Lady Cop

This story should ideally be read after "Rachel and Picabo Street: A Fantasy," as some of the same characters are involved.

Rachel turned off Sunset onto a darkened side street. She was quite shaken, having just nearly fallen asleep at the wheel. She drove only a few hundred feet, then pulled over to the curb. She turned off the lights and cut the ignition. She thought, Why did I have that third glass of champagne?

She had just come from a party. Jim was supposed to join her there, but had called at five to say that a client needed to meet with him right away and that it would be late before he could get away. "Go without me," he had said. So she had. These late meetings were becoming more and more frequent, and she was getting annoyed. She had put on one of her black cocktail dresses, gotten behind the wheel of the black Lexus and driven to John's. She and John led classes at a local gym, and he was hosting a party to celebrate the release of his new exercise video, in which she appeared.

She had two glasses of champagne, the most she ever drank, while she mingled at the party. As she put her glass down and prepared to say thanks and good night, a man appeared right in front of her. He introduced himself: Juan, a friend of John's. He was a compact man, only her height, five foot seven, probably in his mid thirties. Everything about him was tight, including his clothes, and his teeth were absurdly white. He must be a trainer, she thought. He had spoken to her, but she had had trouble following what he said. She was getting tipsy. Then, somehow, she was holding a third glass of champagne, nearly empty, and Juan was once again right in front of her, quite close and blinding her with his smile. All at once she knew she had to get out of there, get some fresh air. She had left without saying good night.

Now she sat in her lightless car on a dark, deserted street. Let me just close my eyes for a minute, she thought. She leaned her head against the window.

She was jolted awake by a terrible cracking sound. She attempted to shift her position but was held fast by her seat belt. A thousand questions collided in her brain. What was that? Where am I? What time is it? Where's Jim? The cracking sound repeated itself. She jerked her head to the left. Someone was knocking on her window.

Oh no, it's a cop, she realized. She looked into her rearview mirror and saw the cop car's swirling lights. Using a nightstick the cop knocked again. She was petrified. She had never been in any trouble, and here she was driving drunk. The cop spoke sharply. "Roll down your window."

It was a woman's voice. She was shocked, then slightly relieved. "I have to start the car to do that." The cop took a step back and nodded. She started the engine and lowered the window.

The cop stepped forward. "Turn your engine off." She did so. Her eyes having adjusted to the light, she could now see that the cop was indeed female, though she was the height and weight of an average-sized man. Her breasts were large, and they stretched the fabric of her tight-fitting shirt. Wisps of hair escaped from under her cap. She seemed to be Hispanic.

"Let me see your license and registration." The cop replaced her nightstick, reached for her flashlight and shined it at her face and the glove compartment. Though still very nervous, she was able to present the documents without her hands shaking too much.

The cop shifted her light to look at the papers in her hand. "You know, I followed you because you were driving erratically on Sunset. Have you been drinking?"

"Oh no, I'm just very ..." Suddenly, she was gripping the steering wheel, head bent forward, weeping. A minute later she sat back, sighed and sniffed. "Please. I never do this. I'm not a bad person. I've never been in any trouble." She stared straight ahead, her hands still gripping the wheel. The cop was silent. When she finally looked at her, the cop was looking up the street, seemingly lost in thought.

The cop broke the silence and looked at her intently. "All right. I could bust you. You know that. But I want something from you. And what I want could get me into a whole lotta trouble. So if I help you out, you gotta help me out. So, if you'll let me, I'm gonna sit next to you and tell you what I want. Okay?"

She knew where this was headed, yet her mood actually brightened. What the cop couldn't possibly know was that, though married, she was very attracted to dominant women, that she had a long-distance, nonexclusive mistress/slave relationship with Picabo Street, the ex-Olympic skier. She looked demurely at the cop and said simply, "Okay," and watched as this powerful woman strode back to her car to shut off the lights and around to the passenger's side of the Lexus. She began to get wet.

The cop didn't hesitate once she was settled in the car. "Look, we're both adults. My thing is women. I love beautiful women, and you're really beautiful. I can make your troubles disappear. You feelin' me?"

She made herself wait, though she wanted this woman. Finally she said, "Yes."

"Okay, that's cool. Unbuckle your seat belt." She did as she was told, feeling the cop's eyes looking her up and down. She felt like a piece of meat, which added to her excitement. The cop said, "Gimme a kiss," and she yielded to the hungry lips, the hand at her throat, the probing tongue. The kiss went on and on and on. The cop finally broke it off and said, "Wow. I think I just hit the jackpot. I think you like girls too. In fact I think you like dominant girls." She paused. "You don't have to answer me, but if I'm right, I want you to do something for me." She reached to her belt and brought the nightstick to her lips. "If what I said is true, I want you to kiss it."

She kissed it. "Yeah." The cop shifted the nightstick to between her legs, up the cocktail dress, and pressed it against her pussy lips. "Yeah." But then she withdrew it to her belt. "Look, baby, I can't hang tonight, but I want us both to masturbate before I go. But don't you come before I do." With that she unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned her pants and thrust her hand between her legs.

She pulled her dress up and did the same. She closed her eyes. She heard the cop climax, then felt three fingers invading her mouth. "Yeah, taste my juices." The cop kept her fingers in her mouth, then used the thumb and forefinger of her other hand to pinch her nostrils closed. Being unable to breathe caused her quickly to climax.

The cop stood by her door. She was writing on her pad. She tore off the paper, folded it and handed it to her. She laughed. "No, it's not a ticket." But then she got serious. She leaned throught the window and kissed her. "Promise me you're okay and you'll get home safely." She nodded, and the cop went back to her car, and in a moment she was gone.

Rachel started her car, tumed on the overhead light and read the note. There was a name, Ramona Perez, an address in Inglewood, but no phone, and the words ''I'm off Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Come see me."

She put the note in her purse, straightened herself up and put her car in gear, feeling remarkably light and clear-headed.

She gripped the steering wheel and stared through the windshield. She was parked across from a modest bungalow whose address corresponded to the one Ramona Perez had written down for her almost two weeks ago. All the houses on this block in Inglewood were modest. It would be awful to live here, she thought, then scolded herself for thinking such a thing.

It was Wednesday, 11:00am, and looking down at her arms she laughed aloud lightly. Exactly twenty-four hours earlier she had been in precisely this same position. Yesterday, however, she had not gotten out of the car, paralyzed by fear of the unknown. She wondered what she would do today.

She longed for this woman to make love to her and had thought of little else since Ramona had sat beside her in her car. She thrilled every time she remembered how Ramona had kissed her and effortlessly taken control. She melted whenever she fantasized about what this woman might do to her when they met. She hoped she would be cruelly punished and used.

After much thought earlier in the morning she had chosen to dress casually, as if for work, in workout shorts, a tanktop and running shoes. She had added only a moisturizer and light lip gloss to her face, and done her long blonde hair in a simple ponytail. If anyone asked, she or Ramona could say she was Ramona's personal trainer, working with her at home. Plus, in this neighborhood, she was calling enough attention to herself by being white and driving a new Lexus.

"Go ahead, you ninny, go to the door." She realized she had spoken out loud. God, I'm really losing it, she thought. And then, in a flash, she was out of the car, walking rapidly to the front door.

She rang the doorbell, and the moment she did all the anxieties flooded over her. What if this is the wrong house? What if she doesn't remember me? Doesn't like me? There was no answer, which was both a disappointment and a relief. She turned away from the door; then she heard it open and turned back.

Ramona loomed in the doorway. She evidently was fresh from the shower. She wore a robe, and her lank black hair hung wetly down to her shoulders. Ramona looked blankly at her. "Yes?" was all she said.

She felt like she had been punched. "You don't ... you don't remember me? In my car ..."

"Oh, oh, oh, of course I do. Forgive me. That was nighttime, and you were dressed so different. It just took me a minute to recognize you." She took a step outside and swiveled her head up and down the street. "Come in," she half whispered, indicating she should enter.

She stood in the small entranceway, facing right. Directly ahead of her was the kitchen, narrow and featuring a formica-topped rectangular metal table with four matching red-vinyl-cushioned chairs. To the right was the living room, dim because all the drapes were closed. To the left was a narrow hallway that she thought must lead to the bedrooms.

Ramona said, "Look, sit in the kitchen. Have coffee if you want. I have some made. Let me just dry my hair and get dressed, and I'll be out in a few minutes." She was off down the hall.

She sat at the kitchen table, ignoring the coffee, which she rarely drank. She heard a hair dryer blowing. She felt a tinge of despair. It had been a mistake to come here. This place, she thought, so small and dark. It smells musty. I should go. But she stayed in her chair, and soon she heard footsteps coming toward her.

Ramona sat down opposite her. She wore tight white shorts and an even tighter green T-shirt that ended at her navel. She clearly had not put on a bra, and she stared at the outlines of Ramona's nipples. She started to feel better about being here.

Still, it was awkward between them, marked by faltering attempts at conversation. Their eyes met a couple of times and were instantly averted. Finally, Ramona said, "I don't care if it's morning, I'm gonna have a drink. Let's have Irish Coffees."

"No, no, no, I don't ..."

"Yes, yes, yes, with whipped cream and everything."

'You must think I'm such an alcoholic. Really, I hardly ever drink."

"I totally believe you. I don't drink much either. I'm just ... you know ..." She smiled and shrugged.

HalfWay through their second drink she had kicked off her sneakers, and they were playing footsie. By the time they finished she was sitting on Ramona's lap, and they were kissing passionately. They stayed this way for several minutes, breaking apart only for a moment at a time to fill their lungs. When they at last pulled apart, they looked deeply into each other's eyes. This time they did not look away. Ramona said, "You are so beautiful, baby. I want you so bad."

'You can do anything you want to me. I'm a total sub." It felt to her like someone else had said those words, but she curled her arm around Ramona's neck.

With that, and without much effort it seemed, Ramona rose straight up from her chair and carried her, like a sleeping child, down the hall to her bedroom, where she lay her on the unmade bed.

Ramona stripped off her own clothes with swift, forceful gestures. "Baby, I want you naked. It's like I want to rape you. But I'm not gonna get crazy today. Not the first time." She began to pull roughly at her shorts, her big breasts swinging like pendulums. When she was naked, Ramona pounced at her breasts and divided her attention between the nipples. She worked her way down to the shaven pussy and concentrated her lips and tongue on the eager clit.

Sensing she was close to orgasm, Ramona pulled back and said, "Well, I'm gonna do one thing crazy." She reburied her face in the wet cunt and pressed her index finger against her anus, which parted to accept it to the third knuckle, triggering an overwhelming orgasm.

It was the first of many for both women that long afternoon.

Rachel was naked. Well, except for Ramona's police cap, too large for her, settled low on her forehead, and the handcuffs, which bound her wrists behind her, she was naked. Oh, and except for the bright-red ball gag that filled her mouth and protruded past lips painted the same fiery shade.

She was slowly raising and lowering herself on Big Daddy. That's what Ramona called her largest dildo, the one now strapped around her waist, a meaty black monster her pussy was only reluctantly accommodating. Nothing this size had ever been inside her before, and she had shuddered when Ramona told her that one day she would take it anally too.

This was the fifth consecutive Wednesday she had spent the aftemoon at Ramona's. They had quickly become very close. Was it love? She didn't know; but she felt a distance growing between her and her husband, and Picabo Street was little more than a memory. Ramona hadn't told her she loved her. In fact Ramona didn't talk much at all, and usually her large brown eyes betrayed little. She made occasional vague references to a difficult childhood.

But oh, they were in lust. After that awkward first Wednesday, when they'd had to get drunk before they could express their mutual desire, not a minute passed on subsequent visits from the time she rang the doorbell to the moment they fell into bed, which they rarely left for the duration of the aftemoon unless it was to pee or get something to eat or drink.

Maybe Ramona didn't love her, but she was sure no one had ever wanted her as much as this woman did. There was such an urgency in her touch, such a contrast between her placid demeanor and the ferocity with which she took her. They were ideal lovers, fitting like a hand in a glove. She wanted nothing more than to sacrifice herself, to be consumed, while Ramona burned to devour, rampage and take, take, take.

Now she sat facing away from her lover, riding Big Daddy, able as last to sit all the way down on it. She found it difficult to stay balanced with her wrists cuffed behind her, so she squatted on the dildo for a moment while Ramona's big hands held her waist. Then Ramona raised herself almost to a seated position, put a hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her forward to her hands and knees. The police cap flew off her head and landed on the floor. Ramona shifted with her and knelt behind her so that the big dildo never entirely left her pussy. They were now in doggie-style position, their favorite. She fucked her with long, slow strokes, burying her sword to the hilt, reaching to cup her lover's breasts and pinch her nipples; and she tilted her hips back to meet the penetration, exhaling sharply through her nose with each thrust. Ramona leaned forward and murmured in her ear, "Do you like it when Daddy fucks you like this?" Early on they had adopted this form of gender-bending role-playing.

"Yes, sir," was the mufiled reply from behind the gag.

"What, slut? I can't hear you," and in one motion she released the strap and pulled the ball from her mouth. A gob of saliva fell on the sheet.

"Yes, sir."

"You're a nasty little cunt, aren't you? You deserve to be fucked like this, don't you?"

"Yes, daddy, you can do anything you want to me. Use me. Hurt me."

With that, Ramona withdrew from her suddenly and stood up. She pulled her by her hair to a kneeling position on the bed and grabbed her head with her hands, each thumb stroking a temple. Ramona looked deeply into her eyes. "Do you mean what you said? I can do anything to you?"

She stared back into Ramona's still-unreadable eyes. Though unnerved, sensing she was in uncharted waters, she said, "Yes, sir, but please don't mark me. I can't go home like that."

Ramona re-gagged her, then kissed her fiercely over the protruding ball. Their lips barely met, but she felt Ramona tonguing her half of the ball, so she did the same to the half inside her mouth. It was deliciously frustrating to be kissed like this while also having her arms restrained. Ramona stayed with the kiss for a long while.

When she broke it off she pushed her onto her back, rolled her to her side and unlocked the handcuffs. She immediately placed each wrist in cuffs that closed with velcro and were chained to the headboard. She spread her legs and cinched her ankles similarly to the footboard. That quickly she was helplessly bound. Then Ramona went into her walk-in closet and closed the door behind her.

She emerged a minute later, having replaced Big Daddy with a wide dark-brown leather belt that rode low on her ample hips. Attached to the belt was a holster, and in the holster was a gun. She remained otherwise naked, and her very full breasts swayed slightly as she sauntered to the foot of the bed. She bent to retrieve her hat and put it on her head, truly now a naked lady cop.

She remained silent as she unholstered the gun, opened the chamber and tilted and spun it. No bullets fell out. Clearly the gun was unloaded. She snapped the chamber shut, approached her lover and put the barrel against her lips. She opened her mouth to receive it. As soon as she did Ramona removed the gun and trailed it down her chin to her breasts, which she lightly pistol-whipped.

She continued to blaze a trail down to her pussy and ran the barrel up and down the vulva, then in one motion forced it all the way into her recently fucked cunt. She writhed in her binds to no avail and quieted. They eyed one another, hearts beating rapidly though their faces were impassive. Ramona broke the silence. "Nod if you want me to pull the trigger."

She nodded.

Rachel rang Ramona's doorbell. It was another late moming on a Wednesday, their routine having become established. While she waited on the small stoop, she wondered nervously if she were being watched by any neighbors. She was always careful to dress normally. Today, just after Christmas, the day gray and damp, she wore a light overcoat over black pants and a powder-blue turtleneck sweater. Undemeath, however, she wore black thigh-highs attached to a garter belt and a black bustier. In a small shopping bag she carried black high heels. Ramona liked for her to parade around, with a collar and leash, in lingerie that she otherwise reserved for her husband (or, on one occasion, Picabo Street). She liked it too; it excited her to feel Ramona's eyes devouring her, even when doing the household chores Ramona sometimes assigned her when they weren't fucking like wild animals. She felt herself becoming wet.

The door opened and she stepped in. Ramona was fully dressed, in black from head to toe, which was unusual. She usually greeted her in shorts and a T-shirt, if that much. She pushed her against a wall and kissed her roughly, insinuating a thigh between her legs and against her pussy. Just as abruptly the clinch was broken. "Hiya, baby, you look like a dream. Listen, I got a surprise. We're going out today."