The Best Erotic Stories.

Killer Cop
Chapter V: Room 127
by Tristmegistis

Reasoning her way out of depression was like trying to blow her face off with an unloaded weapon. Usually, it was a waste of time, but every now and then she got a surprise.

Night finally fell on Sunday. It'd been a long, long day, and none of it had been fun. The attention-stealing skirt and blouse, the heels and hose she wore that night were new. Her hair was an ebony that would no longer wash out. The darker, wetter red lipstick that promised not to fade didn't make the smile her lips wore any more real. She'd obeyed the urge to get rid of the two-sixty she'd made the night before, but had gotten no pleasure from roaming the huge downtown mall.

The thoughts that haunted her as she stalked the nearly empty Sunday night streets were much the same as the ones that'd been with her all day. Being with the few other girls desperate enough to waste their time on the deserted streets just emphasized them.

She'd tried to do the right thing all her life. More than anything, she'd wanted to be a good girl, to live by the rules that guaranteed happiness. That's the way They said it worked. She'd tried to make Tommy stop. She'd really done everything a naive, panicked twelve year old could. But she'd thought she was in love with the fucker. Her crush on him was years old. And her body had betrayed her.

She'd always been a highly sexual girl. From the age of nine, before her first period, she'd had an almost perpetual case of the warm fuzzies. Hugging kittens and puppies and dolls made her feel kind of tingly. She had strange, troubling, happy dreams she didn't understand. And nobody was willing to explain her feelings to her.

The big people who had all the answers shunned her questions, or sternly told her she shouldn't feel that way, or laughed nervously and ignored her. She learned not to ask. She learned that sex was bad. She learned that she was bad. So she tried even harder to be as pure and good as They told her she should be.

And failed horribly, of course. It was inevitable. She was totally unprepared for life. Their evasions and lies had left her utterly helpless, unable to cope with the reality of passion. She'd had that fucking, puny little orgasm, and never told. She made herself forget the badness, but was branded a whore anyway by everyone who mattered. It was crazy. Were They all insane?

They'd sure as fuck made her that way. She'd violently suppressed every natural urge that had arisen. For almost ten years, she'd interpreted even the most innocent sexual dream as a full-blown nightmare. The slightest twinge of physical attraction had been something to be ashamed of, demanding repentance. Madness. Pure, certifiable insanity.

She paused in front of a closed porn theater, lit a cigarette, let the fitful breeze probe beneath the tight little neon blue skirt, lick her sleek, pantiless, moist little cunt. She gave an interested slow cruiser the benefit of her freshly manicured middle finger. That was the fourth or fifth trick she'd turned down. She hadn't come here to fuck. She was here to escape the oppressiveness of her apartment. The streets felt more like home than anywhere she could think of. She walked on, listening to the thin click of her spike heels on the concrete.

This was where she belonged now. Even if she never again let anyone pick her up and use her, this was where she wanted to be. Like Wilson, for all the wrong reasons, she'd done all the right things.

That realization amused her, curled her heavily painted lips into an ironic smile. Barney had been right. She was growing sane. She'd had to discover that her pussy was attached to the rest of her, find out the hard way that she was a highly desirable woman. She dropped her cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, delicately ground its red-tipped filter under the toe of her six inch pump.

Her true home wasn't really the streets. It was inside her long trained, long denied body. It was supple and hard and juicy, filled with vitality and strength and desire. All these years, it had waited for the rest of her to catch up with what it already knew. It was the source of the impulses that had guided her to this point. Now, it was doing its damnedest to make up for lost time.

She paused before the reflective plate glass of a barred pawnshop. Today was the first since the fateful Saturday night after the party that she hadn't given it - and the rest of her - at least one orgasm. All day, now that she thought back, it'd been on a low simmer, tingeing the threshold of her gloom with rosy hues. The urge had been with her throughout the depression. It had picked out the clothes she bought, dictated the face she painted, chosen the street she now strolled. While her conscious brain had been chasing itself in pointless, pained circles, the urge had taken charge.

She fluffed her midnight black hair, felt it tug through her hooked, mandarin red nails. It'd done a pretty fucking great job, too. It'd achieved the same youthfulness of the night before, but spared the jadedness. She looked more sultry than sleazy. The tight little black lace bra, visible through her sheer blue blouse, compressed her tits to adolescent size, but pushed them up proudly, left them bare to her aureoles. Easy, but sweet, too.

The eyes, glittering with metallic green color, grew moist. Such a sad little girl. Smart and pretty, she deserved a hell of a lot better than she'd gotten. They'd stolen everything joyous and bright from her left her only fear and pain.

Lisa tenderly blotted away her tears, sniffed back those that wanted to follow. It's okay now, she promised. We'll get back everything They took. It's not too late.

Really, she thought, studying her pert, sexy pose, I guess I ought to be grateful to the fuckers. Convincing me that I was a whore was a blessing. They created the problem, and at the same time gave me the solution. As soon as I quit fighting myself, the hurt went away. Maybe They made me miserable to start with, but it was me who perpetuated the crime. For years, I've been the only one making me suffer.

She leaned closer to the window, rubbed delicately at the faint smudges at the corners of the black frames of her eyes, erased the only traces of her day of distress and tears. It was getting late. She had to clean out her desk at the old precinct early enough to get downtown by ten. She was tired. Most of her restlessness had been walked off. Time to turn that sweet, hot ass home and tuck it in bed. She wanted to look fine her first day in Vice. She wanted to make a good impression.

She was halfway back to her car when the white sedan that had just passed made a u-turn and slowly came back. She had lots of time to prepare a rejection. But when the window slid down, and two smiling faces raked her with their eyes, the hollow excitement ballooned inside, blocked her throat. The fantasy in the shower. All those men.

Was she interested in trading a hundred and fifty of their dollars for a nice, cozy three-way? The hand raising the cigarette to her suddenly heavy lips shook slightly. As she shifted her hips, she was maddeningly aware of the tickle of the tight skirt on her thigh.

It wasn't all that late. And these two sailors looked like they might be a good time. Her words were as thick as her lips. "For that much, I'd be tempted to watch the clock. For twice that, I could relax and we could all have more fun."

They settled on two and a quarter. One, towering over her, all hard muscles and leer, stepped from the car. She slid in, trying to even out her breathing.

But she didn't want to do it in the car. Sitting between them, letting them grope her however they wanted to, bringing her back to life, was exquisite, but too cramped for what she had in mind.

"There's a motel," she purred as one set of hands fought another for her cunt, her tits. "I've got a room there. One of you can fuck my mouth and the other my cunt. You can have me any way you want me, without being crowded."

"Hey," the driver observed. "Your pussy's wet. You just fuck somebody else?"

"I wish," she growled, exploring a jean shielded cock with each hand. "You're the first tonight. I'm clean and ready for you guys."

She rented a room with a hundred of their money. For a week, not a night, the key to room 127 was hers. Maybe this wasn't going to be a good week to make an impression in Vice as an energetic young officer. Maybe she'd be back here every night. Maybe more than once a night.

If swallowing a cock to the balls had been transcendent, and being fucked doggie-style miraculous, doing both at the same moment quadrupled the experience for her. Had it not been for the baby-sweet taste of the cock filling her upper half, she'd have screamed her lungs out. Her muted shrieks resonated through the hot, saliva slick flesh, escalated her joy. And the rattling pummeling her cunt was getting, the slaps rained upon her upturned, begging ass, the ragged curses of her johns as they drove one another on - all this, and the mirrored wall she was able to watch herself in - added up to something that she knew was changing her forever.

There was more joy in this than anything They'd stolen from her by Their rape. Crime and retribution were insignificant concepts. Her job was trivial. Reality itself, as she'd always experienced it, became a shallow series of meaningless gestures.

This was real. The place the sailors were sending her. Their cocks were like cattle prods, rammed into her from both ends. They met in her center, the core of her being. Their crackling electric discharge flared in her very soul, illuminated another realm, only hinted at before.

It threatened to topple, to shatter. She lunged after the cock jerked from her mouth, only to feel her cunt lips contract around vacuous emptiness as the other was taken away, too. She heard a piteous mewling sound, saw dimly on the wall an image of a young woman, lipstick smeared from noise to chin, frantically finger-fucking herself as two men on the far side of the bed exchanged positions. That was her. They were coming back, not going away. They weren't through. It hadn't been a dream.

They impaled her with twin gestures, and she was instantly back there. Each time they met inside her, arcing their ten-thousand volt sparks into the Void, she saw yet more incomprehensible beauty surrounding her. This cavern of the soul was an entire universe, filled with grandeur, with unthinkable, unimaginable perfection. Completion. True fulfillment, not the kind that faded, abandoned her in her solitude.

And, when they finally came, after minutes or millennia, the vista expanded yet again. She wasn't inside. She was outside. The energy pumped into her from the twin fountains of fire and light exploded like a sun coming into being. The gouts of come, the jerking of flesh united with her somehow, became part of her essence. Together, the three of them created an entire universe. And two of them thought all they'd done was share a fabulous fuck with a beautiful young whore.

Her quiet laugh made her aware of the hot, sweaty flesh surrounding her. Over her, under her, still softly within her, was life. It cradled her like an infant, secure and safe at her mother's breast.

But it stirred, became individual beings, not one grand pile. She stretched her body to fill the still warm space surrounding her. They had to go, they said. Had to be back on base real soon. She nodded happily, watched them scramble, like the embarrassed teenagers they were, into their civvies and hurry one another out the door.

She stretched again, let a wistful hand roam her drying body. With a deeply contented sigh, she rolled from bed and padded in to find out if the shower worked.

It worked just fine. Hell, everything was fine.

Forty minutes later, she emerged into the night air, breathed it deeply, tingling a little where the bra cut into her tits. Her ass was red, still stung hotly from the storm of slaps. That was nice. The skirt rubbed it, massaged it as she swayed the leisurely eight blocks to her car.

Home was welcome, now that she knew where it was. Her apartment felt cozy. The bed beckoned invitingly. She stood at the dresser, and wiped off the full makeup she'd done a few minutes before.

That'd been a little silly, she smiled. But fun. I wanted to. I wanted anybody who happened past to see on my lips what I'd just done, to see by my eyes who I am. To think I was the hottest whore in town. No. To know it, for a fact. I am. I really am. None of those other sad sluts puts her soul into it.

Nobody gets off like I do. Goes where I go. Takes them where I take them.

She tucked herself between the crisp sheets, slept with the smile of an utter innocent. After all, that's what she was.

She awoke languorously before the alarm could jolt her, with full and instant memory of the night before. It was lucky she'd gotten up early. She was moving slowly, with cat-like grace in her every gesture. The world was a rich, colorful place, and she was overjoyed to be a part of it.

The dress she'd bought at the mall was perfect. Both professional and alluring. The modest three inch heels felt foreshortened after what she'd become used to. And she had to consciously tone down her makeup several notches. Just because she was in Vice didn't give her the freedom to look like a loose cunt at the office. For reassurance, to give her the feeling of continuity she wanted, she wore her garter belt under lacy panties, and the new snug bra. That was enough to remind her. It was enough to bring together pieces of her life no longer had to keep in entirely separate compartments.

She hadn't counted on the sorrow she felt while emptying her desk drawers at the precinct. She was actually going to miss this place, these people. Especially Barnes. He was a prince. She kept her good-byes to the others light and bantering. With him, though, her deep feeling broke through. She tenderly stroked his face, right there in the bullpen where everyone saw. She kissed him lightly on his strong mouth, then wiped away her lipstick, much to everybody's amusement.

"Shit, Barnes. I'm ruining your reputation," she quipped in a slightly tremorous voice. "I'm breaking lots of the guy's hearts. They all thought you were absolutely gay."

He covered both his shy pleasure at her open affection, and his embarrassment, with an overblown macho strut. "Hey. Anybody who doesn't react to you is dead, not gay."

That drew a round of guffaws.

It came as a surprise to realize that these people really liked her, cared about her. They weren't deeply attached, except for Barney and the Captain, but they'd remember her well. She left deeply moved.

That made her arrival in her new workplace confusing. The normal hubbub flowed around her, didn't include her. It was like her very first virgin day on the job. It was all new, all over again. She fought away the feeling that she didn't belong here, reminded herself, in the washroom mirror, that this was precisely where she did belong.

Sergeant Trotter interrupted her silent self-talk. She, too, was much differently dressed. Despite more feminine attire, she kept her hard edge.

"Hey, Cole. Anybody thought to officially welcome you yet?"

"They're busy, and I've only been here ten minutes."

"Yeah, well, that's still no excuse to leave you sitting on your thumbs." She held out a hand stripped of nail polish.

"Welcome aboard."

Lisa felt uncomfortable about wearing her bright nails as she returned the strong grip, tried to ignore her unease. Trotter tucked her under her wing, led her through the department, made everybody put down what they were doing to say hello.

"Don't worry about remembering names," the only other woman on the day shift confided. They'd met briefly over the weekend. She tapped the ID clipped above a large tit with nails as red as Lisa's, if not as long. "That's what these are really for."

The sergeant maintained her proprietary air as they broke later for lunch. She had something on her mind. Lisa was afraid she knew what it was, swallowed the lump in her throat when she saw they were eating alone. Her boss ordered saki for both of them.

"So," she said, leaning back in the booth, "how long have you been working?"

Working at what, she wondered silently. "Not quite ten months. But you've read my jacket."

"Un huh. That's not what I meant, and you know it."

There. It was said. Maybe it was Trotter's directness, or maybe it was just having it out in the open, but Lisa felt relief, not panic. She accepted the offered cigarette. "Depends on when you start counting. Fifteen days since I took money for it." She inhaled deeply. "How about you?"

The smile was tight. "Almost five years. Part time, of course. I got started one night on Fifteenth Street while my partner was changing her kotex. The guy waved twenty-five bucks I sorely needed under my nose. I sucked him off not ten steps from Mike Riley, that fat redhead three desks down from yours. I've been doing it a couple of times a week ever since, mostly for shits and grins, not the cash." She tossed off the liquor. "Now you tell me your sad story."

"So far, it's not sad. I guess I'm like you. The money's useful, but it's not why I'm out there. I'm just kind of exploring. I don't know how else to describe it."

Trotter nodded. "I understand. Like I said the other night, it's a chance to do something completely rebellious. A way to live right on the edge. You have to stay sharp all the time. You can't afford to forget a single face you fuck, cause you may try to bust them someday if you do. Then the shit would hit the fan. Somebody'd say, 'Hey, I know that slut.' End of career."

Lisa smiled. "Is that part of your story, or a warning to me?"

"Both. And here's another one I learned the hard way. Don't fuck around on your day job. It's nothing but a pain in the ass. You'll get a reputation for making it only because you're a good lay. You'll never make rank that way. You'll just turn into the squad's bimbo. They'll promise you everything and give you only cock."

Lisa tapped ash from her smoke. "That makes sense."

"But you're still going to go down for Wilson?"

"Until I can ease my way out. I really do owe him. He delivered almost as soon as I did."

"Besides," the sarge grinned, "he's a great fuck, right?"

Lisa laughed. "That, too."

So much for feeling an alien in her new assignment. She'd discovered, if not an absolute ally, at least a blood sister. They'd be able to work well together, take care of one another, at least up to a point. But, if the house of cards ever fell on either one, she'd be buried alone.

When her day ended, she wheeled home, excited. There'd been challenge in every task set before her. She wasn't treated like a uniformed secretary, but an integral part of the squad. She'd already shown them she could do at least part of her job. She was determined to succeed as well everywhere else as she had on the street.

But, as she reached into her purse for a lazy, after frozen food cigarette, her hand brushed the motel key. She lingered over it, tracing its shape, feeling the words embossed on the plastic tag, knowing what it represented. She started her cigarette as she threw on her other clothes. She was at work on her face when it was gone. Twenty minutes later, she was in her car, headed back downtown.

She drove by the motel first, located a secluded parking garage a half block away. Then, as if to test its reality, she opened the door of 127 and checked it out. Ragged carpet. Ragged blankets. Fresh greying sheets all the stains would never wash out of. The bed was hard, the mattress amazingly new. They probably wore them out pretty quick around here. After dumping the bag filled with cosmetics in a drawer, she excitedly stepped out into her other world.

She turned three tricks, but only two of them in her room. Her first just wanted an alley quickie. She looped a high heel around his waist and was jolted by the force of his penetration. She wasn't fully lubricated until he'd bounced her off the chill brick wall the third time. People were walking by, not fifteen feet away. Her lips fell slack. They weren't looking. They couldn't hear.

"Oooh, baby," she purred loudly, digging her nails into his shirt. "Harder baby. Faster."

A man's head turned toward the half-shadow where her john was fucking her. Instantly, he went from passer-by to witness, from witness to non-physical accomplice. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets. She grunted, tried to force the cock in deeper. Her first helper walked on, vanished. Another craned to squint into the dimness.

Here it came. The edge. Where everything changed. Before she could fling herself off, the body attached to the cock tensed, crushed her against the bricks, and spewed into her. Too soon. But she ground against him with all her strength, taking all she could, until he eased free, gasping, smiling foolishly, like most of them did.

She smiled, sighed, and lowered her dress. "That was sweet. Thanks."

He muttered something unintelligible and hurried away. She pulled herself together, mopped up what she could, and went back to work.

Number two had been her first black man. He'd tried to come off like he was a pimp. At first, Lisa wondered if maybe she was in trouble. Then his incompletely hidden nerves made her realize she was being scammed. He was faking it. He wasn't recruiting, he was looking for a freebie.

She laughed him down and told him to cough up her regular fee. He grinned, admitted his con, and wrangled her down to seventy-five.

It was true. Black dicks - though this one was really almost blue - were bigger, when they were soft. But the pale one she'd sucked for dinner Saturday was fatter and longer after she got it hard. And the rich hulk with the thousand dollar suit had been just this size when he got cranked. And had known what to do with it, too, unlike the guy hosing her now.

What really got her off was the beautiful chocolate hue of his bulky body pressed against her pale, slender form. His energy made up for his lack of skill. Besides, he, unlike most of the others she'd had, wasn't there to perform. He was there to blow his beans. That she managed to get hers, too, was purely coincidental. He believed she'd faked it. Still, he went away satisfied.

She smoked and relaxed, letting her sweat dry, and listened to the sounds of sex coming from the adjoining rooms. It was indistinct, almost like echoes of times past that'd happened here in 127, not next door and above. She was surrounded by it, entrapped within it. She was a willing prisoner.

She showered quickly, keeping her face and hair dry, then admired herself. Other than her makeup, nude, there was no indication of what she was doing. She bore no scars. In fact, it felt like old scars were fading, not new ones being made. How could They have been so wrong? She felt no shame, no injury. She wasn't being abused or dehumanized.

She slid back into her clothes. She freshened her brilliant face paint. Armed and armored, she went back for more, knowing that she was the true abuser here. She stripped the men of all humanity, made them be cocks with wallets, plugs for her to insert into her various receptacles and get charged.

Her third victim was scary. Not that he was in any way ominous. He just looked way too much like her father for her not to be afraid. She took it as a challenge, a test. If she could do this old guy, and enjoy it, it'd be proof that she was getting better, not going mad. Because, no matter how often she told herself otherwise, the specter of self-destruction loomed, right behind her joy.

So she took special care of this one, treated him gently, and herself as well, as it turned out. He was in no hurry, seemed as eager to fuck her with his eyes as anything else. He obviously believed she was as young as she looked, and treated her exactly as a loving, lustful father would have.

She didn't ask herself what kind of animal he must be. She didn't care if he'd actually bonked his daughter or not. The important thing was that he'd wanted to.

She became that for him. He'd brought a bottle of good whiskey. He adored watching her move around her room in her skimpy dress and heels, fetching and carrying for him, doting on him. Just as she had her own old man, in a positively chaste way. Now, she got to do it unchastely.

She flirted with him in the way she smoked her cigarette like it was his cock. He got the unspoken message. Lisa was thrilled that she made him blush. Made him hard. She flashed peeks of her bra, of her naked cunt. She asked him if her makeup was okay, redid it to his specifications. By then her loins were afire. She sat beside him on the bed, leaned toward his face with her own, knew the whiskey and tobacco fragrant breath from her succulent, wet lips would be the last straw.

"Is this what you want me to be, Daddy?"

She knew he wanted her so badly that he hurt. His desire burned pure and clear. There was no confusion. Even his killing shame couldn't dampen it. He had to fuck this child. He did just that.

She'd never tried to postpone a man's orgasm before. She tried to delay this one. The way he kissed her, with decades of forbidden energy, shattered her. The tender way he slid into her, rose and fell against her slick thighs, made her tremble, tumbled her off the cliff, again plummeted her into the filling Void. Bliss. Such a feeble fucking word.

But he came anyway. No matter how long he'd delayed, it wouldn't have been long enough.

She came back to pitiful physical reality to find their bodies locked together, both of them racked with hideous sobs. What hurts? she screamed into the black hole. What's happening? What's wrong?

He pulled himself together and scurried into his clothes. She still cried. He paused at the door, gave her a look she recognized. It'd been in Tommy's eyes that night, as he'd run away from the lawn beside the trickling stream. It'd been anguish at what he'd done. That's what her surrogate father left Lisa with, along with an extra hundred and fifty bucks.

Helpless to make it stop, she cried herself to sleep, never able to tell why she was in hysterics. She didn't wake until dawn.

Drained, she struggled to orient herself. Not her bedroom wall. The mirrored tile of her brothel cubby. She'd dreamed she'd fucked her dad. No. It was another sixtyish guy.

"Same thing," she told herself, was startled into total wakefulness by the grating tone of her voice.

She wanted to sleep. To forget. But she had to go to her other home, change clothes and go to her other job. Her real job, she'd started to say, but banished the thought. No. It was no longer as real as this one, this life. There was no doubt left in her mind about which she was ultimately going to embrace, or why.

To Be Continued...


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