what little consciousness she possessed told her that it could get no better than this, the cock filling her, making her whole for the first time ever, leapt and jerked and spewed the nectar of the gods deep, deep inside her. Her eyes widened. She arched into it, drove it deeper still, and fainted.
Or passed out. But just for a moment. The captain was still gasping atop her, muttering her name, telling her how wonderful she was when her senses returned to her. Her legs were still wrapped around his, and her hips were still rolling slowly. But she felt dulled, somehow. Sluggish in mind and body. She barely noticed his awkward disengagement, the slight tension as they finished the drive to her apartment. There was no goodnight kiss, no more tenderness, no final words of endearment. It was over. That was fine by her. She wasn't after a romantic attachment any more than she'd been after sex. He was married. He was her boss. She was no starry-eyed kid.
But the memory lingered, colored her entire Sunday. It was more clear and distinct than she'd experienced it in real time. She could still feel traces of each kiss, each caress.
She thought she should feel guilty, so Lisa tried to make herself feel bad. She told herself that she'd made the biggest mistake of her life. Drunkenly parading herself like some fucking hooker. Laughing and smoking cigarettes and dancing with half the guys there. Damned near raping her superior officer. Word was going to get around. Her reputation was ruined. Her career was in jeopardy.
But no matter how hard she tried she couldn't make herself care. A persistent glow filled her every time she recalled what it'd been like to have that many men wanting her. And, after ten years, a man inside her. She hadn't felt helpless or weak, as she'd always imagined women were during sex. She felt strong, stronger than ever before.
She got on with her Sunday routine, but, while she was ironing uniforms, she kept catching sight of the nail polish she couldn't make herself remove, and smiling. Every time she moved, the slight soreness between her legs wistfully reminded her of what had happened.
That night, she masturbated, used the little red nails to replicate what had happened the night before. It wasn't as good as she'd hoped, but was far better than her previous tries. She drifted into a lazy sleep feeling hopeful.
But, Monday morning, it was back to the daily day. The nail polish came off and the uniform went on. The precinct looked the same. She and the captain both pretended nothing unusual had happened, but the sly smirks and quiet whispers told her that everyone knew otherwise. She tried to ignore it all, but wasn't able to hide from her tremendous confusion.
On one hand, it pissed her off that her fellow officers were acting like old hens. They should have been above gossip. But, curiously, their secret leers and smirks were more flattering than offensive. They'd thought she was a dyke, did they? Well, now they knew better. She was a woman. All woman. She found herself standing tall, bearing their innuendo like a medal.
Wednesday, one of the patrolmen asked her out to dinner. She accepted. Despite his obvious sexual interest, and her own curiosity, she held him off. Not on the first date, she told herself. Thursday, Captain Wilson caught her alone in the records room and kissed her, groped her tits through her uniform shirt. She eagerly returned the all-too-brief embrace, felt the first-time wonder of a cock swelling in her hands within his slacks.
Friday night, he made excuses to his wife and visited her apartment. She was ready for him, wearing the second dress she'd ever bought and a face bright with anticipation and careful cosmetics.
He wanted oral sex. She tried to say no. He was insistent. She confessed that she'd never done it before. He was gently persuasive, promised to teach her. It was nothing like she'd expected. His cock was silky soft between her slick red lips, seemed to fit her mouth as if designed for it. He urged her to finger herself while she sucked and kissed him.
Doing herself that way while he slid in and out of her mouth was strangely exciting. The lights were all on. Her black dress was bunched around her waist. He'd made her remove her hose and panties, but leave her high heels on. He could see everything. Her lipstick smearing his cock, paled by her saliva. Her thick black lashes and tasteful silver eye shadow. Her juices glistening on her pretty painted fingertips.
She felt vulnerable, but not timid. She wanted him to see her, all of her. She wanted him to make her do more nasty things. She heard herself telling him that, begging him to teach her, show her, do whatever he wanted to her.
He made strange gurgling noises, made fists of the hands that had been stroking her brown hair, and, without warning, came in her mouth. She gagged, struggled feebly, but couldn't get free. It was either swallow or choke to death. It was salty and slightly bitter, but not at all unpleasant tasting. It was hot and slick sliding down her throat. Her paralysis was quickly gone. She found herself wishing there was more of it, regretting that she'd let the first geysers escape her stretched lips and dribble down her chin. She vowed not to make that mistake again.
Then, wonder of wonders, he wanted to eat her pussy. She'd heard of that, and been disgusted by the idea - just as she had by the thought of a cock in her mouth. Suddenly, there was nothing revolting about it. As his tongue encountered her core, she melted. She was coming even before his fingers penetrated her cunt. Just the sensation of his tongue rolling her clit sent her into the first of a series of explosions that she never wanted to stop.
Her sheets were wet, fragrant with sweat and both male and female come. Her dress was a wrinkled tangle around her waist, leaving her tits and pussy exposed to the chill air conditioning. Her smooth, naked thigh was atop his hairy one. The cigarette they shared was almost as delicious as his come had been. And she didn't cough this time as she inhaled the rich smoke.
"I've been thinking," he said with artificial casualness.
"Oh? About what?" But she knew. A new excitement built within her.
"About you yammering at me to get you out from behind that desk. Maybe you're right."
She tensed. "Really! You meant it! I can -"
"Hey. Slow down, Lisa. It's not going to happen tomorrow. Or even next week. I'm going to have to shuffle things around some. Piss a few people off, no doubt."
She grabbed the cigarette, punched him playfully on the shoulder. "You just want to keep me inside as long as you can so you can feel me up whenever you want to."
"Well, there is that. It's kind of a mutual fringe benefit, don't you think? And, if I rush things along, people will talk. We don't want that, do we?"
She hurried to agree, but her mind was already elsewhere. She was finally going to be a real cop. His hand squeezing her tit reminded her of where she was, what she was doing. This time, she got to actually see the miracle as his soft member elongated and hardened inside her fist, then vanished inside the hole between her legs that should have been too tiny to contain it. She forgot she was a policewoman. Being only a woman was enough, for a while.
It wasn't until after he'd gone home to his wife that she drowsily realized what should have been obvious all alone. He'd given her what she wanted only because she'd given him what he wanted. Pussy. That made her a whore. She was bought and paid for. She'd become the kind of woman she most scorned, become the most despicable thing in her inflexible value system. She went to sleep wondering if it was such a bad thing after all.
She awoke late Saturday, feeling invigorated and only slightly guilty as she remembered. She looked down and laughed at herself. The dress was still bunched around her trim waist. Bite marks decorated her left tit and right thigh. Her new high heels were mysterious lumps under the smelly sheets. Dried come made her pussy itch.
She scampered into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. She looked like shit. Sleeping in makeup maybe wasn't such a good idea. The mascara and eyeliner had blurred into black circles around her eyes. The lipstick he'd admired and told her was so sexy was a faint red halo around her puffy mouth. And sleeping in the dress wasn't such a great plan, either. The damned thing was almost ruined.
As she showered, she decided that today was the day she'd invest in some slinky lingerie. Maybe she'd sleep in her makeup sometimes, but never her dress. And, she was by god going to go out shopping looking good. She styled her hair, did what she'd already come to think of as her weekend makeup, slipped into the cleaned red dress, and studied herself in the closet mirror.
She looked hot. Come to think of it, she felt hot. The daylight made everything different. Brighter. Gaudier. Sluttish, even. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. She turned away from her reflection, both excited and afraid. Was she losing her mind?
She sat on the ruined bed, tried desperately to sort out her feelings. The captain had forgotten his cigarettes and lighter. Funny. She thought of him as either the Captain or Wilson - never Paul. She toyed with a cigarette, then lit it. It was different from the ones the night before. The smoke stuck slightly in her throat, tasted stale and harsh. Her mouth stained the filter red. As red as her fingernails and toenails and dress.
The bitch of it was, she liked looking this way. She had no idea when or why, but sometime during the past week, she'd ceased doing her best to look feminine for others, and started doing it for herself. She felt vibrant, alive in every cell of her body. She was ashamed of herself for feeling so good. It was cheap and tawdry. It was like an open invitation to fuck. Not make love, but just have sex. She didn't love Wilson. Paul. He didn't love her. He had a wife and kids. She had the Job. This was all just for kicks.
She caught herself daydreaming. What if she'd discovered this wonderful feeling earlier? What if, when that basketball player had raped her, she'd been able to cut loose and enjoy it? It wouldn't have hurt as much that way, physically or emotionally. Another thought swam up into her foggy brain. Was this bizarre, uncharacteristic acting out somehow related to that?
She jerked her thoughts away. It was too scary. She never thought about that experience. Never. It was over and done. So far in the past that it no longer existed. There was just today and tomorrow. She took a final drag from the cigarette, crushed it into the saucer-become-ashtray. And today she was going to buy lingerie. And be stared at and desired by every man in sight. She was a beautiful, sexy woman in the throes of self-discovery, and there wasn't a damned thing wrong with that. And fuck anybody who thought differently.
Lisa spent way too much money, knew she was doing it, and didn't give a damn. Not only did she find two silky, lacy teddies that she fell in love with, but she couldn't resist a stunning gold dress and matching five inch heels. Then, she had to have a garter belt and real hose - her first of both.
And there was more. So much more. But, already, she wasn't going to have anywhere near enough paycheck left to cover her bills. Tough shit, she laughed to herself, then refreshed her bright scarlet lips in the rearview mirror. I'll get by somehow. She stopped at a convenience store and bought her first pack of cigarettes.
There was a bar three blocks from home. Impulsively, she decided she want a drink. She pretended to ignore the attentive stares lingering over her as she took a stool. Before she could get her purse open to pay for her tequila sunrise, the bartender told her it'd been taken care of. She hid her astonishment. She'd been in bars maybe a dozen times in her life, and that'd never happened. She smiled a slightly nervous thanks two stools to her right. The man there took it as an invitation.
He doted upon her. He lit her cigarettes. He continued to buy her drinks. He made her laugh, time and again. He stared openly into her deep blue eyes as well as down her low, tight bodice. She saw her beauty and desirability etched in his feverish gaze, in the bulge of his slacks.
When he offered to take her to his hotel room, she hesitated too long. He'd already helped her to her feet and begun guiding her toward the door, his arm wrapped around her waist, his chest warm against her left tit. Her hip insinuatingly rubbed his. It was too late to say no. She didn't want to, anyway. Not really. It was the least she could do to thank him for making her feel so wonderful. Thank God she was too tipsy to have scruples.
The sex was mediocre. She was far too busy being enthralled by his almost servile attentions to her body to feel much. Oh, it was nice, but he seemed almost afraid of her. He was so desperate to please her that she had to fight away laughter. The fucker was worshipping her, for Christ's sake.
She was no expert, but the way Wilson had licked her pussy had seemed much more adept than this, and felt a hell of a lot better, too. And this guy kissed her tits like he was afraid he was going to break the damned things. And, when he finally stuck his cock in her juicy hole, he came almost instantly.
She had to reassure him, tell him how great he was, how she'd come like a cannon while he was eating her cunt, to keep him from crying like a baby. His gratitude knew no bounds.
He was back in his suit and tie by the time she cleaned herself up in the bathroom and remade her face. He was suddenly in a hurry. A late appointment. She shrugged, thanked him from the bottom of her heart - although she wasn't really sure why - and left.
It wasn't until she got home, kicked off her ridiculously tall heels and flopped woozily on the sofa that she opened her purse, wanting a cigarette, and found the money. A pair of crisp new fifty dollar bills. It took her several seconds to realize where they'd come from. He'd paid her.
She stared blankly at the engraved paper. A momentary horror washed over her, leaving her bathed in cold sweat and awash in nausea. He'd thought she was a pro. He'd believed the only reason she went with him was for the money.
She swallowed the bile clogging her throat. Her hand shook so wildly that she had trouble finally lighting the cigarette. But the smoke steadied her.
Okay. What's done is done. It was a stupid mistake for him to make. Whores demand their money up front, and almost never work at three in the fucking afternoon in neighborhood bars. It wasn't her fault. She hadn't asked him for a damned thing. She couldn't help it if the asshole mistook her for a woman who fucked for money. She wasn't responsible.
Her shrill giggle shocked her. Well, at least her new clothes were partly paid for. She wasn't going to have to diet the last half of the month away. Just the last week or so. Another raw laugh, half sob this time. Unless, of course, she decided to do another bar or two. There were bound to be more idiots like that one out there.
To Be Continued...
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